[REBORN! FIC SERIES] oo2: heart strings out of tune
the second installment of my "reborn" series. third (continuation of ソメイヨシノ) will come later.
title: heart strings out of tune
rating: r
pairing: tego-centered, with sides of ryotego and tego/ofc
words: 3,o31
via dolorosa
It was the warmest day of August. I still remember the way my hair stuck at the nape of my neck, the way I would wipe my palms on my black dress pants ever so often. I was sitting straight up, hands clutching the fabric at my knees like my life depended on it; to this day, I’m still unsure whether I was sweating due to the oppressive heat or my own nervousness. There was a storm, that evening, flashes of lightning illuminating the sky, the room brightly - me, who had never been afraid of storms, felt my heart jump in my throat every time their solemn faces lit up with that blinding white light. Every word I said felt like sand in my mouth. Boss took my hand in his rough one and pierced my skin with a needle, blood pearling at the surface, red and dark, like a withered rose. As I smeared the picture of the saint that had been placed in front of me with my blood, I felt a part of me breaking inside, knowing that from then on I would lead a life that was mine and no one else’s - no matter how much it seemed to resemble my father’s. I wasn’t like him, no. It was the last thing I wanted, to be identified to a yakuza. To me, yakuza were the lowest of the low. Scumbags, every single one of them.
The flames that lit the picture of the saint glowed orange in my hands, and I watched it burn with the esteem I had for my father. “If you betray Cosa Nostra, your flesh will burn like this saint,” Boss said as I juggled the burning picture in my hands until it was reduced to ashes. He was sitting at the end of the table, with me at his left side, consigliere at the other. I stared at my slightly burnt palms momentarily, until I heard a chair scrape across the wooden floor, and the sound of steps directed toward me. A young blond man was looming over me with a mysterious half-amused, half-stern look on his face. Boss spoke up once again. “This is a friend of ours - your big brother, now.” Instinctively, I bowed my head, like a good, shy, polite Japanese boy. I hated myself for it - but my new sworn brother only smirked.
From that night on, I, Tegoshi Yuya, was a Mafioso.
the caged bird sings
I check my watch. Six hours. The business class cabin is almost silent, save for the quiet rumble of the engine and the sound of idle chatter between partners. I rest my head against my palm and close my eyes, letting the steady ticking of my Rolex lull my breath as it stays close to my ear. The girl beside me stands on her high heels and apologizes in shaky Japanese as she moves in front of me, giving me an eyeful of ass and curves. I smile and watch her hips sway as she walks down to the bathroom. She comes back wearing makeup, and apologizes again as she goes back to her seat. “Are you from Italy?” I ask, in Italian.
She looks surprised. “You speak Italian?” I nod, smile charmingly. On the other side of the aisle, my sworn brother snorts and keeps pretending to read the newspaper. “Aren’t you Japanese? I figured you were.”
“49 percent Japanese, 49 percent Italian, two percent sex, lies, love and lust. My name is Yuya Tegoshi.”
“Carina Leone,” she says, her smile matching the one I’m wearing. I take her small, dainty hand and, looking up at her seductively, kiss the top of it. For a moment, I could’ve sworn I saw her cheeks turn a soft pink hue. Having finally introduced myself to her, I take time to study her features as she looks away; long, dark brown hair, soft maroon eyes, mouth painted a luscious red. I usually don’t like the kind of makeup she’s wearing, but on her it looks almost aggressive, a contrast with her small figure. Nonetheless, she has the class of a mature businesswoman from Italy, but I can tell that she is no older than twenty-four, at the most. I clear my throat, and she turns to me.
“So what brings you to Japan, bella?”
She smiles, blushing faintly at the nickname. “A business trip I’m extending into a vacation. I’ve always wanted to go to Japan. What about you? Visiting family on the Japanese side?”
