2 - LESS
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Summer, 1969
Rome, Italy
In a cramped jail cell for one stood three prisoners: a close-shaven man of thirty-two (two counts of murder), a frizzy-haired boy of seventeen (bank robbery), and a bald cripple of unknown age. The inmates assumed he would die while serving out his term, as his favorite ad lib was: "I've been here for forever. Starts to do things to your head, you know?" There is some guesswork in forecasting, of course, but just as one can sense their shoelaces loosening, one can predict the ending of a hapless story.
Kawahira entered the chamber of cells, starting down the corridor.
"Listen, punk, I've been waiting for two hours for Rossi to finish up while he stank up the place. Don't think I'll go easy on ya 'cause you're a kid." He leaned in, fully aware of his dank, fishy breath (courtesy of last night's gray mullet with a side of stale bread): "Beat it. Before I beat you."
As it was, the boy didn't have to; the man shoved him roughly out of his way and clambered over to the urinal just as the old man clambered out, bringing with him a small cloud of flies. He laughed the wheezy laugh they associated with a leaky tire. Forcing down a surge of bile, the boy groaned, pulling his wife-beater up over his nose as though it would do any good. When he looked down, he saw that he had wet himself. Slapping a fly on his arm, he muttered, "I've had enough of this godforsaken hellhole."
From behind the screen door, he heard the man chuckle. "Join the club."
With a stoic face, Katsuo swiped Alonzo's ID and began down eleven flights of spiraling stairs, lit by glowing blue lights. He had acquired Alonzo's uniform, forgoing the change of pants as they were uncomfortably short on his tall stature. At last he came to a stop before a door that read: "Examination Room – DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION."
He glanced at the security camera from his peripheral vision, nodding once before swiping Alonzo's card again, entering the blindingly white chamber. Two foldable steel chairs. One steel table—cold to the touch. He passed through the next door, in which a lone light bulb dangled from the center of the room. In one corner lay an electric chair, buckles singed from overuse. In another stood a table of metal contraptions, one of which Katsuo assumed to be a device that amputated fingers. In the third corner sat a simple chair with nothing unordinary about it, aside from the splotches of scarlet blood around its legs, and a pile of ropes just to its left.
So this was the torture chamber.
He went through another door, unlocking the padlock with the key in Alonzo's breast pocket. A beam of light sliced through the darkness as he opened the fourth door. He greeted the prisoner with a winsome smile. "Long time no see, Mukuro."
The indigo-haired convict bared a feral grin, sitting up with poorly disguised difficulty. "Come for a favor, have you?"
"Seems you haven't talked yet." He took note of a missing thumb and a disconcerting scar over the boy's right eyelid. The kid was trying not to blink. "Can't have been much fun down here, hmm?"
Mukuro snorted. "If you're referring to the toys in the chamber, those are child's play."
Kawahira narrowed his eyes. "Oh? They must be going easy on you, then. Keeping you fit to drag it out longer, weaseling into your psyche."
"As heartwarming as this reunion is," he drawled, kicking back the blanket with his bare feet, "I've got better things to do. Two friends of mine need to be busted out." He raised his left arm for Kawahira to see: a thin wrist shackled to the bed.
Kawahira jingled his keys. "That'll be three favors, total."
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Some hours later, Alonzo Brioschi was found and wheeled off to the ICU.
His colleagues were perplexed when they searched his locker only to find bottle after bottle of medication and an inhaler, as they had never seen Alonzo ill before. He had, after all, never taken a day off. His superior reached in and twisted open an orange bottle of labeled antibiotics, spilling a small pile of white powder into his palm. With his index finger he dabbed a corner, bringing it up to his mouth. They exchanged looks guiltily, as if the truth had accused them of knowing it.
"Cocaine," he confirmed grimly.
They recalled Alonzo's deteriorating mood in the weeks prior: how he would decline to join them for drinks, how he would withdraw into himself, how he would be tired before the end of his shift—an anomaly for the energetic man. The quality of his work had not been compromised; he had been alert, reliable, and stern with himself and the inmates. But something in him had withered.
Still, no one really thought he'd go so far as to...
Two hours later, the blood and urine tests yielded disturbing results.
"Strychnine," the toxicologist said solemnly.
They immediately sought Alonzo's stash, sifting through the powder for any colorless crystals interspersed. They found none.
"Does he drink coffee?" the doctor asked.
"He does. We all do."
