Another failure.

I barely resisted the urge to growl aloud at my lack of success, the newest attempt lying innocently on its disposable plate.

Pathetic. My inability to do what should come naturally to this body of mine was slowly eating away at my mind, spiraling thoughts of anger threatening to spill out of the fake mask I had created for myself.

I did not tolerate failure, especially my own. It was more forgivable (if only by a tiny amount) if those around me did not complete what they set out to achieve. Not everyone could be trusted to do perfectly but that was acceptable since I did not expect as such and therefore accounted for it in my plans.

Not being able to meet my own standards however was utterly-

Pathetic.

In the very image of calmness, I disposed of the biscuits I had cooked, watching them as the slid into the bin with resounding thumps in the empty kitchen I resided in.

What was the point to this body if I couldn't even use what it was most well known for?

What was the point to my speeches of grandeur if I couldn't even do something that was supposed to come naturally?

I was being overdramatic. My advantages in this world still outweighed my disadvantage of being unable to use Bianchi's signature move: poison cooking. The idea though, the idea that I would fail at something that was meant to be so simple, gnawed away at my standards of perfection.

Breathe.

Taking a calming breath, I allowed the bin to slam shut and exited the kitchen, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. It was fine. Bianchi still wouldn't discover her ability for a couple of years still. I had time to learn. Time to understand. Time to get ahead of the original.

When a mosquito flew in front of me, I didn't even bother to avoid it, instead letting it fall out of the air and crushing it beneath my feet.

There were always theatrics to adhere to in such scenarios, I was well aware of. The hushing of the audience. The careful positioning of the body on the seat. The downwards tilt of the head and appearance of the delicate hands. Then, the dramatic rise of the fingers before the sudden fall, stopping at just the right moment so that the first note rang out softly.

I swayed a little in time to the music, letting my hands run up and down the keys in a manner that seemed effortless. Every now and then I poured an imitation of emotion into the performance, barely noting the murmured rounds of approval as I continued. Then, a slow finish, the final note pushed out gently before turning and curtseying prettily.

Bursts of applause rang out and I acknowledged it with a practised smile, ignoring Gokudera's fervent clapping and beam in awe. "Such a talented girl." People praised as I made my way through the hubble of dolled up mafioso, hiding their usual domineering personalities underneath prim suits and silk dresses, huge jewels hanging around the necks of the women like some sort of lavish leash to their husbands. I briefly met my mother's eyes as she thanked another astounded guest, yes, she is quite impressive and we're so, so proud.

"Für Elise." A voice drew me to the edge of the party, Shamal leant against a wall with an amused glint in his eyes and a flute of champagne in his hand. "Quite the advanced piece for someone so young, isn't it?"

I resisted the urge to yawn and dismiss his comment with a wave (who cares if it is advanced, I will have it perfected no matter what the skill level, I won't accept anything less). "Well, I'm just talented then, aren't I?" My lips quirked into a mischievous smile, skirt rustling as my hands brushed the material. I cast my eyes over the people at the party. Shamal had chosen quite the vantage point. From here I could see practically everyone: those from the allied families of ours with hearty laughs and relaxed grins whilst those less close kept their emotions nearer to their chests. Gokudera was by my father's side, obviously being showed off to everyone as the future heir to the family.

My eyes the slid over those next to the food tables and I arched an eyebrow; they were dressed in less expensive robes and their role was clear. "Poison testers in this day and age?" Shamal noticed my staring with a smirk, probably finding the whole thing hilarious.

"Do they not trust the family?" I asked even though I knew the answer, watching one man take a bite of a fish and wondering what would occur if he happened to choke on a bone.

"Its an insult." The doctor drawled, taking a sip of his drink. He'd dressed up nicely, usually disheveled attire instead neat and crisp. The constant stubble was gone too, the man clean shaven and practically presentable. "They're saying your father is not only untrustworthy but also underhanded enough to kill in such a manner."

I barely bit down my guffaw at what Shamal was saying. Oh, what a world we lived in, where killing in one manner was acceptable whilst another was unhonorable. Death was death and, really, it was almost childish for the mafioso to spend their time arguing about the method to the same finishing product.