“I don’t associate with my Japanese family; I’ll probably only visit some old friends I haven’t heard of in a while if I have the time. No, I guess you could say it’s some sort of business trip as well.” There my sworn brother goes, snorting again. Carina shoots him an annoyed look from over my shoulder. Soon after, she asks which hotel I’m staying in and I know the deal is sealed.
when it storms
I don’t see Carina again in the airport after the plane has landed. Instead there’s my sworn brother close behind me as we walk toward baggage claim, the smell of his cologne heavy and subtle at the same time as he hums breathily close to my ear. “Sex is everywhere, sex is everywhere, it’s you and me, it’s you to me.” His Italian accent is near nonexistent through the English lyrics, and I brush him off with a wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes. He chuckles. “Bad mood striking again, bambino? You’re lucky we’re friends, I could break your leg for not paying enough respect to your senpai - is that what you Japanese call it?”
“Japan unnerves me,” I say. ”It has nothing to do with you. And I’m not going to talk about it in an airport, of all places.” Chewing the inside of my cheek, I pick up my suitcase, fingers curling tightly around the handle. I feel ill - worse than the day of my initiation. I haven’t been in Japan for eight years and everything about it is making me tense; the seemingly never-ending sea of homogenous people going on with their busy lives, the flat voice announcing departures and arrivals like a robot in a language I understand too well to my own liking, the memories of never having fit in their perfect looking society. Most likely sensing my bad mood, my sworn brother claps my back and shoves one hand in his pocket. I look back at him and force a smile, then notice how different he looks when dressed normally. His tattered jeans and loosely tied sneakers look almost out of place on his form I’m used to seeing in a clean, pressed black suit, his olive fur-collared coat giving him more of a badass young adult look than this of a Mafioso. But then again, he probably feels the same thing looking at me; I’m not dressed much differently from him. We both look awfully normal and it makes me want nothing more than to go back to Italy.
the rain turns into a downpour
The door to Carina’s room is only barely open, the slightest crack. As I enter and let the lock click behind myself, the sound of the shower running stops and I hear her light steps as she walks to the sink. I take off my coat and rest it on the armchair beside the work desk, then sit on the bed and unbutton the first two buttons of my red silk shirt of which I roll up the sleeves to my elbows. The sound of the blow dryer filters through the bathroom door and that’s when I decide to get even more comfortable, taking off my shoes and socks and lying on the bed with one foot flat on the bed and an arm folded between my head and the pillow. I’m still staring up at the ceiling when the door opens and Carina gasps softly, holding the knot of the white towel she’s wrapped around herself in one hand. I smile. “The door was open. I figured it was for me.”
“It was. I just...wasn’t expecting to come face to face with you first thing after I got out of the shower.”
“I made myself comfortable. I hope you don’t mind,” I say, sitting up. She shakes her head, and mentions something about grabbing something to wear, making me chuckle and stand up. “Why put something on when it’s going to come off soon anyways?” I trace a finger down from her cheekbone to her chin and place my other hand on her narrow hip, and she kisses me without warning, hands finding my shoulders quickly. Her mouth, as I expected, is soft in the absence of lipstick, soft and warm and wet. I press her body closer to mine as her fingers slide inside of my collar, caressing my skin and then moving down to undo the buttons slowly, sliding warm hands down my torso to then work on my pants. Our breath becomes sharper, kisses fiercer and hands more wandering as our lust grows. She’s pushed my shirt off my shoulders when I dot kisses down her jaw and neck, bringing up a hand to cup her breast before undoing the knot of the towel and discard it to the floor.
Her body is warm against mine, the soft swell of her breasts a contrast with her hardened nipples, and I push her down on the bed once my pants and underwear have come off. I suck and bite softly at one of her nipples while rolling the other between my thumb and index finger, then switch and let my free hand travel down the smooth skin of her thigh. Her head is thrown back and both of her hands are gripping the sides of my head as soft sighs escape her parted lips. Soon I move back up to kiss her and she reciprocates, gripping my cock with one hand. She pumps a few times, runs her thumb over the head and smears the bead of pre-come, eliciting a few groans from deep inside my throat. When she lets go, I slide a finger between her thighs and she’s so wet, wet and hot and tight. I kiss her hard and it doesn’t take me one moment of hesitation before I slide inside of her.
petit petit rabbit
“You could’ve at least showered before coming here,” Nishikido says as he slides in the pew next to me. “It hurts me that you come into the house of God smelling like sex. Physically hurts me.”