"It could be a case of poisoning; strychnine's bitterness blends well with coffee. The dosage was not nearly enough to be fatal, but it's up there." A pause, and the doctor continued, "He was moderate in his cocaine use, but it still registers in his blood, having accumulated over the weeks."
They glanced at his face on the hospital bed, strangely discolored and purple.
No one wanted to be the first to bring it up, but someone had to.
His superior went halfway. "Someone ought to contact his family."
Summer, 1969
Chiyoda, Tokyo (Japan)
Hiroto Watanabe dropped his mug in terror. There was a subsequent sound of splitting ceramic, but it was the handle that broke, and not the cup itself. "They what?" he demanded through the telephone, glancing nervously at his desk, shuffling papers and realigning pencils. He then crouched and rubbed furiously at the puddle of green tea on the marbled flooring with a towel.
"They escaped from prison, sir, taking advantage of a guard's absence."
"Then find them!" he shouted at the supervisor, spitting with frenzy.
"Will you request extradition if they are found?" The convicts were Italian citizens, but born as Japanese.
Hiroto seized upon the "if" with twitching facial muscles, but chose to let it go. He was quiet for a moment. In the silence he felt the walls of his spacious office inching closer. "Yes. Please send them to Tokyo; I'll be waiting." Hanging up the phone, the commissioner general raised his fist to his forehead, crinkling his brows in deep thought. Shipping the convicts to the metropolis was either the best option or the worst, depending on how he played his cards. The police headquarters were, of course, located in Tokyo—but so were the most notorious gangs.
The recent influx of Japanese-turned-Italian Mafiosi did little to lower his blood pressure. The National Police Force (NPF) had begun collaborating with Italy's Bureau of Criminal Investigation for that very reason, but their progress had been paltry. Harsher measures were meted out against arrestees, and informing was highly encouraged. This, however, had only bolstered their resentment. The mobsters fought much like viruses: they constantly evolved.
You want to do this the hard way? Then we'll do this the hard way. The salt-and-pepper-haired man was not keen on torture, but information was too valuable to pass by. It was difficult to feel remorse for his decision, anyway, as the headlines would often mock his futile efforts and clamor for smarter solutions.
He laughed suddenly, brimful of scorn. All they do is ask to be saved. They don't even know what it takes to be a savior. And why should they? They're waiting for a miracle.
The murders followed a pattern—of that he was certain. There had also been a concurrent uptick in the number of females reported missing, all in their twenties and thirties.
He ground his teeth, going limp at once when he glanced at the wooden photo frame on the corner of his desk. The pale woman in the photo smiled impishly, as though she had a scheme in mind. Her bangs mitigated the threat, however; they lent an air of purity to her expression, an essence of youth and softness. He had to beg her not to stick her tongue out at the time, given her propensity to make silly faces at cameras. You're too serious, Hiroto, she was fond of saying.
One of us have to be, was his standard no-nonsense reply.
There was nothing she could say to that, so she would walk away and leave him to sigh and dig the heels of his hands into his eyes as he was doing now, at one in the morning with dozens of crime reports on his desk.
Summer, 1969
Rome, Italy
Kawahira handed three falsified passports to the Mafiosi. "Congratulations. You're free."
They were nestled in the corner of a pizza parlor, having an aperitivo (starter drinks with snacks). A jazzy tune—all base, drum brushes, piano and husky vocals—drifted in and out of hearing, occasionally overtaken by bursts of conversation.
"We're wanted," Mukuro corrected, sliding the Japanese passport into his pocket. Kawahira glanced at the boy's untouched nonalcoholic drink, entertained by his mistrust. "We were the only survivors of the Estraneo famiglia after the skirmishes; the cops are out for blood." Mukuro fought the urge to scrutinize each and every customer and corner, singling out the suspicious. One meaningful glance was all it took. Unfortunately, the fog of voices around him made thinking difficult. Two years of solitude had robbed him of his street ease. He found himself smirking excessively instead.
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Out for the blood of a mere messenger boy?"
Ken growled touchily, but Mukuro held him back with a wave. "I'm surprised you have connections in Vendicare. Who got you in?"
Kawahira took a few generous sips of red wine. "You don't want to hear about that; it's a boring tale. I have much more relevant news for you." He waited. Finally, Mukuro glanced up from the table with an unreadable expression. "I'm sure you've heard of the Vongola."
