The mafia is dangerous.

Its hardly a statement that needs reiterating, after all, you almost inherently know this from the day you first become aware of the world around you. Roses are red, violets are blue, and the mafia is-

Dangerous.

You had to be insane not to think so; they were an organized international body of criminals who had access to a large array of weapons for starters. Although, despite that being what most people took most fear to, their ability to kill and torture, it was not what I found myself being most wary of.

I was an assassin. A hitwoman. A killer for hire. A straight up murderer. I answered to all names-although some with a half amused, half icy glint to my eyes-as long as the money was put in front of me and the thrill was guaranteed.

It was my profession that gained me the fear of something entirely different to that of the majority of the general public. To begin with, when one is a criminal themselves and deals with other criminals on an almost day to day basis, being scared of those who broke the law was a ridiculous thought. And my collection of weapons meant that the mafia's large fireman arsenal available to them all wasn't exactly so intimidating I'd be crippled with terror.

No, it wasn't the prospect of the mafia being able to massacre people with ease that I found to be so dangerous.

It was that the mafia could massacre people with ease and then get away with it.

Assassins did not have that luxury. We were a completely different breed even if people tended to lump us together in the media. When an assassin was tasked to kill someone, they did not simply nod their head and have the deed done the very same day, or even week as it happened.

Assassins planned. Meticulously. We studied our targets. We tried to understand what it was like to live inside their heads. We figured out their weekly routines, their daily routines, their morning routines. We picked up on their habits, good and bad. We found that one crucial moment of vulnerability. And then, finally, after every detail and every outcome of our own actions were etched into our minds, we killed.

Perfectly.

It was an art, so to speak. An almost impossible art where even the smallest of hand movements or the slightest flutter of eyelashes were calculated moves decided days in advance.

Mafioso were different.

Of course, they planned but it wasn't to the same level of planning that an assassin would do, it instead being more in the realm of strategic military planning. But most of the time it wasn't even that. Instead:

Step one: find target.

Step two: point gun.

Step three: pull the trigger. Rinse and repeat.

It did not matter if the killings were in the middle of the day, did not matter if there was a large crowd of innocent civilians watching. The mafia were untouchable. They were the gods of the underworld we lived in and, if it so happened that they wanted you dead, you were practically already gone from this life. One can't exactly defend themselves against gods now can they? Gods that were abundant in number.

I was done in by these gods too.

I'd done the most unfortunate thing of assassinating a friend of a friend of a mafioso. An honest, stupid mistake in my otherwise perfect planning. After all, one does not simply kill someone evenly loosely associated with the mafia and expect to get away with it with their life intact.

My death was rather dramatic. Ten or so men burst into the high restaurant I was eating at, smacking a waitress out of the way as they stormed over. One smashed the nearby champaign bottle over my head. Another pressed a gun to my temple. The rest pointed their own weapons at me as I tasted a mixture of blood and expensive alcohol in my mouth. I parted my lips to say something but the trigger was pulled and, well, bang, bang.

Imagine my surprise therefore when I found my eyes parting once again to a blinding light.

Almost immediately, I eliminated the possibility of having reached heaven. The idea was preposterous-what kind of god would ever let an assassin into their paradise?

(Pun unintended.)

My next idea was that, judging from the substance covering my body feeling much akin to blood, I had somehow survived the assault on my body but had suffered from a bout of blindness since my vision was refusing to focus.

I turned my attention to the garbled noises I was hearing in the background. It was people speaking-speaking italian or a similar language by the sounds of it. It fitted in with my theory of having survived the attack, I had been in the home of the mafia after all.

"Girl...you…concerned…"

I had great difficulty hearing the people speaking and I frowned mentally. Well, I did get shot in the head and it is a miracle I'm alive but it has messed up my senses entirely.

"No noise...alive but...unusual."

My ears strained even more.

"Give her...mother."

Suddenly, I felt my entire body being lifted upwards and I made an involuntary noise of discomfort and surprise. Voices blasted out after that and I was practically shoved into what felt like the fabric of clothing, deducing I'd been handed to a human being. "There's a good girl." This time the voice was close enough for me to hear properly even with how badly my ears were operating. "What a beautiful baby girl you are...Bianchi…"

Confused, I tried to move my limbs, stretching out my right arm and fingers that felt soft and...weak?

Weak. I was weak and that meant I was powerless. At the mercy of those around me. So very killable.

You got shot in the head. What exactly did you expect? More strength? Like in that silly manga about the mafia and friendship games you used to get a kick out of laughing at?

Funny. A girl in that manga was called Bianchi too.

It was then, much against my will, I fell asleep.

One and a half months later my vision began to clear up. I had not known it had been this long as I suspected I'd slept for more than half of the time. It isn't really as silly as it sounds, to simply accept my circumstances without too much fuss. After all, I'd been under the impression that a bullet had lodged itself inside of my head and that the people around me were taking care of me (or waiting for when I could properly speak and share secrets with them, so many deadly, deadly secrets). And being this vulnerable and weak meant I couldn't exactly do anything to retaliate now could I?