“You should be glad that I’ve even decided to come repent for my sins in your church when there are plenty better priests in Italy who don’t tell me I’m an asshole because I didn’t help an old lady across the street,” I retort, and Nishikido laughs before sliding out of the pew. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he starts walking down the aisle, voice echoing off the wall as he speaks.
“Don’t question the ways of God, kid. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be dead in an alley, beaten to death by some racist kids who don’t like you because you’re half-Italian. I’m the one who took you in for two months when you were a confused eighteen-year-old looking for a way out of racial discrimination on top of being an influential yakuza’s son, aren’t I? I’m the one who told you that maybe looking for your roots in Sicily could make you at peace with yourself. Now look at you, you’ve grown up into a rich businessman and chick magnet. All thanks to me. An Italian priest wouldn’t have done that for you.”
His words feel like a kick in the gut - if only he knew what really made me rich. What would he think of me? “Only because such few people come here that you had all the time in the world to take care of me.”
He stops walking slowly and turns to me, face showing vague hurt. “Hey. That’s the last thing I want you to believe. I was young and I wanted to save the world when you showed up - but you meant more than that to me, and you still do. You’re not some kid I got off the street and decided to hammer faith into. Do you even realize what you coming here today after eight years means to me?”
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Nishikido.”
“It means that no matter how few people come here, you still bother to when you come to Japan when you could have your so-called much better Italian priests. And that’s all I need.”
I look into his eyes for a moment, and the fondness that I see there makes a cold shiver run up my back. He invites me out to food, and as we get out of the church, I see two burly men in suits walking near. For a moment, I freeze. “Tegoshi?” Nishikido asks.
“That’s my father over there.” Our eyes meet, and I feel my fingers itching for one of the two guns my sworn brother and I were able to smuggle in the country tucked under my shirt. But I can’t pull it out, not now, not in front of Nishikido. Instead, I clench my fists and mutter, “fucking yakuza” under my breath. He opens his mouth, probably to call my name, so I grab Nishikido’s elbow and walk away.
“Why do you hate the yakuza so much?”
“They’re scum. Isn’t it obvious? They don’t even bother to be secret organizations. They’re show offs, with those huge tattoos and shady way of walking and dressing. I feel like all they do is take care of sex rings. I just can’t stand them. To me, they’re not criminals who are worthy of respect.”
“Are there criminals who are?” Nishikido huffs. Of course he’s say that, I tell myself. He’s a priest, after all - how could he approve of any criminal?
east of eden
“You saw your father,” my sworn brother says slowly, “and you didn’t do anything?”
“What was there for me to do?” I shrug, and check the magazine in my gun before stacking it back quickly. “I didn’t come here to kill him. Not yet. The only reason I’d come here is to kill a rat.” I slide my gun in its holster at my side and pull on my suit jacket as my sworn brother does the same. He checks the contract information once we’re ready, then shoves it back in his pockets once he’s told me where the rat is situated. I nod - it’s not even two blocks away from my father’s yakuza quarters. It doesn’t take us long to get there by foot, maybe about fifteen minutes, and we’re standing in front of the man’s shabby apartment soon enough. My sworn brother knocks.
The door opens on our small target with small, evasive eyes. He doesn’t have the time to scream or run or close the door on us and escape before I slam his head against the door frame, and he falls down like a dead fly. My sworn brother holds the door open so I can drag the unconscious man inside, and I find the bathroom without problem, shoving him in the bad and turning on the shower, ice cold. Soon his groans fill the room and I turn the shower off, smiling down over him. “Buongiorno, rat.” His eyes show nothing but panic as I pat his head, and he mutters my name, remembering my initiation ceremony. I was the unusual arrival, the half-Italian cugine who hated half of his origins. And now I’m going to be the Reaper. “Don’t look so sullen, you knew this day would come, right? You don’t get out of Cosa Nostra alive when breaking the Omertá, everyone knows that. Do you know why me and my sworn brother got this contract? You’re hiding in my hometown. Caged rat.”
