Fanfic: The Land of Might Have Been (Dino/fem!Hibari) - Part I

[jusrecht]

Title: The Land of Might Have Been (1/3)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Dino/fem!Hibari, Dino/OFC, Tsuna/Kyoko, fem!Hibari/other Vongola members
Rating: R for the subject matter
Word Count: ~10,500 (of ~26,500)

Summary: When love is in excess, it brings a man no honour nor worthiness. (Euripides)

Warnings:
1. Very, very dark. There are subjects which are rather grey here, and all I can say is please try to keep an open mind while reading.

2. This fic has a legion of original characters who belong to the Italian law enforcement, so obviously they're standing on the other side of the line against the KHR characters. The portrayal of the Mafia here will probably be rather different from what Amano-sensei intends and take more of our-world approach. So no, Dino, Tsuna, etc. are not heroes or anything of the sort-they're criminals.

3. As for the alleged main pairing, this is a story of their love being twisted into something really, really ugly. Both Dino and Hibari are guilty for whatever's happening here and they have done/will still do a lot of things which are far from 'right'. If you want to read a happy love story that features those two in abundance, kindly turn back and look for something else.

Notes: The idea for this story first appeared when I noticed just how many fics pictured Dino simply taking whatever abuse and neglect Hibari was giving him, in return of a little sex or, most of the times, nothing at all. True, there is obsession and devotion and all that, but his patience is bound to break somewhere >>; So yes, once more, not a happy story.

Also, this fic is very heavily influenced by so many crime series I've watched, especially from the OCs part. You'll probably recognise some elements of this or that series while you're reading orz

The last but not least, thank you, THANK YOU SO MUCH to istrill for beta-reading this monster and calyupsos for her help on details of Italian law enforcement and... basically everything Italian in this fic lol I SERIOUSLY CAN'T THANK YOU TWO ENOUGH *A* Any remaining fault or inconsistency is my fault entirely.

-

0.

She was sitting upright on the sofa, her black suit stark against braids of gold and silver of the upholstery. She had a pair of lovely grey eyes, as sharply defined as the rest of her beautiful face, and so slowly did they turn upon him, acknowledge him, admit his presence in this room paid by his name and wealth.

He grinned, a wicked man’s smile, the taste of vodka thick in his mouth. The girl last night was pretty enough, sensual enough, her mouth talented enough, but this one was in a league of her own. Perhaps his new, worthless agent had finally made use of his head and recognised his client’s taste for adventures, preferably with a sprinkle of danger at the side. A glimpse of something under her sleeves made him lick his lips, anticipation rising in treacherous waves. He would take his sweet time to undress her, and then bind her wrists with that precious tie of black silk-or maybe he would let her tie him down instead, and they would see what she had hidden under those sleeves, whether it would fit inside her just like that or a little foreplay would be in order and he would get to watch her play with herself…

Unhurried, she uncoiled her long limbs and rose to her full height, sleek blackness framing her slenderness. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, eyes feasting on her gait and grace as she moved toward him, silent as shadow. She wore indifference like a second layer of skin and if it stirred uneasiness deep within him, the alcoholic cloud in his mind rendered all but the weight of her presence mute. These girls were never indifferent; they were all impressed, would be, given enough time in his bed, under his caresses.

“What’s your name?”

A flash of emotion flitted across her face, brief and sharp as lightning. He felt the threat, felt the dangerous thrum radiating from her skin like chaffing heat, but his mind was slow in the viscous haze and his listless muscles fell victim to it. She raised her left arm, and the last thing he saw was a flash of silver before darkness dragged him under.

-

1.

A decorated officer of the Polizia or not, Daniele Verro did not appreciate being woken up by a phone call at six in the morning. On a holiday no less.

The call was from his workaholic of a partner, Giancarlo Rinaldi, who immediately launched into a long string of explanations, all spoken enthusiastically but very few of which actually made it past the wall of sleep still fortifying Daniele’s mind. One minute of that drone and he was once again lulled into the pleasant, warm depth his pillow was offering.

“Come to the office. NOW.”

The sharp, commanding bark dragged him back to the surface and before he could locate his voice to launch a protest, Carlo had hung up, the bastard.

Feeling viciously vindictive toward the whole world and their cousins, Dani left his bed and took a quick shower to douse any lingering wisp of sleep. Then he spent thirty minutes enjoying his breakfast-cornetto and cappuccino and a good smoke to properly wake him up-in a café on his way to the Questura, mostly to annoy his partner.

That annoyance, however, did not stop him from buying another portion on his way out-God only knew when Carlo had eaten last. From the café, it was a fifteen-minute walk to his office and the food would still be reasonably warm.

There was only one word to describe Carlo’s office: a dump. He could barely see the desk, almost entirely buried under stacks of files and old reports, most of which had been solved or put into the back burner. The man himself was standing in front of a whiteboard overrun with photographs and notes on colourful papers, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest. Taller and only slightly older than Dani’s thirty-three years, he was nevertheless a lot more obsessed with their job, a quality which their superiors found both useful and alarming.

“We are supposed to be on a holiday,” Dani said by way of greeting, setting his purchase down on what little space left between towers of papers.

Clearly, Carlo had as much regard toward holidays as ants did. That he had not slept at all the night before was quickly evident when he finally turned around to acknowledge his partner’s presence. “He’s the third victim,” he said, pointing to a picture of an actor Dani recognised from an action movie he had watched not eight hours ago.

“Of what?” He frowned at the other man after a passing glance at the photograph.

“The night we solved that Mutolo case, you mentioned a murder in Salerno.”

“Where the victim was beaten to death?”

Carlo nodded. “This morning there was another murder here in Napoli, same M.O.”

Dani glanced at the rest of the pictures tacked on the whiteboard and winced. “That’s the body? He’s an actor, isn’t he?”

“Was, but that isn't his picture.” Dani’s voice was grave. “Apart from that one in Salerno, I discovered one other unsolved murder that seemed rather unusual. In Cosenza seven months ago, the victim was also beaten to death with a blunt object.”

“You think this may be a serial killer?”

“I think it’s worth looking into.”

“It’s pretty thin.” Dani navigated his way between boxes littering the floor and squinted at the explanations written in small, cramped letters next to each victim’s picture. “Three different cities and three completely different backgrounds. This one was a stock-broker, the one in Salerno a street musician, and the last we have here a famous actor looking for a good time in an expensive resort.”

The other man shrugged. “It’s still a connection. Don’t forget that all victims were men of thirty to forty years of age.”

“Carlo, there is this thing called coincidence.”