Ken choked on his juice. Chikusa patted his back with disproportionate force.
"Your point?" Mukuro inquired evenly. He began to reach for his drink, but abandoned the effort immediately, letting his arm drop. No thumb, no grip.
"They're willing to recruit you. Apparently your old capo went way back with a soldier of theirs."
A deep-set frown marred his features. "What's the catch?" His capo very rarely mentioned the Vongola famiglia, which made each mention an event in itself. Mukuro was known to be astute, particularly for a boy of nine years. He knew to not fear pain, but betrayal. Betrayal could be bought, threatened, and concealed—it wielded unpredictable power. He'd witnessed informers caving to pathetic cowardice, offering their brothers to save their own hides. It was his duty to report treason to their famiglias, even when they pleaded him to report instead that they had "died in action."
Betrayal could happen to anyone, anytime.
It just so happened that betrayal in the mafia often cost a life or two. Or more.
"Consider it payment." The man winked. "One down, two favors to go."
Summer, 1969
Sapporo, Hokkaido (Japan)
The school bell chimed, and the students packed their belongings in a flurry. Several girls piled up behind Haru as she bent over to retrieve a fallen eraser. An especially jubilant one pounced on her back, saddling up for a (unsolicited) piggyback ride.
"Hey!" The brunette wobbled as her outstretched fingers swept over the eraser, missing the mark. "Miki," she huffed, "I need to return Hiro's eraser before he leaves for pottery club." The school had recently introduced a host of liberal arts programs as compensation for the heavy material previously focused on science and mathematics. As far as the children were concerned, the reforms had simply given them more opportunities to play with messy crafts.
Miki grinned wickedly, resting her chin atop Haru's head. "Better hurry then."
The tallest of them spoke quietly, with a hint of exasperation, "Just leave it on his desk, Haru."
At that moment, Hiro poked his head into the classroom. In one hand he held his glasses, in the other the fringe of his untucked shirt. He took a moment to clean the lenses before sliding it on.
"Ah! You're still here."
Miki hopped down, straightening her shirt with a few tugs. Haru triumphantly grabbed the eraser and tossed it to Hiro, who appeared alarmed as it nabbed him squarely in the jaw.
Miki snickered.
"Um... your eraser. Sorry about that." Haru felt herself coloring and barreled on, "You don't have club activities today?"
Hiro stared at the eraser like it was a foreign object, but recovered quickly. "The art club is using the kiln, so we have the day off. Why don't we all walk home together?"
They waited for a few other classmates to wrap up and started down their usual path, with Haru at the rear. She would always begin their journey at the back to avoid confronting the hydrangeas in front of her classmates, who brushed right past them and even had the audacity to swat at the occasionally persistent bee. By the time they passed the bus stop, she would be among the front few, having skipped ahead. It seemed odd to her, now that she thought about it, that no one had commented on her routine. She was not fond of being predictable, but she was bent on being able to protect herself, even if protection meant evasion.
Under a cloudless blue sky, the brunette breathed in deeply and felt at peace with herself. How long will this feeling last?
Glancing down the street at a four-way intersection, Haru's eyes alighted on a row of street vendors selling sundry trinkets, no doubt profiting from tourists. She felt a twinge of excitement, nonetheless, when Miki took the bait and called, "Hey, let's take the longer route today!"
The elementary students shuffled down the street when the pedestrian light flashed, coming to a stop before an array of tarps. Haru was transfixed by a display of koi, goldfish, and yellow-margined box turtles. "One thousand yen," a vendor grinned widely, scratching his belly with an air of satisfaction. "How about it, little girl?"
Without replying, Haru sank into a crouch, peering at the turtles with her hands on her knobby knees.
They were contained in a shallow blue bin, claws scraping futilely against the edge. She felt empty as she watched them struggle. Haru thought she ought to feel one way or the other—offended or smitten—but she felt nothing, only a slow burning sensation in her stomach she didn't know how to interpret.
"You know," Dai whispered in her right ear as she jumped, "They gut turtles to make medicine and soup. You should buy one for the next time you catch the flu—hey!"
Haru shouldered him off and stood in time to see Hiro holding up a clear bag with a single goldfish in it. He was engaged in an animated discussion with Miki. The brunette hoped with a sinking feeling that Miki wasn't thinking of buying a fish; the girl couldn't keep a potted plant alive for more than a week. (She sulkily recalled the shriveled bean sprout she'd discovered when she returned from her father's business trip in America.) Miki had complained that "it wasn't like that bean sprout was a magical one or anything," and Haru had to admit there was nothing particularly significant about the plant. She'd only wanted to show her father she could grow one successfully, as he had promised to stop holding her hand when they crossed the street if she did.
