[Fic] Through the Fire and Flames II
Title: Through the Fire and Flames
Rating: PG-13
Word Count (for fics): 13000~ (Part II: 6500~)
Warnings: Some mildly gory violence.
Summary: And now, Giotto thought, cracking his eyes open and watching the light bloom across his hand, they are the exact, damned opposite. He had set himself in such a vehement mind set of cleaning his hands free of blood, he had become blinded to the fact he was ankle deep in the foul liquid, and still submerging.
A/N: Kind of an alternate story of how the Vongola family started, featuring Giotto at the age of 19, so he and other characters might seem sort of ooc compared to how they are in canon land; they're younger and less experienced in a time before they entered the mafia so I tried to make them more naive and immature. Also, the style of speaking differs from their canon idiolects but I tried to make it more realistic for the time period they were actually from. Loads of historical inaccuracies (probably) and most likely a shedload of typoes which I'll ask you to forgive, since, well, this fic is so old.
( Part I )
The next day, haggard with lack of sleep due to his constant thoughts, shifting through his head in a new set of worry with every toss and turn he made in his bed, Giotto went to his home's chapel; to see his mother.
He felt strangely calm as he pushed open the thick wooden door to the sanctuary, as quietly as possible so as to not disturb the lady's prayers. It was very odd, how he felt he was walking above the earth, his footsteps in the clouds, his head in the air; he wasn't really there. He was simply a ghost.
Giotto waited by the threshold, watching his mother for some time and simply observing the back of her head, her pale hair which hung loosely down her back. She didn't move, for a long time. Didn't make a sound, for a long time. Closing his eyes and steeling his determination, the young man stepped forward, his gentle steps echoing with the harmonies of silent choirs, moving slowly to seat himself at the far end of the pew his mother was occupying. He bowed his head, clasping his hands.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. Forgive me, for not having enough faith in you. Forgive me, for straying from your herd. Forgive me Lord, for not enduring in acceptance of your will.
And forgive me, for not learning your prayers, but now, it seems, they are more pointless than ever.
He opened his eyes, gaze lingering over the cut on his finger. The blood he had given, smeared on a saint's face and signed his name with. The contract of a demon. Eyes flickering to the woman near him, Giotto's heart fell a little; she hadn't even looked to him. Not even registered her son's presence.
The young blonde waited for a moment, intaking the chapel and its serenity.
"Mother," he began quietly, looking to the Virgin's statue.
She made no response. Not a glimpse of movement, recognition, a breath or a sigh. Nought.
"I killed a man," he murmured, gripping his hands together tightly in his lap.
She continued with her prayers, not even flinching.
"I cannot ask for your forgiveness, for the crime I have committed," he continued on, voice low and so smoothly calm, "but I acted only upon my life, and my father's honour. May I atone for my sins in hell."
She breathed in, pressing her lips to her knuckles.
"The Vongola name is safe with you." she whispered, voice hoarse.
Giotto looked to her, mouth drawn into a tight line. Hope fluttered within the cavity of his chest, neat and erratic.
"I forgive you."
-
"The girls in Hamburg flock to you like moths to flame," the young man ground out contemptuously, "I could not rid myself of them, with cold words nor disapproving looks."
"Perhaps it is just handsome young nobles, my friend," Giotto laughed, leaning his forearms to the balcony railings as he looked out onto the grounds of his home, "and not simply the ladies."
"I have no interest in them, either way," his friend rolled his eyes, taking his small cigar from the corner of his lip and breathing out a heavy plume of smoke, leaning his back to the same railings the blonde was resting forward on, "their mindless prattle is enough to send me fleeing, without their demanding claws digging into me."
Giotto smiled, shaking his head. His friend since childhood, the son of a noble from a town over whom often came to visit since their fathers were close friends and often cared to work together, had only gotten more bitterly cynical with age. It was unimaginable what it would turn into with another thirty years behind it, Giotto mused quietly, after all, this friend, at only eighteen, was just shy of a year younger than himself.
G, the young man stood smoking by Giotto's side, was well travelled throughout Europe, often trailing after his father on social and business trips, not through his own desire, but more of his parents wishes for him. As such, the young man had seen plenty of people, places and things he didn't care to remember, and had rather quickly decided he loathed them all. G was a man of highly unusual aesthetics and a gifted mind to match, with unearthly red hair, pale skin and crimson eyes which reflected his soul so sharply, Giotto was sometimes a little afraid to meet his gaze, should his friend be in a sour mood. He was of average height, a little taller than Giotto, but lithe in his limbs and torso, with slim hips and shoulders, delicate wrists and long fingers.
Women and men flocked to him alike, out of intrigue to the oddly painted boy, who tended to blush across his pale cheeks easily at such attention. And G tended to hate every single one of them.
The blonde continued smiling to himself, watching a squirrel dash across the well kept lawn of the castle grounds. He was lucky, to have such a friend in a man who rarely found comfort in others. G was fiercely loyal to Giotto, through all their years together, and the Vongola was more than happy he had such a dear friend in a place where most young men his age were working fields or blacksmithys.
"Of course, G," Giotto murmured in reply, agreeing quietly, "but it must be pleasing to see so much of the world and its inhabitants."
"I would rather be labouring in a tavern as a bar wench and a whore, frankly." the red-haired man said bluntly, pressing his cigar back to his lips; a habit picked up from one of his many journeys, now unable to see the day through without a fix of tobacco.
"How aspirational of you, friend," the blonde laughed brightly, straightening.
"You know I despise travelling, especially with my father, God take the man,"
"Yes, I do know," Giotto smiled, shaking his head.
He knew all too well his good friend's relationship with his family, born as the eldest son but not the eldest child, with a sister above him in years and two siblings younger than himself. G, whilst caring for his sisters as Giotto knew only a brother could, the red-haired boy was constantly at war with his elder sister. The young man had practically thrown his arms in the air in joy when this sister had moved away to live with her husband, only returning occasionally to bring her whelps and meek spouse back to her family home, when G tended to come to Giotto, begging for sanctuary till she had left again.
"All too well," he added as an afterthought.
"My apologies, Giotto," G sighed out a curl of smoke, "I must undo you with my griping."
"Not at all," the other protested warmly, "what are friends for but to share triumphs and miseries with?"
"Always the optimist," the red-haired man laughed under his breath, a smile tugging at his lips.
It was rare to see a smile on his friend's face. Normally severely serious, not to mention studious to the point of extreme, G was a man of maturity beyond his years. Unless something set a fire under his rather short-fused temper.
They quieted, happy to just stand in each other's silence. A silence which shimmered with anticipation, to the young Vongola at least; his words paused at the threshold of his lips.
"I feel I need to tell you something, G," Giotto spoke eventually, as G turned his head to look at his friend, eyes blinking with questions.
"You are most welcome, friend." he replied with a small nod, "I shall listen to all that you wish to say."
It had been near seven days since the young Vongola's blood contract with the shadows of men. Near six days since his mother had forgiven him for sins he had yet to commit. Near five days since he had felt strangely at peace with himself. Near four days since the peace had turned to biting worry, scratching at his soul with child-like fingers. It wasn't a regret. It was a need for familiarity. For comfort, for someone to nod to him, tell him that his decision was correct. To tell him he would be fine.
"If I do not speak it soon I fear it will eat away at me until I am nothing more than a shell of a man, drained of what I once was, and I do not, more than anything, wish to lose what I have now." Giotto answered him, the corner of his lip twitching down.
G remained quiet, listening, his brow furrowing in anticipation. It was odd, to see his friend torn like that. That friend whom had always been a grounding force for G, a sanity and comfort within the madness of his own life; Giotto had a calmness which infected G, a calmness that made him feel at ease, made him feel happy and made him forget about his disastrous family and hatred for the world that had yet to do anything to him. They were best friends, and G had vowed to himself a long time ago to never leave his friend's side; he would protect Giotto, whom he owed so much to, till his dying day.
"Near a fortnight ago, I-"
Giotto stopped, turning quickly on his heel towards the source of a short creaking sound, emitted from the door onto the balcony. It had edged open just an inch, and in the shadows it concealed was a bright eye, staring out at the two relaxing in the sun.
The blonde sighed; he couldn't help but smile, words lost in the amusement on his lips.
"I know you are there, sister," he called over, tilting his head as the middle Vongola child pushed open the door a little further to reveal herself guiltily.
The girl had somewhat of a fascination with G, like many other women whose eyes fell upon him. G, on the other hand, felt even more distant with the young girl due to the fact it was Giotto's sister. He forced a smile to her.
"Do you intend to spy on us every time we meet, Marcella?"
"M-my apologies, brother, I meant no harm," she curtseyed shyly, turning her eyes to the floor to avoid staring at the fascination that was G.
"Of course." Giotto flashed a forgiving smile as the -haired man by his side looked away, holding his cigar to his lips in an attempt to distract himself. "But perhaps it is G, our guest, whom you should offer your apologies to."
The blonde couldn't help but laugh, a sound which he bit back, at the noise which caught in his friend's throat in utter embarrassment.
"C-certainly!" the girl stammered, flushing and turning her curtsey to G, whom was probably blushing more than the young girl, "Do forgive me, dear guest, I m-meant no insult in my actions."
"Q-quite forgiven." G grumbled, flashing an irritated glower towards Giotto.
"Come," the young Vongola man spoke up, beaming as if the light of the very sky was emanating from within him, "fetch your sister, Marcella, and you can partake in coffee with G and I."
