Corrupted Harmony

[lunadeartemis]

Still, it didn’t hurt to have a few men in his pocket as he traversed the little, yet obviously wealthy town. They walked behind him, their steps quiet and their figures slinking along the shadows. In contrast, he made all the noise he wanted. The click and tap of his shoes against the paved street resounded along the narrow walls of the buildings. He made no effort to hide, but walked leisurely right under the light of the lanterns.

He reached the square without incident, circling around the large waterfall. Standing in the middle was a statue of a woman in wet drapery. She bore an urn at her hip, from which the cascade of water spouted from. He admired the statue for its beauty and what it stood for. After all, the reason it was there, the reason the town was so prosperous, was because of the power of his family. Their association to the Mafia had made them affluent, rich, and by consequence the town had benefitted from their connection.

It was why he was so sure of himself. The town and the people in it owed his family. They owed him. From the peasants that worked the fields, the thugs that ran the underground and black market, the middle class that ran the shops and trade, to the upper crust which supplied and demanded from them.

So he didn’t feel like stepping on a few societal rules really mattered.

He walked across the length of the square to one of the townhouses that encircled the perimeter. He went into one of them through the side, motioning to his men to stay while he went ahead into the small orchard at the back. The orange trees were fragrant that night. He followed the line of them until he reached a cluster of them which safely hid from view the person who was waiting for him.

“Ricardo!” she exclaimed, taking a step back in surprise. He raised an eyebrow and moved closer, taking her hand and kissing the bare, freckled skin. He didn’t widen the gap between their bodies after letting go, however. Instead he drew nearer and kissed her by the ear where he knew she was ticklish.

“Did I scare you?” he murmured as she braced herself by grasping his shoulders. Her grip tightened as his mouth trailed down her neck, his lips a breath away from the delicate curve.

“Y-you did,” she answered, already flustered. He loved that he could do that. She fell apart so easily at his touch. He enjoyed this the most. Being able to move someone in that way. It fed the desire he had to see someone else succumb to an emotion as he often did with his anger. But that was why she was appropriate for him too. She never made him lose his temper. In fact she made him feel kind, a feeling he hadn’t really know before.

He moved forward, making her retreat until she was pressed against the wall lining the house. The intake of breath she took in and exhaled enticed his eyes, drawing his gaze to the swell of her chest.

“Are you teasing me, madam?” he demanded, his voice already throaty from desire welling in his blood. This was where he would help her undress. Turning her backwards, he would help her unlace the sleeping gown she wore from the back. It would slide from her shoulders first, dragging fluidly down her arms and revealing her back until it pooled at her feet. He would take his time touching her, cupping her chest from behind and swallowing the sounds she made with kisses. It was explored ground. The territory of her flesh was one that he knew well. But somehow it still felt new every time.

His hands moved to her waist, intending to spin her around. However, her hand moved too, stopping him with the light touch of it on his.

“Angela?”

She moved away, walking a few feet with her back turned to him. He couldn’t fathom what was wrong.

“I know you came here expecting we would…that we would…”

“Make love,” he offered, a little bemused. Where was she going with this? She had never denied him before.

She turned and shook her head. “You have to be married to call it that,” she opposed vehemently. “Which is the topic of what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“You’ll need to wait,” he interrupted, a hand cupping chin to hide his embarrassment. He was younger than her. Three years to be exact, although he didn’t look it with his height and the maturity of his build and face. “I need to be old enough to gain my inheritance before I ask for your hand.”

“That’s not it,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to marry you, Ricardo. My father knows you have an interest in me, which is why he wants to marry me off before you get your inheritance. You don’t inspire confidence in him because of your…associations.”

He had frozen at her words. His mind reeled, trying to grasp comprehension but failing dismally. She wouldn’t marry him. His connections, the very ties that made the town flourish and kept up her style of living, were unfavorable. He wanted to laugh, but it came out all wrong, sounding like he was choking. But that was appropriate wasn’t it? She had stolen his breath again. But this time not with her beauty.

“Did you intend to marry someone else this whole time, Angela?” he asked after a few moments of silence in which she had stood quiet, wringing her hands and waiting for him to react.

“Was that not apparent?” she asked, surprise coloring her tone.

“No. It wasn’t. Not to me,” he bit out coldly before marching past her, clipping her shoulder with his so that she became unbalanced and lost her footing. She stumbled to the ground, but he didn’t look back. He had been wrong about her. He didn't feel kind any longer.