“And another called laziness,” Carlo said sharply before grabbing his coat and breakfast. “I’ve asked Norma to look into more unsolved cases, going as far as five years back. Meanwhile you and I are going to this resort and see about the newest murder.”

Dani sighed and took the car key out of his partner’s coat. “As long as I’m driving.”

-

2.

Another smile. Another ‘grazie’. Another handshake.

If he were to be honest with himself, there were worse tortures in the world, but Tsuna had been ready to run back into the villa and hide for the rest of the evening when he finally escaped from his latest guest’s scrutiny. Blood and cunningness he could deal with, after years and years of practice, but a pair of hopeful, suppliant eyes proved to be a weapon of an entirely different dimension. At twenty-seven, he was a don well-established in his domain and beyond, within his grasp such power most people dared not even imagine existing-and still ‘no’ remained the hardest word he ever tried to say.

Today marked a great celebration: the birth of his first child, now a baby daughter of two months old. It was held in the Family villa in Napoli and everyone with the slightest affiliation to the Vongola suddenly turned up at his doorstep. His cheeks were aching from smiling constantly, too many guests leaving nothing but a flurry of names and faces at the fringe of his memory. His fingers were numb after countless handshakes and his stock of excuses steadily diminished with each request delivered and favour expected from the powerful, magnanimous Vongola Decimo.

Surely such auspicious occasion merits a trifle of generosity, a joyous day and a rebuff must not go hand-in-hand, and happiness is best shared with friends and Family…

With a deep sigh, Tsuna turned his gaze toward one corner of the garden-swamped with flowers at this time of the year. Under a latticed canopy of green vines and tiny purple blossoms, Kyoko sat with their daughter in her arms, resplendent in silver and pink. He could feel his heart warming at the sight. If he ever needed a reason to withstand hours of formality and unending smiles, all he had to do was glance at his wife and daughter. Even after two years of marriage, he still thanked God every morning for this miracle, a spot of light in his otherwise dark, sinister life.

A sudden swell of sounds rose from the arced entry of the garden, drawing his attention. Tsuna felt a genuine smile dawning on his face; finally, someone with whom he did not have to pretend. Dino wore brightness like a timeless cloak and its effect was evident in the cheerful faces which had suddenly gathered around him. He was carrying the two-year-old Adriano in his arm, father and son easily charming the other guests with identical grins and good looks. His wife was beaming at their side, stunning in a green-and-yellow summer dress.

It was the sight of her which made Tsuna’s smile falter, but only for a moment. Nothing would ruin today, not even the thought of his Cloud Guardian.

-

3.

The Resort Corona di Rose was easily one of the most extravagant and most pretentious places Carlo had ever set his feet on.

“Agente Giancarlo Rinaldi,” he introduced himself to the manager as soon as they had arrived. He was a handsome man about forty with impeccable manner, well-dressed and refined in ways expected from a man who ran the most luxurious resort in Napoli. He was eager to help, yes, a murder was without doubt appalling, which was why it could easily ruin a reputation carefully built for so many years. As for information of their other guests, it was absolutely out of the question. Nothing less than a court order would be necessary, as their clients valued privacy above all else and had indeed paid good money for it.

Carlo left Dani to come up with a convincing argument on his own and made his way toward the crime scene. The bungalow was situated at the end of a solitary path, grand and haughty in appearance. Its interior was an incredible feat of design and lavishness, the Baroque style dominated by white and gold colours which would catch even the most indifferent eyes. An exquisite quadratura decorated the arced ceiling, and directly underneath, lay the body of the victim, near unrecognisable for the handsome actor he had been.

Carlo introduced himself to the medical examiner on duty and received details on the cause of death-blunt force trauma from severe beatings received over and over again on the head. The skull was fractured and there were also many other broken bones all over the body, among them clavicles, sternums, and ribs. The force was excessive but meticulously applied, most likely by someone used to violence.

“What about the time of death?”

“Between one and four in the morning judging from the rigor mortis. The damage to the body in general makes it hard to tell any clearer.”

It was then that Dani came to join them, his face folded in displeasure. “Stubborn jackass,” he swore, voice rumbling low in his throat. “Court order, no deal. But he did say that currently only thirty percent of the bungalows were occupied and he had conducted his own ‘discreet’ questioning. So far, no one has admitted to seeing or hearing anything.”

Carlo frowned. “One to four a.m. How was it possible that no one heard anything? A place like this is pretty much quiet all the time, let alone at night.”

“He might have been knocked unconscious first,” the examiner suggested.

“He might have been,” Carlo conceded, but his frown did not smooth away. “The next bungalow is about twenty metres away. Unoccupied?”

“The manager said so,” Dani mumbled abstractedly, his attention entirely absorbed by the scene of the crime. The body had been removed, but the amount of blood staining the floor and many expensive pieces of furniture was more than enough proof that brutality had occurred in this place. Carlo noticed the expression on his partner’s face and raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Something is not right.”

“Something missing from the room?”

Dani shook his head slowly. “No, nothing like that. I can’t quite place it, but something is off.”

“The location of the body? The blood? The bruises?”

“The bruises.” Dani looked at him, now with a matching frown. “Beating someone to death indicates something personal, a vendetta maybe. If the examiner was right and the victim had been unconscious at the time of the murder, then it wasn’t about inflicting fear. So why beat an unconscious man to death?”

“To kill him.”

“Then why not just shot him? Beating is a messy and largely ineffective method to murder someone.”

Carlo did not respond. Instead, he left the bungalow and approached the manager who had been waiting outside in a faultless display of willing assistance. Dani’s footsteps were hastily following him.

“Look, Carlo, a place like this isn’t just for anybody, but that in there is definitely violence, which is not something you’d expect to see in a five-star resort. Also, that sort of violence indicates anger, lots of anger exploding at once- what are you doing?”

Ignoring his partner completely, Carlo addressed the manager. “We saw a large property next to this resort when we arrived, Signor Gattuso. Can you tell us what that is?”

A flicker of discomfort passed over the manager’s face, but it was quickly schooled back into an expression of polite indifference. “A private one, Agente Rinaldi,” he answered, all practiced calm. “A villa.”

“And it belongs to the resort’s owner?”

Gattuso smiled, an icily courteous smile. “That I am not at liberty to say.”

“Thank you,” Carlo nodded stonily at him. He did not expect anything less from these people. Gattuso withdrew after murmuring a polite excuse, leaving Dani looking curiously at him.

“What was that about?”

Carlo heaved a deep breath. “I happen to know who owns the villa.”

