Romano walked away from the horribly drunk trio at around 8:30. He was much too disturbed by the fact Antonio was the one he had treasured so much over a decade ago. Growling, the Italian trudged to his awaiting cab, blushing angrily. He couldn't bare to keep looking at him. His brother was bad enough, but for the tomato bastard to appear as well, God must really be out to get him.

With one last glance at the Spaniard, Romano entered his cab, diving into the mass of questions in his mind to look for possible answers. Why were their loved ones all conveniently at their latest assignment? Is there a connection between them? Did one of them find out about what his unit did? How did his team feel? How did he feel, seeing his brother, his fratello, and that damn Tomate Bastardo. He abandoned them a 11 years ago, and yet, seeing their faces again was worse than leaving in the first place.

That was what he had caused, the grieving, the sadness, the desperation. Romano, when he left, he did it to protect them, his loved ones. Their nonno was directly connected to the mafia, if he hadn't gone, everyone he loved would have perished then. When Romano found out about his heritage, he gladly surrendered any chance he had of a happy, painless life in America and learned to live with the pain and take joy in anything that fate decided to dump in his lap.

The cab driver glanced back at him, which Romano absently replied with a glare. He didn't like people very much, especially nosy people. They were slippery, manipulative, and barely had any remnants of their humanity left. Maybe that was why he found this job far more enjoyable than being the mafia. He no longer had to work for the sly bastards, it was even now his duty kill them.

His lips quirked up at the thought, and he looked out onto the road. They were on an older lane, with less cars and people. As the cab slowed to a stop, Romano inspecting the various shops cramped together on one street out of pure boredom. One caught his eye.

An elegant, tiny flower shop with iron decorations to its door and display window. The small, metal sign suspended above it proclaimed its title as Memories. Somehow, the white chrysanthemums appealed to him. They flourished broadly, emphasizing several of the display bouquets' brightly colored centerpieces. The white was so innocent, Romano found, as their blossoms seemed to be glad to exist in the world that cursed him at every intersectionl. Perhaps it knew not of what he's done, or what roams in the shadows or the mindless humans who go about their life with no aching regret that Romano has every moment in his heart. The ethical dilemmas, the looks of hate, the lack of love. He was well aware this job took years off his lifespan, but he didn't know if he could withstand even another case after this one was wrapped up, if it wouldn't be his demise.

The light flashed green, and as the cab accelerated again, Romano caught a glimpse of a familiar face. "STOP!" he screeched. The driver slammed on the breaks, thankfully not causing an accident. "What?!" he shouted back lividly, glowering at the Italian who fumbled with his wallet. After a few moments, he through the man his due cost, and jumped out. Bidding the cabbie farewell, he jogged over to Memories. The door was just closing from the latest guest.

Eagerly, Romano stopped outside of it, peering in through the glass of the door. He had been right. Feliciano was here.

00000

Romano, with the surveillance he did over an entire week, found out quite a few things about his brother. However, he couldn't work up the courage to go in there and plant a bug, so he would just stay on the shop's roof until Feliciano left. Which would be about 10 because his fratello worked there. He found out about his bubbly personality, his likes and dislikes, how he cared about children, and that Feliciano could cook and make art more beautifully than he ever could. Well, he knew all of that already, he was just happy that his brother grew up to be a good man.

Smiling, on the last day, Romano hopped off the roof in the back easily, expecting to safely land like most days. However, and the Italian had known about this for his entire life, but cats hate him despite his affections for the small creatures. Dogs, whom he despised for their moronic way of slobbering and barking at nothing, he tended to attract. However, right below him was a cat, calico, and obliviously napping beside a larger grey cat.

Cursing, Romano pushed off the back wall in a split second, but ended up falling in a pile of crates. If he had noticed sooner, the chief could have landed better, but he literally only saw them a few seconds before landing, and if he woke up a cat, it would make God damn certain to tear off his face.