He stalked out, unconsciously heading to the fountain, not caring that his men were at his heels again. He stood before it, feeling his face contort with rage when he noticed it. What was it beautiful for? It didn't mean anything. It might as well have crumbled to the ground for all the good it did him. He jumped into the water and tackled it, pushing with all his might so that it might fall to the floor like Angela had done. Only, it wasn’t easy like it had been with her.

“M-master Ricardo! What are you doing?” one of his men asked, moving to stop him.

“Stay away!” he raged. “I’m going to destroy this filthy thing! It’s going to fall and I’m going to be its ruin!”

How easily she had destroyed him. She, who he had believed could never provoke his ire, had instigated it to proportions he couldn’t even begin to tame.

What good was all the power in his hands then, if it wasn’t enough to garner her respect or even her devotion? Much less love. He spat at the thought of the word. Anger built in his chest and it assembled in his blood, boiling like it did during the midst of their passion. Only, what he was reaching for was destruction not bliss.

He pushed, butting his temple against the cool marble to numb the heat of his pain. He recalled the way her hands used to chill him there whenever she touched him. Now he understood the frigidity of her body. Never had she really felt anything for him, had she?

His eyes blurred in anger. Memories raced across his mind: her fingers tracing down his chest, sketching the figure of his lips before kissing them, lightly treading the shape of his heart… before so unexpectedly plunging into the cavity of his chest.

She was submerged so deep inside of him, too rooted to his body for it not to hurt when she turned away. But that was his fault. He had allowed it. He had let her plant her seed beside his heart. Now it was too late to search for it and throw it away. She had already laid down her roots. He could only bear it and feel as she twisted his heart from inside, pulled it out, dangling it before his face so leeringly, before dropping it carelessly and decimating it underfoot.

His rage surmounted and he roared. That feeling building in him reached its climax, bursting from his hands in flames. They engulfed the statue in the blaze they created.

Gasping, he stepped back, falling on his rear into the water. He watched as it burned down, quickly turning marble to ashes.

“M-master, we better leave!” one of his men urged lifting him up by the underside of his arm while the silent one did the same on his other side. “People will come out soon…”

They would come out and see that the goddess with the urn at the center of the town was no more. Instead, her remains would litter the water with ashes.

“Is that him, Giotto?” murmured G.

He was fairly certain it was. He had never seen side burns like that on anyone else but his cousin’s family.

“That’s him. That’s Ricardo. I would stake my ring on that assessment.”

G smacked him downside the back of his head. “Shut it, you idiot. If you ever say that again I will cut off all your precious hair in your sleep.

Giotto chuckled to himself. “I apologize.” He would have to apologize to its original owner too, knowing G’s tendency to be thorough.

“Well, it looks like your angry little cousin has become even angrier since you’ve last seen him,” his storm guardian commented as they watched said boy from the rooftop of a nearby house. Ricardo was challenging a horde of young men. Or that’s what it looked like. They walked into the alleyway between the house they were perched on and the next one over. Giotto’s head inclined with interest as the brawl began.

It was rather bloody and ruthless. Ricardo seemed to be consciously building up his anger with the way he howled and attacked his opponents as if he were an animal. Even though he was outnumbered six to one he had already subdued all but two of the younger boys. He assumed they were brothers by their similar features.

“You’re right. But Ricardo worked hard to contain himself. It looks like he’s not bothering to cap it off any longer though…”

“More like he’s using it to fuel his fighting prowess,” G noted, with the tone that he approved. “I don’t like fighting like that, but I have to admit I’m impressed. I can see why you want him to join Vongola.”

Giotto smiled. “Don’t be hasty, G. I never said I wanted him, especially not if he’s going to fight like that.”

His friend glowered at him. “Then why are we here?” he demanded.

He contemplated for a moment, twirling words inside his mind to find the ones he needed to describe what he was searching for. “I wanted to see him again to judge for myself if he has what it takes to succeed my will. The Vongola Rings will reject those without my blood, remember…”

“So you need a relative,” scoffed G. “Why don’t you just make a kid?”

His brow furrowed. “That’s still my first choice,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t want to marry me, you know that.”

G rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, pulling out a cigarette to quell his consternation. “She’ll come around. But I suppose there’s no harm in scoping out this kid…oh!” he exclaimed in mild surprise. “Maybe you should stop that, Giotto. It looks like he’s about to lose himself…”

Giotto’s eyes widened when flames burst out of his cousin’s hands.