". . . kidding me? You'd have to add a dozen spices before you could swallow."
"I don't know about that," Hiro murmured dubiously, studying the fish closely. Was it dead, sleeping, or shy? "It's true that I've never heard of goldfish sashimi, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility—"
"Enough already!" Haru snapped, at her wit's end. "We should just head home." Soaking in the tension between them with discomfort, she was at once reminded of her lingering disappointment as her father dragged her away from the cake shop in the dining district. Shakily, she amended, "I... I forgot I had a dentist's appointment today—you guys go on without me, okay?"
They nodded blankly, and Miki patched the mood with a salute.
Haru ventured into a modern district that definitely did not house a dental clinic. She was certain the ramen shop had to be around here somewhere, since the buildings closely resembled those pictured in the advertisements—skyscrapers and monochrome colors galore. As the minutes passed, she grew more and more frustrated with herself for blatantly stalling the fact that she would have to go home, sit alone for several hours, and speak with her father about trigonometry over reheated Udon and the sort of tea she didn't like (but endurance builds character, Shin Miura said).
She had no reply to that, because she agreed.
But you endure something you don't like for something you like. She did not know what drinking his favorite brand of tea was for. If she asked, she would make him unhappy, and he would go on and on about Midori Middle to cheer himself up.
Evasion will not protect me, she realized with dismay. Lost in her thoughts, she walked into an outstretched arm and doubled backwards.
"Be more mindful of street traffic," the policewoman scolded, retracting her arm as the cars cruised to a halt before a red light. "It's safe to go now." The stout lady looked to be in her mid-thirties, but the severe bun beneath her police hat aged her.
"Thank you." Haru bowed slightly before dashing across the street, hair flying.
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She had to budget enough time to make it back before her father noticed her absence.
He would call Chiyoko, the elderly woman next door, first. He would suck in a deep breath when she didn't answer (never picked up the phone) and bravely push aside the towering knotweed and wonders in her front yard to ring her doorbell (never opened the front door either). He would proceed to her back door through the narrow side trail and cringe away from the chickens after an aborted attempt to greet them overenthusiastically. He would rap on the rusty back door and Chiyoko would open up on the fifth knock because five was her favorite number and she had a soft spot for Shin, who happened to resemble her son, who had long passed away from heart complications.
He would go through every procedure, knowing the old lady would probably not respond to the first few. Because that was how Shin Miura did things. "Who knows? She might surprise me and open her front door." The optimistic inclination manifested in the form of stubbornness in his daughter.
A daughter who had become acquainted with the eccentric woman.
Chiyoko had a passion for photojournalism. Her office faced the street, and she would often stare out the window for extended intervals, "recharging", as she liked to call it. It was for this reason that she knew precisely when Haru returned home from school each day. Sometimes she invited the girl over for tea and konpeitō, the subtly sweet rock candies.
The brunette was jolted from her thoughts when she caught a flash of white from the corner of her eye. As most of the new buildings in the district were gray monoliths, white stood out in decent contrast. Backtracking to the window, she saw that the white hair belonged to a young man—perhaps a college student—who appeared quite cross despite fervently consuming a bowl of (what looked to Haru like) absolutely delectable miso ramen.
She entered, nodding eagerly to the waitresses who greeted her warmly.
One of them started to hand her a menu when she burst, "I want what he's having." Then, almost like an afterthought, "Please."
The woman chortled, confirming the order with her and handing her a wet-wipe. She settled two stools down from the white-haired man, conspicuously glancing at him every now and then. When he began muttering to himself, she blurted, "What's wrong? Um, sir."
He turned his head marginally, gaze sliding across the rest of the distance. "You tell me, elementary-schoolgirl-who's-likely-here-against-her-father's-wishes." From his observation, the state of her hair implied a very negligent mother. Only a father would attempt to tie such poorly coordinately pigtails out of sentimental paternity and an ineptitude with all feminine matters.
For a moment she just stared at him.
"Um..."
He said nothing, but seemed comparably calmer after her intrusion.
"I just wanted to know if you liked the ramen. Sir."
