HxH Disclaimer: This unique and brilliant anime series is authored by Yoshihiro Togashi and the manga distributed by Shonen Jump.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and mild sexual situations (though nothing explicit).
Other Warnings: This fic is a hybrid. A hybrid, I'm telling you!
Author's Notes: This is the revised version of the fic once entitled "The Apple in the Well." I know, I know, it took me fooooorrreeeeever. Life caught up with me, ain't it loverly? Oh well. o.O In case you're interested in why I've decided to give this wittow piece o' mine an overhaul, you can go visit my ficblog, which I linked as my homepage situated in my author's profile. I'll try my best not to swamp my fic with a barrage of author's notes, as it may distract you from the mood, etc. :P So I'll be doing most of them in the ficblog.
And uh… a gargantuan apology for those who have read and commented my fic nearly two years ago, for you would have to go through the wonderful happy process of reading the fic from the beginning once again! Erm, at least you get to do some comparison between the old version and the new. :P This revision, however, would not have been conceived in the first place if not for the comments shared by good hearts. :)
Ok, more fic, less talk! Without further preamble, I now present you:
Labyrinthine
By: DW-chan
There are two worlds—your world, which is the real world, and the other worlds, the fantasy. Worlds like this are worlds of the human imagination: Their reality, or lack of realty, is not important. What is important is that they are. They give your world meaning. They do not exist; and thus they are all that matters. Do you understand?
-Titania, Queen of Faerie; Neil Gamian's Books of Magic
Part I: The Way of the Well
-)ONE(-
The Rule of the Father
-o-
Yes, the family portrait
is a little dusty.
The father's face doesn't show
how much money he earned.
-Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Family Portrait
-o-
The province of Sangue Di Pietra in the Republic of Attarria lay in silence. The late afternoon summer sun beat upon a trail of vehicles that laboriously drove through the mountain dirt paths, their dark sleek bodies fiercely reflecting the glare of sunlight. From the vantage point of the peasant townsfolk below, the convoy of black automobiles looked like a train of painted ants, slowly trudging their way up in a wind-swept funeral march. There was a dull, metallic clamor that issued from the town's bell tower, in salute of the dead. A mask of clouds languidly devoured the skies. There will be rain that night.
A thin, sepulchral mist rose and veneered the mountaintops as the sun set. As the convoy neared their admission into the Nostrad villa, Neon Nostrad peered out the car window and perceived the mansion. A great cloud shaped like a many-fingered hand loomed over the mansion as it stood about a mile away, reaching out as if to clasp the tiny structure. Faint peals of thunder rolled from a distance.
Neon was flanked by her two maids Eliza and Amelia, curled in exhausted sleep against the crimson satin pillows. Eliza's young face was swollen with grief, and her breaths were shallow and severe. In a sudden bout of sisterly regard, Neon laced her fingers around Eliza's, and felt the other girl's skin cold to the touch. Scuwala was dead. Perhaps, in another of this train of cars, his casket lay in silent petrifaction.
"Are you all right back in there, Miss Neon?"
It was the chauffeur who broke the silence. Neon lifted her eyes and saw the man's kind eyes glance at her through the rearview mirror. His name was Adlem; moreover, it was his last name. He preferred to be called that way for reasons Neon was uninterested in. She averted her gaze and sighed, her mouth forming an impatient pout. "Yes, yes." The heat of her silence afterwards expressed her desire not to be saddled with further pronouncements of concern. Soon, the iron gates of the villa came to view; already their lance-like peaks disappeared into the fog.
Sangue Di Pietra was wrought with rocky, hard terrain that seemed barren, whilst the paths leading to the villa paved way to blinding verdancy that choked with the weight of abundant forest glades and streams—acres of land deliberately blessed, all owned by the Nostrads. The fences that embraced the property stretched for miles, dwarfing dozens of men clad in dark suits who scattered themselves in groups throughout the perimeter of the villa. They were all heavily armed. The points of gun barrels protruded malevolently from hands and holsters.
Adlem apologetically broke the silence again, this time addressing the man who sat in front with him. "It's always like that after the auctions, eh, Rinsen? The mansion's guarded like a fortress. Can't be too cautious or careful enough. Whether it's backed with information or not, they assume that something amiss happens every time. Of course, it's true now." His voice was scratched. "Did Daltzorne—rest his soul—orient you on this?"