Giotto laughed happily as his friend dropped his cigar and toed it out, sweeping it from between the railings of the balcony with his foot so as to not leave an ashy mess on the Vongola flagstones, patting his friend's shoulder as they followed after the excited Marcella, heading inside towards the day room.
Confessions would have to wait, the young Vongola supposed.
-
The corridor was dark as he was led down it by a man a decade older than himself, quiet and tight-lipped. A moon had waxed and waned since his last meeting with his friend G, and, heading towards his third 'meeting' with the family which had picked him up off the streets, Giotto had learnt very quickly that even asking questions would not get answers from the men surrounding him. Slipping through the door the gentleman opened for him, Giotto gave a small nod to him before meeting the eyes of the associates waiting for him in the well-furnished room, lit, as always, with a single dim lamp.
It was as if these man feared the light. Every time the young Vongola was graced with their presences, they were steeped in darkness, wearing the shadows like a cloak of safety that would save them from the judging eyes of the Lord. Or perhaps just the authorities.
"Giotto," a man slumped in the corner purred, raising his glass of fine alcohol in the blonde's direction.
"Salvo." the young man responded quietly, nodding respectfully in his direction. "Sandro, Bonchello...Deo."
The other men murmured their greetings to their young protégé, offering him a seat and a good glass of wine, which he politely turned down, sitting gingerly, back straight with pride.
"You will learn something useful tonight, young sir," Bonchello growled in his baritone, "so do well to observe closely."
"Of course, sir," Giotto humbly responded.
If it were anything like last meeting's 'useful lesson', then Giotto would be somewhat bored, as dully interesting as it had been listening to the four men barter with two 'customers' over the price of tax-free, and not to mention illegally imported, alcohol, eventually agreeing on something that would be a huge profit to the family, but what seemed like an astonishingly fair price to the men who were duly being conned out of their money. But then, that is what happens when you barter with hardened criminals.
"Come," he barked a few moments later, when the men had chatted amongst themselves and finished their wine, "they will be waiting."
Following the others at the back of the group, Giotto quietly shadowed them as they sauntered back into the blackened corridor, weaving their way around the corner and down a back set of stairs to a room set off from the rest of the house, a house it seemed they used for only their negotiations. The windows were boarded as if it were abandoned. Hiding from the light of day and any inquisitive eyes that should gaze upon it.
Giotto's stomach clenched angrily as every step he took seemed to condemn him further. He had yet to see his end of this bargain come to fruition, but then, he did not want to curse himself and wish any harm upon his family and friends just to see if he really had made the correct decision.
In the room were more men, well dressed and groomed men, three of them. One was smoking. The smell hit the blonde like a wave of nausea as he was reminded heavily of G.
For his friends and family.
"Greetings, good sirs," Salvo stepped forward with a charming smile, catching the other mens' attentions, "I have no intention of making you wait through endless introductions and formalities, so perhaps you would care to delve directly into business?"
"How kind, del Corsa." one of the men, a fine moustache grown neatly on his upper lip, replied in low tones, squaring up to the other man in a fit to show his equality, supremity.
It was a game, Giotto had already observed within this 'business'. Between the two parties, there was no obvious upper hand, like that of a king and a pauper; there were only subtle undercurrents as they played an invisible game of chess, fighting for possession of pawns in a pacey but carefully considered battle to reach checkmate first.
The man with whom Salvo spoke let his lip curl up in a disdainful sneer. Snapping his fingers over his shoulder, he threw a look over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Giotto's 'family'.
One of the men, whom had stayed in the shadows as his two associates had stepped forward, slowly appeared holding a large rectangular object before him, cloaked in thick off-white sacking material. Setting the object down on a finely upholstered chair musty with disuse, the men gathered before it like curious children.
Giotto hung back.
"Then here you have it, del Corsa, as you requested." the first man spoke, a self-satisfied growl in the undertones of voice as he again made a gesture to his men, who quickly shed the object of its cover, lifting it up and swiftly pulling it off to reveal a well-framed painting, the details of which were hard to make out in the low lighting.
There was an all around murmur of praise, of satisfaction. Appreciation of such a fine masterpiece. A masterpiece, Giotto thought, startled, as some lines began to merge together into a semblance of recognition, which had recently been stolen. The news had spread like wildfire throughout the area, gossip and rumours moving from ears to lips to new ears with added details; the prince of Denmark had sent spies and thieves to slowly steal Italy's wealth, there were men of the Church stealing pieces and burning them as Devil's work, the possibilities were numerous and seemingly endless.
Giotto swallowed, wide eyed and blinking. His feet rooted to the floor as some black feeling enshrouded him, rendering him numb to his very fingertips.
"Is that not-" he began, voice spilling over his lips in a disbelieving shudder before he could even think to stem them, knowing he would be chided harshly for his impudence.
"Stolen from the very residence of her Ladyship, Miss Moreno," one of the men grunted, Giotto duly ignored, "worth its weight in gold, such a canvas."
Stolen, the young blonde thought blankly. From an innocent woman. From her very home. His fists clenched by his sides.
It was quiet, as the del Corsa men inspected the thing, running fingers down the intricately carven frame and scrutinising every stroke and smudge of paint across the canvas. Seemingly satisfied, they straightened, giving a small nod to each other. Giotto blanched. The meetings he had been privy to previously had merely been talks of criminal activity, simple words that had nay affected him in guilt nor shame at his associations. Seeing the item before him, seeing the transaction of illegality pass before him; everything so suddenly seemed so painfully real.
"Perhaps more its weight in swine slop," Deo grunted without a hint of irony, a flash of metal appearing in his palm, a glint of reflection that seemed obvious to Giotto and Giotto alone.
The young Vongola breathed in sharply, a quiet realisation. He knew all too well where this was leading. And yet he was powerless to do anything about it.
"Excuse me, good sir?" the mustachioed man answered, voice as taut as wire as his eyes sparked with anger, turning their gaze on the del Corsa man.
"A true shame," Salvo stepped back towards Giotto, away from the sparks of tension between the others, "that you should attempt to deceive us so, friend. We would have paid you sincerely, a handsome fee should you have met your end of the bargain."
"You have your painting, stolen by my men under risk of capture and imprisonment! I demand my payment!" the other exploded, the anxiety behind his supposed anger apparent in his very air.
"I do not have my painting," Salvo replied calmly, oddly calmly as he stopped before Giotto, the young blonde simply frozen to his spot, feeling like a spectre, unseen and unheard watching a scene he should never have witnessed, "I have some poor mimicry that you believed me fool enough to accept."
"Then you take me as a cheater, del Corsa-"
"I take you for the fool, sir." Giotto's man spoke slowly, "To attempt to cross me and my family."
"Cross you, sir!" the moustachioed man spat contemptuously, "No such-"
"End your lies or mum, sir." Bonchello interrupted, squaring, along with the intimidating figure that was Deo, up to the other men.
"I demand my payment for your painting!" he replied, neck bulging past his collar with red-faced fury, a single foot shuffling back in fear. A fear that he should never have shown.
"Then mum." Salvo murmured, turning his back on the men.
Deo was upon the moustachioed man before a single muscle could be moved between the rest of the men put together, knife pressed to his throat, digging the point into his meaty flesh and dragging a slick red line across him, a garish smile slit deep into his neck, thick warm blood gushing from him as he choked on the liquid, spurting and bubbling with his breath from the gaping wound as his eyes bulged with his suffocation.
Giotto saw another man in his face as he died, falling from Deo's clutches to the floor, twitching and spilling his life across the stones, between the cracks, staining the room with his essence. Giotto saw another man in his face as he lay motionless, as motionless as the young blonde as the other two men backed away, fearing for their lives as they raised their hands in silent, terrified submission.
Giotto saw the face of the man who had died at his own hands, every line, every hair and droplet of blood smeared down his chin, as clear as if he were reliving the moment, repeating it over and over in his head in some endless dream.
No, he thought grimly; nightmare.
"Tell your family we no longer have business with them, understand?" Sandro spat, advancing on the men, "Too many a time have you thought to deceive us, rats."
The two men stumbled over each other in eagerness to leave the room, leave the wrath of the del Corsas' with their lives still intact. They rushed through the back door, letting a gust of cold air sweep in, wafting the rank smell of clotting blood towards Giotto, who remained stood by the stairs, limbs weak with unfeeling and face blank with numb unexpression.
He could not feel a thing. Face ashen, gut squeezing with nausea and yet, he could not feel a thing. The young Vongola swallowed past a non-existent lump in his throat; what a demon he had become, to not even feel the overwhelming surge of responsibility, guilt, sympathy that was trying so hard to crash into his consciousness.
The del Corsa men swept past him, muttering between themselves over the scene that had passed, leaving the dead man, drained of his blood, lying limply upon the stone. Giotto's eyes, dull and dark, drained of the life that normally shined there, were trained to the moustachioed man's shadow.
"The death was not yours," Salvo murmured, pausing by Giotto's side, "but it was your family's. We share this burden as we share everything."
He pressed a hand to the young blonde's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze with strong fingers.
"The harm to this living soul was not yours," the man gave a small smile, wicked in its application as he echoed the blonde's words from that very first meeting which seemed to have passed a hundred years ago, the words unspoken by Salvo's lips hanging loaded in the air, as loud and clear as if he had shouted them.
But it belongs to the Devil as much as your own.
Salvo slipped past him quietly, up the stairs to leave Giotto in a quiet room with only death for a companion.
Checkmate indeed.