"I didn't know we had that many enemies..." I attempted to sound thoughtful at this 'new' piece of information.

He shrugged, glancing down at me briefly. "Not so much enemies as simply bitter families who are not experiencing as much success as your father."

"Are they not more jealous of other families?" I asked, inwardly amused by the petty display before my eyes.

The man almost choked on his drink, barely smothering his laughter. "Oh, piccola, one doesn't insult anyone who can kill you and all those you care for with the same effort as it takes to swat a fly. That's like taunting someone who has a loaded gun pointed at you whilst you're completely defenseless."

"So, those hiring poison testers are calling us weak also?" My eyes wandered over to where my mother was. She'd caught sight of those testing the food, although her only sign of offense to the view was the slight tightening of her lips. I noticed how she was surrounded by women, those closest to her wearing the more finer clothes than those to the outskirts of the group. At the epicenter, she was offering smiles and softly spoken exchanges of words, at first glance seemingly equal to every other woman around her but at a second so obviously the leader of the pack.

Even if I didn't love the woman, I felt a tinge of pride that I was related to someone who had so many people wrapped around her finger it was laughable.

I laid my cheek on the side of the toilet seat, biting down a groan of agony as my stomach twisted and churned. Several small bottles were scattered on the tiles of my private bathroom, surrounding me. Each vial contained a liquid of a sort, some coloured in strange ways but most being almost colourless. Waiting for the next wave of nausea to pass by, I sighed quietly.

Training myself to become immune to poison really was an irritating ordeal, even if the payoff was great.

"Don't laugh."

I barely tried smothered my giggle, eyes twinkling with honest amusement as Shamal peeked around the door again, a frantic expression on his face. "Oi, what did I just say?" He huffed, satisfied that no one was out there and pushing the door shut.

"Is my brother so terrifying?" Mentally, I was full out cackling at the hilarity of the situation. Gokudera had for some unknown reason decided to attach himself to Shamal, following the man around and pleading for him to give lessons to the child like he did for me. At first, the hitman had found it somewhat endearing.

Then Gokudera had accidentally almost walked in on him in the 'company' of another lady and Shamal had decided the boy was satan incarnate.

"How he keeps on finding me is a miracle." He shuddered, sticking his hands into his pockets as he approached the sofa opposite to me and practically throwing himself down on it. "Children are so annoying."

"Ahem."

"Excluding you, of course, piccola." Shamal flashed a smile and I rolled my eyes dramatically, letting out a childish giggle to complete the picture.

There was a sort of satisfaction I felt at the fact that the man's opinion of me was higher than that of Gokudera's. Logically, of course he thought better of me. I was far more intelligent than my younger half brother and, despite the drawback of having to constantly keep up the facade of being a young girl, I was considerably better company than an over excited toddler. Naturally, Shamal would rather spend time teaching me tidbits of sometimes useful information.

I dwelled briefly on the idea of a slight superiority complex festering in my mind but discarded it moments after. Most likely anyone would feel pleased at the idea of being liked more than a dribbling child who had yet to grasp the concept of witty conversation.

In any case, the fact I was looked on favourably by Shamal was a satisfying thing alone. Despite my lack of interest in real relationships with anyone, one never knew when a hitman like him would come in useful, and receiving his services free with the mere mention of 'friendship' was not something to be above.

Standing beside one of the many french windows, I watched as a small group of servants gathered outside. A maid was passing around a worn bag, smiling and laughing with the others as they all took their own biscuit from inside it. After a few minutes or so had passed, she noticed me watching them and waved, eyes flashing gratefully. I responded with a wave of my own, plastering a smile onto my lips.

That batch of poison cooking failed then.

Gokudera's finger danced across the keys, the anxious knot in his throat he had earlier complained of clearly untying itself the more he played. He'd inherited his mother's flair for music, I'd give the child that, standing beside my mother within the crowd gathered in front of the piano. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Shamal, disinterested in Gokudera's little show of musical talent but exceedingly interested in the woman almost pressed flush against him.