Rinsen replied somberly, "Yes, he did."
There seemed to be nothing more to remark upon. The blanket of their loss seemed too sacrosanct, in its misshapen way, to violate even with the smallest conversation.
A small drizzle began to fall. A fleet of Mafia soldiers emerged from either side of the gate to rush towards the car that headed the convoy. A burly man who led the group signaled to its chauffeur with a firm salute. The gates swung open with a slicing, ominous sound and the cars rolled in.
An unintelligible voice obscured by static burst from Adlem's two-way car radio. He gave a slight frown; he had somehow understood the chaotic whirring which came from the other line. He gained composure, and drove the car forward. "We've got company," he said quietly. "See those cars?"
Adlem pointed, and Rinsen looked. Neon and her maids barely moved in their seats. Rinsen tried to hide his confusion as Adlem added, "They're not Don Nostrad's that's for sure."
There were about eight cars that bore plate numbers which distinguished them as transients from another town parked in front of the mansion's main entrance. They were black and old-fashioned, like most of the Nostrad vehicles. Men in less formal dress with only bill caps to shield them from the rain milled across the field surrounding the cars, looking solemn and sharply watchful.
The arriving trail of automobiles passed them by as they rode on into an underground but well-lighted tunnel which served as an alternate entrance, also heavily guarded. With trained precision, as soon as the cars were parked and the engines were turned off, the passengers alighted from their seats to escort their superiors into the shelter of the mansion. Don Rait Nostrad was first seen off amidst the bellowing of orders from a man who was, like Daltzorne, a captain—a Mafia capo. Neon and her bodyguards followed suit. She rolled her eyes in seething exasperation, though she was too exhausted to throw even a small fit. She had never been fond of this tight arrangement bestowed upon her, and was grateful in her self-possessed way that two more bodyguards were not here to complete the ring of suffocation.
Suddenly, the tunnel echoed with the baying of dogs of various breeds as they were led into the kennels. A solitary car had been spared the journey into the tunnels and sat there against the growing downpour—it was a hearse, one which had headed the convoy. Able-bodied men had begun emptying the hearse of its contents: two caskets, one slightly more gilded than the other. The dogs had unleashed themselves much to their keepers' astonishment, and were now gathering around the plainer coffin in bouts of howling and yapping. One man irascibly berated the dogs into silence, but in vain. Neon knew who lay in that particular coffin. Eliza had mentioned Scuwala to be a very loving master to his dogs. She looked away and gingerly pushed Eliza through the doors.
Men were loitering in the receiving hall, lighting each other's cigarettes and conversing in low tones. It was never easy for a man to distinguish truth from hearsay; Daltzorne's untimely passing seemed proof of that, and he was not a foolhardy man. The men passed a series of words around, not really certain what to make of them.
"It's only two bodies that were intact. Well, so to speak. The rest just simply disappeared."
"Was it a communion? Did the enemy decide to hide all the bodies from us?"
"Highly doubt it. It could have been that, if there were bodies to be actually hid. But there weren't any!"
"Gone, poof, just like that, eh?"
"Yeah—it's tried and tested news. No one in their right minds would give us the wrong information."
A man grunted. "Well, it's still far from over, but the boss says we've got to bury the dead first; then maybe, we act."
"Yeah. There really hadn't been as much casualties as this before. People gone without a trace, no bodies to be found, and lots of important people too, wiped out, and it ain't even like those bigger official wars the Families had way back!"
"Ah, the Dons will figure it out."
The response, however, was not very hopeful. The storm finally descended in full force, and it raged with a somber intensity outside.
-o-o-o-
Neon relished the odd sentiment of being in her own personal chambers once again. She had been to York Shin and the trip brought her nothing but a sense of tired emptiness. She had not even gone to the auctions as was planned in the first place; she might as well have never left the confines of her home. They had gained nothing but a few trifles, and strangely, she cared little of how those purchased items fared. The trinkets which have not disappeared or have been stolen lay forlornly at one far end of her room.