-

4.

Dino swept his gaze over the ground below for the hundredth time and once again suppressed a sigh.

Dusk was twined about the garden, highlighting the last beauty of summer as the day drew to a close. Only some of the guests remained, close friends who were invited to a private dinner by the Vongola Decimo. Past the shutter’s filigree, he could see his wife sitting with Kyoko on a long settee, Adriano peacefully asleep on her lap. Their occasional laughs punctuated the air as they conversed in low voices, perhaps discussing the possibility of an arrangement between Adriano and Mariko; Dino had to smile at the thought.

Georgina came from the powerful Russo Family in the United States, the second daughter of the Don himself and a very attractive woman in her own right. Despite his initial reasons to marry her four years ago, Dino could readily admit now that he loved her and their son as much as any husband and father could. He had always loved easily, never in halves-sometimes a deplorable weakness, as Romario had pointed out once and yet there had been such fondness in his voice. In Georgina, he found more reasons to be grateful than unhappy, and for his right-hand man, it was the most important thing, far better than the agony he had endured years prior.

It still did not stop Dino from thinking about roads not taken, every time he looked up and watched the slow glide of the clouds on sky’s canvas.

“She isn’t here, Dino-san.”

Tsuna’s soft voice made him tear his eyes away from the window, back to the room’s warm golden glow. The tight sympathy clouding Tsuna’s face was a painful sight, only thinly concealed by shadows cast by his unruly bangs, and Dino had to make an effort not to flinch.

“I’m sorry, Tsuna,” his voice was neutral, echoing lies. “We were talking about Don Russo, right?”

He was never the most subtle of men, but Dino allowed himself a little relief when Tsuna played along and pretended that he had not noticed the abrupt change of subject. “Yes,” he replied instead. “You were saying that he had contacted you just yesterday about the deal.”

“That’s right.” The cooled wine had warmed in his hand and Dino set his glass down on the window sill; the thought of his father-in-law always brought the sharp taste of disgust in his mouth. “He asked for fifteen percent of the revenue, but I think we can give him that. As long as he keeps his end of the bargain.”

“I agree.” Tsuna’s nod was swift, decisive. He had grown into a man hardened and capable, without losing the edge of kindness which his mother had long instilled in him. It was with the same thoughtful face when he finally broke the lengthy silence and looked at Dino with sad, haunted eyes. “Gambling isn’t actually any better, is it?”

Dino would have smiled in encouragement, had the subject allowed it. He only shrugged, courting an escape. “I’ll take that over drugs anytime.”

Tsuna’s short laugh was entirely devoid of mirth. “You’re right. Drugs are much worse, and so long as we have no other option available-”

-we’ll choose the lesser between two evils. Dino smiled then, a thin stretch of bitterness and resignation. He could not remember the last time when the battle fought had been between good and bad. Reborn had been right, as always; good and bad were siblings, different, yet still the branches of the same tree. The eternal crusade in their world was between good and right-and the Mafia, a legacy built on the art of killing and fear, was never good.

-

5.

Gina Saluzzo struck Dani as a woman used to bloodshed. Dressed in a solemn grey suit, she did not look at all out of place in the gloom of Carlo’s office. There was certain callousness in her undertone when she spoke, much like the feel of barbed fence that encircled a burial ground of all things harrowing and ugly. Perhaps working long enough in the Guardia di Finanza would do that to anyone. A pity, Daniele thought, for she was beautiful, even with her excessively formal attire and glaring lack of makeup.

“I have been informed by my superior that you want to meet the boss of the Vongola,” was her greeting when she came in, her footsteps brisk and decisive.

Carlo offered her a seat and proceeded to explain the situation in his concise, methodical way. Dani satisfied himself with watching expressions shift on Gina’s face, scepticism first giving way to incredulity and then plain derision, which took shape into a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

“It doesn’t seem likely,” she said bluntly as soon as Carlo had finished. “These people do not touch civilians, not even during a Mafia war. Unless you can find a connection between this actor and any member of the Vongola, I say you’re wasting your time.”

“But these are men who lived and breathed violence,” Carlo argued. “As you can see in the pictures here, only someone used to violence could do these murders. Also, there is the fact that the Vongola owns that resort-the manager practically said so.”

Gina’s eyes flicked from picture to picture. If she was at all affected by the grotesque bruises and disfigured faces, then she did not make the slightest reaction-at least none noticeable by the eyes. Dani had to wonder how many dead bodies she had encountered while working for the organised crime department.

“You are at least correct in that assumption, I’ll give you that,” she said at last, her attention back to Carlo. “We know for sure that the resort belongs to the Family, but it only makes your theory even more impossible.”

“How so?” Dani asked curiously.

Her eyes now found him-austere green, mellowed somewhat by the tanned colour of her skin. “One thing you need to learn about these Men of Honour: they are never obvious. Not unless they have no other way. What possible emergency could a musician and an actor be causing them that they had no choice but to resort to killing the latter in a place owned by the Family? There are ‘safer’ ways to dispose a dead body, in which these people are proficient.”

Dani’s lips thinned into a stern line, a sign of stubbornness. “There must be a connection. We just haven’t been able to detect any so far.”

Gina rose to her feet. “Then good luck trying to find it. Meanwhile I’ll wait in my-”

“The victims are males between thirty and forty years of age,” he interrupted, meeting her baleful glare unflinching, “all with blond hair and a fairly good-looking face. So far we’ve discovered three of them, but if you care to turn around, our technical officer may be able to give you more, judging from the look of her face.”

Both Agente Saluzzo and Carlo turned around. Dani shot a quick smile at Norma Castelli who was standing in the doorway with an apprehensive look, a few brown folders clutched in front of her chest. Like nearly everyone else in her profession, she wore the air of the overworked, her shoulder-length brown hair hanging limp and unkempt, framing an aquiline face and a pair of tired eyes.

“You’ve got more?” Carlo demanded at once.

“I found two more potential victims,” Norma said, stepping into the office. “Blond hair, handsome face, all the same criteria. One murder occurred three months ago in the town of Palo del Colle, near Bari-outside our provincial jurisdiction, I know, but you told me to look everywhere.

He nodded. “I did. And the other one?”

“Almost a year ago, in Palermo.”

Dani could feel a smirk quirking his lips. “There you have it,” he waved a hand at Saluzzo, holding her hard gaze. “Sicilia, terra delle Mafia.”

“Not everything that happens in Palermo is connected to the Mafia,” she pointed out but resumed her seat in front of the desk. Some of her ridicule had vanished, replaced by a sort of grim fierceness which Dani had seen only too often in his partner’s face.