I found myself feeling a little jealous that he'd found his own entertainment whilst I was forced to watch my brother's piano recital with the perfect mask of the proud elder sister. True, I'd said he was talented, however, that was taking into account his young age. Even others watching could see this also, murmurs flying about at how whilst the darling boy Hayato was skilled, his performance of Gymnopedie no 1 paled in comparison to that of his sister's recital the earlier year.

My mother heard it all but made no indication of whether she felt pride in her child tied to her by actual blood bettering the illegitimate boy.

Gokudera ended the piece with a flourish of the hand, the smile he'd acquired as he had lost himself in the music briefly disappearing in a nervous glance at his audience only to return at the round of polite applause. Our father strolled to his side and placed a firm, proud hand upon his son's shoulder. As the crowd descended upon them with the usual carefully chosen words of praise, I saw the woman who had been toying with Shamal's tie swaying her hips as she moved towards one of the doors, noting the ring on one of his fingers not without a degree of amusement.

Playing with fire again are we, dear doctor?

The said man had to pass by me in order to follow after her, pausing briefly by my side and lowering his voice to a whisper. "Quite the childish performance, although with a charming style quite unlike the robotic perfection of his sister. Right, piccola?" He teased with a sly smile.

I barely managed to pull back the irritated glare directed at his back as he quickly strolled towards the door before anyone noticed him leaving, fingers waggling in a mocking farewell.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

I threw the biscuits so hard into the bin they smashed apart.

"Bianchi."

I glanced up from the book I'd only half been reading, thoughts working harder on chemical formulas and new plans to make Bianchi's famed poison cooking work (because now I was late and I had a schedule that had to be kept to no matter what). A careful, practiced smile graced my lips. "Yes, papa?"

My father stood on the other side of the room, one hand pressed against the window pane and gazing down at the sight of the perfectly kept gardens below. Glancing past him, I could see Gokudera out there, playing with a few other children of influential backgrounds. Due to the lack of canon poison cooking induced trauma, he had not thought to pursue the ridiculous notion of joining a mafia family other than our father's even though he was set to become boss of it once old enough. Thusly he did not run around with sticks of dynamite, which was half a relief as children with explosives boded nothing but stupidity and death. Half of me however felt dully disappointed I wouldn't get to see my half brother accidentally blow himself up.

"Your tutors tell me you are progressing with leaps and bounds," my father told me not without a degree of fondness to his tone, although with other emotions mixed in also. Regret. Guilt. Misery. He sighed. "It is a shame you were born a girl. If it were not an ingrained tradition to hand control of the family to the sons first, I would be more than satisfied with you as the heir."

"I am already satisfied to stand by Hayato's side instead, papa," I lied with a smile. The man seemed pleased by my answer, offering his own twitch of the lips in response.

I turned my attention back to the book again. There was some genuine satisfaction I felt towards his observance of my intellect being greater than that of my brother's. To be recognized as an agreeable heir to a mafia family was nothing to sniff at. It meant people were willing to give me control, willing to trust me with it, willing to let me puppeteer events with pretty words and not thinking to stop me until it was too late-

Wait.

The page I'd been turning over halted halfway, hands freezing in position.

Images flashed through my mind. The maids gossiping about things they shouldn't have been. Gokudera pressed up against the wall just around the corner, eyes wide with horror and cogs twisting and turning in that tiny brain of his. Him running.

My father had practically just confessed that he would hand the mafia family over to me if Gokudera did not exist. So, if my dear younger brother ran away from home one day as a result of discovering the truth of his mother's death then would that not happen? I'd be handed the role of boss.

I did not want to be boss.

To be boss of a mafia family meant I would be tied down to it. Therefore, I would not be able to go over to Japan and play my hand at the 'friendship games' Sawada Tsunayoshi and his family so loved to take part in. The objective to make Reborn dance in the palm of my hand that I'd so carefully plucked out of the millions of other things I could've done would not be reached.

I cannot allow that to happen.

I gripped the page tighter, eyes narrowing and lips pressing together in a firm, straight line. Gokudera could not run away. I had to make him stay, make him take over our father's role as boss no matter what. I could not fail.

The paper tore a little.

Sorry for the SUPER late update wow

I basically finished this chapter ages ago save a few scenes and completely forgot about it whoops