Warm hands gently gripped her small, tremulous ones. Her grandmother came to sit beside her; the old woman's eyes were clear despite age, and they twinkled in a manner that comforted Neon immensely. Signora Antonia Riccio had arrived with the entourage which visited the Nostrads earlier, from a more remote neighboring town that adhered much to tradition and custom. Signora Riccio conversed to her granddaughter in the native Attarian dialect, and although Neon could barely understand most of it, she welcomed it like a lullaby as she leaned on her grandmother's bosom. This affection she sorely missed.
Neon could hear Amelia's pleas as she shushed Eliza to abate from her uncontrollable, muffled crying. Signora Riccio had given word to the young maid earlier, and it was something that seemed to have lifted a great weight from the girl, for Eliza appeared to be finally purging herself from the hurts she obtained from Scuwala's death.
Signora Riccio's life was not an easy one, in spite of the ostentatious wealth and vanity that flowed into her household because of her husband's chosen profession. Don Nostrad, Don Riccio, and what encompassed nearly the whole of the Attarrian Republic's male population—all share the same fate, whether it was their choosing or not. Attarria was the birthplace of the Mafia, and keeping such reputation afresh and alive leeched from its citizens more than was bargained for, and sometimes, even that fame was reluctantly maintained.
In her life, Signora Riccio had never relished the vast halls of the Nostrad mansion, even if she had only visited a number of times which can be counted on one hand since Neon's birth. The ceilings were high and the halls ornate and cavernous, but the air that blanketed the rooms was damp and smelled faintly of salt, and at times, of blood. The old woman had ceased to wonder about those disquieting smells a long time ago. There were quarters and cubicles in the mansion where people had died, nooks and crannies solely dedicated to the purpose of having people tested—and killed, if their skills failed them.
If only it was within her power to wholly disapprove the courting of such peril into the house and into her granddaughter's life. Even if she spurted words of wisdom, or had burned the midnight oil in educating her own children in times of turmoil when the schools have closed down, or toiled every day of her life so that her husband and children would have memories of a warm home with warm beds and warm meals, she was confined in her own place, incarcerated by circumstance and culture. And yet, strangely, she bore her husband and her sons and her son's sons who have been caught in the net of omerta—the code of silence, the proof of true Attarrian manhood—no ill will. There was enough odium in the world as it was.
She had witnessed nearly sixty summers that came and went; still she stood on the same soil of her childhood, tilled with blood and rancor. It seemed as natural as the tides that roll in from the sea. She was already beyond thoughts of redemption.
It was too late, too late.
-o-o-o-
The sun had already set but that night's storm caused a breed of dreariness that made the lamp lights dimmer and lighted fires and heater vents colder. It was summertime, but the heat, all the heat, had simply gone.
Rait Nostrad positioned himself in his unconventionally large study laden with thick-legged furniture. There was a kind of electricity in the air that rented his mind into shambles. His unease was blatant when he attempted to cut himself a cigar and his quaking fingers succeeded instead in snapping the expensive vice in half. One of his capos who happened to have taken a seat nearest the Don realized his agitation and took the initiative to prepare him a shot of brandy after cutting his cigar for him. Rait loosely gave the man an option to help himself with a cigar, but he modestly declined.
He had received a call in the trip halfway from York Shin from someone who represented a powerful Family in the Republic of Attarria, and it was a call that can not be slighted. They seemed to have known about the petty, wasteful, and ultimately mysteriously-handled vendetta which had occurred in the auctions the very minute after it happened—and whatever information reached that Family was never scarce in detail. If that was so, then they must have known about Neon as well, how her life was placed in danger, how she nearly lost her life.
The call was to prepare him for a small conference in the Nostrad villa, and added that by the time Rait arrived, they would be waiting at the gates already, perhaps hours beforehand. Rait had always wished that the day when confrontation with that particular Mafia clan, after all these years of leaving him to his own devices, would never come.
Daltzorne had always been the one who presided on what was to be done in incidents such as York Shin's. For Rait, those days of personally pouring all the vocal effort and establishing an almost plebian intimacy with his men were nearly as good as over. Now that he was a Don, he felt that such undertaking was beneath him.
Rait Nostrad, at times, can be prudent—nefariously so—but also at times, he was a little more than foolish. No seasoned Mafia chief in the Republic of Attarria would be so negligent as to spare himself, if he can help it, engagements with the top members of his clan—necessarily or otherwise—so that he could not see their faces and look into their eyes. That snobbish indulgence seemed more attuned to the rambunctiously flamboyant York Shin brood. Familiarity was a trait indispensable to dealings in the realm of organized crime.