I get up to stand beside my sworn brother, and everything we do is in perfect synchrony: assemble a silencer on the barrel of our gun, point it at the man, bang. Two bullets in the chest, one straight to the heart, the other perforating a lung. Zero chance of survival. “I’ll finish up,” I say.
“We’re leaving tomorrow.” He puts his gun back into its holster and takes my free hand in both of his as a sign of recognition, and I nod. I wait for the click of the front door to kneel down in front of the bathtub, pressing my hands flat together and lowering my head, eyes closed. Then I do the last thing I should be doing for a rat: I pray for his family.
all god’s children can dance
“You have the face of a guy who’s leaving everything behind,” Nishikido’s voice bounces off the walls of the church again. I look up from where I was kneeling to pray in my pew, and then sit back.
“I’m going back to Sicily tomorrow.”
“For how long this time?”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Japan. Ever.”
We’re both silent for a moment. I look at the statue of Mary in front of me with a sullen look on my face until Nishikido moves, undoing the golden chain around his neck. There’s a cross dangling from it, and he takes my hand, letting the necklace fall into my open palm and closing my fingers around it. “Keep this, then. I started wearing it seven years ago, when I stopped believing that you’d come at least once a year. I’ve wanted to give this to you when you came back and decided to leave again. This is the last time, right? So I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, slipping it around my own neck and hiding it inside the collar of my shirt. “Before I leave, there’s...something I need to tell you. A confession. I need you to understand my feelings, because if you don’t, no one ever will.”
Silence. Nishikido looks expectant, and it weighs on my chest like a ton of bricks. For a moment, I almost forget to breathe. “I’m in the Mafia, Ryo.”
title: heart strings out of tune
rating: r
pairing: tego-centered, with sides of ryotego and tego/ofc
words: 3,o31
via dolorosa
It was the warmest day of August. I still remember the way my hair stuck at the nape of my neck, the way I would wipe my palms on my black dress pants ever so often. I was sitting straight up, hands clutching the fabric at my knees like my life depended on it; to this day, I’m still unsure whether I was sweating due to the oppressive heat or my own nervousness. There was a storm, that evening, flashes of lightning illuminating the sky, the room brightly - me, who had never been afraid of storms, felt my heart jump in my throat every time their solemn faces lit up with that blinding white light. Every word I said felt like sand in my mouth. Boss took my hand in his rough one and pierced my skin with a needle, blood pearling at the surface, red and dark, like a withered rose. As I smeared the picture of the saint that had been placed in front of me with my blood, I felt a part of me breaking inside, knowing that from then on I would lead a life that was mine and no one else’s - no matter how much it seemed to resemble my father’s. I wasn’t like him, no. It was the last thing I wanted, to be identified to a yakuza. To me, yakuza were the lowest of the low. Scumbags, every single one of them.
The flames that lit the picture of the saint glowed orange in my hands, and I watched it burn with the esteem I had for my father. “If you betray Cosa Nostra, your flesh will burn like this saint,” Boss said as I juggled the burning picture in my hands until it was reduced to ashes. He was sitting at the end of the table, with me at his left side, consigliere at the other. I stared at my slightly burnt palms momentarily, until I heard a chair scrape across the wooden floor, and the sound of steps directed toward me. A young blond man was looming over me with a mysterious half-amused, half-stern look on his face. Boss spoke up once again. “This is a friend of ours - your big brother, now.” Instinctively, I bowed my head, like a good, shy, polite Japanese boy. I hated myself for it - but my new sworn brother only smirked.