“But there is no harm in trying,” Carlo retaliated only too readily. “Even if they have nothing to do with it, we can probably discover something by talking to the Don. The resort belongs to him.”

Gina pursed her lips, unconvinced. “These people are accomplished liars. Yes, everything they say usually has a grain of truth in it, but they spin it in such a way that we must decipher every word, every tone, every nuance, and ultimately guess what they actually meant. In their world, nothing comes for free, least of all truths.”

Dani raised his eyebrows. “If you know them so well, then we definitely can use your help.”

She did not respond to his sarcasm, although her heavy gaze settled on him for a long moment. “I can try to contact them,” she said at last, her tone only slightly softened, “but whether or not they are willing to cooperate is not up to me.”

Carlo nodded. “That is all we ask, Agente Saluzzo.”

Gina said nothing. Her eyes once more wandered to the pictures tacked on the whiteboard, taking in various details of the victims. When she finally turned to look at them, there was a light in her eyes which he had not noticed before.

“A word of advice,” her voice was calm, disturbingly so, as she speared Carlo with a steady look. “All your victims are males. If these murders prove to have nothing to do with the Mafia, you should start considering the possibility that you are looking for a woman.”

-

6.

“The Polizia?”

“Yes, Agente Saluzzo from the Finanza contacted me this morning,” Gokudera explained as the guarded look on Tsuna’s face became more pronounced. “She said she was acting as a liaison with the Polizia. They had a few questions about the murder that happened yesterday in Corona di Rose, nothing more.”

The news of the murder had reached them yesterday, during the party, but Gokudera had made sure that not a hint of it came close within the Tenth’s five-metre radius, at least until the celebration was over. Then he spent the better part of the day-and night-trying to prove that it had nothing to do with the Family-which, with more than ten thousand members under their name, was not a remotely straightforward feat. So far, no connection had come to light, no indication of anything sinister which they had not been aware before. Tsuna remained uneasy, the lack of knowing a peculiarity now that he was used to a seat so high, with so many eyes and ears to watch and listen.

“Do you think they’re telling the truth?” Tsuna asked, the afternoon sun falling slant on his face from the opened window as he glanced at his right-hand man.

Gokudera frowned. “It is unlikely that they know about Provenzano. We were thorough with him.”

Unlike a few months ago, now the Tenth barely winced at the name of the man he had murdered. “Of course, Hayato,” he said instead, a withered hint of a smile on his face. “I don’t doubt you.”

And unlike a few years ago, now Gokudera only accepted the praise in silence; it was one of those which could never put a smile on his face, no matter how many times he had carried out the deed. There were hundreds of ways a body could be made disappear off the face of the earth, each subtly different from the next, each efficient, each discreet. By now, he must have become one of the best in the field.

“I have no plan for tomorrow,” Tsuna said again, hands gathered in resolution behind his back. “I suppose we can see what they want then.”

Gokudera nodded in acknowledgment. “I shall arrange the meeting, Tenth.”

He returned the call in his bedroom, taking the chance to trade barrages of sarcasm with Gina Saluzzo every few sentences. She served the justice system and he served the Tenth; they would die first before the other could win. One thing for sure, a mere few ‘questions’ or not, he was going to be there in the room with the Tenth. It was his duty, his right, his privilege.

-

7.

Carlo had never met a Mafia Don for real. ‘These people’, as he continually referred to them in his head, lived in a world which both existed and not between the country’s everyday struggle, a periphery lingering just outside general perspective. He still remembered the incident which had put them front and centre for the first time in history. He had been nineteen, a brilliant and opinionated student in the police academy, and he had just finished supper alone in his small, rented room when the television had broadcasted the news of magistrate Giovanni Falcone’s death.

The Mafia is a human phenomenon and thus, like all human phenomena, it has had a beginning and an evolution, and will also have an end.

On the next day, everyone was cursing the Mafia, the evil which had brought such atrocity and shame to their country.

Tsunayoshi Sawada was not at all like Carlo had imagined. He was a small man in comparison to those who stood around him, his manner welcoming and his politeness far from affected. Dressed in a polo shirt and chinos, he gave the exact impression of a young father about to spend a pleasant evening with his family. His Italian was slightly accented but otherwise faultless, and if it had not been for his eyes, Carlo doubted he would have spared the man a second look should they have passed each other on the streets.

Gina Saluzzo was not unknown in the underworld. She sat apart from the rest of them, holding a glaring contest with one of Don Vongola’s subordinates, a young man with silver-grey hair and a pair of suspicious eyes. She only glanced away from him when she nodded at the mention of her name, ignoring the Don’s outstretched hand.

“A murder is always appalling,” Tsunayoshi Sawada said after the respectful introductions-it almost sounded like he meant it, if Carlo had not known better. “I will do everything I can to help the investigation.”

“We are grateful, sir,” Carlo replied civilly although he did not smile. “As I understand, you are the owner of the resort Corona di Rose?”

The grey-haired young man made a sound through his noise and a hint of a smile quivered on Don Vongola’s lips. “It is collectively owned by a group of stockholders,” he answered calmly. “I am only one of them.”

What Sawada had conveniently omitted was the fact that the rest of the ‘stockholders’ were all his underlings. Saluzzo had briefed him on the subject on their way to the villa and Carlo was more than willing to take her words on it.

“The murder victim was a famous actor. Were you by any chance personally acquainted with him?”

“No.”

“But you have seen him in the movies?”

The Don smiled, a little sheepish. “I’m afraid I have yet to be able to master the art of appreciating Italian movies. I’m still learning.”

The interrogation continued for another twenty minutes. Sawada remained polite, his answers innocent if slightly rehearsed-but so far Carlo discovered no real reason to accuse him of anything. Gina had been right. As long as they had not found any connection between Vongola and the murders, it was unlikely they could ever make a dent on the wall of composure that was Don Vongola.

He restrained a long, frustrated sigh and continued. “Just a few more questions. We are also investigating another murder in Salerno, which victim was similarly beaten to death. Is there anyone, any acquaintance of yours who was here yesterday and also in Salerno around three months ago?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

But you do, Carlo thought, the rush of triumph scorching hot in his veins at the involuntary flutter of the Don’s eyelashes.

-

8.

Georgina Cavallone knew, better than anyone, that her husband was not in love with her.

Love was unusual in a marriage such as theirs, but Dino Cavallone was, in many ways, an unusual man. He had charmed his way into her heart with the ease of an expert magician despite her prior knowledge of his profession. Brought up in the long shadow cast by her father’s business, she knew what a Mafioso was capable of, let alone a Mafia Don-and still she accepted his proposal.