Rait felt at loss when he recognized only four among the eight he had summoned.
A knock reverberated from outside the study doors, which sent everyone, especially the Don, lashing their attention towards that direction. Bashou and Rinsen, who were in the room, were ordered to guard the doors. It was Rinsen who reached out to open them, allowing an aging man in a grey suit to enter. The man bowed awkwardly. "Please pardon my intrusion, but they've decided to see you now, sirs," he said. With his message, the man inadvertently delivered a plethora of uneasy and disharmonious emotions which cascaded into the room. The men shifted fitfully in their seats. Don Nostrad was by far the most restless of them all. "Let them come in, then."
Three men entered and were adjoined with a grating silence. A sudden wave of mixed energies flowed into the large encapsulated space. Bashou narrowed his eyes, and Rinsen, startled, thoughtfully moved a number of paces away from the newcomers. At most, two of the men who made their ingress knew something about nen. The psychic commotion they stirred belied their appearances, for they weren't men of large build. The tallest among them stood about five feet and ten inches, but possessed a slight frame; all three of them did.
Bashou's eyebrows met in curiosity. Though these men conveyed an almost impressive display of energy, they seemed to have done little training to harness it. He himself was a nen user, but at least his aura did not coil to the far reaches of the room, scattered and un-tethered like snakes. At this point he saw no motivation whatsoever from these men to overwhelm the assembly with such an act—if it was an act.
The Don nervously rose from his chair to greet the men. He spouted exultations in the Attarrian vernacular, and some of his men cringed at the Don's false warmth. It was apparent that even as the four men exchanged pounding embraces, there was some manner of friction that transpired between the three newcomers and the Don. The two Nostrad capos followed suit, and this time, they tried their best to make the courtesies genuine. A Nostrad bodyguard ushered the representatives to their seats and had glasses of some of the Don's own personal vintage poured for them, and the Don's best stock of Havana cigars lighted for them as well.
These men were from the Riccio clan, a clan which, through the Nostrads, was known as the Ritz clan in York Shin—the spelling modernized; and the name was quite common among different nationalities that it obscured the notions of other international organizations on the Riccios' origin and how much power the Riccios really held.
Those in the room who were not acquainted with the history behind the tension now came to a conclusion that their boss, the Don Nostrad, growing in power and climbing the Mafia social and business ladder as far as they knew, was bridled somewhat by the Riccio Family in more ways than the word "Family" was concerned. It was no secret that Rait had been married once to Don Riccio's young daughter. There were other concerns about that incident which still remained veiled to this very day from this crew, some of whom had been hand-picked by Rait Nostrad himself when he became a Mafia Don; whereas he had been a widower for nearly ten years.
One of the Riccio representatives began the conversation in a surprisingly gentle undertone. He was a young man who looked no older than his mid-twenties, sporting the noble brows and prominent cheekbones of someone of Attarrian lineage. It was apparent that this man, even in his young age, had "made his bones," someone who had taken a sacred, irrevocable oath to serve in the Mafia for as long as breath still lingered in him. He formally introduced himself as Emilio Davide, and he was one of Don Riccio's caporegimes, a position ranking higher than a capo.
Emilio then introduced his two companions as his bodyguards—highly qualified men, though their appearances cunningly contradicted their deadly assets. A Nostrad Mafioso whistled in pleased awe, which Emilio noted with grim satisfaction. Everyone in that gathering now knew that Don Riccio was not frugal to generously assign his best bodyguards for a man who was, in the simplest of terms, three steps below from where Don Riccio stood in the hierarchy.
One of the Nostrad capos whose name wasSerge jokingly shook his head. "And here I came all alone by foot like some kind of beggar while I carried a barrel of goat's cheese as a welcome present for the Don!"
For once, the assembly broke into light-hearted laughter. To make amends, Serge reached out to good-naturedly pat Rait on the arm. It was understood that despite the implied rudeness, there was no harm done; though the outcome of such temerity really mattered from Mafia Don to Mafia Don.
