And we're back!

This is not in any way related to my last KHR story (sorry to those of you who wanted the other half of "Ruined For Marriage," I'm still in the planning stages).

This is set post-series and in a hypothetical ten years later in which Tsuna is a successful boss and the Arcobaleno are adults.

Kovilka has been, as they say, around the block a few times.

She is not from Italy and does not know it as well as other parts of Europe that are, say, just a bit further to the east across the Adriatic Sea, but after a few years of navigating slums and red light districts, every city's underbelly starts to look the same. She is not necessarily the cleverest or quickest on her feet, but she is good enough to keep herself alive. And she doesn't have as much experience as the hired guns who tend to travel in the same circles, but she knows that running into the same assassin more than once is not a normal occurrence. After all, mercenaries in Italy try their hardest to stay as far away from each other as humanly possible, because sharing clients is uncomfortable and sharing targets is inconvenient. But the worst is being hired at cross-purposes; walking into a room expecting an easy job, only to find another professional waiting. It's the kind of thing that happens once in a while to the truly unlucky, of whom Kovilka counted herself among long ago.

But the third time she runs into the hitman with a fedora, she starts to think there might be more to it than bad luck.

"You again," he greets her with a twinge of hesitation, "Are you going to give me a name this time?" His gun is still holstered, the hand that would hold it occupied with keeping her wrist over her head and her aim trained on the ceiling, the other keeping a blade at her back.

She doesn't answer, her own knife pressed against his throat, grip tensing around it with every breath he takes. If they stood any closer, they'd be sharing breath. She knows this man by now; Reborn, he calls himself, supposedly the strongest hitman in the country, maybe even the world. People talk, and the way they do makes her certain she shouldn't be sharing his company.

"Believe me, I tried finding it out myself. You just don't have much in the way of a reputation, I'm afraid," he says.

She tries to think of something she might have done to put herself in this position. Had she gotten in his way once? Botched a job without even realizing it? Hit his dog? Whatever it was, she still doesn't think she deserves this.

This job, like every other that she'd run into him on so far, wasn't supposed to be difficult or even dangerous. An informant wanted her to steal a list of the businesses owned by Donna Marcelli, a woman that the criminal underworld either adored or hated depending on who was asked. So she'd waited for nightfall, dressed in black, armed herself with the bare minimum expecting little resistance, and broke into the office of Donna Marcelli's accountant. She had been cautious despite not seeing anybody, and things had been going smoothly-she'd found the manila folder labeled "local income" from the file cabinet and skimmed the contents-when she noticed someone opening the door behind her. Not because it made so much as a creak, but because of the sliver of light that fell over her as she crouched in the dark that came from the hallway, and they'd rushed at each other, struggled a bit, made desperate grabs at one another's weapons, and finally ended up in their current position, frozen in a very dangerous waltz in the middle of the room.

"I assure you, this is as much of an inconvenience to me as it is you," he says, and against her better judgment, she opens her mouth.

"I really doubt that. You're one of the best in the country. If a job falls through, it's not as though you'll have trouble finding another."

"Cute, a beginner," Reborn says with a light smirk, "You might want to quit while you're still alive, sweetheart. The field's oversaturated as it is with kids like you." She refuses to bristle at the word kid. "Who's been hiring you, anyway? Are they getting tired of you screwing up yet?"

"Big talk for someone who's met me three times and still hasn't killed me."

She flinches when she feels something sharp at her back, pushing through the thin fabric of her jacket, and responds in kind by pressing the knife in her hand just hard enough to break the skin on the side of his neck.

"Third time's a charm," he murmurs.

Kovilka is acutely aware that she could be staring death in the face. She's had close calls before and managed, but she's starting to sweat, her focus breaking as her fight-or-flight response begins overtaking her reason and she wonders if she's really never going to see the cute neighborhood stray ever again, never going to eat another tulumba, never going to get to apologize to her mother, Mom, I am so sorry I left home to become a mercenary, but maybe she was never meant to do that anyway.

Either the terror or all of her petty regrets are showing on her face, because Reborn laughs. "You look pathetic."

"Why are you even here?" she groans, "You're an assassin, right? There's no one to kill."