"Should've asked before you ordered, eh?" he turned to face her fully, smirking delightfully.
She tried not to pout, but it must've slipped through her control because the man laughed, and something in the cadence made her uneasy. It had not been the same sound of the laughter the waitress made. If she were to assign hues to their sounds, his was bright in the center but dark around the edges, like an optical illusion.
"Everyone wants to know," he mused, wiping his lips on a napkin with such delicate manners that she could scarcely believe he had been slurping loudly only moments before. "But do they really?"
"Yes!" Haru avowed, slapping a hand down on the counter. "I want to know. On a scale of one to absolutely delectable, what is your opinion of the miso ramen? Sir."
Taken aback, the man returned her stare. The thought never passed Haru's mind that perhaps he hadn't actually meant what she'd thought he meant.
"You amuse me," he remarked, sizing her up. "But you'll have to find out for yourself." He reached into his pocket to pay his bill. The young man froze, thinking, then relented, leaning closer as if to disclose a secret. "It doesn't matter if it's good, because nothing is ever good enough." His voice flattened in a decrescendo. "Nothing is ever enough. One plus one is two, but nobody ever wants just two. They're in love with infinity, because they're in love with dreaming." The coins clattered loudly on the counter surface, and he appeared shaken.
Then a practiced grin wound its way onto his lips. "But never mind that; I can tell you're a dreamer. Too bad you've woken up already. Still, it's more amusing this way."
"Wait—" she followed him to the door, drawn by something unfathomable. "What's your name? Sir."
He threw a glance over his shoulder. "You really want to know?"
"We've been over this," she declared, crossing her arms over her chest. A glimmer of something flickered in his eye, and she realized belatedly that she had forgotten the 'sir' that time. All the vague somethings summed up to a grand premonition in her gut, compelling her to turn back and give it a rest.
But she's too stubborn to back down.
He left her with a business card.
"We'll meet again."
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Byakuran exited the ramen shop, setting off for his apartment at a brisk pace.
He was dressed smartly in a three-piece suit: white collared shirt, black pinstripe vest, and slacks. A sterling silver wristwatch dangled loosely from his left wrist, reading three twenty-four P.M. Entering the nondescript lobby, he ascended four flights of stairs, two steps at a time. At last he unlocked his door, slipping inside quietly. On his kitchen table were three steaming cups of black coffee, and in the chairs surrounding sat two lanky men of slim and sturdy build, both dressed for business.
"Report?"
Nosaru handed the folder to his boss. "Business isn't doing so hot in Italy."
Flicking through the files, Byakuran raked his eyes over the numbers. "Did you notice a pattern in the sources of unemployment, Nosaru?" He set the folder on the table, easing into a chair. "They're being laid off from industries the Chiavarone have a major stake in," he went on without waiting for the soldier's answer, gesturing him to sit. "Mainly cigarettes and luxury vehicles."
The closed blinds and windows induced a stuffy atmosphere, but Byakuran had an abnormally high tolerance of extreme temperatures. The cool colors in the room helped somewhat; the sleek cut of the glass table and navy blue furniture tempered the humid summer air.
"Ah, but that'll be remedied shortly." He studied his drink intently before taking a modest sip. "The Japanese government will soon be passing the controversial legislation to ban the sale of cigarettes on national soil."
Tazaru, the bulkier of the two, interjected: "But why? The health hazard hasn't gotten any worse. It'd only hurt the economy."
"It's a policy of zero tolerance," Byakuran smiled dryly. "Too many youngsters these days are taking drags before they're legal. But by banning their sale here and hiking tariffs on imports, the inconvenience will naturally create an opening for a black market."
Nosaru caught on quickly. "How'd you get the deal?"
He leaned back in the seat. "You'd be surprised at the number of scandals council members incur—endless fodder for blackmail. It polishes their reputation, too, by campaigning for discipline. But enough of that," he rose, emptying the coffee in the sink as Tazaru barely contained an unseemly guffaw (the boss had never finished a single cup of his coffee, always critiquing its bitterness or lukewarm temperature. Tazaru had added six packs of sugar once, just to gauge the man's reaction. Byakuran hadn't even touched the cup that time. Most likely he simply enjoyed messing with the poor soldier). "Why don't we send our sincerest greetings to a few old friends in the meantime? I'd like to make a trip home."