Now with the spirits of all those in the council put to ease, Emilio released a tensed sigh and clapped his hands together with the fingers of one hand crossed over the other, as in prayer. The mildly menacing aura which once pervaded across the room slowly dwindled into a smooth, steady trickle. The young Riccio caporegime's lips were shaped in a straight line; his dark eyes betrayed little emotion as he addressed the Don. "I know you're aware of the gravity of the situation, and the matter of the Ten Godfathers untimely assassination is quite an extraordinary dilemma."
"It's causing a stir among the other York Shin clans as well," another of the Nostrad capos, the same man who assisted the Don with his liquor and cigar, voluntarily remarked. His name was Maurizzio; and like Emilio and Serge he was a made Mafia man who would sometimes revert to the Attarrian vernacular. One of the reasons he sat with the Don now, alive and unscathed, was that he had nothing at all to do with the actual operations regarding the York Shin auctions. His present involvement was a necessity, a request from the Don himself. His limited knowledge of the situation was due to information he had gathered from the Internet, and from employees of newspapers who were under the Nostrad payroll.
"Seven among the Ten Godfathers have not named their successors, so now all hell's broken loose among those leaderless clans," Maurizzio continued. "Two Yorubian-Attarrian famiglie—Migliore and Galluci—are under that crisis right now."
Serge intercepted in solemn courtesy. "Maurizzio, you said that there were two Families. I thought three had broken away from the Le Cosche." Unlike Maurizzio, Serge was, in a much greater scale, still left in the dark.
The Le Cosche was the foremost Mafia organization in the Republic of Attarria, comprised of clans which sprang from ancient lines of Attarrian nobility of the middle ages. Drastic, revolutionary changes in the world and in Attarria itself had crushed the nobility of old, and the newer form of government had been more of bane than boon to the republic's people. A long, painful history followed in its wake—from invasions to foreign occupations, from slavery to near genocide—that something like the Mafia had to be formed in order to bind true Attarrian patriots together. They were their own people, and the Mafia had been so much part of the nation's being that even the government itself was loath to eradicate it, lest they send the whole country in an uproar. Though there were those who, in their best judgment, decided to seek their fortune elsewhere, and these were the three clans which had sailed to the Yorubian continent and established their power in York Shin city.
And there was only one man who had the power to govern the Le Cosche and yet restrain to some extent the belligerent competitiveness of the clans who have sought paths apart from the Le Cosche. This man was Don Massimo Riccio, and he was the Capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses, in all of Attarria.
"Yeah," Maurizzio replied. "Don Zanipolo of the Messino Family—buon' anima—had been reasonable enough to allow some room for discretion, and followed protocol. He's got a successor. Now, his old Consigliere, Don Neroli, is in charge. The books remain closed. Somehow they've managed to pull through, those bastards." There was a crooked fondness in his voice.
Emilio finally managed to introduce the more pressing crisis: "The Messino famiglia may be doing well, but soon enough the Migliore and Galluci Families will be running to the Le Cosche for some kind of aid. The York Shin famiglie have been rivals for so long despite the business ventures they've done together. The stability of one Family is a threat to the other. The Messino clan may come running to us as well." He let out a long breath. He searched Don Nostrad's visage as if expecting the man to continue. Fortunately, Rait understood.
"And we can only come to the aid of one Family," Rait finished. Against his will, he nervously cast his eyes down.
Emilio nodded. "And the other famiglie who won't be getting our help and protection will definitely be in sore terms with us." He extinguished his cigar against a nearby ash tray. "One Family may have the Le Cosche to back them up; but the others will have potent connections in York Shin, and we all know that York Shin is one of the best trading capitals of the international organized crime syndicate in the world."
Don Nostrad absently shrugged. "Well, there are times when protection from the international syndicate can't be guaranteed. The Families who'd deal with them would always have to come up with very interesting negotiations."
Serge offered, "Any idea who among the Families would be at the greatest disadvantage with the international syndicate?"
Emilio did not reply and Maurizzio only spread his palms unknowingly, whilst the Don avoided their gazes. Bashou and Rinsen only exchanged glances as the pregnant silence devoured both time and space. Were these matters anything these Mafiosi wanted them to hear? Bashou and Rinsen, Kurapica, Senritsu, and all in Neon Nostrad's bodyguard fleet—save Daltzorne—were technically outsiders, after all.