From that night on, I, Tegoshi Yuya, was a Mafioso.
the caged bird sings
I check my watch. Six hours. The business class cabin is almost silent, save for the quiet rumble of the engine and the sound of idle chatter between partners. I rest my head against my palm and close my eyes, letting the steady ticking of my Rolex lull my breath as it stays close to my ear. The girl beside me stands on her high heels and apologizes in shaky Japanese as she moves in front of me, giving me an eyeful of ass and curves. I smile and watch her hips sway as she walks down to the bathroom. She comes back wearing makeup, and apologizes again as she goes back to her seat. “Are you from Italy?” I ask, in Italian.
She looks surprised. “You speak Italian?” I nod, smile charmingly. On the other side of the aisle, my sworn brother snorts and keeps pretending to read the newspaper. “Aren’t you Japanese? I figured you were.”
“49 percent Japanese, 49 percent Italian, two percent sex, lies, love and lust. My name is Yuya Tegoshi.”
“Carina Leone,” she says, her smile matching the one I’m wearing. I take her small, dainty hand and, looking up at her seductively, kiss the top of it. For a moment, I could’ve sworn I saw her cheeks turn a soft pink hue. Having finally introduced myself to her, I take time to study her features as she looks away; long, dark brown hair, soft maroon eyes, mouth painted a luscious red. I usually don’t like the kind of makeup she’s wearing, but on her it looks almost aggressive, a contrast with her small figure. Nonetheless, she has the class of a mature businesswoman from Italy, but I can tell that she is no older than twenty-four, at the most. I clear my throat, and she turns to me.
“So what brings you to Japan, bella?”
She smiles, blushing faintly at the nickname. “A business trip I’m extending into a vacation. I’ve always wanted to go to Japan. What about you? Visiting family on the Japanese side?”
“I don’t associate with my Japanese family; I’ll probably only visit some old friends I haven’t heard of in a while if I have the time. No, I guess you could say it’s some sort of business trip as well.” There my sworn brother goes, snorting again. Carina shoots him an annoyed look from over my shoulder. Soon after, she asks which hotel I’m staying in and I know the deal is sealed.
when it storms
I don’t see Carina again in the airport after the plane has landed. Instead there’s my sworn brother close behind me as we walk toward baggage claim, the smell of his cologne heavy and subtle at the same time as he hums breathily close to my ear. “Sex is everywhere, sex is everywhere, it’s you and me, it’s you to me.” His Italian accent is near nonexistent through the English lyrics, and I brush him off with a wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes. He chuckles. “Bad mood striking again, bambino? You’re lucky we’re friends, I could break your leg for not paying enough respect to your senpai - is that what you Japanese call it?”
“Japan unnerves me,” I say. ”It has nothing to do with you. And I’m not going to talk about it in an airport, of all places.” Chewing the inside of my cheek, I pick up my suitcase, fingers curling tightly around the handle. I feel ill - worse than the day of my initiation. I haven’t been in Japan for eight years and everything about it is making me tense; the seemingly never-ending sea of homogenous people going on with their busy lives, the flat voice announcing departures and arrivals like a robot in a language I understand too well to my own liking, the memories of never having fit in their perfect looking society. Most likely sensing my bad mood, my sworn brother claps my back and shoves one hand in his pocket. I look back at him and force a smile, then notice how different he looks when dressed normally. His tattered jeans and loosely tied sneakers look almost out of place on his form I’m used to seeing in a clean, pressed black suit, his olive fur-collared coat giving him more of a badass young adult look than this of a Mafioso. But then again, he probably feels the same thing looking at me; I’m not dressed much differently from him. We both look awfully normal and it makes me want nothing more than to go back to Italy.
the rain turns into a downpour
The door to Carina’s room is only barely open, the slightest crack. As I enter and let the lock click behind myself, the sound of the shower running stops and I hear her light steps as she walks to the sink. I take off my coat and rest it on the armchair beside the work desk, then sit on the bed and unbutton the first two buttons of my red silk shirt of which I roll up the sleeves to my elbows. The sound of the blow dryer filters through the bathroom door and that’s when I decide to get even more comfortable, taking off my shoes and socks and lying on the bed with one foot flat on the bed and an arm folded between my head and the pillow. I’m still staring up at the ceiling when the door opens and Carina gasps softly, holding the knot of the white towel she’s wrapped around herself in one hand. I smile. “The door was open. I figured it was for me.”