Their courtship had been a quick one, orchestrated by business pressure and mutual interest rather than any affection from their parts. To this day, Georgina still could not fathom why he had chosen to shower his attention to her and not her elder, fair-haired sister, around whom men always flocked. Before, she had decided not to care. It had been an advantageous marriage-and even better, it had brought envy to Catherine’s eyes. Little else mattered.

That a new life overseas presented greater difficulties than what she could have foreseen was but the first of her problems. The differences between people she had grown up with and the ones she was now living amongst were anything but superficial; they were cultural, fundamental, as different as the Sicilian balmy breeze and New York’s winter bite. While rumours and careless talks poured freely in the streets ruled by her father, the Italian Mafia was a world of silence. To speak was to bear the weight of each voiced word, to risk every lilt, inflection, and born interpretation. To listen was to understand, above, under, and most importantly, between the lines.

In its centre was Dino-loving, attentive, gentle to a fault, and for so powerful a man, he certainly went into great lengths to make her feel welcome. Visits to museums, a part of their honeymoon and now monthly dates, was but one of many, as well as a studio in their house for her own artistic pursuits. Before, Georgina had only smiled and thought of her comfort as a covenant, her happiness no more than currency. Their two Families gained much from the marriage and it was the truth. She had not allowed herself to believe his kindness, but there was no reason not to enjoy a convenient arrangement as long as it lasted.

And then one morning, she had woken up and realised that she had fallen in love.

“Mamma?”

Adriano’s whining voice carried softly to her ears, his two-year-old vocabulary not yet smoothed by practice. One small hand creased the hem of her dress and she turned her attention from her sketchbook to the toy truck with a skewed front wheel clutched in his left hand. He was looking at her, grave and expectant, but all it took was a definite sound of the door opening for both broken toy and hopeful pout to suddenly dart out of her reach.

“Papà!”

Georgina remained seated, watching Adriano climb into his father’s arms. The way Dino’s grin bloomed and widened made her heart twist, especially with the knowledge that when he smiled at her, it would be warmth and affection and many other things but the one passion she wanted the most. It was unfair and every day she blamed him for it, except Georgina realised that it was her fault as much as his. She should have known better. He was what he was, and a Mafia Don did not risk himself and his position by playing with love. Their marriage, no matter how useful, was as much a business agreement as the next deal.

All the same, every time Dino’s lips brushed her cheek, then lips, she could not help but wade into hope.

-

9.

“Last one. This makes them eight in total.”

Triumphantly, Dani tossed the last folder on top of the jumbled pile which was strewn all over Carlo’s desk. Norma, who had spent two days going over every unsolved murder case in the country, only managed to look wearied and vaguely nauseated, the breaking point of her horror long since passed. At the head of the table, Gina still kept to her silence as she had done throughout the meeting.

Carlo was standing in front of the lines of whiteboards which now spanned the entire length of the room; they had to accommodate enough details of all the cases. “How did we not notice a pattern until now?” he demanded, almost to himself.

“These murders did not exactly occur in the same city,” Dani reminded him. “Hell, not even in the same province. Whoever did these must have travelled a lot.”

“To say the least,” mumbled Norma.

“The key is they’re all men.” Dani leant back into his chair, for the hundredth time going over the dead faces paraded on the board. “Around thirty or forty, blond-only three of them were natural blonds, but still-and relatively good-looking.”

Norma shot him a sceptical look. “So the murderer is someone who hates good-looking blond men?”

He grinned at her. “It’s a start.”

“She’s right.” Carlo stalked down to the other end of the board, frowning. “We still don’t know enough at this point. We don’t even have a clear suspect, Mafia or not. But we do know now that these cases are connected, so maybe if we try talking to the witnesses again-”

“There is a man,” Gina suddenly broke her silence, “who fits that description. And he is affiliated with the Vongola.”

Dani glanced at his partner, whose frown had deepened at the sudden piece of news instead of easing a bit. “A member of the Family?”

“No, an ally-an important one at that.”

“It’s a connection,” he decided. Gina nodded and rose to her feet.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

-

10.

A retainer was different from a subordinate. Kusakabe Tetsuya recognised the gap between one shore and the other the moment he had followed Hibari Kyouya beyond Namimori’s gilded cage. A retainer could be many things, but most important of all, he was a servant, and a good servant must always be an observer.

A good servant is observant. A pattern, however subtle, should never escape his notice.

It always began with flats, never hotels. Common knowledge said that no one answered ‘no’ to Hibari Kyouya, but just how far she could get her way was, in reality, still open for discussions. Tetsu knew better than to amuse himself with those idle talks, after everything he had seen with his own eyes. Domains or boundaries meant next to nothing to Hibari barring her own. She would walk in, unchallenged, and anyone unfortunate enough-or fortunate enough, as subjectivity allowed-to be inside the room with her would give her what she wanted. So far, no one had defied this law, not even Sawada Tsunayoshi.

Tetsu waited outside the luxurious apartment building, leaning against the car with a bag of sunflower seeds in hand and wondering if Sasagawa Ryouhei’s wife knew. She always struck him as an intelligent, perceptive woman, and her husband was decidedly no liar from any angle. Pity, for Hibari would not care if she did know; she had not cared about Sawada Kyoko or Miura Haru, and he doubted she would begin to care if she decided on either of their men next week, next month, next strike of her fancy.

In a way, not to be chosen by her was probably a privilege. Tetsu smiled wryly. It would have been perfect if he had not wanted her so, the ache of his desire a constant simmer even as he lay with the most beautiful girl he could afford, between the most perfect pair of legs. Kyou-san would feel different, he often mused, but she would never touch him; in that way, Kusakabe Tetsuya was special.

The tryst never took her more than half an hour, often less. He would drive her back afterwards, watching the shift of shadows on her face from the rear-view mirror and torn between overwhelming curiosity, deep-rooted reverence, and unspeakable jealousy. Her thoughts were her own, as were her intents.

A few days later, a man would die.

Tetsu watched and wondered, but never asked. He was a retainer, a servant, an observer, and above all, a privileged man. He would never trade this sight of his mistress for anything else: Hibari Kyouya at her most beautiful, when her body had been sated and yet the rest of her still hungered, pace firm and measured as she walked toward him and the car door he was holding open. Her grey eyes were a pair of dark veils, but so thick a veil had only ever concealed darker things-angry, desperate battles, even tiny seeds of madness. Tetsu prided himself in the knowledge, despite everything. He was a privileged man.