Bashou had gathered in his years of working for these types of crime families that they do not consider anyone who does not possess any degree of Attarrian blood, or anyone who has not at least been born and had grown up in the same province where they lived, as one of them. Persons of different blood and nationality may be placed under their payroll, or given an honorary position in the Family as an associate, but they can never be "made"—can never really devote themselves to something as tightly-knit and frighteningly austere as the Attarrian Mafia.
The occupants in this room were either made men, or men assuredly waiting to be made. No rights to join a conference like this were reserved for "outsiders." Bashou shifted uncomfortably, and hoped these men had not forgotten their presences, and knew what they were doing.
Then the subject quickly changed; Emilio's tone overshadowed a deep interest and a slight disapproval, though he made it sound that he regarded the matter with contempt. "How fares your new capo, Don Nostrad? I heard that he's quite very young but very capable. Sharp-witted but rather aloof, is he?"
"You heard right," Rait replied. He knew that his choice of replacement for Daltzorne would be questioned sooner or later, but he did not expect Emilio to inquire of him about it. Usually such curiosity was reserved for Don Riccio himself. He then realized that Emilio was stretching his limits and inquired out of genuine intrigue. The youth must have fancied the notion of someone younger than he was taking a chore fit for a grown man. Emilio had become capo when he reached his twenty-third year, and was appointed caporegime only recently.
"His name is Kurapica," Rait added. "He is indisposed, however. I've been informed that an illness seized him, and he is unable to travel the long trip to Attarria without the risk of being recognized and captured by rival fractions. I only loosened my austerities because his profile and the profile of another bodyguard who is accompanying him are not in the Hunter Website yet. Regular contact between me and them is still made, and they will return as soon as Kurapica is recovered."
"I wish not to doubt your judgment, sir. This Kurapica may be of good quality, but he is not one of us. I'll wager he has not stepped on Attarrian soil until the moment you hired him as a bodyguard. But the final verdict isn't mine. I'll leave it to the administration." There was nothing lofty in Emilio's manner of speech, but he bore himself with a mien that seemed otherwise.
"As you will have it," was the Don's impassive response.
Rait Nostrad could feel Emilio's eyes bear upon him. He can never really look at Emilio straight in the eye, and not because of fear, which he mistakably thought was the reason at first. It was mostly because of petulance over the young man's insolence; that this boy can order him about, a caporegime, a position that very well did not exceed that of a Don, and yet get away with it, for a sole reason that he was caporegime to a man with whom he owed a great debt. Especially since the last time he saw the boy, he was but a bumbling teenager of sixteen.
Rait was peeved at how easily he fell into the trap of obsequiousness to the Riccio clan with little hesitation. So to conduct that he was Don but still winning the good side of the Riccios, he lifted a hand casually to give out orders. He addressed Maurizzio and Serge. "Inquiries. Research," he said brokenly. "Find out what you can about the York Shin clans' present disposition and activities."
The two men nodded their heads in obedience, their eyes gleaming.
At that moment, Rait wanted to bury his face in his hands. Why the hell can't I have my own Consigliere? Why the hell should these goddamn Riccios veto what I do when something sidles out of place? Can't these idiots accept the fact that I am my own man, that I've been so even before I married Beatrice Riccio, and can goddamn well handle my own affairs?
Most of all, he was undoubtedly exacerbated on how the mere mention of Don Massimo Riccio's name rendered him as helpless as a street rat doing what he can to earn the attention of petty Mafia chieftains to at least be able to work for them to earn his bread, and arrive with delusions of being able to gain even a small spark of respect from them as well. Dreaming. He was always dreaming.
Rait gritted his teeth in secret when Emilio proffered him a smile of approval. Had Emilio not been too eager in serving the Riccio Family and remained an ordinary, bumbling youth of twenty-five, and then displayed such subtle mockery as he did now, Rait would have planted a fist on the young man's face there and then, blissfully ignoring the fact that Emilio Davide's mother was his late wife's sister.
If not for this whole nonsense of Emilio being a well-trusted Riccio caporegime, Rait would have readily accepted his familial duty of being able to teach the boy manners as his uncle through marriage. And yet, what can he expect from a man who was, after all, Neon's cousin, and was only expressing his displeasure towards an uncle who so carelessly bore Neon into danger?