Funnily enough, the first thing I saw properly was a gun.

I was on a surface that was slightly elevated from the ground so it was directly in my line of sight and, after having gotten into the profession I had, I tended to look for such weapons anyway. It was due to my profession also that I did not react much to its presence aside from the slight tightening of my jaw and more calculating look to my eyes.

My vision of the firearm was then obscured by what I was faintly making out to be a suit and I was lifted suddenly upwards. I looked up to see a blurry face, a great moustache quivering above the man's (or at least, I'd assumed it was) upper lip. "Morning sweetheart!" He greeted and I didn't even try answering back, having attempted speech a long time back and found it impossible to not just make nonsensical noises.

I'd also stopped questioning why they tended to call me pet names all the time-clearly they'd taken a huge, somewhat disturbing however, shine to me.

I was picked up and my cheek was pressed into their suit as I was carried through the room. My eyes flitted from place to place, blurred but much more clear than ever before vision attempting to focus on everything and anything. It was then, as I was carried through what seemed to be a hallway, that I saw a reflection in one of the many mirrors on the walls.

A child. No, not even that. It was a baby with piercing green eyes, being carried by a man with a large moustache and pinstriped suit.

Blinking, I began to turn my head to see where this baby could be when I saw the head of the baby move too. I lifted a hand. It lifted a hand. I waggled my fingers. It waggled its finger.

...Oh.

I was too surprised to have any other reaction other than the thought of...oh.

Oh dear.

It seems I am a baby now.

When I got over my initial shock, I went through a stage of intense anger and annoyance.

I'd became a baby, the most vulnerable and weak creature to ever roam this earth. That was one big, big step down from being a deadly assassin of whom I liked to think only the mafia could have ever killed (a possible overstatement but I was very pissed at the time and over-estimating my abilities did make me feel slightly better about the whole thing).

And I'd be weak for a very long time still. It'd take years in fact for me to regain my former glory, which I of course intended to do since I wanted that thrill back again, the thrill of completing an assassination perfectly.

After this period of 'baby angst' and general hatred of the world, I began to think about my situation more logically. Somehow I'd been reborn as a baby-not as my original self however as I was not initially born an Italian like I had this time round. Even more insanely, I'd been born with all the memories of my past life.

It seemed highly unlikely a possibility but what other choice did I have other than to accept this as the truth?

When I was nearing five months, I realized something even more surprising. I'd been observing my surroundings more keenly now I had near to perfect vision and there were more than a few men-and a few select women-who carried around weapons of all sorts I had noticed. My 'father' seemed to be their leader judging by how he was always being asked for orders and the such. And it was at that time in my new life that I'd happened to be forgotten about during what was clearly an important conversation between leader and subordinate.

"The meeting will be at eleven. All the families are expected to attend." The man speaking with my father informed him.

"And the Cavallone will be there?" My father asked, tone brisk and so much more serious than the one he used when conversing one-sidedly with me.

Cavallone?

"Unlikely. They're in such an economic crisis that it won't be long until they'll be out of the picture too. However, since the Vongola is set to attend then perhaps they will still, considering their long-standing partnership…"

Vongola?

My mind whirred. I was so very wary of coincidence. Even before I'd become an assassin I'd seemed allergic to the very prospect of accepting things as they were if the odds were unlikely. Instead I was suspicious, questioning it all before I finally came to the conclusion that it really all was by chance or it was all connected.

I'd become aware that my name was Bianchi, the name of a girl from a silly manga about a somewhat 'magical' mafia, the female happening to also have green eyes. The Cavallone and Vongola were mafia families from that fictional universe too. My new father was the head of a group of people who handled various weapons.

So, there were two possibilities:

One, the people around me liked manga far too much and this was all one silly farce.

Or, two, I had been reborn into a mafia family that happened to exist in a fictional world.

The second option would have seemed laughable if it weren't for the circumstances I was already in. After all, if one could be reborn as a baby with all their memories intact, it seemed hardly impossible than one could find themselves in a fictional universe too.

But if this were true and this insanely unlikely event had occurred then…

The possibilities.

I smiled, only half listening to the continued conversation between my father and the other man.

Oh, the possibilities.

It seems as though it is time to start planning again.

So I was having a conversation with my bro recently about how I really wanted to write an assassin!OC-insert for KHR and we basically ended up having an hour long talk about how cool it would be.

And that is why this exists.

I don't think anyone has done a Bianchi oc-insert yet but if it has been done then whoops my bad.

Sorry this chapter is kinda short but I really hate writing the first chapters for oc-inserts because it always feels like cliched crap and ugggghhhhhhhh.

Review? :)