There was a minute of loud crashes, splintering, breaking, and cursing. Not even Feliciano could be oblivious notice that. So, to Romano's horror, when he raised his head painfully up he was looking straight into his brother's amber eyes. "Um…" was all Romano could muster at that point, pain aching through his extremities and panic shooting through his mind. Clenching his teeth, the older brother blocked out the pain, and stood up, not even looking down at what must be a sorry sight of himself. His wounds were probably infected, so he should hurry back to his motorcycle. He broke into a run, or at least a run to his current state, and tried to escape into a back alley. Unfortunately, his coordination was affected in his crash and his brain was still disoriented.

He ended up tripping over his motorcycle. Thankfully he didn't hit his head, only his broken arm.

00000

"Signor Chevelle, this is what you get for jumping from high places," Feliciano chastised, bandaging the bleeding wounds. Romano stubbornly bit his lip, refusing to show any sign of pain, even to the point of injuring himself. A thick stream of blood streamed from his mouth, dripping onto the already bloodied gauze.

After he fell, Feliciano quietly dragged him into the shop, despite the older's loud cursing and refusal. The younger, as blindly as a Northern Italian can be, continued to sit him down in the back of his shop, where colorful rolls of ribbons were strewn carelessly on the floor, as well as various shipments of commercial flowers. The insignia on them, though, did not match any growers that Romano was familiar with (all of them). However, considering he was in blacking-out levels of pain, the Italian supposed he may not have been able to remember all several hundred and compare to the symbol he had only gotten a glance at in his condition.

The splinters had been precariously removed, thanks to Feliciano's unusually keen sight. Romano hadn't even felt them exiting his flesh as they were swiftly plucked from his legs and other lower extremities by the younger's dexterous hand.

Perhaps it was the pain, or the crash, but Romano's head throbbed with pure confusion. He knew he could be disoriented, but he could barely manage to look straight, with the blurriness clouding his vision and the beating that haunted his head.

His arm was probably even worse than when he had finished with the Butcher, and even through the haze his state of conscious was in, Romano managed to get a glimpse of it. He was surprised Feliciano hadn't thrown up, cryied, taken him to a hospital, or was even slightly paniced at the sight. Instead, the small brunette busied himself with bandaging the serious cuts that jagged nails and large blocks of wood had caused, before taking care of the arm.

Since the arm was basically ripped open, a lot of blood pooled around him, which was probably the cause of why he felt so hot when his body was really cold. The younger has put some plant gel on it (cue Italian curses) to help the blood clot while treating the other wounds. The entirety of the radius was visible and quite obviously broken, if the thin white thing looking like a broken twig on his arm and stung like a bitch was anything to go by. Romano found sarcasm was proving to be a very good distraction from pain.

Romano, to his great relief, was soon numbed by whatever remedy his younger brother had injected in him. Time and space warped together, and his mind focused on the strangeness of a hat on the other side of the room; the only one in the store. His thoughts and questions tumbling in his brain tumbled out when he tumbled off the roof. He chuckled, and twitched his arm.

In surprise, Romano looked around, completely oblivious to where or when he was. The sky was dark, and the antique chandelier was lit. It hung close to the ceiling, so it was only thanks to numerous small lamps and candles that the room was lit to an unstrenuous level. With the dim, warm lighting, he could see what appeared to be a torture chair, old and iron cast, caked in pints of blood. Most likely where he had been treated.

Feliciano wasn't in the cluttered room, but was probably the source of the soft, cheerful humming in the one next door. Probably the kitchen, being the source of the delicious smell torturing his nostrils. Romano, being a top-level mafioso and FBI agent, had developed a gourmet palette. He knew when something was good.

He tried to move his arm, but received nail biting pain in return. Huffing, Romano composed himself. A tense, impatient mind wouldn't help his recovery at all, especially after he added at least another 2 months of rehabilitation.

"You're awake?" Feliciano chirped, poking his head into the back room to see Romano trying to stand. "Ah, no! You can't do that!" the younger whined, weakly pushing his teacher back into the chair he was sitting in. Although Romano would like nothing more than to collapse right there, sleep for at least 8 hours, and take a bottle of painkillers, that's not how his life worked.