He was referring to a Tokyo gang that had long since defaulted on its loans. The Difo group lusted incontinently for all things base and addictive: gambling, prostitutes, narcotics—you name it. Their single redeeming quality happened to be their massive number, a handy tool for spreading information and the acquirement of it.
"Shall I phone Kikyo?"
"Please do."
The Millefiore assassins did not take kindly to overdue payments.
Summer, 1969
Palermo, Sicily (Italy)
Heat crackled the air, and even the gentlest footfall stirred a cloud of dust. It was too early to harvest the olives, but Clemente had sent his men to check up on the groves out of habitual paranoia.
While the boss could not be termed an "honest farmer," his famiglia relied heavily on agriculture as an income. That, and smuggling narcotics, but if things went well, no one would ever hear of it. Unless they were a potential customer, of course. He was fiercely proud of having loyal clientele, whose origins spanned the rest of Italy and beyond. But he was not foolish enough to believe that his clients would unconditionally seek his products as their desirability continued to dwindle with rising costs (to compensate for recent unemployment) and increasing coastal security.
Lately, their men had been lying low, which made conducting business challenging. The mafia virtually owned the cobbled streets of Palermo, but their protection rackets were only as successful as the cops were laid-back.
For now, he could rest on his laurels, content with the unhindered operation of the sulfur mines, on which he had a monopoly—the aristocrats enjoyed hunting, for which they required ample gunpowder. But it was the off-season, and there was nothing he could do to entertain himself. His temper worsened from cantankerous to downright explosive, and an unnatural stillness had settled over the household. Rumor was, the boss had shot his cooks for adding too much salt to the chicken casserole.
Bianchi examined her nails as she said, "Well, perhaps it was a bit too salty."
Gokudera groaned into his folded arms on the desk. "He just wanted to use the damn gun for something; it didn't matter what it was. He's losing it, Bianchi."
Fixing her filmy gray eyes on him, she warned, "You're next, you know."
The boy lifted his head slowly. "What?"
"He'll be coming after you. He can't very well take out his anger on his wife and daughter, can he? How would that look for his reputation?"
He laughed humorlessly. "Sure, but I'm the heir. It's not like he can kill me off without severe repercussions." Gokudera felt a stab of uncertainty, however, that he would be entirely free of his father's clutches. There was no saying what the man would do—their time together was superficial and forced. On most days, the only thing bonding the boy to his father was the mafia. There was a time when he would sit quietly and listen while Gokudera played the piano, but he soon dropped his attendance to watch Bianchi sing and dance at town festivals.
Three sharp raps on the door caught their attention.
"Time for lessons," a maid chirped, addressing Gokudera. He trudged sullenly out the door, wondering why Bianchi was free to do as she pleased.
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Later that afternoon, Gokudera was making conscious effort to not fall asleep.
The air conditioning was sufficient, but the enduring warmth made him drowsy. He managed to finish reading the passage on common business practices in the corporate world, glancing down at a list of scenarios below that asked for his reaction.
His tutor reentered the room holding two glasses of ice lemonade. "Thought you could use some refreshment," the bespectacled man articulated with a stiff smile.
He reached for the glass with a resentful "thanks."
Gokudera suddenly sat straight up when he thought he heard the sound of the piano fallboard being propped up, a deep thump that made his fingers twitch in anticipation. Someone was playing. Playing poorly, yes, but he would recognize the exposition of the moonlight sonata anywhere.
Why was someone playing?
A surge of possessiveness flooded him. It was his piano. Its keys were coated in his fingerprints.
The middle-aged man cleared his throat. "You've completed the passage?"
The boy turned back to the thick tome, feeling as though his limbs were blocks of lead.
Taking his nonresponse for a reply in the affirmative, the man coughed again, the gurgle sounding awfully like phlegm. "Excellent. Shall I close the door, then...?"
Feeling sick, Gokudera nodded. "What will it be today?" Upon receiving a copy of the famiglia's weekly financial report, he would re-evaluate their alliance network, citing the main sources of income for each ally just to keep tabs. He was never asked to identify their enemy—Mafiosi tacitly acknowledged this role as law enforcement at large.
The room's occupants flinched as a shrill scream tore through the hall.
Rushing past the tutor, he was out the door before the man could protest.
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He couldn't help it; his feet sought the direction of the piano room before the direction of the scream. As he approached, he saw Bianchi glance up in surprise.
"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.
"Papà asked me to check if we need to call the tuner again," she replied without making eye contact. "You're not supposed to be here."