"No, but one of my usual clients wants the same document that your client does. One of us has to lose, I'm afraid."

"You don't have to act all mysterious, everyone knows you're Vongola's dog."

"A position which has quite a few perks and only rarely requires me to stoop so low as to perform these retrieval jobs, which I'm sure you're familiar with due to your abysmally low success rate."

"Look," Kovilka says, trying very hard not to lose her cool, "The way things are now, this could go either way. Even if your reflexes are better than mine, I'll slit your throat the moment I think you're about to stab me in the back. We're both going to bleed out on the floor here."

"Then how about a compromise?"

There's a pause. Kovilka tries to figure out if she really looks like she was born yesterday. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" Reborn pushes, smirking a little wider now, much too widely for someone in as much as danger as he is, "You just said yourself that neither of us is likely to get out of here alive, so let's make a deal. Give me the document and we both walk away."

She doesn't even dignify that with a response. If, for some reason, he actually doesn't shoot her the moment he gets a chance, she's still got to report the failure back to her client, do the walk of shame home, and try to find another job and hope her reputation hasn't taken a terrible blow.

Reborn apparently assesses this as a refusal to cooperate, because the next thing she knows, he's closed the inches between them and pressed their lips together. Kovilka is so startled that she almost falls over, but manages to keep on her feet when Reborn slips away from her and the man takes several large strides to where she set the folder on a coffee table at the other end of the room. She aims in all of two seconds, giving him just enough time to put his heel down on the table with enough force to flip it onto its side, and the bullets lodge in the thick, expensive wood.

She's standing between him and the only door in and out of the room, but there is a window behind him. Considering they're on the third floor, she doesn't think he'll jump. She steadies herself with a few deep breaths, keeping her aim trained at the table, listening for any movements as she inches herself towards the desk and file cabinet in case she needs cover. She moves around it just as she hears the click of the safety being turned off.

She hears him laughing a moment later and peers around the edge of the file cabinet. "You certainly didn't give me much time," he says, "I'm used to getting a few more seconds out of that."

"I'm offended that you thought you'd be getting any more time than what I gave you. Do you regularly harass female hitmen?"

"Don't feel special, I've done that to plenty hitmen, and not all were female."

"Plenty? How many are we talking? You don't even ask for a history? I'm surprised you haven't caught something."

They lapse into silence again, running low on patience for further banter. Reborn breaks it first. "Your youth is a benefit to your physical attributes, but it works against you as a lack of experience," he says, "But I'm guessing you're too stubborn to take on a mentor or find a regular employer."

"What, you're not good enough? Vongola wants more private hitmen on a leash?" Kovilka shifts her weight, growing uncomfortable from her rigid posture behind the file cabinet. She glances around the side to make sure he still hasn't moved. "I'm not stubborn. I just don't like the mafia."

"You don't like the mafia?" he repeats incredulously, "I'm sure you've noticed by now, but the best employers are mafia. I can't imagine you haven't learned to at least pretend to be polite in front of them." There's another pause. "This document isn't of use to either of us, anyway."

"I'm not about to take your word for it."

"Fine." A hand appears at the side of the table, and the folder is slid halfway across the floor. "Go ahead and see for yourself."

Kovilka takes a deep breath. It just isn't fair. Not only does she run into the same assassin three times in a row, but he's also an insufferable jackass who acts like she's an idiot. If he thinks she's going out there, he has another thing coming.

Glancing up at the lightbulbs over his hiding place, she takes careful aim. "Why are you so nosy, anyway?" she asks, "It's not any of your business how I choose to work."

"I guess I have a soft spot for hopeless losers," he chuckles, "I've tutored a few of them now. I thought it would be a nice change of pace to mentor someone who's not starting out with literally no talent, but you're-!"

She'd thought about waiting a few more seconds, but in the end, she shoots out the lights right then. Reborn inches just out of cover, and Kovilka uses every second, tearing out from her hiding place, and grabbing the document in her free hand as she slides along the floor. They exchange fire briefly while they trade places, and the window behind her shatters. She thinks she grazes his arm, but he still makes it to the other end of the room and out the door, gone like he was never there, only his insults lingering in her ears.