-
Rising from his own bed the next morn, the young Vongola was in a state of ethereal dreaming. The world around him seemed oddly grey, the surging thoughts in his mind in a twisting surrealism, draining the colour from reality. He couldn't bring himself to leave his chambers, instead locking the door and remaining quiet even when his youngest sister came knocking quietly, mewling like a kitten, asking for help with her letters and numbers as always. Giotto remained in his windowseat, dressed in aught but a billowing shirt and loose-fitting breeches, allowing the warm breeze to slip in and disturb his hair, his gaze blank and dark as his sister's voice grew quieter and eventually disappeared altogether. A heavy emotion dripped steadily through him, invading his veins and muscles, infecting his blood with a slow spreading poison. It may have been guilt, but that was a feeling that weighed so heavy upon his shoulders every day, constant and without respite, he did not deign to regard this other stirring in him as a new strain of his guilt.
Giotto looked to the door as his sister's voice died away, having given up hope of acquiring her brother's help. He let a slow exhalation escape his nostrils, deep and exasperated. He turned his gaze back to the window, elbow rested upon his raised knee.
Thoughts plagued him. Pestilence spread around his mind and made him weak; in his bones and in his very will.
He half-wished to travel to the church in town, to sit in the pews and look upon her statue, to see the priest's familiar, understanding smile. But he could not bear to leave his seat, leave the familiarity that resonated with his childhood.
His fading innocence.
Sighing, Giotto leant his head back slowly to rest it upon the wall behind him, his shoulders already sore with the rough stone pressing into his flesh so easily through the scarce material of his shirt, he closed his eyes, shutting off the world outside. It was summer. It was warm, and bright, with clear blue skies and a sun that seemed to kiss any and all lucky enough to be feeling her warming gaze.
When he was younger, Giotto had often deserted tutors on warm summer days such as that to lose himself in the Vongola gardens and forests, running and throwing himself across the emerald green lawns, staining his knees with unadulterated joy and laughing as animals skittered around him nervously, shocked and startled by his boisterous movements as he dashed through the dappled light of the undergrowth of the forest, out of breath and with pounding heart, outrunning himself and the world. There were days when the young G would be staying as a guest within the Vongola household, and Giotto cherished the days when he had a playmate to dash around with, even though his friend was a little weaker than himself, and a fraction more reluctant to cover himself with grazes and bruises by exploring the grounds around the Vongola residence.
"Those days were blessed," the blonde murmured vaguely, light scattering across his face, refracting shimmering patterns through the glass, rainbows staining his skin.
And now, he thought, cracking his eyes open and watching the light bloom across his hand, they are the exact, damned opposite. He had set himself in such a vehement mind set of cleaning his hands free of blood, he had become blinded to the fact he was ankle deep in the foul liquid, and still submerging.
He was sinking. Deeper and faster with every day that slipped through his fingers.
Giotto was to attend a high society ball in several day's time, with his family. His real family, his blood family. Watching a patch of inanimate flowers below his window, the young blonde mulled the phrase over; blood family. He and his parents, his sisters, they were linked eternally by the blood that flowed in their veins, but in his other hand he had his 'family' who were linked by the blood stains on their fingers. Now who was his blood family?
Before he had left the presence of the del Corsa men the previous night, a hollow shell with a monotonous drone for what little words he spoke, Giotto had been given instructions. Salvo knew of the gathering, this 'party'. He knew that Giotto's family would be there. He knew that Giotto himself would be mixing with the fine lords and ladies of Italy, privy to information that would normally be like a gourmet meal to the gutter rats that were the other men. He was to mix and mingle as much as was possible, establish connections, make friends in high places and more importantly than anything else; horde any glimpse of information as if it were gold dust.
He heaved a breath from deep in his chest. He could, should, tell his father, the authorities, anyone, someone who would listen. He should tell them about a family. About several families, people who weren't tied by the blood flowing in their bodies but by the contracts they signed in silence, and he should tell them that these families were dangerous; small yet close and tight, sewn together clumsily but with a harrowing precision that kept them so finely tight-knit. He should tell them of the crimes these families committed for their own good; be it money or power, wealth or women. They killed each other. There was no particular loss in the death of these criminals, bar, Giotto could not help but think, their potential redemption. They would only be killed in the name of the state were they caught red-handed with blood.
It was the innocents that Giotto was angry for. Those people who were stolen from, the mothers, wives, children of the deceased. Did these people even live to grieve, he wondered suddenly. Did they escape the clutching hands of the 'family' or were they buried with their men? Just how far did they go for what they wanted, killing women, children? Giotto did not know, and this uncertainty thrashed within his stomach and chest, clawing at his insides till they were bloody and ragged; he was already wading through blood and he had not even reached the bottom of these underground mazes, having no idea what lay in their darkest reaches.
The ones who had no part in their crimes and yet were possibly still affected so grievously, it made him so-...so-
The young blonde dropped his face to his palms, pressing his fingers firmly to his eyes, rubbing slowly at the frustration building there.
Who would he tell, really? What could he possibly do now he had bound himself with his own blood to their silence? He was part of them as they were part of him; they were the safety of his family and friends, he was their link to the world above the sewers, they were his sealed lips and he was their protégé.
If he broke his vow and spilled his confessions, the precarious pedestal he had been set on would crumble and break beneath him and he would crash down from the heavens like Icaarus who grew too bold. So too would his family's protection be gone, the Vongola name dragged through the mud like a common man's, and with it his father's honour. His own life would be at stake, and he would be running from them like a mouse from a cat, slipping and stalling in the aftermath of his mistakes.
How could he have made such a foolish gamble so as to lay his mother and sister's safety as a prize?
If only he had challenged that man to a duel, if only his death had been witnessed and justified, if only Giotto had run instead of fought, if only-
So many ifs. So many damned ifs.
He was trapped in a web of sticky blood and intricate threads binding him down and there was nothing, he thought, that he could do.
-
Giotto had grown far too used to the sight and stench of blood. He was more disgusted by the fact he was a useless bystander than the gouged eyeball that splattered to the floor near his toe, piercing grey gaze staring up at him as its owner howled in pain, bloody tears streaking down his face as he clawed at his own flesh in a panicked reaction. The young blonde closed his own eyes and took a small step to the side. The man's screeches were swallowed by the thick night air, heavy with summer. Someone would hear him. He would live to speak tomorrow at least, but who would believe what a half blind man saw?
"Oof!"
Giotto opened his eyes. The screaming had stopped, replaced by the man's breath being knocked from his chest as one of Salvo's men kicked him brutally in the stomach. He fell from his knees to his side, writhing in agony. Giotto's fists clenched lightly by his sides; he was simmering with anger, brimming with an infuriated nausea.
"Shit-eating gutter rat," Sandro spat, his saliva hitting the ground by the man's head in a thick globule, "you are not fit to roll on the ground we walk on. Take your death elsewhere."
"N-no, wait" a second man stammered out, voice soaring in terrified pitch as he pressed himself further and further to the wall of some old building half-hiding the alley they were currently occupying, "we can pay, w-we can pay-"
"Then hand us your money and we will kindly leave you alone, sirs," Sandro answered swiftly, his voice dripping with disbelief. He applied his toe to the bleeding man's ribs again, to stifle his growing moans.
Giotto felt his muscles tense, from head to very toe. Those sounds of a tortured man, invading his ears and his being. These men 'owed' the del Corsas' money, so it was told. He did not know exactly the reason why. He did not entirely care to find out. Simply, he knew this fee was paid upon every turning of the moon, and that the men were owners of something; store-keepers, perhaps merchants. He could not be sure. He remained quiet.
"I- we, sirs, please," the other swallowed, tremoring with fear, "I beg of you, we beg, we beg your mercy, sir, we beg of you to take pity on us-"
"You have used your quota of pity, rat." Deo growled from the shadows, leaning against the opposing wall.
"B-but sirs, y-you came to us so early," the other responded, his voice wavering on the border of tears of desperation, "we e-expected another several days to r-raise your sum, should you grant us these days then we may-"
"Plans have changed since, Antonio," Sandro answered him, pushing the broken man to his back with his foot. He was shaking violently, as if spirits had invaded his very limbs.
"G-good, sirs, please, I beg of you," Antonio's voice cracked, raising his hands to them in pleading.
Giotto had long since detached himself from the situation. Salvo may make him attend these 'business meetings', but he refused to involve himself in them. He kept silent, remaining stood back.
"Y-young lord!"
The young blonde breathed in sharply, his eyes flickering towards Antonio, who was staring to him, wide-eyed and frantic.
"I-it is! The young Vongola lord," he begged, hopeful, taking a step away from the wall, "y-you can take pity, surely, you, with your name a-and your mercy, you can take pity on us, l-like your dear father, t-take pity-"
Antonio advanced to him, hands outstretched.
The young Vongola was revolted that his family name would fall from such desperate lips.
"Take pity, young lor-"
"Giotto." Sandro snapped, turning on the startled young man whose eyes were stuck on the rat before him, "Antonio wishes for a piece of del Corsa kindness. Show him."
The Vongola's heart pounded into his throat as he swivelled his gaze to meet Salvo's. He could not find it; too many shadows hid him.
"I cannot-"
"Pity, young lord Vongola, pity, mercy, please," Antonio was upon him, hands all too harshly clasped in Giotto's shirt, grasping to him with trembling fingers, eyes searching for something within Giotto's, something, anything.
"Giotto!" Sandro interrupted again, growing impatient, "We do not waste our time with gutter rats, hurry."