“We’re going back,” she spoke coolly when he had taken his seat behind the wheel. It would not be long before she hunted for the next unlucky victim, the next man who was cursed by sheer physicality. A pattern never differed.

“Yes, Kyou-san,” Tetsu murmured, both grateful and miserable for his ordinary black hair.

-

11.

Despite Dani’s grim prognosis, their journey from the Falcone-Borsellino Airport was uneventful. Neither of them had ever been to Sicilia before, and the brown rise of hills gave them pause for a long moment as the car sped away from Palermo. The bleakness beguiled like a sad song, heavy under the restless howl of the wind. Carlo could almost feel that he understood the bloody, convoluted history of the island simply by looking at the emptiness.

The ride took them a little over an hour. The estate, one of many which belonged to Dino Cavallone, extended over far too many acres for his eyes to measure. He seethed at the thought of so much wealth belonging to thieves and killers, while honest, hardworking men toiled day in and day out for just enough bread on their tables. His hostility only sharpened as the manse came into view from the driveway, lined with tall cypress trees. Sunbeams sparked off white marble and angled roof, bathing the landscape in light and hues. Here was money, he thought disdainfully, old money and lots of it.

The man who greeted them was polite enough. He carried himself like a soldier, Carlo noticed, with a strong, stiff gait and practised vigilance. They were brought into an office on the first floor, all dark colours and sharp formality. He privately wondered what it meant, just as he had wondered what sort of man Dino Cavallone was since Saluzzo had made the connection.

His answer came through the door one minute later, neatly dressed in a dark-blue designer suit. Carlo’s first impression was, if Tsunayoshi Sawada could easily blend into the crowd should he wish so, Cavallone was the exact opposite. His gaze was immediately drawn to the handsome face and golden hair, and his mind automatically ran the comparisons with each photograph tacked on his whiteboard. A face was not a reason to kill, but a resemblance could be, clear or passing. It was the hair: they were all of the same shade of gold, and eight were too much of a coincidence, no matter what Gina Saluzzo said.

Once they had finished their introductions, his partner settled into the background to observe and Carlo began with his prepared overture. The murder in the resort was their only link to the Mafia, however thin. Cavallone was coolly sympathetic as he listened, but far from surprised; Sawada had probably told him about his own ‘visit’ three days ago.

“I’m not sure if I can help you gentlemen,” he said when Carlo had paused, long enough to provoke a remark. His lips were curled into a faint smile, not enough to affront but certainly not as innocent as it seemed. “Or is it my alibi which has compelled you to come so far from Napoli?”

“It will certainly help our investigation, sir.”

His nod was casual, unhurried. “I was invited to the party Don Vongola held to celebrate the birth of his daughter. My family and I arrived in Napoli at two o’clock in the afternoon and we directly went to the villa from the airport.”

“And the night before?”

“I was here, asleep.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm this?”

The Don’s smile sharpened a notch. “My wife can-if the word of a spouse carries enough weight in a murder case. What is exactly my position right now?”

Carlo met his gaze levelly. “A person of interest.”

“Interests vary, Agente Rinaldi.”

Cavallone was baiting him, and the nudge was persistent enough, obvious enough to stir suspicion in Carlo’s mind. Trusting his judgment, he decided to reveal a few more of his cards, gambling on the Don’s reaction as he described five of the eight linked murders and their victims. If Cavallone had anything to do with them, then at least he would know that they knew.

The other man’s expression was perfectly impassive by the time Carlo had finished-was he guilty or merely wary? Carlo could not decide. Even his eyes betrayed nothing other than a hint of polite curiosity.

“So this isn’t about one murder case, but several.”

“The similarities of the victims suggest that the murders are connected.”

“By hair colour.”

“Yes,” Carlo said firmly, ready to defend his position if need be. But there was no trace of ridicule in Don Cavallone’s face, his mask still securely in place.

“And I suppose it makes me a possible victim.”

“A part of our duty is to protect, sir.” Even though you are a thief and a killer, Carlo did not say. The other man seemed to hear it regardless, and his indifference suddenly melted into a smile.

“My gratitude, Agente,” he replied, his voice cool, civil, and sending shivers down Carlo’s spine.

-

12.

The departure of the police officers brought some relief to Romario but very little else. As the faithful right-hand man of an influential Mafia Don, he was naturally suspicious of those so-called arms of justice and their intents, however cloaked, layered, and honeyed. In his experience, a murder investigation was as good subterfuge as the next to cover the real reason of their visit; he would have to find out what it was as soon as possible.

After seeing the guests back to the front door, Romario returned to the small office-in actuality a spare room which was deliberately kept and reserved solely for misleading purposes, his own idea a few years back. Dino had abandoned the sofa to stand by the window, a frown now apparent in his face. Romario closed the door quietly and waited, knowing his boss would speak when he decided to.

Eventually Dino tore his gaze from the window, the square of his shoulders weighed down by invisible burden. “I want you to find out more about these murders,” he said, eyes steady on Romario. “Especially about the victims and how they died. Hack into their system if you must.”

Now Romario frowned. “Are you worried, Boss?”

“I have to make sure.” Dino’s voice was edged. “What do you think? Did those murders have anything to do with me?”

Romario considered the question and its implications. Dino had never gone behind his back-at least to his knowledge-but sometimes he could not help but wonder. There had been incidents which contributed a little too favourably to their side, their timings a little too precise. Dino had not said anything, but why should he, as long as they were to the Family’s advantage?

“No,” Romario answered at last, only partially truthful. “It doesn’t seem possible. Maybe there’s a serial killer at work, but I doubt they can pose any threat to you, Boss.”

Dino flashed him a smile, if small and strained. “If you look at them from that angle, I have no choice but to agree.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The other possibility. Say it wasn’t the work of a serial killer.”

Ah. Romario caught the gist of the problem at once. Dino’s reputation in relation to civilians was well-known and had been alleged numerous times as a grave weakness. A hostile, desperate party might just see it as an opening.

And yet, he reflected, what a desperate, harebrained scheme it was, even in the most extraordinary circumstances. “No one in their right mind would try to catch your attention or get back at you by killing people who looked like you, Boss-if that’s what you have in mind.”

“They certainly have my attention right now,” Dino said dryly.

Romario shook his head, doubtful. “It doesn’t seem very likely. To be honest I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

Again, that smile. He still remembered where Dino had learned it first, back then an exercise of tolerance against overwhelming selfishness-one that still haunted him until now, that accursed name. “I agree. It’s stupid and arrogant to think that they have anything to do with me, but I need to be sure. Just do me a favour and look into it, Romario.”