Ricardo dragged the youngest one out of the alley and to the front of that woman’s house. Her family was gathered at the foot of the door, waiting for the outcome of their duel. He had challenged her brothers when she refused to come out to see him and they threatened to drag him back to his own home. They would have to make him, he had told them, and sadly for them they hadn’t been able too.

The father blanched as he dragged the boy into his view and Angela hid behind him, one trembling hand clutching at his lapels with fear.

“Your sons couldn’t quiet me, sir, so I have full leeway to express that your daughter is not as pure as you believe her to be.” He dropped the boy to the ground at his feet, where he fell groaning from the sound punch he had incapacitated him with.

“What?” demanded the man, spittle flying from his mouth and Angela drew away, pleading in her eyes. He ignored her. He had no pity for her. He would show her no more kindness.

“We’ve met behind your orchard for the past year or so,” he explained idly, a sardonic grin plastered to his lips. It tasted sour, like the bitterness of her lies. “Imagine that.”

“I cannot, sir!” growled the man. “Because it is all slander. My Angela may have refused your advances, but that is no reason to drag her name thorough the dirt!”

“Oh? I’d say she dragged herself as she writhed on the ground beneath me,” Ricardo spat, satisfied at the way she turned and fled back into the house. “There is no use in denying it. You will just have to accept that she is used and will never be able to marry anyone but me. The thing is, I don’t feel too charitable right now. I expect she’ll be living with you as disgrace for the rest of her life…”

“Y-you bastard!” the boy at his feet screamed, leaping up and throwing himself at him. His fists were everywhere, but haphazard and without any force. Still, the graze of his knuckles against his cheek provoked him. He grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the ground, going down with him as he punched his cheek.

“An eye for an eye,” he yelled. “And I’ll just have you pay me back for what your dear sister has pained me!” His fist met the bone of his nose, cracking it under the pressure of his blow. The boy howled, but reached up and scratched at his face, leaving parallel scrapes down his cheek where his nails had dug in.

Enraged, Ricardo ensnared his neck in a vice, leaving the boy gasping for breath.

He couldn’t keep a hold of anything.

To keep hold of something, his father once told him, one must have a grip of steel and will hard enough to barricade it so it can never disappear, run away, or betray.

He had applied that to his anger. He had steeled his will to contain the rage. But when Angela had turned her back on him he let it all go. His will easily broke. He thought his influence would enough to keep her with him, but she had used him. He felt like a fool and easily lost control of his anger.

He couldn’t keep a hold on anything, not even himself.

But he resolved that such a thing didn’t matter when those flames burst before his very eyes.

Strength became synonymous with power, the same power that burned down the marble statue. Power was fueled by fear, like hers, and fear was incited by rage that came so easily for him.

So he didn’t feel the need to quell it anymore.  He let himself fall apart to anger, breaking jaws with bare hands and dousing blood where his punches landed.

He repeated it again and again with each brother. He let his anger pull at him in all directions, haphazardly shaping him into the personification of his rage.

And there he was again, wanting to bring her down. Not by toppling the statue, but by deposing her family and shaming her like she had with him. Her brother would do.

He couldn’t have been much older than his own fifteen years. He was breathing harshly through his broken nose. He was sobbing pleadingly in strangled words, sounding like a fish vying for water. Ricardo’s grip was unwavering at his neck, severing the air so the fish would be submissive.

The boy’s hands pulled at his, like a kitten swiping at the panther’s grip. It was for naught.  Because this was the only way to hold on wasn’t it? In his hands was a life. He could choose to end it by taking them away. The boy wouldn’t be able to do a thing because Ricardo had power he did not.

“P-p-please,” the boy managed to stutter, his hands finally falling away and his eyes rolled into the back of his head in defeat. His hand, however, swiped again, dragging nails across his nose. Blood dripped and Ricardo saw red. Red blood and burning red flames. A part of him told him to let go, but the anger wouldn’t let his fingers unwind. The boy’s pulse fluttered weakly beneath them, matching the steady chill that seemed to start at his heart and spread across his chest.

The immediate contrast between his cold body and the warm hands on his shoulders shocked him back to reality. The hands were in flames like his own before him. They pulled at his grip on the boy. They burned like his too, only the flames were tranquil. He couldn't move as they extinguished his.