Voices grew loud in his ears, hammering the matter of his brain and very soul with their harsh syllables. So suddenly was he aware of every detail around him, every breath, ever tremor that flitted across Antonio's hands, every weak mumble that escaped the broken man bleeding across the cobbles, every heartbeat that echoed in every corner of his being.
"Giotto!"
"Sir!"
Was that his own voice, he wondered, as his own hand, quick as light slipped into the small pouch by his belt and retracted, grasping Antonio's wrists and pulling his clawed fists away from his shirt. Giotto balked as fear flashed across the man's eyes. A fear that he had created.
"Sir, you do not think to touch a del Corsa," Giotto swallowed, his voice low and calm, brow furrowing in an idle threat, "only we may touch you, dirt as you are."
"Y-young lord-" the man's eyes shone wet, tremoring decreasing with every word that fell from the young blonde's well trained mouth.
"You will pay us on the morrow, lest you meet the same fate as your good friend," the Vongola continued, avoiding the satisfied smirks he could see in the lines of Sandro and Deos' faces, "should he survive the infection that is. On the morrow. And this is to be your final chance, gutter rat."
With that, he thrust the man away from him, watching with cold eyes as Antonio tumbled to his rump, a mess of long limbs as he scrambled to his feet and tripping to his friend, he pulled the blind man up, stumbling away.
"W-we thank you, young lord," Antonio gasped out as he began to drag the other away, "w-we thank you for your mercy."
Sandro, Deo and Giotto watched as the two men skittered away as fast as their gutter rat legs would carry them, grouping together with proud, square shoulders. The larger man grunted in a way that may suggest he was pleased; Giotto found it hard to read Deo as it was, let alone in the darkness of the heavy night.
"Not at all bad, young lord," Sandro teased, clapping a hand upon Giotto's shoulder, "you seem to finally understand how we barter with dirt."
"Mn." was the simple reply the blonde gave, his brow still furrowed gently in the direction the men had disappeared.
"Deo." the shorter man nodded a head, turning away as the larger man followed, steps echoing in the suddenly all too quiet alleyway, "We wish you luck at your ball, Giotto."
The young blonde waited until his family had vanished into the shadows before vomiting loudly into the gutter, the burning nausea finally growing too strong for his oesophagus to hold back. When he had successfully emptied his queasy gut, Giotto looked over his shoulder weakly to the exploded, crushed remnants of the eye, white matter, liquid and blood smeared across the cobbles...and the sole of the Vongola's boot. Shuddering, the blonde felt another wave of nausea hit him and he turned his head away, closing his eyes to dispel the dizziness that overcame him. He pressed his forehead to the wall and allowed himself to breath, waiting for the acid after-taste to dissipate from his tongue.
The dark hid a lot of things. Shadows enshrouded all who searched for their sanctity, including those who wished to use their concealment for spreading their sin. It had not occurred to Giotto that shadows could hide many more sorts of deeds from eager eyes.
Such as the gold coin he had slipped into Antonio's hand before he had pushed him so roughly away.
Checkmate indeed.
-
“You will attend, I take it?” he asked softly, eyes trained to Marcella as she sang quietly between the bars of a cage, serenading the songbird resting in its confinement by the window.
“Hn?” G grunted in response, letting smoke curl past his upper lip as he stared as blankly as Giotto, in the other direction. Even in his gaze he avoided the young Vongola girl as much as possible.
“The ball, G,” Giotto smiled to himself, allowing Marcella's soft voice to permeate his ears, the soft focus edges of his being, “the ball.”
“Ah.” the red-haired boy answered quietly, rolling his cigar curtly between his fingertips as he stared at a tidy bookshelf, eyes roaming across leather spines of every colour were possible it seemed.
The blonde rolled his eyes slowly, turning what little attention he had given his friend back to nothingness. They fell together back into a comfortable silence, only the sound of the girl's soft melody tinkling in the air as chimes in the breeze. Her voice was sweet, Giotto thought absent-mindedly as he thumbed the corner of a weighty volume on the short round table by the side of his chair. Letting the pages flip past his digit over and over, the expensive gold trimming glinting with every time he lifted his thumb, a shimmering line of light blooming across and back into dull gold as he let them sweep across the fleshy pad of his thumb.
It truly was a wonder, the Vongola library. A wonder for a private home that was, the room bore nothing on the grandiose of the city libraries he had seen in his short lifetime. But in itself, it was a beautiful room. It seemed G preferred it to the day room Giotto often entertained guests in, having on more than one occasion found him, when he was residing as a guest during one of his longer visits, poring over a volume, other books stacked to the heavens around him as he gently flipped pages, eyes flickering across lives and stories from afar, letters depicting ancient and fantastic civilisations, ink drawn in patterns of histories. He would be so engrossed within his reading, G had not once noticed the blonde stood by the door, half-masked by shelves and the curve of a wall. Giotto would smile, and leave his friend to his devices.
But whilst not entirely understanding G's fascination with the books, he did however fully comprehend how comfortable the room was. It was musty, in truth; the Vongola family rarely whiled away their hours in there; Giotto's mother and sisters preferring to take to the day room, living rooms or nurseries, his father sealing himself away in his own study when he was home from business. The blonde himself rarely tended to enter its silent reaches, on the far side of the house where the sun did not caress so warmly, yet he did wonder why.
The room was warm without stuffiness, of good size and space with wide, high windows that stretched a whole wall's width, looking down towards the town. There were large bookcases filled to the brim with rare and expensive volumes along with more commonplace pieces, accompanied by highly polished desks and large comfortable chairs placed artfully around unless G had deigned to move said furniture to better find the light, to aid his somewhat poor eyesight.
Giotto was unsure why they had chosen the library over the day room that hot afternoon, but he was perfectly happy with such a decision. Marcella had sidled in after them, lugging her birds' travel cage with her as she had settled herself in the window to better see G, yet getting quickly distracted in entertaining her bird, singing melodies back and forth and a peaceful smile as she traced her fingers across the gleaming bars.
“I have no choice, do I?” G finally mumbled around his cigar, held defensively to the corner of his lip as he dared intrude upon the careful silence that blanketed them.
“Of course you do, friend,” Giotto chuckled at the other's reluctance.
The red-haired youth made it no secret he loathed the crowds and formalities of such balls; the many that Giotto and he had attended together, the blonde had observed quite astutely his friend's sulking, quite happy to stay skirting the walls and corners, as far from the fine ladies and snobbish gentlemen as possible. It was rare that G, and when it happened, it was with plenty of begrudging, took a misty-eyed young lady's hand in dance, starting and ending with an awkwardly stiff bow and a dash away from the floor.
Still, Giotto certainly enjoyed his company at such functions and of course, then there was the matter of...
“You always have a choice,” Giotto lied with a disconcertingly easy smile, thoughts beginning to weigh down heavy upon his shoulders.
“Scoundrel,” G breathed out heavily, “if I had a choice, I would have no duties as my father's son at all.”
“You can attend for more or less than your 'duties', G,” the blonde murmured, glancing back to Marcella. “perhaps as a favour to me. They tend to get so dull without your sardonic comments to amuse me.”
“Hn, you need not ask favours, Giotto, I will be there.” the red-haired young man grumbled, leaning back heavily into his seat, “Although admittedly you have survived many a festivity without me.”
“True,”
“Then surely this would be no different,” G argued half-heartedly, “it is nothing more than a show of your parents wealth is it not? No special occasion that I can recall at least.”
“Quite right, friend,” Giotto warranted, smile becoming more forced by the second, “and yet I still would delight in your company, surely.”
G narrowed his eyes, crimson glinting in a way that only eyes of loathing and knowledge could.
“You wish to court a girl, do you not.” the red-haired youth growled, seeming to grow suspicious in his gaze.
“A girl?” Giotto laughed aloud, startling Marcella who quickly, embarrassedly went back to her bird, “Can I not just want to enjoy the company of my friend, G?”
“Unlikely,” G snorted, glancing away, “when your parents balls always attract all the finest lords and ladies along with their lovely daughters. You are still a man, after all.”
“How cold, truly,” the blonde shook his head, amused by his friends utter disdain for courting, “I had not even dreamt of such a thing.”
“Your lies pain my heart, Giotto.” G said dramatically, clasping a hand to his chest before dropping it lazily, “But either way, I refuse to cater to some fanciful wench because you wish to introduce her simpering friend to the space between your sheets.”
Marcella gasped, looking utterly horrified as she jolted, staring at the two conversing. They all went quiet as their eyes were trained upon each other, G's words hanging contemptuously between them, the silence broken only by the girl's bird chirping sweetly.
“Perhaps...perhaps it is best if Marcella went to see our mother now?” Giotto held the laughter, bubbling on his tongue as his sister swept up her bird cage, quite flushed, and hurried from the room without needing to agree out loud to her brother's request.
G grumbled, sinking low into his chair, a faint blush appearing on his own cheeks.
“Please give my apologies to your sister.” he said stiffly, awkward as was usual.
“Of course,” Giotto chuckled breathlessly, dropping his head back to gaze listlessly at the ceiling.
“Anything but entertaining ladies,” G sighed, “or lords, for that matter, Giotto. Any favour is yours but that.”
The amusement the young lordling had felt swelling within him quickly deflated, a queer anxiety creeping upon him as words began to form on his lips, pouring forth quietly with a muted consent from his spinning thoughts.
“Then,” he murmured, gazing at the ceiling, so hopelessly out of his reach, “how about becoming my family?”
“If you are offering me Marcella's hand, I politely refuse.” G responded, quickly.