Romario nodded, brief and assuring; as if there was ever any need to ask. “Of course, Boss, no worries.”

-

13.

“So the key question is this.” Dani raised his feet to settle on an unoccupied chair and looked around at his colleagues, all plagued by the same drained look. It was almost midnight and the taste of stale coffee was as thick as bile in his mouth. “Are these murders the work of a serial killer or a series of Mafia hits?”

“Maybe they’re both,” Norma mumbled, stifling a yawn.

“They can’t be both,” Carlo said sternly. “Either they are personal, or they are not. I’m leaning toward the former myself. You were right.” He turned a pair of grave eyes to Gina’s direction. “These men did not seem to have anything to do with the Mafia, no matter how deep we dug into their backgrounds. And there are the murders themselves, which don’t feel like professional hits at all. Too messy. Too much emotion involved and we’re talking about eight murders.”

“Except they occurred in places with prominent Mafia activities,” Dani reminded them as he swirled the lukewarm content of his mug, wishing for a decent espresso.

“There’s that, yes, but the Mafia is a disease-it’s everywhere.”

He shrugged, tempted to smile. “What did Mister Bond say again? Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. Eight times, I don’t know, but someone definitely needs to pay.”

Only Norma seemed to appreciate his late-night wit, a smile gently lighting up her troubled face. Carlo, far from amused, shot him a withering glare instead. “The fact is there’s no definite proof. We can’t waste manpower chasing phantoms.”

“Cavallone has something to do with these murders,” Dani insisted. “Maybe I have no proof-yet-but I saw his face when you told him about the victims. You told me to watch him, so now I’m telling you: he knew who did these, or at least he suspected someone. We should put surveillance on him.”

“You want to put surveillance on a Mafia boss?” Gina sounded both sarcastic and amused, the edges of her lips quirked. Dani suppressed the familiar itch which he had come to associate with the Finanza agent and stared her amusement down.

“We have interrogated practically everyone. At least three witnesses placed a man wearing a black suit in the vicinity of these victims-specifically the second, third, and sixth-but other than that, we have very little to go on.”

“The old woman living in the apartment above the fifth victim’s said that it was a woman in black,” Norma reminded him.

“She’s seventy-eight.” Dani waved a dismissive hand, but then noticed his partner’s cold look and quickly added, “But yes, we should consider both possibilities because, who knows? All I’m sure of is that Cavallone is involved in some way.”

Carlo rose from his seat, indicating the end of the meeting. “Fine. Let Tucci and his team handle the surveillance. Meanwhile, we’ll pursue the serial killer angle and go over the whole timeline once more tomorrow specifically from that angle. 10 o’clock sharp. Nora,” he fixed the female officer with a solemn look, “keep an eye open for any reported homicide which may look like the work of our killer. Most likely he isn’t done yet.”

Dani raised his eyebrows. “Or she.”

“Or she,” the other man agreed

-

14.

From an open window on the second floor, Hibari Kyouya watched the quaint street laid under her feet. In the warm summer afternoon, it was flooded with sunlight but empty of pedestrians, everyone content to stay in the cool shelter of their homes. One of the few saving graces of Italy was its lack of human throngs-unlike Japan, with its masses moving against each other, the cities choking themselves with people. Growing up under such siege of numbers which only swelled every day, she could understand the wish to eradicate, could sense it in the length of her tonfa now and again.

The small apartment was a recent addition to her collection. Only Tetsu knew, his silence as stiffly guarded as the unquenchable thirst he bore for her, each without complaint. She would have smirked, to his face and in private, but so great a loyalty did not deserve the mockery. (Not yet, at least. He was still of some use to her.)

The new place was yet another proof, carefully selected to suit her wishes. A new location meant a fresh hunting ground-but such brightness. Kyouya eyed the sky with distaste, a clear stretch of unrepentant blue with no cloud in sight. Thus unhindered, the fierce glare of the sun touched every surface and sharpened all colours. Black was the sole survivor, omnipotent, all-consuming, all-powerful.

Gold was simply insolent, and yet the boldness of that colour lured her. She watched as a shadow stepped into the road. A man. That man. It was the third time she had seen him in the past two weeks-always visiting the same bakery, always leaving with a paper bag in hand, always whistling a carefree tune.

And that hair. That colour.

Today his pace slowed, almost to a stop, and he looked up with a hand shielding his eyes, as if aware of her scrutiny. The tune faltered, ebbed, and then disappeared entirely as his lips curved into a small smile.

Her eyes slitted, finding their mark.

-

15.

It took less than a week for a Polizia officer from this branch to finally make a comment on her origin.

Gina’s lips thinned into a thin, irritated line, but she was far from surprised. The gibe was old by now, its barb an overused echo of past rage. She had endured more than her fair share of sarcasm from her colleagues in the Finanza. That she had been born a Sicilian was a fact which played as both an advantage and a demerit in her line of work. She was an asset because she was familiar with the place, the people, their customs, and their way of thinking. On the offset was a widely known fact that most powerful Families in the Mafia had spies in virtually every government institution. It had taken her boss years to stop glancing at her direction whenever a leak had happened.

What did astonish her was the fact that neither Carlo Rinaldi nor Daniele Verro looked very surprised by the revelation. Instead, Rinaldi nodded his thanks to the officer who had made the comment for his ‘insight’ and then slammed the door in his face.

Once her surprise had worn off, Gina confronted them about it. Her question received both an amused look and an impatient one. “Your accent,” Rinaldi replied offhandedly, attention already elsewhere, but Verro grinned when he said, “The way you talked about the island. Only a birthplace can receive so much hate-or love.”

At that point, she was forced to admit that these men might know what they were doing after all. She had raised an eyebrow at their working method-so different from her own methodical, proof-oriented approach--and then at their cramped offices and small meeting rooms, not to mention inadequate equipments. But while the Finanza might be dealing with the most notorious of criminal organisations, this, here, was the arm that wrestled with the scum of the streets every day. They were the reason general order still prevailed. In a way, the job was more admirable, although she would never admit it out loud.

“It doesn’t matter. But this,” Rinaldi waved a hand toward the whiteboard, frustration crawling all over his voice, “this matters. And we can’t see what is happening here.”

Proof was what they lacked, although no one wished to say it. Proof was always the key: to unravel a case, to open a trial, to win the argument, and to finally put bars between evil and the rest of society. Proof was the only way to drag these criminals to court-the requisite, the sine qua non.

