Always the 11th hour
Time management was never my strong class. The subject on Remembering Things? I obviously failed it. As for Writing Fiction 101... let's not even go there. I know it's a little last minute and that says alot about me but it's thelovemafia 's birthday so... I try a little harder?
Chris dearheart, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Based off another gift fic I wrote for you eons ago. Bear with me, I haven't written in a month.
Title: The hit.
Character/s: Reborn, Tsuna and mentions of the 9th's right hand man.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Death of the 9th, happened sometime during the funeral, Reborn's introspective (:
A/N: Mafia AU. Crossing Sicily, Tokyo and god knows where the Mafia's reach goes. TBC.
Reborn does not grieve. Death is nothing new in the line of business, as common as bribing the jury and fixing baseball matches. It is an inevitable ending, almost as natural as breaking fingers and assembling his weapon of choice. Men were made to die and no decent Capo will allow for such wanton display of emotions.
The Italian keeps his back to the slab of stone they have christened the Ninth Vongola don, fedora pulled low over his eyes. Leaning against a weeping willow, away from the mourning mass of black, he locks up quiet, indignant rage in a little black hole and remembers it. An irrepressible urge to laugh rises but he swallows it as well.
A nameless suit marches up to him, head bowed and silent, afraid to break the mournful peace. A runner. Reborn does not need to look into the envelope he is presented with to know the cause of the Ninth’s death. He was there to see it for himself. The Ninth had fallen at Xanxus’ feet, in Tsuna’s arms and before his eyes.
Just in case. The ally famiglias will ask, the Ninth’s consigliere had whispered but Reborn had walked away shrugging.
He doesn’t wait for the runner to leave to pull out the summary of the autopsy report. The fading evening light filter through drooping willow branches shadow his expression. A twisted grin. The suit pretends not to see it, he recognises bloodlust from afar. But the quirk on Reborn’s lips continues to stretch until it becomes obscenely wrong, especially in the funeral of the man who groomed him.
Because he was right on the money. Fourteen points of entry across shoulders, abdomen, thighs and concentrated on the chest.
“One not enough huh?” He snorts derisively at the thought but he knows why. Better safe than sorry.
The thick envelope is thrown into the runner’s chest and the suit flees, tripping. A silver gun falls quietly from the sheaf of papers into the wild grass. He stops, terror evident on his face. He had forgotten the consigliere’s instructions.
Give it to the Capo, it’s clean. He'll know what it means. Reborn waves him away, unperturbed. He recognizes the murder weapon, a most familiar stranger. A customized Glock 19, the flash of white and silver before the rain of bullets and spilled blood.
The gunner wanted it to be found. It is a taunt and an overbearing ego of an assassin, he knows.
Picking up the pistol, the hit man runs a skilled finger over where the serial numbers of the gun had been filed off. It isn’t a half-assed job and tracing said weapon to source will be difficult.
Difficult but not impossible, Reborn smirks.
Quickly, he dismantles the Glock, stripping it and pocketing the silencer. After a brief inspection, he scatters the separate parts of the pistol in different locations. Any more gunfire in the late don’s funeral will only be disrespect and he had found what he was looking for anyway.
The magazine of the pistol, the nearly empty cartridge, except one. A single 9mm caliber bullet sits in the middle of his palm, glinting silver and gold.
There is sudden movement from the corner of his eye, the crowd parts and the man of the moment is no longer dwarfed. Reborn curls his fingers over the bullet and stuffs the hand in his pocket, effectively hiding the last of the connections to the Ninth.
The lily emblem on the bullet can wait, he decides, meeting the new don halfway. Reborn does not kneel or kiss the Vongola ring. He tips his fedora instead.
“Reborn-san…” The brunette whispers, eyes blazing like the fire that consumed the warehouse of the Ninth’s last battle. Two men stand, a face off above kneeling suits.
“Ciaossu.” He is faithful regularity in all of irregularity.
“Your consigliere at your service…”
He watches the brunette fight emotions and responsibility, whimsically wondering if the Ninth heard the bullets sing or smelled the higanhanas at his dying moment. Or if he had known about the price for his head. But there is no point in second guessing history now, so he focuses on the present.
The smallest of smiles, pride mixed with bitterness, a tone of finality and Reborn finishes his first official greeting.
“… Don.”
Sawada Tsunayoshi.
The Tenth head of the Vongola crime famiglia.
*
Meaning of Italian terms used:
Famiglia: Directly translated to family, used with reference to the Mafia, regardless of bloodlines.
Don: Boss, head, leader of the famiglia.
Capo: Something like a team leader or in KHR verse - the guardians, leading men, associates and foot soldiers. Reborn was one of the 9th's previous Capos, though he wasn't a guardian.