“No,” Giotto smiled to himself, “this is a new family. A family of a different sort.”
Rating: PG-13
Word Count (for fics): 13000~ (Part II: 6500~)
Warnings: Some mildly gory violence.
Summary: And now, Giotto thought, cracking his eyes open and watching the light bloom across his hand, they are the exact, damned opposite. He had set himself in such a vehement mind set of cleaning his hands free of blood, he had become blinded to the fact he was ankle deep in the foul liquid, and still submerging.
A/N: Kind of an alternate story of how the Vongola family started, featuring Giotto at the age of 19, so he and other characters might seem sort of ooc compared to how they are in canon land; they're younger and less experienced in a time before they entered the mafia so I tried to make them more naive and immature. Also, the style of speaking differs from their canon idiolects but I tried to make it more realistic for the time period they were actually from. Loads of historical inaccuracies (probably) and most likely a shedload of typoes which I'll ask you to forgive, since, well, this fic is so old.
( Part I )
The next day, haggard with lack of sleep due to his constant thoughts, shifting through his head in a new set of worry with every toss and turn he made in his bed, Giotto went to his home's chapel; to see his mother.
He felt strangely calm as he pushed open the thick wooden door to the sanctuary, as quietly as possible so as to not disturb the lady's prayers. It was very odd, how he felt he was walking above the earth, his footsteps in the clouds, his head in the air; he wasn't really there. He was simply a ghost.
Giotto waited by the threshold, watching his mother for some time and simply observing the back of her head, her pale hair which hung loosely down her back. She didn't move, for a long time. Didn't make a sound, for a long time. Closing his eyes and steeling his determination, the young man stepped forward, his gentle steps echoing with the harmonies of silent choirs, moving slowly to seat himself at the far end of the pew his mother was occupying. He bowed his head, clasping his hands.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. Forgive me, for not having enough faith in you. Forgive me, for straying from your herd. Forgive me Lord, for not enduring in acceptance of your will.
And forgive me, for not learning your prayers, but now, it seems, they are more pointless than ever.
He opened his eyes, gaze lingering over the cut on his finger. The blood he had given, smeared on a saint's face and signed his name with. The contract of a demon. Eyes flickering to the woman near him, Giotto's heart fell a little; she hadn't even looked to him. Not even registered her son's presence.
The young blonde waited for a moment, intaking the chapel and its serenity.
"Mother," he began quietly, looking to the Virgin's statue.
She made no response. Not a glimpse of movement, recognition, a breath or a sigh. Nought.
"I killed a man," he murmured, gripping his hands together tightly in his lap.
She continued with her prayers, not even flinching.
"I cannot ask for your forgiveness, for the crime I have committed," he continued on, voice low and so smoothly calm, "but I acted only upon my life, and my father's honour. May I atone for my sins in hell."
She breathed in, pressing her lips to her knuckles.
"The Vongola name is safe with you." she whispered, voice hoarse.
Giotto looked to her, mouth drawn into a tight line. Hope fluttered within the cavity of his chest, neat and erratic.
"I forgive you."
-
"The girls in Hamburg flock to you like moths to flame," the young man ground out contemptuously, "I could not rid myself of them, with cold words nor disapproving looks."
"Perhaps it is just handsome young nobles, my friend," Giotto laughed, leaning his forearms to the balcony railings as he looked out onto the grounds of his home, "and not simply the ladies."
"I have no interest in them, either way," his friend rolled his eyes, taking his small cigar from the corner of his lip and breathing out a heavy plume of smoke, leaning his back to the same railings the blonde was resting forward on, "their mindless prattle is enough to send me fleeing, without their demanding claws digging into me."
Giotto smiled, shaking his head. His friend since childhood, the son of a noble from a town over whom often came to visit since their fathers were close friends and often cared to work together, had only gotten more bitterly cynical with age. It was unimaginable what it would turn into with another thirty years behind it, Giotto mused quietly, after all, this friend, at only eighteen, was just shy of a year younger than himself.
G, the young man stood smoking by Giotto's side, was well travelled throughout Europe, often trailing after his father on social and business trips, not through his own desire, but more of his parents wishes for him. As such, the young man had seen plenty of people, places and things he didn't care to remember, and had rather quickly decided he loathed them all. G was a man of highly unusual aesthetics and a gifted mind to match, with unearthly red hair, pale skin and crimson eyes which reflected his soul so sharply, Giotto was sometimes a little afraid to meet his gaze, should his friend be in a sour mood. He was of average height, a little taller than Giotto, but lithe in his limbs and torso, with slim hips and shoulders, delicate wrists and long fingers.
Women and men flocked to him alike, out of intrigue to the oddly painted boy, who tended to blush across his pale cheeks easily at such attention. And G tended to hate every single one of them.
The blonde continued smiling to himself, watching a squirrel dash across the well kept lawn of the castle grounds. He was lucky, to have such a friend in a man who rarely found comfort in others. G was fiercely loyal to Giotto, through all their years together, and the Vongola was more than happy he had such a dear friend in a place where most young men his age were working fields or blacksmithys.
"Of course, G," Giotto murmured in reply, agreeing quietly, "but it must be pleasing to see so much of the world and its inhabitants."
"I would rather be labouring in a tavern as a bar wench and a whore, frankly." the red-haired man said bluntly, pressing his cigar back to his lips; a habit picked up from one of his many journeys, now unable to see the day through without a fix of tobacco.
"How aspirational of you, friend," the blonde laughed brightly, straightening.
"You know I despise travelling, especially with my father, God take the man,"
"Yes, I do know," Giotto smiled, shaking his head.
He knew all too well his good friend's relationship with his family, born as the eldest son but not the eldest child, with a sister above him in years and two siblings younger than himself. G, whilst caring for his sisters as Giotto knew only a brother could, the red-haired boy was constantly at war with his elder sister. The young man had practically thrown his arms in the air in joy when this sister had moved away to live with her husband, only returning occasionally to bring her whelps and meek spouse back to her family home, when G tended to come to Giotto, begging for sanctuary till she had left again.
"All too well," he added as an afterthought.
"My apologies, Giotto," G sighed out a curl of smoke, "I must undo you with my griping."
"Not at all," the other protested warmly, "what are friends for but to share triumphs and miseries with?"
"Always the optimist," the red-haired man laughed under his breath, a smile tugging at his lips.
It was rare to see a smile on his friend's face. Normally severely serious, not to mention studious to the point of extreme, G was a man of maturity beyond his years. Unless something set a fire under his rather short-fused temper.
They quieted, happy to just stand in each other's silence. A silence which shimmered with anticipation, to the young Vongola at least; his words paused at the threshold of his lips.
"I feel I need to tell you something, G," Giotto spoke eventually, as G turned his head to look at his friend, eyes blinking with questions.
"You are most welcome, friend." he replied with a small nod, "I shall listen to all that you wish to say."
It had been near seven days since the young Vongola's blood contract with the shadows of men. Near six days since his mother had forgiven him for sins he had yet to commit. Near five days since he had felt strangely at peace with himself. Near four days since the peace had turned to biting worry, scratching at his soul with child-like fingers. It wasn't a regret. It was a need for familiarity. For comfort, for someone to nod to him, tell him that his decision was correct. To tell him he would be fine.
"If I do not speak it soon I fear it will eat away at me until I am nothing more than a shell of a man, drained of what I once was, and I do not, more than anything, wish to lose what I have now." Giotto answered him, the corner of his lip twitching down.
G remained quiet, listening, his brow furrowing in anticipation. It was odd, to see his friend torn like that. That friend whom had always been a grounding force for G, a sanity and comfort within the madness of his own life; Giotto had a calmness which infected G, a calmness that made him feel at ease, made him feel happy and made him forget about his disastrous family and hatred for the world that had yet to do anything to him. They were best friends, and G had vowed to himself a long time ago to never leave his friend's side; he would protect Giotto, whom he owed so much to, till his dying day.
"Near a fortnight ago, I-"
Giotto stopped, turning quickly on his heel towards the source of a short creaking sound, emitted from the door onto the balcony. It had edged open just an inch, and in the shadows it concealed was a bright eye, staring out at the two relaxing in the sun.
The blonde sighed; he couldn't help but smile, words lost in the amusement on his lips.
"I know you are there, sister," he called over, tilting his head as the middle Vongola child pushed open the door a little further to reveal herself guiltily.
The girl had somewhat of a fascination with G, like many other women whose eyes fell upon him. G, on the other hand, felt even more distant with the young girl due to the fact it was Giotto's sister. He forced a smile to her.
"Do you intend to spy on us every time we meet, Marcella?"
"M-my apologies, brother, I meant no harm," she curtseyed shyly, turning her eyes to the floor to avoid staring at the fascination that was G.
"Of course." Giotto flashed a forgiving smile as the -haired man by his side looked away, holding his cigar to his lips in an attempt to distract himself. "But perhaps it is G, our guest, whom you should offer your apologies to."
The blonde couldn't help but laugh, a sound which he bit back, at the noise which caught in his friend's throat in utter embarrassment.
"C-certainly!" the girl stammered, flushing and turning her curtsey to G, whom was probably blushing more than the young girl, "Do forgive me, dear guest, I m-meant no insult in my actions."
"Q-quite forgiven." G grumbled, flashing an irritated glower towards Giotto.
"Come," the young Vongola man spoke up, beaming as if the light of the very sky was emanating from within him, "fetch your sister, Marcella, and you can partake in coffee with G and I."
