Squalo's never been to Milan, and he's never wanted to go either. Besides a few ragtag groups and level one crooks, no mafioso has touched Milan in decades. The last time someone tried, they bit off more than they could chew, and were taken care of by law enforcement within a few months. Not a very good lifespan considering there have been families lasting well over hundreds of years - like, for example, the Vongola.

It's unnerving, coming up to the North like this. The Vongola's influence spans over Europe, all the way east to the land of the rising sun, but within its own country? Nope.

He likes to think it's due to some political or cultural bullshit, or some honour code he doesn't care about. And that should make Squalo want to fuck everything up and take the fashion capital by storm, by any means necessary, including a combination of taking up professional modeling in the day and assassinating the competition by night, if it wasn't for one thing:

Tourists. The horde of tourists from all over the globe, from the Asians in their cute little tour groups, to the Brits with the indecipherable English (you invented the fucking language, learn how to fucking enunciate), and the fake people who call themselves Italian but eat at Domino's when they visit Milan. Squalo despises them all, because one of his virtues is that he does not discriminate, and he hates all people of all races equally. May the Lord forgive him, but there is probably few things in life he imagines is more satisfying than squeezing the life out of every damn tourist that asks him to take a photo or asks if he's a model or asks for directions or for fuck's sake, stop fucking eating, you assholes! Jesus Christ, that's the Last Supper! Have some fucking respect!

Disgusting. The utter disrespect.

Too many damn tourists. Too pretty a picture of what Italy is supposed to look like. Nothing like the backstreets of Naples, bleeding out to almost nothingness in the filth of it, getting rid of bodies from train stations and wondering if the blood will just look like graffiti. Nothing like having his head dunked under Lake Garda's pretty waters, the sound of kids playing in the background ringing in his ears like white noise. Milan is the kind of place where its dirty business is played out elsewhere. No one wants Naomi to walk on a bloodstained runway. No one wants The Last Supper to be desecrated. It's bad for business.

It's a pretty thought; the only places mafioso, polizia, and civilians are truly safe within Italia is in art galleries, museums, churches, and theatres.

God, he hates it. It is quite possibly his only weakness.

That, and his monthly cannoli, but if anyone tries to use it against him - well, he is very willing to cut a bitch. Squalo has spent the last couple of days in Milan doing very little - no one could even be bothered to give him some useless recon mission as something to do - and he has had just enough to be ready to kill someone.

On these off days, he at the very least had Lussuria to fall back on, but he's been training in Bangkok and won't get a break for the next month. Mammon would be a great next option, albeit Squalo couldn't afford it considering his shitty salary. Levi would have been tolerable, and Morette's a fucking creep, but any one of these four options would have been better.

At his core, Squalo is a thinker. He likes to think, he likes to think about everything that annoys him, he likes to imagine destroying said things that annoy him, and he likes to rant and bitch at people.

So, where does he begin?

The guy's name is Xanxus. XANXUS. What kind of pretentious name is that? Who named him? His father? His idiotic older brother who cracked open a crappy fantasy book, mixed the letters up a bit, and thought it would be cool? Sure, Squalo can't say much considering his name means shark, but in this case, yes, yes he can.

The guy hasn't said a thing since before they've even gotten into the damn car. Let Squalo repeat: NOT A SINGLE FUCKING THING IN THE LAST HOUR. And considering how slow the traffic is, SQUALO IS NOT HAPPY.

Squalo is trying. He's tried so hard to get some kind of a response, even ended up going the 'so... the weather's pretty nice, huh' route, and he hasn't even gotten back a 'hmm'! The only thing holding him back from beheading the fuckwit is the fact that they are in a car, and Squalo cannot afford to pay for the damages.

What makes literally anyone else a better option? That Squalo can bitch to them about shitty tourists and yell and scream and they will pretend to listen. And if not that, then the other person will bitch and be annoying as fuck, and Squalo will have the pleasure of cutting a bitch.

The driver looks up at him in the rearview mirror, concerned. "Mr Superbi, sir, are you alright?"

Squalo, his face set, his mother's voice in his head reminding him to be professional, says, "Shut the fuck up, and drive."

The driver shuts the fuck up, and drives.

And then Squalo hears it. The driver doesn't - the sound of turbulent air. Like someone exhaling through their nose sharply.

Squalo's eyes, slowly, disbelievingly, move to look at Xanxus.

Was that… a laugh?

Squalo blinks, and he actually stares at the other boy for more than two seconds.

He doesn't know why but… for some reason, he's always thought of Xanxus as violent, short-tempered, and most importantly, reckless. He's heard enough of the 'mad dog' to have the image of a mindless murder machine preconceived, but Squalo can admit that the other boy may have … or appear to have … some form of intellect. People who don't speak, to Squalo, might as well not be able to, because they're either dead-dead or brain-dead.

(Unless of course they have a specific impairment that prevents them from doing so, such as deafness, muteness or any other impairment, or any combination of such impairments, and in which case, Squalo would like to formally apologise because he does not discriminate such persons specifically, so please do not report him to Human Resources, the Vongola take that shit seriously.)

Dead-dead or brain-dead may not be applicable to Xanxus.

Seeing the other boy now, he is calm. Xanxus is only a few years older, but he's infuriatingly taller. One long leg loosely folded over the other. Arm casually along the windowsill, his head held up by his head and he looks out the window, perhaps deep in thought, or acting like he is, to discourage conversation with Squalo. Like, what the fuck is up with that, why is he posing as if he's in an expensive watch advert? Why does he get to look like a twenty-something, powerful CEO in a shitty Korean drama when Squalo has the 'rosy, cherubic cheeks' of a six-year old and the body of a twenty-five-year old athlete?

But, there's something there. Something he can work with.

So, Squalo does what he does best, and faces him head on, sword and all.

"Did you just fucking ... laugh at me?"

The driver continues to shut up and drive.

.

.

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*Domino's Pizza opened its first restaurant in Italy in 2015. I'm going to pretend that happened in the 2000s (where I'm kind of setting this story, even though my stupidass occasionally uses refs from the 2010s) bc it is just hilarious.

Hi old readers and new ones. Haha. Funny story: I thought the last time I had uploaded was a year ago, so when I saw the update date as 2018 I went yayyy. And then I realised it was 2020.

Okay, that isn't funny at all, I'm sorry I try uni is hard. More Xanxus next time. This fic is literally just Squalo fucking around (well not literally fucking around bc he is like 14), and is my crappy attempts at humour. I apologise for my parentheses, but not remorseful.

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LaKRipper