The young today have as much power as the old. Power over the old, even. It had not been that way in Rait's time, and that was not long ago.
As Maurizzio and Serge stood up to bodily acknowledge Rait's command, Emilio, in turn, motioned to the rest of the group, including his own bodyguards, to get up and leave with the Nostrad capos. "I apologize, but what the Don and I will discuss next will be personal matters. Whatever has been and will be discussed in this meeting would have to be repeated and continued in the presence of Don Massimo Riccio. So for now, and by your leave, Don Nostrad, this meeting is adjourned."
Presently, Emilio himself rose from his seat to personally conduct everyone save the Don to the door. As Rinsen and Bashou opened the doors, Emilio regarded them with a quiet politeness of a schoolboy; and when he broke into a schoolboy's smile as well, the two bodyguards tenuously exchanged glances of surprise. "I know you'd want to protect the Don at all costs, but you'll have to leave, too." Emilio gently placed both of his hands on the two men's shoulders. "Trust me on this. No harm will come to him."
When Bashou and Rinsen were a good distance away from the study room's ornate doors, and well out of earshot from those who had left the room with them, it was only then did Bashou manage to emit a small burst of laughter. "Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my two eyes. Right at this moment, a friggin' kid's in charge!" He shook his head to ward off glamorous lines of haikus that playfully formed in his mind to describe that encounter. He chuckled and added under his breath, "Those Mafia hoods. I wonder what Kurapica would have said about all this? And him being given special attention and all! That kid better return here soon."
Rinsen only beheld his co-employee with patient eye-blinks of alarm.
-o-o-o-
Emilio Davide reclaimed his seat opposite the Don, who was also his Uncle Nostrad. Now that business had been discussed, both men have granted themselves free reign to talk of matters concerning kinship and blood-ties. Emilio decided to assert his grievances first.
"Why do you do this?"
Rait forced himself to return Emilio's penetrating gaze as he absently stirred his drink. "Do what?" Let that kid suffer from his own insolence, he thought.
Emilio's eyes flashed a little, but he maintained his composure. "Why do you keep yourself from us? Keep Neon from us? Grandpa—Don Riccio—always mentioned time and again not to have business keep the family, the blood family, from sharing ties." There was a constrained hurt in his voice. Rait noted it with dark pleasure; and yet, he could not prolong it and leave the youth's question unanswered.
"Oh?" Rait took a drink from his gleaming shot glass. "Perhaps if I felt more welcome, my dear nephew, I would not be so coy." He continued his effort of planting his steady gaze on the young man. "And Neon is, after all, my daughter."
Emilio felt somewhat stung by that last remark. It was common custom for an Attarrian man to have a proprietary ownership over the women members of his family, even in these contemporary times when women move more freely about the world. Well, he added, in other parts of the world. Neon Nostrad still had "Riccio" as her middle name, and having that name treated like a mere commodity—whatever the holder's gender—almost felt like an insult to him and to the mother who bore him. He was silent for a while, considering his words, his well-disguised retorts. "Well then, would you still feel spurned if I handed this to you?"
Rait's pupils contracted for a moment when Emilio reached into his suit pocket, and quickly relaxed when he discovered that the young man took out a white envelope and extended it to him. "You've always received these in the past, Uncle Rait, but you rarely came." For a tiny, evanescent instant, there was a sad tenderness in his voice which dissipated as quickly as it was born.
As Emilio spoke, Rait warily accepted the envelope and swiftly removed its contents. It was a lightly perfumed invitation to Luisa Riccio's thirteenth birthday. He read it with unfocused eyes; in the silence of the room occasionally disrupted with the ominous sound of wind hitting closed windows, he measured his nephew's modulated breathing. Yes, they're trained that way; to act in monotone, almost unreadable, no matter what.
Suddenly, the Don did not know whether to sigh in relief or stress. This had been a routinely practice ever since he engaged himself in attending the York Shin black market auctions: to celebrate Luisa's birthday party a week after she had actually turned a year older, to specifically coincide it with his arrival from York Shin. He sometimes wondered why, that despite his recurring absences, Luisa's family had not decided to move the parties on her real birthday. True, he had seldom attended, but out of respect more towards Don Riccio than his niece, he always sent a generous, delectable present in the stead of him and his daughter.