Giotto laughed happily as his friend dropped his cigar and toed it out, sweeping it from between the railings of the balcony with his foot so as to not leave an ashy mess on the Vongola flagstones, patting his friend's shoulder as they followed after the excited Marcella, heading inside towards the day room.
Confessions would have to wait, the young Vongola supposed.
-
The corridor was dark as he was led down it by a man a decade older than himself, quiet and tight-lipped. A moon had waxed and waned since his last meeting with his friend G, and, heading towards his third 'meeting' with the family which had picked him up off the streets, Giotto had learnt very quickly that even asking questions would not get answers from the men surrounding him. Slipping through the door the gentleman opened for him, Giotto gave a small nod to him before meeting the eyes of the associates waiting for him in the well-furnished room, lit, as always, with a single dim lamp.
It was as if these man feared the light. Every time the young Vongola was graced with their presences, they were steeped in darkness, wearing the shadows like a cloak of safety that would save them from the judging eyes of the Lord. Or perhaps just the authorities.
"Giotto," a man slumped in the corner purred, raising his glass of fine alcohol in the blonde's direction.
"Salvo." the young man responded quietly, nodding respectfully in his direction. "Sandro, Bonchello...Deo."
The other men murmured their greetings to their young protégé, offering him a seat and a good glass of wine, which he politely turned down, sitting gingerly, back straight with pride.
"You will learn something useful tonight, young sir," Bonchello growled in his baritone, "so do well to observe closely."
"Of course, sir," Giotto humbly responded.
If it were anything like last meeting's 'useful lesson', then Giotto would be somewhat bored, as dully interesting as it had been listening to the four men barter with two 'customers' over the price of tax-free, and not to mention illegally imported, alcohol, eventually agreeing on something that would be a huge profit to the family, but what seemed like an astonishingly fair price to the men who were duly being conned out of their money. But then, that is what happens when you barter with hardened criminals.
"Come," he barked a few moments later, when the men had chatted amongst themselves and finished their wine, "they will be waiting."
Following the others at the back of the group, Giotto quietly shadowed them as they sauntered back into the blackened corridor, weaving their way around the corner and down a back set of stairs to a room set off from the rest of the house, a house it seemed they used for only their negotiations. The windows were boarded as if it were abandoned. Hiding from the light of day and any inquisitive eyes that should gaze upon it.
Giotto's stomach clenched angrily as every step he took seemed to condemn him further. He had yet to see his end of this bargain come to fruition, but then, he did not want to curse himself and wish any harm upon his family and friends just to see if he really had made the correct decision.
In the room were more men, well dressed and groomed men, three of them. One was smoking. The smell hit the blonde like a wave of nausea as he was reminded heavily of G.
For his friends and family.
"Greetings, good sirs," Salvo stepped forward with a charming smile, catching the other mens' attentions, "I have no intention of making you wait through endless introductions and formalities, so perhaps you would care to delve directly into business?"
"How kind, del Corsa." one of the men, a fine moustache grown neatly on his upper lip, replied in low tones, squaring up to the other man in a fit to show his equality, supremity.
It was a game, Giotto had already observed within this 'business'. Between the two parties, there was no obvious upper hand, like that of a king and a pauper; there were only subtle undercurrents as they played an invisible game of chess, fighting for possession of pawns in a pacey but carefully considered battle to reach checkmate first.
The man with whom Salvo spoke let his lip curl up in a disdainful sneer. Snapping his fingers over his shoulder, he threw a look over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Giotto's 'family'.
One of the men, whom had stayed in the shadows as his two associates had stepped forward, slowly appeared holding a large rectangular object before him, cloaked in thick off-white sacking material. Setting the object down on a finely upholstered chair musty with disuse, the men gathered before it like curious children.
Giotto hung back.
"Then here you have it, del Corsa, as you requested." the first man spoke, a self-satisfied growl in the undertones of voice as he again made a gesture to his men, who quickly shed the object of its cover, lifting it up and swiftly pulling it off to reveal a well-framed painting, the details of which were hard to make out in the low lighting.
There was an all around murmur of praise, of satisfaction. Appreciation of such a fine masterpiece. A masterpiece, Giotto thought, startled, as some lines began to merge together into a semblance of recognition, which had recently been stolen. The news had spread like wildfire throughout the area, gossip and rumours moving from ears to lips to new ears with added details; the prince of Denmark had sent spies and thieves to slowly steal Italy's wealth, there were men of the Church stealing pieces and burning them as Devil's work, the possibilities were numerous and seemingly endless.
Giotto swallowed, wide eyed and blinking. His feet rooted to the floor as some black feeling enshrouded him, rendering him numb to his very fingertips.
"Is that not-" he began, voice spilling over his lips in a disbelieving shudder before he could even think to stem them, knowing he would be chided harshly for his impudence.
"Stolen from the very residence of her Ladyship, Miss Moreno," one of the men grunted, Giotto duly ignored, "worth its weight in gold, such a canvas."
Stolen, the young blonde thought blankly. From an innocent woman. From her very home. His fists clenched by his sides.
It was quiet, as the del Corsa men inspected the thing, running fingers down the intricately carven frame and scrutinising every stroke and smudge of paint across the canvas. Seemingly satisfied, they straightened, giving a small nod to each other. Giotto blanched. The meetings he had been privy to previously had merely been talks of criminal activity, simple words that had nay affected him in guilt nor shame at his associations. Seeing the item before him, seeing the transaction of illegality pass before him; everything so suddenly seemed so painfully real.
"Perhaps more its weight in swine slop," Deo grunted without a hint of irony, a flash of metal appearing in his palm, a glint of reflection that seemed obvious to Giotto and Giotto alone.
The young Vongola breathed in sharply, a quiet realisation. He knew all too well where this was leading. And yet he was powerless to do anything about it.
"Excuse me, good sir?" the mustachioed man answered, voice as taut as wire as his eyes sparked with anger, turning their gaze on the del Corsa man.
"A true shame," Salvo stepped back towards Giotto, away from the sparks of tension between the others, "that you should attempt to deceive us so, friend. We would have paid you sincerely, a handsome fee should you have met your end of the bargain."
"You have your painting, stolen by my men under risk of capture and imprisonment! I demand my payment!" the other exploded, the anxiety behind his supposed anger apparent in his very air.
"I do not have my painting," Salvo replied calmly, oddly calmly as he stopped before Giotto, the young blonde simply frozen to his spot, feeling like a spectre, unseen and unheard watching a scene he should never have witnessed, "I have some poor mimicry that you believed me fool enough to accept."
"Then you take me as a cheater, del Corsa-"
"I take you for the fool, sir." Giotto's man spoke slowly, "To attempt to cross me and my family."
"Cross you, sir!" the moustachioed man spat contemptuously, "No such-"
"End your lies or mum, sir." Bonchello interrupted, squaring, along with the intimidating figure that was Deo, up to the other men.
"I demand my payment for your painting!" he replied, neck bulging past his collar with red-faced fury, a single foot shuffling back in fear. A fear that he should never have shown.
"Then mum." Salvo murmured, turning his back on the men.
Deo was upon the moustachioed man before a single muscle could be moved between the rest of the men put together, knife pressed to his throat, digging the point into his meaty flesh and dragging a slick red line across him, a garish smile slit deep into his neck, thick warm blood gushing from him as he choked on the liquid, spurting and bubbling with his breath from the gaping wound as his eyes bulged with his suffocation.
Giotto saw another man in his face as he died, falling from Deo's clutches to the floor, twitching and spilling his life across the stones, between the cracks, staining the room with his essence. Giotto saw another man in his face as he lay motionless, as motionless as the young blonde as the other two men backed away, fearing for their lives as they raised their hands in silent, terrified submission.
Giotto saw the face of the man who had died at his own hands, every line, every hair and droplet of blood smeared down his chin, as clear as if he were reliving the moment, repeating it over and over in his head in some endless dream.
No, he thought grimly; nightmare.
"Tell your family we no longer have business with them, understand?" Sandro spat, advancing on the men, "Too many a time have you thought to deceive us, rats."
The two men stumbled over each other in eagerness to leave the room, leave the wrath of the del Corsas' with their lives still intact. They rushed through the back door, letting a gust of cold air sweep in, wafting the rank smell of clotting blood towards Giotto, who remained stood by the stairs, limbs weak with unfeeling and face blank with numb unexpression.
He could not feel a thing. Face ashen, gut squeezing with nausea and yet, he could not feel a thing. The young Vongola swallowed past a non-existent lump in his throat; what a demon he had become, to not even feel the overwhelming surge of responsibility, guilt, sympathy that was trying so hard to crash into his consciousness.
The del Corsa men swept past him, muttering between themselves over the scene that had passed, leaving the dead man, drained of his blood, lying limply upon the stone. Giotto's eyes, dull and dark, drained of the life that normally shined there, were trained to the moustachioed man's shadow.
"The death was not yours," Salvo murmured, pausing by Giotto's side, "but it was your family's. We share this burden as we share everything."
He pressed a hand to the young blonde's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze with strong fingers.
"The harm to this living soul was not yours," the man gave a small smile, wicked in its application as he echoed the blonde's words from that very first meeting which seemed to have passed a hundred years ago, the words unspoken by Salvo's lips hanging loaded in the air, as loud and clear as if he had shouted them.
But it belongs to the Devil as much as your own.
Salvo slipped past him quietly, up the stairs to leave Giotto in a quiet room with only death for a companion.
Checkmate indeed.
