I swear to god, Skeeterpillar is the best plot bunny breeder known to man. This story was a request from her. We were actually going to make it into a full doujinshi, but we looked at the four projects we already have, remember we started them two years ago, and then remember that we will more than likely have graduated from college by the time we finish them. We don't need a fifth project. (To visit our doujinshi, the website is cytstorm . deviantart . com. We have three in progress for 6927 and one in progress for D18) So she gave me the basic plot and let me run wild with it. She's such a good friend :3

Anyways, this story is rated M for the lime later on.

Prologue

I was sick of it. Sick to death of it. The abuse, the scars, both physical and mental. Poisoned so frequently that I became immune to the majority of them. Living the life of a bastard child, kicked around and unloved because my father couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

Sick of the torture, sick of the pain, I finally grew enough balls to run away. No one cared that I had disappeared; I was less of a burden that way, and what Family in its right mind would take up a temperamental bastard like me?

I heard the rumors, that the next person in line to take the head of the powerful Vongola Family was a no-good brat around my age. He lived in Japan, and he knew nothing of the Mafia lifestyle. The only reason he was even being considered was because he was a direct descendant of the Vongola Primo.

That would become my new destination. A boy who had never lived in the world of the Mafia before wouldn't have heard of me, and I would have a chance of actually finding a family.

Japan was my new destination. I dedicated nights to learning the language, and when I was ready, I went to Japan to confront my new boss.

/./././././././././././././././././

I guess I've always had a good life. I had two parents who loved me and gave me all the encouragement I needed to do what I loved.

My mom was the one who started me on baseball. I fell in love with it the first time I held the bat in my hands. Even as a five year old, I trained relentlessly, wanting to master my favorite sport.

My mom dropped me off at one of my games when I was eight, waving and smiling and telling me she'd be waiting at home to hear all about how the game went, but that she had to run some errands during the game.

"I'm sorry Takeshi-kun, I would love to watch your game, but we do need dinner for tonight."

"It's okay mom! I love you!"

"I love you too." She leaned down and kissed my cheek, then left.

That game was the game I made my first homerun. Afterwards I ran home, ecstatic to share the news with my parents.

I came home to my father crying.

I had never seen him cry before.

I asked the policeman who had been standing in the room what I thought had been a simple question.

"Where's mom? She can make Dad feel better!"

My father only cried harder, and pulled me into a tight hug,

"Dad, what's wrong?"

"Your mother… isn't coming home."

I was shocked, and I wanted answers.

"Why? Doesn't she love us anymore?"

"She loves us very much Takeshi, very, very much."

"But then why isn't she coming home?" I demanded.

"She was hit by a car. She's gone…"

I cried with my father for the rest of the night.