If only they had more proof, Gina thought morosely.

At the next second, she was horrified to realise that she was hoping for another murder.

-

16.

The delicate tinkling of bells always reminded Dino to shrines and a land over the seas. Once, on a cloudy afternoon, he had passed under a tall, red gate, all narrow points and rigid angles, into a world of silence. There, in a courtyard of stone, he had seen that world unfold as the sound of wind and bells merged-as leaves, in their unbroken flight, spun and weaved a dazzling chaos all around him. No autumn in any other place could have been half as exquisite.

And Kyouya had been there, on the steps leading up to the shrine with her grey eyes on him, watching his quiet wonder bloom into full fascination. She had looked so beautiful, an indisputable part of the picture, and he still remembered what had followed-that night, him on a bended knee, her with such cold indifference which had sharpened into a derisive smirk as she turned away. It had been the first of twenty-six rejected proposals and each had only hurt more than the last.

The memory brought a pang which made Dino shuffle his feet, the tight rein he had steadily maintained every day, every second suddenly beginning to unravel. Being here did not help. He looked up at the blur of blue-green canopy overhead; this tree was where he had once kissed Kyouya, leaves in their hair and twigs poking their cheeks. It was a good memory, if painful still.

Before him stood a small, seemingly empty house. A particularly thorough investigation would probably reveal that it belonged to the Famiglia Vongola, but only a select few had the privilege to know that the house was no more than a camouflage. A derelict garden at the back of the house was of more importance than the house itself. Perpetually hidden by a trick of the Mist, it concealed an entrance to a hideout, one of many scattered across Europe.

Hibari Kyouya’s hideout.

Romario stood leaning against the car, his disapproval a wall of silence which had separated them since Dino had first mentioned his intention to see an old lover. A thoroughly conventional man in certain ways, he looked at the institution of marriage with respectful eyes, but even that still held no candle to his loyalty. One thing always came first and foremost to this man who had come as close a surrogate father to him as any subordinate could, and that was Dino’s own happiness. Hibari Kyouya, with her soul-searing smirk and steel-framed pride and boundless me-myself-and-I, would never be able to give him one.

“I trust you know what you’re doing, Boss.”

“I just want to make sure.”

Of what, would have been a prudent question, but Dino was glad that Romario had held his tongue. He had looked at the pictures his right-hand men had acquired in less than three days after requested. In the gloom of his office, with no other light but the pale glare of his laptop, the victim’s photos had spoken clearly to him. How often he had seen those bruises, the same discolour straddling his chest, thighs, arms; and that shade of gold, in his mirror every morning, afternoon, evening, much too familiar.

Damn it.

He had not seen Kyouya in years. A series of delicate, continuous arrangements between Romario and Kusakabe had made it possible despite his constant dealing with Tsuna as the head of an allied Family. Dino was not unaware that he was about to let those efforts all go to waste. But just this morning, amidst conversations of blackjack and gambling tricks, Tsuna had casually mentioned that his Cloud Guardian was here, in Palermo.

Dino knew better than to take it as an unfortunate slip of tongue. The Vongola Decimo was not as careless as that, especially after taking care not to mention her name for years. It had taken Dino the remaining of the day to argue over every possibility with himself, but with dusk, a decision had finally come to him.

This question needed an answer. He still harboured a flickering hope that it was all just one massive, ghastly coincidence, but a definite assurance was needed. The old green jacket he wore now was simply an indulgence.

Of what. Again, Romario had not asked a single question, but this one hardly merited any. Dino laughed softly to himself, scornfully-if he was not the biggest hypocrite in the world. He still could not forget her. This was not about happiness, had never been since the moment he had first stolen a kiss from her unguarded lips.

The light, mournful sound of bells once again reached his ears. The sun had long since disappeared and a hint of chill had set in, the scent of autumn lacing the air-but still there was no sign of Kyouya. He wondered if she knew, or probably Romario had mentioned it to Kusakabe. In any case, he would not be able to get in to the hideout-any of her hideouts. Only two signature flames were allowed the key to open the entrance, the Cloud’s herself and Kusakabe Tetsuya’s. Even after everything, Dino had never earned himself that right.

That had been another clue for him, one he had constantly tried to dismiss with a laugh before reality became too stark to be smothered with nothing but genuine blindness. He had never meant anything to Kyouya, at least beyond a passable sparring partner. Or a bed warmer.

Except maybe he wasn’t. Dino tried not to feel rotten as he considered, for the thousandth time, what the murders might mean if Kyouya, if she had been the one who-

The sleek, black car made very little sound as it glided smoothly into the driveway and halted not far from where he was waiting. Dino could feel all the muscles in his body stiffen at the prospect of what would come, his carefully prepared preamble scattering like leaves in a windstorm. Kyouya had not noticed his presence and he watched, heart pounding, aching, as she descended from the backseat of the car. He recognised the once-familiar, effortless grace in the way she moved-like a cat, like a jaguar-and felt his throat tighten.

“Hello, Kyouya.”

His voice came out softer than he had intended, far too intimate. Kyouya stopped, but in the night’s thick shroud, Dino could not make much of her face except for its paleness and a pair of unsmiling lips.

They gave him more answers than he needed and raised myriads of new questions at the same time. For Kyouya would have frowned, would have grimaced, would have shown disgust at his sudden appearance, but she showed none of these. The mask was too thick, too perfect. A rush of bitter-amused-angry desperation lunged at him, but Dino forced himself to wait. For a reaction, a cue, anything. This was another question which needed an answer.

Kyouya did not give him any. Seconds ticked and she still did nothing because to flourish her tonfas and attack him would have been an admission to the past they had shared-and too many of those fights had ended with her on top of him, him inside her, slowly tautening her smirk into a stubborn line, shredding her self-control into breathless sighs. She turned away, her pace lengthening as she continued toward the house, and no entreaty falling from Dino’s lips could make her turn back and look at him.

Just like always.

-

End Part I

Notes:
➢ Two Italian law enforcements in particular are involved in this fic: the Polizia di Stato or State Police (Carlo, Dani, and Norma) and the Guardia di Finanza, one of whose divisions deals with organised crime (Gina). I've never seen any Italian-based crime drama though, so my portrayals of these people are largely derived from American and British ones orz

➢ Giovanni Falcone: a prosecuting magistrate who was murdered during his attempt to battle the Mafia. His death turned the world's attention to a criminal organisation which had been previously regarded as a myth and marked the beginning of the Mafia's downfall.

Dictionary is in the last comment to this entry.

Continue to Part II