He let go and watched as the boy’s limp head fell back. He reached out to feel if breath was passing through his lips, but a red-headed man interfered, kneeling next to him and taking his pulse at the neck.

“He’s still alive, Giotto,” he remarked, the cigarette in his mouth moving in tandem with the syllables.

The person with the warm hands squeezed his shoulders and Ricardo couldn’t make himself look back at him. He felt like a scolded animal, perplexed by the damaged he had done and uncertain about what to do next.

“Cold, isn’t it, little cousin? There’s nothing warm about killing someone. Even the anger in your actions burns away. Want to know why?”

He responded instinctively, yearning for the answer no one had ever been able to give him. What could burn away his anger? Every other question reeling through his head could wait. “Why?” he whispered, almost too quietly, but the blond young man smiled in acknowledgement. He recognized him immediately. He was a distant cousin he hadn’t seen in a long time. Giotto.

“Because there is no purpose to it.” He held up a hand, and Ricardo watched in fascination at how the intricate ring on his finger glowed and then burned orange flames that lit the night between them.

“Purpose?”

“Do you have something to protect, Ricardo?” he asked. He couldn’t say he did. Once he might have said himself. Protecting himself from his anger had been a priority. Another time he would have shouted Angela. But now, when she'd broken him and released him...now anger drove the power in his hands. He didn’t have anything to protect. But all to destroy.

“No,” he answered.

“Then you won’t be able to use that power well,” his cousin decreed offhandedly, standing up and pulling him along. He began to drag him away. Ricardo looked back to see the red-haired man helping the boy and his father.

“They’ll be fine,” said Giotto. “Now come, there’s a lot we have to discuss.”

“So you have your inheritance now, right Ricardo?” asked G when he walked into Giotto’s office.

He had been part of the Vongola family for three years now, and since then he had served Giotto and his vigilante cause. That was where his loyalty lay. Serving Vongola, which stood for justice, was how he had chosen to fulfill his purpose.

Recently, he had gone back to that little town at his father’s behest. They had set his will and afforded him his inheritance. But he wasn’t very interested in the property for himself. It would, however, be a good place to set up a new branch of Vongola.

“That’s right,” he affirmed and sat down to the chair next to him where Giotto was indicating with a feathered pen.

“Good for you, Ricardo. You’re a grown man now! Shall we celebrate?”

Ricardo grinned. “I don’t mind.” G, however, seemed to have other ideas.

“Work first, Giotto,” he reminded. His cousin sighed heavily but did as he was urged. He admired that. Despite the fact that Giotto loved his freedom he had allowed his vigilante group to become an organization which dedicated itself to keeping peace. He was strong, yet he didn't use his power to abuse. His purpose was to make Vongola just as strong, but never in a way that would corrupt what it stood for.

After all, if Vongola was strong then the world would have someone to turn to wherever it was riddled with corruption. It couldn't be corrupt itself to manage that.

He felt Giotto was the strongest.

He had showed him how to use his flames, even if they weren’t as devastating at the ones filled with wrath. And even those were more or less under his control. Ire, he had learned, did not have to consume him. He could control it and use it to his advantage, although he still needed to work on that.

“I’d like your help, Ricardo,” he had once asked him three years ago. “I want you to help me protect Vongola. Under our name we’ve grown to weed out the corruption surrounding us. I want that to continue. Will you lend me your power?”

Of course he had, and that was his purpose.

He’d heard it before, that greed was the seed of all corruption. He agreed of course, but didn’t think too much about it. Those that made up the Vongola family weren’t greedy by nature.

Still, it had been blind to have never thought the seed of it would grow roots inside the family under a different guise. It had started innocently enough, a sprout here and there easily flattened by Giotto’s will.

“We are not warmongers,” he had told Daemon. But after Elena had died the mist guardian had taken it upon himself to strengthen Vongola in that way regardless of his opposition.

“The world needs a strong Vongola,” he had stressed when Ricardo confronted him. “The world will have a strong Vongola. It’s what you want too, isn’t it?” he had demanded.

“That’s dangerous, Spade,” he had said. “Too much power can lead to corruption.” Didn’t he know that best of all? “You can’t guarantee that the people you protect won’t fear you if you have all that power.” After all Angela, hadn’t, had she?

But Daemon hadn’t wavered, and decidedly continued to militarize the family under his own jurisdiction until one day he ended up destroying an entire town because their enemy had made it their hiding location. Unable to accept that he hadn’t been at fault, Primo brushed aside Daemon’s betrayal and stepped down as Vongola Primo.