He took a step back, mind whirring. "Is this some kind of stupid test?"
Lowering the fallback to cover the keyboard, she smiled sadly. "If it is, you've failed."
Gritting his teeth, he sprinted down the hall to the source of the scream, fighting one of his own that ripped at his chest.
Gokudera stopped just short of the same door he had eavesdropped behind the day before. Their father had a counterintuitive way of communicating. If you were shot, you had pissed him off, and he couldn't care less about you. If you were verbally abused, you had pissed him off, but he still preferred you alive. If you were physically beaten, on the other hand, it was near certain that he loved you with all of his heart.
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"One more," Clemente pleaded in a wavering tone, bordering on desperate. "One more son. You can have him if I've another to raise. You don't understand how nasty it is out there, Lavina. Without a blood relative running the ranks, I can't trust anyone who tries to worm his way in as a successor."
There was some movement and a dull thud as she was backed up against the wall.
"Still, I... I can't." Lowering her head, she stared at her hands, knitted together in the position of prayer. "It's... wrong."
"Wrong? You think this is wrong?" he spat. "I offered you the world—my hand—and you 'politely declined.' Now you're whimpering about how I'm going about this all wrong? I didn't hear any complaints when you took me into your room," he added nastily. "Are you regretting it now?"
With fire in her voice, she hissed, "Don't you dare doubt my sincerity towards you. I left everything behind. Everything. But this is as far as I can go—"
"Everything, eh?" He gave her some breathing space, eyeing her from two paces away. Taking her hands into his, he snorted pessimistically, running his thumb over her elegant digits. "You might have given up on playing, but there's a reason my son has a grand sitting in the lounge, isn't there?"
Her mouth opened and closed.
"I've only ever heard you play sad pieces... lamentations of the soul. You are obsessed with it, Lavina," he pronounced as she lifted her gaze to meet his. "You're in love with the beauty of sadness, the wretched beauty of heartbreak. It's all you've known and all you'll seek."
She didn't contradict him. He had a way of turning your own words against you.
Clemente had been growing out his Fu Manchu mustache, but made sure not to leave the edges hanging past his chin. Lavina had hated it, so he had kept it; but he kept it in good shape. He stroked his mustache now as he watched her. "Indeed, your form sadness is beautiful... when it doesn't conflict with duty. I'm going to ask you one last time. Will you bore me another son?"
"No."
He struck her across the other cheek. Didn't want to bruise her too much in one area, as the woman was sculpted in the image of beauty. She had a sorrow to match her fine features, in perfect harmony with the music she so loved.
"Damn you," he breathed darkly from the opposite end of the room, eyes gleaming.
Gokudera knew it was time to leave.
He had frozen in shock, and had to remember how to breathe. Another son implied they had already conceived one, and the only son he knew of was himself. And while his mother, Mia, eschewed vanity by laughing openly and hugging too tightly, she did possess a streak of vehement jealously. Had she refrained from eating with them as a silent protest against her father's duplicity? It was not unheard for bosses to take mistresses, but it was frowned upon to treat wives distastefully.
The door opened.
Gokudera gazed up at the piano instructor, confusion etched into his face. The woman was backlit and he had to squint. "You..."
Lavina stood before her son with luxuriously disheveled hair and a heart that went to pieces.
Just as she reached out, Clemente slammed the door in his son's face, landing another blow to his mistress.
"What have you done?" he roared, shaking her.
"Not enough," she murmured quietly, so that Gokudera was straining to hear. "Not nearly enough to be an adequate mother."
He knew it then.
The world closed in on him, lights dancing, pulse spastically off the charts. Memories flashed before him—memories of Mia snapping at him for no apparent reason and Bianchi silently sliding her untouched bowl of ice cream across the table, prodding him to take the first bite as some sort of pity prize. Memories of his mother smiling when she should have been fainting over the blood flowing from his knee, from his nose, from his palm. "A fist fight? My, my." And then she laughed. Of all things, she had laughed. Bianchi explained that their mother adored playing the role of a doctor and eagerly fussed over any injured creature as though it were an early Christmas present. He had sat through the discomfiting physical as she poked and prodded him, gushing sympathy. Memories of his first piano recital, on grasping the cold trophy with warm hands, searching the crowd and spotting his mother in the back row, mouth pressed into a thin line, looking thoroughly displeased. Not that he'd wanted her praise—he was confident in his ability. But it had stolen his fledgling grin from his cheeks, and his sour stomach wouldn't leave him alone on the ride home.