He goes off the radar for more than 6 hours, and his team will contact the local authorities. After all, most of his life involved crime, so it shouldn't be a surprise that he gets attacked or injured often. Begrudgingly, Romano sits, if only for the other's protesting 'Ve's to stop.

Triumphant at the small amount of cooperation Romano displayed, Feliciano hopped off to where he was before, saying he'd bring him some food. Quickly, the mobile Italian returned with a platter full of spaghetti with well-prepared sauce, garlic bread, and a glass of wine. Smirking slightly, Romano plucked the stemmed glass and downed the fruity beverage. Alcohol never had a strong effect on him, but he always became more agreeable with a bit of the toxin in his system. Feliciano seemed to take the easy acceptance of food as a small victory, and dashed off, probably to get his own food.

When he returned, Romano was already attacking the pasta, marveling at the culinary skills the younger possessed. Good sauce takes hours on a simmer, with fresh ingredients and carefully selected herbs and spices. The fat wasn't too rich, too watery, or too chunky, with a genius blend of fragrances. The garlic bread was also a satisfying portion and had a suitable amount of garlic with a bit of parsley to faintly compliment the sauce when eaten together. "You really rock at cooking," was the teacher's unintelligent reply. The other merely smiled brightly, content with knowing Romano enjoyed it.

Feliciano didn't need to know his brother just so happened to be a renowned food critic, as that was a story for another day.

Quickly, the meal was devoured, and despite the lack of appetizers or dessert, the entree was practically a masterpiece. As the younger took their plates to the kitchen, Romano snuck a small smile, pleased with the offering. Delicious food would have to be made if you wanted the older to do something. The alcohol also helped.

Romano absently noticed how enthusiastic Feliciano was at cooking and tending to him. While the host washed the dishes, the FBI agent took that as a good time to inspect his wounds and assess the damage and recovery time. Approximately 54 cuts on his legs and lower abdomen, 25 of which serious, with 7 reasonably large gashes on his shoulder with the broken arm. All of them were properly disinfected and bandaged, by what Romano could tell. He dreadfully looked at his arm. The length of it had a jagged stitch, all the way to his elbow. The limp, numb limb was suspended by a long, white cloth, securing it from causing any further damage.

"You got pretty bad there. I'm surprised you're still even alive," Feliciano said, his voice strangely without its usual energy, sat back down after maybe 5 minutes.. "You held on tp consciousness far longer than any man should, and didn't even panic or scream when you saw the blood," he exclaimed, still smiling, but the silent question echoed in the awkward quiet of night. No sound resonated in the darkness of November. All Summer creatures that usually soundtracked the evening were long dead.

Romano scoffed, looking up with a lopsided grin. It was bitter, his body ached, and he was doomed to it for a long time, perhaps for life. But that, the Italian learned quickly, was how his life would always be. There was no stopping it, so he had long accepted it. It was strange, after Romano had killed so many fellow Italians, Americans, criminals, and innocents, that when he had a chance to do the right thing, he did it.

"I guess you could say I'm no virgin to accidents," he mused aloud, drawing even more suspicion, but it eased the tense atmosphere that the other had been building up. Narrowing his eyes, Feliciano sighed, and stood from the small ottoman that he had stationed himself at, in front of Romano. "I was going to ask you to not go into work tomorrow, but I think that'll be a waste of breath," the other muttered, probably not even caring if the other heard him, and walked out of the room again.

The older snickered, gazing up at the chandelier. Cobwebs hung daintily, static, with no breath able to disturb them. The spiders had long vacated, dying off from the cold. It was only thanks to the multi-layered wool blankets and comfortable plush quilts that kept Romano's bare chest warm.

Romano sighed in relief when he saw the time, 1:12. He couldn't find his shirt or coat from his position, probably soaked in blood, but his iPhone had been on the pile of boxes and other junk that functioned as a nightstand on his left. He texted his team that he was alive, and will be coming in late the next morning. Dropping the device onto his lap, Romano peacefully faded into unconsciousness without worry.