-
Rising from his own bed the next morn, the young Vongola was in a state of ethereal dreaming. The world around him seemed oddly grey, the surging thoughts in his mind in a twisting surrealism, draining the colour from reality. He couldn't bring himself to leave his chambers, instead locking the door and remaining quiet even when his youngest sister came knocking quietly, mewling like a kitten, asking for help with her letters and numbers as always. Giotto remained in his windowseat, dressed in aught but a billowing shirt and loose-fitting breeches, allowing the warm breeze to slip in and disturb his hair, his gaze blank and dark as his sister's voice grew quieter and eventually disappeared altogether. A heavy emotion dripped steadily through him, invading his veins and muscles, infecting his blood with a slow spreading poison. It may have been guilt, but that was a feeling that weighed so heavy upon his shoulders every day, constant and without respite, he did not deign to regard this other stirring in him as a new strain of his guilt.
Giotto looked to the door as his sister's voice died away, having given up hope of acquiring her brother's help. He let a slow exhalation escape his nostrils, deep and exasperated. He turned his gaze back to the window, elbow rested upon his raised knee.
Thoughts plagued him. Pestilence spread around his mind and made him weak; in his bones and in his very will.
He half-wished to travel to the church in town, to sit in the pews and look upon her statue, to see the priest's familiar, understanding smile. But he could not bear to leave his seat, leave the familiarity that resonated with his childhood.
His fading innocence.
Sighing, Giotto leant his head back slowly to rest it upon the wall behind him, his shoulders already sore with the rough stone pressing into his flesh so easily through the scarce material of his shirt, he closed his eyes, shutting off the world outside. It was summer. It was warm, and bright, with clear blue skies and a sun that seemed to kiss any and all lucky enough to be feeling her warming gaze.
When he was younger, Giotto had often deserted tutors on warm summer days such as that to lose himself in the Vongola gardens and forests, running and throwing himself across the emerald green lawns, staining his knees with unadulterated joy and laughing as animals skittered around him nervously, shocked and startled by his boisterous movements as he dashed through the dappled light of the undergrowth of the forest, out of breath and with pounding heart, outrunning himself and the world. There were days when the young G would be staying as a guest within the Vongola household, and Giotto cherished the days when he had a playmate to dash around with, even though his friend was a little weaker than himself, and a fraction more reluctant to cover himself with grazes and bruises by exploring the grounds around the Vongola residence.
"Those days were blessed," the blonde murmured vaguely, light scattering across his face, refracting shimmering patterns through the glass, rainbows staining his skin.
And now, he thought, cracking his eyes open and watching the light bloom across his hand, they are the exact, damned opposite. He had set himself in such a vehement mind set of cleaning his hands free of blood, he had become blinded to the fact he was ankle deep in the foul liquid, and still submerging.
He was sinking. Deeper and faster with every day that slipped through his fingers.
Giotto was to attend a high society ball in several day's time, with his family. His real family, his blood family. Watching a patch of inanimate flowers below his window, the young blonde mulled the phrase over; blood family. He and his parents, his sisters, they were linked eternally by the blood that flowed in their veins, but in his other hand he had his 'family' who were linked by the blood stains on their fingers. Now who was his blood family?
Before he had left the presence of the del Corsa men the previous night, a hollow shell with a monotonous drone for what little words he spoke, Giotto had been given instructions. Salvo knew of the gathering, this 'party'. He knew that Giotto's family would be there. He knew that Giotto himself would be mixing with the fine lords and ladies of Italy, privy to information that would normally be like a gourmet meal to the gutter rats that were the other men. He was to mix and mingle as much as was possible, establish connections, make friends in high places and more importantly than anything else; horde any glimpse of information as if it were gold dust.
He heaved a breath from deep in his chest. He could, should, tell his father, the authorities, anyone, someone who would listen. He should tell them about a family. About several families, people who weren't tied by the blood flowing in their bodies but by the contracts they signed in silence, and he should tell them that these families were dangerous; small yet close and tight, sewn together clumsily but with a harrowing precision that kept them so finely tight-knit. He should tell them of the crimes these families committed for their own good; be it money or power, wealth or women. They killed each other. There was no particular loss in the death of these criminals, bar, Giotto could not help but think, their potential redemption. They would only be killed in the name of the state were they caught red-handed with blood.
It was the innocents that Giotto was angry for. Those people who were stolen from, the mothers, wives, children of the deceased. Did these people even live to grieve, he wondered suddenly. Did they escape the clutching hands of the 'family' or were they buried with their men? Just how far did they go for what they wanted, killing women, children? Giotto did not know, and this uncertainty thrashed within his stomach and chest, clawing at his insides till they were bloody and ragged; he was already wading through blood and he had not even reached the bottom of these underground mazes, having no idea what lay in their darkest reaches.
The ones who had no part in their crimes and yet were possibly still affected so grievously, it made him so-...so-
The young blonde dropped his face to his palms, pressing his fingers firmly to his eyes, rubbing slowly at the frustration building there.
Who would he tell, really? What could he possibly do now he had bound himself with his own blood to their silence? He was part of them as they were part of him; they were the safety of his family and friends, he was their link to the world above the sewers, they were his sealed lips and he was their protégé.
If he broke his vow and spilled his confessions, the precarious pedestal he had been set on would crumble and break beneath him and he would crash down from the heavens like Icaarus who grew too bold. So too would his family's protection be gone, the Vongola name dragged through the mud like a common man's, and with it his father's honour. His own life would be at stake, and he would be running from them like a mouse from a cat, slipping and stalling in the aftermath of his mistakes.
How could he have made such a foolish gamble so as to lay his mother and sister's safety as a prize?
If only he had challenged that man to a duel, if only his death had been witnessed and justified, if only Giotto had run instead of fought, if only-
So many ifs. So many damned ifs.
He was trapped in a web of sticky blood and intricate threads binding him down and there was nothing, he thought, that he could do.
-
Giotto had grown far too used to the sight and stench of blood. He was more disgusted by the fact he was a useless bystander than the gouged eyeball that splattered to the floor near his toe, piercing grey gaze staring up at him as its owner howled in pain, bloody tears streaking down his face as he clawed at his own flesh in a panicked reaction. The young blonde closed his own eyes and took a small step to the side. The man's screeches were swallowed by the thick night air, heavy with summer. Someone would hear him. He would live to speak tomorrow at least, but who would believe what a half blind man saw?
"Oof!"
Giotto opened his eyes. The screaming had stopped, replaced by the man's breath being knocked from his chest as one of Salvo's men kicked him brutally in the stomach. He fell from his knees to his side, writhing in agony. Giotto's fists clenched lightly by his sides; he was simmering with anger, brimming with an infuriated nausea.
"Shit-eating gutter rat," Sandro spat, his saliva hitting the ground by the man's head in a thick globule, "you are not fit to roll on the ground we walk on. Take your death elsewhere."
"N-no, wait" a second man stammered out, voice soaring in terrified pitch as he pressed himself further and further to the wall of some old building half-hiding the alley they were currently occupying, "we can pay, w-we can pay-"
"Then hand us your money and we will kindly leave you alone, sirs," Sandro answered swiftly, his voice dripping with disbelief. He applied his toe to the bleeding man's ribs again, to stifle his growing moans.
Giotto felt his muscles tense, from head to very toe. Those sounds of a tortured man, invading his ears and his being. These men 'owed' the del Corsas' money, so it was told. He did not know exactly the reason why. He did not entirely care to find out. Simply, he knew this fee was paid upon every turning of the moon, and that the men were owners of something; store-keepers, perhaps merchants. He could not be sure. He remained quiet.
"I- we, sirs, please," the other swallowed, tremoring with fear, "I beg of you, we beg, we beg your mercy, sir, we beg of you to take pity on us-"
"You have used your quota of pity, rat." Deo growled from the shadows, leaning against the opposing wall.
"B-but sirs, y-you came to us so early," the other responded, his voice wavering on the border of tears of desperation, "we e-expected another several days to r-raise your sum, should you grant us these days then we may-"
"Plans have changed since, Antonio," Sandro answered him, pushing the broken man to his back with his foot. He was shaking violently, as if spirits had invaded his very limbs.
"G-good, sirs, please, I beg of you," Antonio's voice cracked, raising his hands to them in pleading.
Giotto had long since detached himself from the situation. Salvo may make him attend these 'business meetings', but he refused to involve himself in them. He kept silent, remaining stood back.
"Y-young lord!"
The young blonde breathed in sharply, his eyes flickering towards Antonio, who was staring to him, wide-eyed and frantic.
"I-it is! The young Vongola lord," he begged, hopeful, taking a step away from the wall, "y-you can take pity, surely, you, with your name a-and your mercy, you can take pity on us, l-like your dear father, t-take pity-"
Antonio advanced to him, hands outstretched.
The young Vongola was revolted that his family name would fall from such desperate lips.
"Take pity, young lor-"
"Giotto." Sandro snapped, turning on the startled young man whose eyes were stuck on the rat before him, "Antonio wishes for a piece of del Corsa kindness. Show him."
The Vongola's heart pounded into his throat as he swivelled his gaze to meet Salvo's. He could not find it; too many shadows hid him.
"I cannot-"
"Pity, young lord Vongola, pity, mercy, please," Antonio was upon him, hands all too harshly clasped in Giotto's shirt, grasping to him with trembling fingers, eyes searching for something within Giotto's, something, anything.
"Giotto!" Sandro interrupted again, growing impatient, "We do not waste our time with gutter rats, hurry."