Memories of Bianchi's airy voice: "That's just the way she is, you know?"
Memories of Mia's recent apathy towards him, as though he'd become just another household object. The realization that he actually preferred her nastiness to her disinterest made him burn with crippling self-disgust. He could bear the burden of battle: it merely required one to push in response to a pull. He could not, however, overcome himself: if his mother did not pull, he would push all the same and end up backing over the edge of the cliff on his own accord.
Memories like ghosts, lapsing in and out of view, blurred phantoms in the night.
Haunting him.
He forced himself to move, drifting past the dining room as the kitchen hands anxiously prepared dinner in the presence of two new cooks, whose habits had yet to become the norm. Misplaced utensils and collisions were common in the first few days as the staff adjusted to the cooks (it was seldom the other way around).
"Hush! The boss would never defile the famiglia like that," a senior servant sniffed, adjusting her apron.
"What's done is done," a younger male murmured slyly. "You can't undo a lie once it's told."
Gokudera stilled.
"What're you going on about?" a stewardess demanded, curiously annoyed.
"You mean you don't know...?" he took pleasure in saying. "The bella donna who visits three days a year has been seeing the boss—sneaking around all this time. You can't really blame the man; I mean, his wife's alright, but what's a wife when you're in want of a woman?"
"The pianist?" the stewardess scoffed. "That's ridiculous. How could he maintain an affair for three days a year?"
"Ah, but she only visits the boy three days a year," he leered. "She visits the boss anytime he has a craving—"
"Shut up and work!" a chef butt in, jabbing a spoon into the man's cheek as the oil dripped down his face. "If you want to gossip, do it outside my kitchen." He promptly threw the spoon to a steward and selected a clean one, muttering about a gross waste of olive oil.
Gokudera felt like retching, but nothing came up.
The boy wasted no time getting to his room, snatching the first things that came to mind. Books, books—more books. What the hell am I doing? His hands shook as he settled for one and tossed the rest of Asimov's science fiction on the bed. Grabbing a pocketknife, he slipped out through the back garden to avoid any confrontations. He wasn't sure he would be able to refrain from using his knife if anyone tried to stop him. He had been raised to believe that strength was the impact of a man's fist in another's face, but his father's violent tendencies had never impressed him. If anything, they made the man all the more pathetic—a study in madness.
Was he going mad?
He did not feel mad. His tongue only felt too heavy, and his hands too clammy.
It seemed to him that a tremendous pressure had descended on his brain, a magnitude of headache that transcended pain and drove him onwards, heedlessly. It took all of his self-control to set a strolling pace when all he wanted to do was get the hell out of there. The blistering sunlight beat down on his back, and he wiped at his forehead with his sleeves, having forgotten a handkerchief.
He glanced to his pocket watch, a gift from the pianist when they first met. A gift from his... mother.
Vessels left Palermo every hour, so he would have no problem catching a ride. He would set his sights on a city with many allies, many people, and many hiding spots.
The lessons did come in handy, he had to admit.
Coins and bills bulged in his left pocket as he patted it just to be sure, swallowing with a parched throat. In just under twenty minutes, he reached the dock and hazarded a glance backward. A few fishermen lumbered up behind him, making their last run before calling it a night. He approached one cautiously.
"Excuse me sir, do you know of a means to get to Rome?"
The old man didn't spare him a glance as he hauled his cargo onto the boat, but responded not unkindly, "You're looking at it, boy. Hop on, I'll give you a ride. From the looks of ya you'll have no trouble paying for a ticket." A net of wide-eyed tuna stared back at Gokudera from the skiff, mouths gaping but unmoving.
Thankful the man didn't ask any questions, he climbed over the side of the fishing boat, steadying himself.
"It'll take some time to get there, so I hope you have accommodations for the night," the fisherman added gruffly.
"Right," the boy muttered noncommittally.
In his eight years, he had never imagined he would come across a situation quite like this.
.
.
x
A/N: Thank you all for your support thus far. There will be some canon overlap (e.g. Gokudera running from home) but the plot soon diverges into AU.
Just to reiterate: DARK(ER) THEMES AHEAD. Please read with discretion.
For future reference, the hierarchy of the mafia: Boss, underboss, consigliere (adviser), capo (captain), soldier, and associate (not a Mafioso, but an ally).