Consigliere: Advisor, right hand man to the boss. In my POV, Reborn suits it more than 59.
Chris dearheart, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Based off another gift fic I wrote for you eons ago. Bear with me, I haven't written in a month.
Title: The hit.
Character/s: Reborn, Tsuna and mentions of the 9th's right hand man.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Death of the 9th, happened sometime during the funeral, Reborn's introspective (:
A/N: Mafia AU. Crossing Sicily, Tokyo and god knows where the Mafia's reach goes. TBC.
Reborn does not grieve. Death is nothing new in the line of business, as common as bribing the jury and fixing baseball matches. It is an inevitable ending, almost as natural as breaking fingers and assembling his weapon of choice. Men were made to die and no decent Capo will allow for such wanton display of emotions.
The Italian keeps his back to the slab of stone they have christened the Ninth Vongola don, fedora pulled low over his eyes. Leaning against a weeping willow, away from the mourning mass of black, he locks up quiet, indignant rage in a little black hole and remembers it. An irrepressible urge to laugh rises but he swallows it as well.
A nameless suit marches up to him, head bowed and silent, afraid to break the mournful peace. A runner. Reborn does not need to look into the envelope he is presented with to know the cause of the Ninth’s death. He was there to see it for himself. The Ninth had fallen at Xanxus’ feet, in Tsuna’s arms and before his eyes.
Just in case. The ally famiglias will ask, the Ninth’s consigliere had whispered but Reborn had walked away shrugging.
He doesn’t wait for the runner to leave to pull out the summary of the autopsy report. The fading evening light filter through drooping willow branches shadow his expression. A twisted grin. The suit pretends not to see it, he recognises bloodlust from afar. But the quirk on Reborn’s lips continues to stretch until it becomes obscenely wrong, especially in the funeral of the man who groomed him.
Because he was right on the money. Fourteen points of entry across shoulders, abdomen, thighs and concentrated on the chest.
“One not enough huh?” He snorts derisively at the thought but he knows why. Better safe than sorry.
The thick envelope is thrown into the runner’s chest and the suit flees, tripping. A silver gun falls quietly from the sheaf of papers into the wild grass. He stops, terror evident on his face. He had forgotten the consigliere’s instructions.
Give it to the Capo, it’s clean. He'll know what it means. Reborn waves him away, unperturbed. He recognizes the murder weapon, a most familiar stranger. A customized Glock 19, the flash of white and silver before the rain of bullets and spilled blood.
The gunner wanted it to be found. It is a taunt and an overbearing ego of an assassin, he knows.
Picking up the pistol, the hit man runs a skilled finger over where the serial numbers of the gun had been filed off. It isn’t a half-assed job and tracing said weapon to source will be difficult.
Difficult but not impossible, Reborn smirks.
Quickly, he dismantles the Glock, stripping it and pocketing the silencer. After a brief inspection, he scatters the separate parts of the pistol in different locations. Any more gunfire in the late don’s funeral will only be disrespect and he had found what he was looking for anyway.
The magazine of the pistol, the nearly empty cartridge, except one. A single 9mm caliber bullet sits in the middle of his palm, glinting silver and gold.
There is sudden movement from the corner of his eye, the crowd parts and the man of the moment is no longer dwarfed. Reborn curls his fingers over the bullet and stuffs the hand in his pocket, effectively hiding the last of the connections to the Ninth.
The lily emblem on the bullet can wait, he decides, meeting the new don halfway. Reborn does not kneel or kiss the Vongola ring. He tips his fedora instead.
“Reborn-san…” The brunette whispers, eyes blazing like the fire that consumed the warehouse of the Ninth’s last battle. Two men stand, a face off above kneeling suits.
“Ciaossu.” He is faithful regularity in all of irregularity.
“Your consigliere at your service…”
He watches the brunette fight emotions and responsibility, whimsically wondering if the Ninth heard the bullets sing or smelled the higanhanas at his dying moment. Or if he had known about the price for his head. But there is no point in second guessing history now, so he focuses on the present.
The smallest of smiles, pride mixed with bitterness, a tone of finality and Reborn finishes his first official greeting.
“… Don.”
Sawada Tsunayoshi.
The Tenth head of the Vongola crime famiglia.
*
Meaning of Italian terms used:
Famiglia: Directly translated to family, used with reference to the Mafia, regardless of bloodlines.
Don: Boss, head, leader of the famiglia.
Capo: Something like a team leader or in KHR verse - the guardians, leading men, associates and foot soldiers. Reborn was one of the 9th's previous Capos, though he wasn't a guardian.
Consigliere: Advisor, right hand man to the boss. In my POV, Reborn suits it more than 59.