“It was. I just...wasn’t expecting to come face to face with you first thing after I got out of the shower.”
“I made myself comfortable. I hope you don’t mind,” I say, sitting up. She shakes her head, and mentions something about grabbing something to wear, making me chuckle and stand up. “Why put something on when it’s going to come off soon anyways?” I trace a finger down from her cheekbone to her chin and place my other hand on her narrow hip, and she kisses me without warning, hands finding my shoulders quickly. Her mouth, as I expected, is soft in the absence of lipstick, soft and warm and wet. I press her body closer to mine as her fingers slide inside of my collar, caressing my skin and then moving down to undo the buttons slowly, sliding warm hands down my torso to then work on my pants. Our breath becomes sharper, kisses fiercer and hands more wandering as our lust grows. She’s pushed my shirt off my shoulders when I dot kisses down her jaw and neck, bringing up a hand to cup her breast before undoing the knot of the towel and discard it to the floor.
Her body is warm against mine, the soft swell of her breasts a contrast with her hardened nipples, and I push her down on the bed once my pants and underwear have come off. I suck and bite softly at one of her nipples while rolling the other between my thumb and index finger, then switch and let my free hand travel down the smooth skin of her thigh. Her head is thrown back and both of her hands are gripping the sides of my head as soft sighs escape her parted lips. Soon I move back up to kiss her and she reciprocates, gripping my cock with one hand. She pumps a few times, runs her thumb over the head and smears the bead of pre-come, eliciting a few groans from deep inside my throat. When she lets go, I slide a finger between her thighs and she’s so wet, wet and hot and tight. I kiss her hard and it doesn’t take me one moment of hesitation before I slide inside of her.
petit petit rabbit
“You could’ve at least showered before coming here,” Nishikido says as he slides in the pew next to me. “It hurts me that you come into the house of God smelling like sex. Physically hurts me.”
“You should be glad that I’ve even decided to come repent for my sins in your church when there are plenty better priests in Italy who don’t tell me I’m an asshole because I didn’t help an old lady across the street,” I retort, and Nishikido laughs before sliding out of the pew. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he starts walking down the aisle, voice echoing off the wall as he speaks.
“Don’t question the ways of God, kid. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be dead in an alley, beaten to death by some racist kids who don’t like you because you’re half-Italian. I’m the one who took you in for two months when you were a confused eighteen-year-old looking for a way out of racial discrimination on top of being an influential yakuza’s son, aren’t I? I’m the one who told you that maybe looking for your roots in Sicily could make you at peace with yourself. Now look at you, you’ve grown up into a rich businessman and chick magnet. All thanks to me. An Italian priest wouldn’t have done that for you.”
His words feel like a kick in the gut - if only he knew what really made me rich. What would he think of me? “Only because such few people come here that you had all the time in the world to take care of me.”
He stops walking slowly and turns to me, face showing vague hurt. “Hey. That’s the last thing I want you to believe. I was young and I wanted to save the world when you showed up - but you meant more than that to me, and you still do. You’re not some kid I got off the street and decided to hammer faith into. Do you even realize what you coming here today after eight years means to me?”
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Nishikido.”
“It means that no matter how few people come here, you still bother to when you come to Japan when you could have your so-called much better Italian priests. And that’s all I need.”
I look into his eyes for a moment, and the fondness that I see there makes a cold shiver run up my back. He invites me out to food, and as we get out of the church, I see two burly men in suits walking near. For a moment, I freeze. “Tegoshi?” Nishikido asks.