Voices grew loud in his ears, hammering the matter of his brain and very soul with their harsh syllables. So suddenly was he aware of every detail around him, every breath, ever tremor that flitted across Antonio's hands, every weak mumble that escaped the broken man bleeding across the cobbles, every heartbeat that echoed in every corner of his being.
"Giotto!"
"Sir!"
Was that his own voice, he wondered, as his own hand, quick as light slipped into the small pouch by his belt and retracted, grasping Antonio's wrists and pulling his clawed fists away from his shirt. Giotto balked as fear flashed across the man's eyes. A fear that he had created.
"Sir, you do not think to touch a del Corsa," Giotto swallowed, his voice low and calm, brow furrowing in an idle threat, "only we may touch you, dirt as you are."
"Y-young lord-" the man's eyes shone wet, tremoring decreasing with every word that fell from the young blonde's well trained mouth.
"You will pay us on the morrow, lest you meet the same fate as your good friend," the Vongola continued, avoiding the satisfied smirks he could see in the lines of Sandro and Deos' faces, "should he survive the infection that is. On the morrow. And this is to be your final chance, gutter rat."
With that, he thrust the man away from him, watching with cold eyes as Antonio tumbled to his rump, a mess of long limbs as he scrambled to his feet and tripping to his friend, he pulled the blind man up, stumbling away.
"W-we thank you, young lord," Antonio gasped out as he began to drag the other away, "w-we thank you for your mercy."
Sandro, Deo and Giotto watched as the two men skittered away as fast as their gutter rat legs would carry them, grouping together with proud, square shoulders. The larger man grunted in a way that may suggest he was pleased; Giotto found it hard to read Deo as it was, let alone in the darkness of the heavy night.
"Not at all bad, young lord," Sandro teased, clapping a hand upon Giotto's shoulder, "you seem to finally understand how we barter with dirt."
"Mn." was the simple reply the blonde gave, his brow still furrowed gently in the direction the men had disappeared.
"Deo." the shorter man nodded a head, turning away as the larger man followed, steps echoing in the suddenly all too quiet alleyway, "We wish you luck at your ball, Giotto."
The young blonde waited until his family had vanished into the shadows before vomiting loudly into the gutter, the burning nausea finally growing too strong for his oesophagus to hold back. When he had successfully emptied his queasy gut, Giotto looked over his shoulder weakly to the exploded, crushed remnants of the eye, white matter, liquid and blood smeared across the cobbles...and the sole of the Vongola's boot. Shuddering, the blonde felt another wave of nausea hit him and he turned his head away, closing his eyes to dispel the dizziness that overcame him. He pressed his forehead to the wall and allowed himself to breath, waiting for the acid after-taste to dissipate from his tongue.
The dark hid a lot of things. Shadows enshrouded all who searched for their sanctity, including those who wished to use their concealment for spreading their sin. It had not occurred to Giotto that shadows could hide many more sorts of deeds from eager eyes.
Such as the gold coin he had slipped into Antonio's hand before he had pushed him so roughly away.
Checkmate indeed.
-
“You will attend, I take it?” he asked softly, eyes trained to Marcella as she sang quietly between the bars of a cage, serenading the songbird resting in its confinement by the window.
“Hn?” G grunted in response, letting smoke curl past his upper lip as he stared as blankly as Giotto, in the other direction. Even in his gaze he avoided the young Vongola girl as much as possible.
“The ball, G,” Giotto smiled to himself, allowing Marcella's soft voice to permeate his ears, the soft focus edges of his being, “the ball.”
“Ah.” the red-haired boy answered quietly, rolling his cigar curtly between his fingertips as he stared at a tidy bookshelf, eyes roaming across leather spines of every colour were possible it seemed.
The blonde rolled his eyes slowly, turning what little attention he had given his friend back to nothingness. They fell together back into a comfortable silence, only the sound of the girl's soft melody tinkling in the air as chimes in the breeze. Her voice was sweet, Giotto thought absent-mindedly as he thumbed the corner of a weighty volume on the short round table by the side of his chair. Letting the pages flip past his digit over and over, the expensive gold trimming glinting with every time he lifted his thumb, a shimmering line of light blooming across and back into dull gold as he let them sweep across the fleshy pad of his thumb.
It truly was a wonder, the Vongola library. A wonder for a private home that was, the room bore nothing on the grandiose of the city libraries he had seen in his short lifetime. But in itself, it was a beautiful room. It seemed G preferred it to the day room Giotto often entertained guests in, having on more than one occasion found him, when he was residing as a guest during one of his longer visits, poring over a volume, other books stacked to the heavens around him as he gently flipped pages, eyes flickering across lives and stories from afar, letters depicting ancient and fantastic civilisations, ink drawn in patterns of histories. He would be so engrossed within his reading, G had not once noticed the blonde stood by the door, half-masked by shelves and the curve of a wall. Giotto would smile, and leave his friend to his devices.
But whilst not entirely understanding G's fascination with the books, he did however fully comprehend how comfortable the room was. It was musty, in truth; the Vongola family rarely whiled away their hours in there; Giotto's mother and sisters preferring to take to the day room, living rooms or nurseries, his father sealing himself away in his own study when he was home from business. The blonde himself rarely tended to enter its silent reaches, on the far side of the house where the sun did not caress so warmly, yet he did wonder why.
The room was warm without stuffiness, of good size and space with wide, high windows that stretched a whole wall's width, looking down towards the town. There were large bookcases filled to the brim with rare and expensive volumes along with more commonplace pieces, accompanied by highly polished desks and large comfortable chairs placed artfully around unless G had deigned to move said furniture to better find the light, to aid his somewhat poor eyesight.
Giotto was unsure why they had chosen the library over the day room that hot afternoon, but he was perfectly happy with such a decision. Marcella had sidled in after them, lugging her birds' travel cage with her as she had settled herself in the window to better see G, yet getting quickly distracted in entertaining her bird, singing melodies back and forth and a peaceful smile as she traced her fingers across the gleaming bars.
“I have no choice, do I?” G finally mumbled around his cigar, held defensively to the corner of his lip as he dared intrude upon the careful silence that blanketed them.
“Of course you do, friend,” Giotto chuckled at the other's reluctance.
The red-haired youth made it no secret he loathed the crowds and formalities of such balls; the many that Giotto and he had attended together, the blonde had observed quite astutely his friend's sulking, quite happy to stay skirting the walls and corners, as far from the fine ladies and snobbish gentlemen as possible. It was rare that G, and when it happened, it was with plenty of begrudging, took a misty-eyed young lady's hand in dance, starting and ending with an awkwardly stiff bow and a dash away from the floor.
Still, Giotto certainly enjoyed his company at such functions and of course, then there was the matter of...
“You always have a choice,” Giotto lied with a disconcertingly easy smile, thoughts beginning to weigh down heavy upon his shoulders.
“Scoundrel,” G breathed out heavily, “if I had a choice, I would have no duties as my father's son at all.”
“You can attend for more or less than your 'duties', G,” the blonde murmured, glancing back to Marcella. “perhaps as a favour to me. They tend to get so dull without your sardonic comments to amuse me.”
“Hn, you need not ask favours, Giotto, I will be there.” the red-haired young man grumbled, leaning back heavily into his seat, “Although admittedly you have survived many a festivity without me.”
“True,”
“Then surely this would be no different,” G argued half-heartedly, “it is nothing more than a show of your parents wealth is it not? No special occasion that I can recall at least.”
“Quite right, friend,” Giotto warranted, smile becoming more forced by the second, “and yet I still would delight in your company, surely.”
G narrowed his eyes, crimson glinting in a way that only eyes of loathing and knowledge could.
“You wish to court a girl, do you not.” the red-haired youth growled, seeming to grow suspicious in his gaze.
“A girl?” Giotto laughed aloud, startling Marcella who quickly, embarrassedly went back to her bird, “Can I not just want to enjoy the company of my friend, G?”
“Unlikely,” G snorted, glancing away, “when your parents balls always attract all the finest lords and ladies along with their lovely daughters. You are still a man, after all.”
“How cold, truly,” the blonde shook his head, amused by his friends utter disdain for courting, “I had not even dreamt of such a thing.”
“Your lies pain my heart, Giotto.” G said dramatically, clasping a hand to his chest before dropping it lazily, “But either way, I refuse to cater to some fanciful wench because you wish to introduce her simpering friend to the space between your sheets.”
Marcella gasped, looking utterly horrified as she jolted, staring at the two conversing. They all went quiet as their eyes were trained upon each other, G's words hanging contemptuously between them, the silence broken only by the girl's bird chirping sweetly.
“Perhaps...perhaps it is best if Marcella went to see our mother now?” Giotto held the laughter, bubbling on his tongue as his sister swept up her bird cage, quite flushed, and hurried from the room without needing to agree out loud to her brother's request.
G grumbled, sinking low into his chair, a faint blush appearing on his own cheeks.
“Please give my apologies to your sister.” he said stiffly, awkward as was usual.
“Of course,” Giotto chuckled breathlessly, dropping his head back to gaze listlessly at the ceiling.
“Anything but entertaining ladies,” G sighed, “or lords, for that matter, Giotto. Any favour is yours but that.”
The amusement the young lordling had felt swelling within him quickly deflated, a queer anxiety creeping upon him as words began to form on his lips, pouring forth quietly with a muted consent from his spinning thoughts.
“Then,” he murmured, gazing at the ceiling, so hopelessly out of his reach, “how about becoming my family?”
“If you are offering me Marcella's hand, I politely refuse.” G responded, quickly.
“No,” Giotto smiled to himself, “this is a new family. A family of a different sort.”