Primo didn’t have a successor, so Ricardo knew why he had been summoned to see him. But he hadn’t expected to see all the guardians, including Daemon, spread around in Giotto’s office.

“Primo?”

“Sit,” he said, indicating to the chair in front of him.

“I called you here to tell you that you will become my successor. You will carry on Vongola as Secondo. That is my will, and your purpose, if I recall correctly,” he reminded him before Ricardo could say anything.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t understand why you need to step down. I don’t get it at all.” He squared his shoulders. “But I will keep my promise.”

Giotto stood and motioned for him to step over to him. Ricardo did so and watched with interest and a slight bit of nerves as from an intricate box he drew a vial of black blood.

“This is Vongola’s sin,” he explained. “It carries the weight of our past crimes. Do you accept that responsibility, Ricardo?”

He imagined the loss of all those who had died because of Daemon’s ambition. All the pain was in that bottle. The accountability. The responsibility. It would be his to bear.

“I accept.”

Giotto smiled somewhat sadly and drew near him, motioning for him to kneel. The ring around his finger glowed and burst into flames. “The Vongola Rings,” he said. “Are a part of a special set of objects that keep the balance of the world. Before our family existed they were worn not by my guardians, but by one person. That person was Vongola.”

Ricardo nodded, trying to take it all in. He hadn’t ever really wondered how the rings came into the family’s possession only that they were.

They kept the peace and fought to bring those who were corrupted to justice, just as we do. You know of Vindice…the prison that punishes those who cannot be punished by normal law. Vongola would subdue and Vindice would punish. That’s why we maintain close ties with them.”

His sad smile formed again. “The person who entrusted those rings to us is a person I love very much. I hope you protect her rings and what they represent as much as I tried to.” The flames shrouding the ring didn’t dissipate as Giotto pulled it off his finger and slid it onto his.

“Ah, no ire in your flames. That’s good, Ricardo. I’m proud of that. I look forward to seeing it, the mettle of the Vongola you create…”

Primo hadn’t truly left Vongola. A piece of him would always rest within the ring, just as a piece of Ricardo would as well. That was what Vongola did. It passed its will along the stream of time.

Time, he realized changed many things. Giotto had the child he hadn’t been sure he would ever have. As for himself, time had made him reconsider if he had done the right thing by accepting Vingola’s sins. For it seemed, that despite his best efforts he might as well have kept adding more and more drops of blood to the bottle.

Greed was the seed of all corruption. He knew that very clearly now. Running Vongola had been like drawing a double edge sword and sliding it across his neck, not sure if he would cut with the blunt side or the one which would spill his blood. Having accepted all the sins had meant accepting that despite the best intentions Vongola was also a corrupt system. It required power to fight for justice, and more to keep a strong hand. The need for power and the greed that it inspired went unnoticed by him for a while.

If the seed had been there in the first place, inherent as corruption was in human beings, then Daemon Spade had been the shower that fed it.

But as time progressed it became increasingly difficult to deal justice without needing power, and even more difficult to protect Vongola without seeking more.

So there he was again. The rumors spun widly, fueling the idea that Vongola and it's leader were all powerful. He was the fear of the underworld with his military forces. He was the the bearer of the most destructive flame of wrath that drove even Vongola Primo into hiding. He had all the influence just as he had felt like he did when he was just a boy.

He fought it, but after some time he began to delivere justice with corrupted sky flames. The harmony of his predecessor's lost in the rage of battle again and again until he forgot how to conquest his wrath.

He wondered, in time, if Giotto had known that would happen. It was too late to ask, however, and too late to change.

Gaining power was the means he used to keep Vongola alive. But in the end, even he acknowledged that he had failed Giotto's will.

He stood to Giotto’s right, watching Terzio vow to accept Vongola’s sins on his shoulders. He understood his mistakes now, but realized that sly as he was Giotto has known he would make them.

For generations he watched his successors accept those sins and accept the corrupted power that came with them. Until one boy said he would rather destroy Vongola than take them.

That was it, wasn’t it? To destroy corruption one must fight it with true justice. Justice unmarred by want of power. Under Decimo, Vongola would change again. He could feel it. But this time it would flourish in harmony.

Only someone like him could inherit and carry out Primo’s will. Someone who would fight only to protect.

The boy raised his fists, fighting as if he were praying.