Still, never has the invitation been handed to him personally by anyone ranking as honorably as a Riccio caporegime, even if that caporegime was his own nephew. Ever.
An abrupt commotion from one end of the study brought both men to spring from their seats in sheer stupefaction. So bent were they in facing that sound that they were not granted a sight of each other rammed out of his wits.
It was Signora Riccio who had barged into the study. Her usually kind face was ruddy with disapproval. She reached out exasperatingly, entreatingly to her grandson. "I leave you for a moment to cook a meal and see Neon, Emilio, and this is what happens!" the old woman cried. "You may be with your uncle now, but some minutes ago, I know you've gone through business. What did I tell you about mixing business with family?" Her voice possessed a matronly cadence that her scolding sounded more endearing than lacerating.
Rait could only questioningly look at Emilio in his astonishment. The young man suddenly seemed sheepish, but he regarded the elderly woman's outburst with a doting yet deferential shake of his head. "I hadn't promised anything, Grandma!" To Rait, he explained rather jovially: "It was reckless of me not to have brought this up to you, but the Signora had insisted that this would officially be a family visit, not a Family visit, as it goes." He somehow knew that his grandmother was irked and saddened by his disobedience. But with matters as impending as these, what choice did he have?
Though dumbfounded and vexed, Rait Nostrad nodded in understanding. The ambivalent and ambiguous nature of the word led to much confusion in the past. He could not understand why his mother-in-law was apparently openhanded on how she handled situations which involved relatives with an abandon he could not have granted to his own mother, if he willed.
Signora Antonia's annoyance seemed earnest enough for her to forego the inclination to knock before she entered. Ciphered experiences had led the aged matron to gain enough confidence that in certain circumstances, her impertinence of barging into conversations of men younger than herself was excusable. It seldom occurred to her whether she broke in between an important arrangement or not, for as long as she was entitled to her own peace of mind. In fleeting, impatient gestures, she harried the two men out of the study. Like most individuals who have been born and bred solely within the boundaries of the Republic of Attarria, Signora Riccio, as she usually did, eventually fell into talking continuously in the native tongue in rhythmic, melodious tones.
Emilio Davide did not proceed to conclude the short-lived meeting without clasping his uncle's arm in formal acknowledgment that they were to meet again soon.
"The Godfather expects you, Don Nostrad," were Emilio's concise, sententious words before his caporegime façade melted away to finally, pristinely uncover the chastened grandson who gently held his grandmother's arm to placate her.
At those words, Rait Nostrad knew that he was to expect the inevitable—if anything described as inevitable could be expected.
The day finally ended, but the ordeal was far from over.
-
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Italian words:
Sangue Di Pietra – "blood of stone" (I had meant it to be a rough translation of "bloodstone," a kind of gem)
Famiglie – "families" (sing. Famiglia)
Mafioso – a member of the Mafia. (pl. Mafiosi)
Le Cosche – "The Gangs" or "The Clans;" it exclusively refers to Mafia clans. (sing. La Cosca)
Buon'anima – a salutation that means "rest his soul." Literally, "good soul"
Consigliere – "counselor"; also exclusively a Mafia term. One of the highest ranks in the Mafia, sometimes next to the Don.
A/N: I owe explanations for some stuff mentioned in this chapter, no doubt:P So head over to the fic blog, or go to the livejournal website and search for my username: lunafelis3.
Some explanations to encounter in the ficblog: Why I resorted to this kind of revision; Togashi-san's portrayal of the Mafia vs. the movie Mafia vs. the real Mafia; Attarria – Italia? (yes, but not quite); How AU this fic will be; What's with the foreign language!; and other side stuff I'd like to blabber about. Teehee.
Do bear in mind, though, that we are still only in the exposition, and this fic is set in an Alternative Universe. After I've introduced some important terminology in this chapter, the fic would be easier to follow, I hope, from then on.
I would greatly appreciate reviews, and feel free to ask questions! Worry not, I'm quite approachable (just don't go runnin' around abusin' me good heart. Hehe :P) :)
P.S. Kudos to my latest reviewer, Kamui-san. Good stuff you got there! I really appreciate it. ;)