Her heart is beating a million times a minute. Kovilka leans back against the wall, still in shock and disbelief that she's survived a third confrontation with him, even if this was the only one to escalate as far as it did. She had to have been lucky-he's not known for missing shots. Happy to be alive, she doesn't think on it too much, instead looking down at the folder in her hands and opening it with a triumphant smile until she begins closely reading through the contents.

"A list of Donna Marcelli's front businesses are not included in the file," Kovilka says uneasily, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as the negotiator who hired her glares at the document, "But there are other useful things in there. Lots of numbers. A sample of her handwriting."

"It's a default spreadsheet with fake numbers and a grocery list," the negotiator says.

"I still got it for you."

"I suppose you did."

She hesitates. "So."

The man sighs heavily, closing the manila folder and tossing it in his briefcase, probably because he feels bad about throwing it away in front of her and just plans to shred it later. "Kovilka," he says in a patronizing tone, "You understand that we can't do anything with this. Literally nothing. We can't blackmail the Marcelli claiming we know what sorts of things their boss stocks her refrigerator with."

She shrugs. She would like to point out the positives, like they know what kinds of foods she likes and could potentially poison her if they're patient and willing to perform a more delicate operation, but she doubts the negotiator would be receptive to advice at this point.

"If we need anything else, we'll let you know," he says in a way that suggests he actually won't.

"Oh," she says, watching his back as as he walks away and holding in the anguished cry that wants to come out. What he doesn't understand is that she really needs the money and she's already tired and frustrated and doesn't want to deal with Reborn again. But the man is gone in moments, disappearing into a crowd of passersby, and she's left alone and trying to keep herself together.

She walks home.

It's a long walk, but she doesn't mind so much. She needs to clear her head and be outside a while longer anyway, needs to figure out what she's going to do next. Despite Reborn's jeers, she knows she's at least competent. She hadn't messed up any jobs before he showed up. Even though the last three went poorly, the clients weren't any big names, and her reputation is still salvageable. She stops briefly at a patissiere on her way, buying discounted cookies from yesterday.

She sees one of the neighbor's children, Ciro, playing tug-of-war with a beagle on the dirt road and smiles when he turns to wave at her and comes running, the dog hot on his heels. "Hey, sis!" he calls excitedly, having long ago adopted her as his own, "Are you going to come play today?"

"I'm sorry, I can't," she tells him, though manages to bring a smile to his face once again when she hands him the bag of cookies. "Make sure to share with your sister, alright?"

"I will, I promise!" He yells a, "thank you!" over his shoulder as he runs up the hill, the beagle nipping at his heels. Kovilka smiles and goes the same way, watching as the homes of her neighbors peek up over the horizon. Ciro's mother stands in the doorway calling him for dinner. The Russo's garden across the road is bright with marigolds in full-bloom, vines creeping up the sides of the house. She sees Mr. Salvay, one of her elderly neighbors, sitting on his front porch, jumping to his feet as she passes, a basket of fresh vegetable in his hand.

"Oh, grandpa, you didn't have to," she says as he comes to greet her, handing the basket to her.

"I did," he tells her, "Because you don't eat well. You buy salty garbage instead of groceries."

"I promise I'll do better," she says, and even though he shakes his head, he's smiling.

Kovilka is thankful for these people, her neighbors who have taken her in as one of their own, the elderly couple who think of her as the granddaughter they never had, Ciro and his family who always watch for her to make sure she comes home at night and worry when she doesn't. She doesn't know what they think she does, a foreigner who moves to the Italian countryside by herself, but they never ask and she's happy to never tell them.

She wonders how they'd treat her if they knew. Ciro would never be allowed to see her again. The Russos would never want her to come anywhere near their house, let alone take care of their garden when they're gone. And Mr. Salvay, who she knows hates the Italian underworld for claiming both of his children, would hate her, too.

Kovilka doesn't feel bad lying because if these people reject her she has nowhere else to go, so she keeps up the illusion of being a normal young woman trying to find her way in the world. She keeps the smile on her face until she gets to her front door. She unlocks it, steps inside and says very quietly, "I'm home," to nobody.

Two weeks until the bills are due.

This time, she was just unlucky, but if she sees Reborn again, she might just have to shoot him on sight.