“That’s my father over there.” Our eyes meet, and I feel my fingers itching for one of the two guns my sworn brother and I were able to smuggle in the country tucked under my shirt. But I can’t pull it out, not now, not in front of Nishikido. Instead, I clench my fists and mutter, “fucking yakuza” under my breath. He opens his mouth, probably to call my name, so I grab Nishikido’s elbow and walk away.
“Why do you hate the yakuza so much?”
“They’re scum. Isn’t it obvious? They don’t even bother to be secret organizations. They’re show offs, with those huge tattoos and shady way of walking and dressing. I feel like all they do is take care of sex rings. I just can’t stand them. To me, they’re not criminals who are worthy of respect.”
“Are there criminals who are?” Nishikido huffs. Of course he’s say that, I tell myself. He’s a priest, after all - how could he approve of any criminal?
east of eden
“You saw your father,” my sworn brother says slowly, “and you didn’t do anything?”
“What was there for me to do?” I shrug, and check the magazine in my gun before stacking it back quickly. “I didn’t come here to kill him. Not yet. The only reason I’d come here is to kill a rat.” I slide my gun in its holster at my side and pull on my suit jacket as my sworn brother does the same. He checks the contract information once we’re ready, then shoves it back in his pockets once he’s told me where the rat is situated. I nod - it’s not even two blocks away from my father’s yakuza quarters. It doesn’t take us long to get there by foot, maybe about fifteen minutes, and we’re standing in front of the man’s shabby apartment soon enough. My sworn brother knocks.
The door opens on our small target with small, evasive eyes. He doesn’t have the time to scream or run or close the door on us and escape before I slam his head against the door frame, and he falls down like a dead fly. My sworn brother holds the door open so I can drag the unconscious man inside, and I find the bathroom without problem, shoving him in the bad and turning on the shower, ice cold. Soon his groans fill the room and I turn the shower off, smiling down over him. “Buongiorno, rat.” His eyes show nothing but panic as I pat his head, and he mutters my name, remembering my initiation ceremony. I was the unusual arrival, the half-Italian cugine who hated half of his origins. And now I’m going to be the Reaper. “Don’t look so sullen, you knew this day would come, right? You don’t get out of Cosa Nostra alive when breaking the Omertá, everyone knows that. Do you know why me and my sworn brother got this contract? You’re hiding in my hometown. Caged rat.”
I get up to stand beside my sworn brother, and everything we do is in perfect synchrony: assemble a silencer on the barrel of our gun, point it at the man, bang. Two bullets in the chest, one straight to the heart, the other perforating a lung. Zero chance of survival. “I’ll finish up,” I say.
“We’re leaving tomorrow.” He puts his gun back into its holster and takes my free hand in both of his as a sign of recognition, and I nod. I wait for the click of the front door to kneel down in front of the bathtub, pressing my hands flat together and lowering my head, eyes closed. Then I do the last thing I should be doing for a rat: I pray for his family.
all god’s children can dance
“You have the face of a guy who’s leaving everything behind,” Nishikido’s voice bounces off the walls of the church again. I look up from where I was kneeling to pray in my pew, and then sit back.
“I’m going back to Sicily tomorrow.”
“For how long this time?”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Japan. Ever.”
We’re both silent for a moment. I look at the statue of Mary in front of me with a sullen look on my face until Nishikido moves, undoing the golden chain around his neck. There’s a cross dangling from it, and he takes my hand, letting the necklace fall into my open palm and closing my fingers around it. “Keep this, then. I started wearing it seven years ago, when I stopped believing that you’d come at least once a year. I’ve wanted to give this to you when you came back and decided to leave again. This is the last time, right? So I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, slipping it around my own neck and hiding it inside the collar of my shirt. “Before I leave, there’s...something I need to tell you. A confession. I need you to understand my feelings, because if you don’t, no one ever will.”
Silence. Nishikido looks expectant, and it weighs on my chest like a ton of bricks. For a moment, I almost forget to breathe. “I’m in the Mafia, Ryo.”