Candy Apple #3, Mango #7 + butterscotch
Story: The Blaze Mafia Family
Title: New World, Old Problems
Prompts: Candy Apple #3: nose, Mango #7: if you only knew + butterscotch
Rating: PG13 for language, racial slurs, violence
Characters: Achille Blaze, Flynn “the Nose” Healy, Lorenzo Ricci, Ricci Thugs
Summary: Takes place after Love at First Sight. This arc seems to correlate with how often I come in contact with Assassin’s Creed. I tried to play it today (bad idea seeing as how the most intense gaming I’ve done before now are a couple rousing bouts of Tetris) and now I’m itching to write some more of the first generation. Achille may share a few similarities in terms of personality to Ezio Auditore de Firenze, but I can say without hesitation that Ezio has attained a level of badass that no other human, even a Blaze, can hope to achieve. XD Wop and dago were both racial slurs used in the US for Italian immigrants. And please forgive my sad sad attempt at writing an Irish accent.
Achille recognized the dull thud of flesh hitting flesh and the subsequent gasp of breath for what it was. Someone was getting beaten in one of the ubiquitous shadowy corners that defined the lower district of New Palermo. Normally, Achille would just keep walking by because he was not by nature or trade a man that bothered with other people’s business. But it was different when the assault was happening on the street of narrow row houses his family lived in. This wasn’t a rich neighborhood by any means, but it was one of the safer ones in the lower district, and Achille was not eager to see that change while his brothers and sister were in residence.
He paused on his walk home, and, as he expected, Achille was noticed immediately.
A short man with a lot of muscle came marching out of the shadows and into the feeble light of the street lamp. His face seemed to be permanently contorted into a sneer, and his voice matched it when he snapped, “What do you want, dago?”
Achille raised an eyebrow at the man who, judging from his looks and his accented English, was undoubtedly Italian. “This is the home of many good families. Perhaps you could take your business somewhere else, wop.”
Even in the poor light, Achille could see the little man turn bright red in anger. “Perhaps you should learn who you are talking to before you get big ideas.”
“And who are you?” Achille asked, more to confirm his suspicions than because he didn’t know. This neighborhood had only one master.
“Lorenzo Ricci, you stupid asshole,” he spat out. “My father runs the whole Ricci Family.”
Just as Achille thought. The Ricci Family was one of many Italian families that were trying to get organized and become a true mafia family. It was known throughout the city that the Ricci’s weren’t overly smart but they were vicious and there were a lot of them. As such, they were able to lay claim to a good deal of territory on the south side of New Palermo where most of the Italian immigrants lived.
Achille was going to have to swallow his natural instinct to do just as Lorenzo did and warn his enemy who exactly he was dealing with. It was what Achille would have done had he still been living in his old home working for the old Mafia. But here, in his new home, Achille was going to be different. He was not going to join any of the mafia families or do anything that would give his family undue attention from the families.
“I do not wish to fight,” Achille said, though it hurt a part of him to say it.
Lorenzo jabbed his finger into Achille’s chest. “Then you should not have stopped, idiot.”
Anger flared up in Achille at how insulting Lorenzo was being to him. Achille was not used to such treatment. But again he swallowed his pride and didn’t act. “I only wished to remind you that this is a family neighborhood full of children with prying eyes and mothers with wagging tongues. Your actions will not go unnoticed here.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Lorenzo poked Achille again. “I am a Ricci and no dago bitch fresh off the boat is going to say anything to me.”
Achille inclined his head in a short nod. If the fool of a Ricci did not understand the importance of remaining in the people’s good graces then it was not Achille’s problem. “Such is your business. I will leave you to it.”
He turned away from Lorenzo to go home. It didn’t feel at all right for him to just back down, but this was a side effect of the new life he had worked so hard for. There was no reason to go into crime when there were so many opportunities above the table for him to excel in. Achille was going to stifle the predatory part of his personality that he’d cultivated during his time as a mafioso in his old home. He had to.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Lorenzo grabbed Achille’s arm and jerked him back around. Or rather, he tried to, but Achille stiffened and pulled roughly out of Lorenzo’s grasp. It was a reflex, Achille told himself. No man would allow himself to be handled in such an insulting way.
“Do not lay your hands on me,” Achille warned Lorenzo. His anger was getting harder and harder to contain. Lorenzo Ricci was an idiot that did not have any respect for his fellow man. Achille did not like men that didn’t understand respect.
Lorenzo puffed himself up. “Are you stupid? I am a Ricci! You do not talk to a Ricci like this!”
“I want nothing to do with the Riccis,” Achille spat on the street to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth from even speaking the name of such a ridiculous family. Achille reminded himself of his plans. He was going to become a great man in this city, and he was going to do it without leaning on another mafia family to get there. He needed to leave now before Lorenzo made him forget his dream and Achille did something that would be very satisfying but ultimately destructive in the long run.
Lorenzo bared his teeth in a vicious snarl. “Then you should not have stopped, you fuckin’ wop!” The small man pulled a knife from his sleeve and lunged at Achille with no warning.
Achille jumped backwards on instinct, turning what might have been a fatal stabbing into a stinging scratch on his arm. All of Achille’s logical arguments and sound thinking went out the window. The disrespect here was too great for him to keep trying to ignore.
Lorenzo stabbed at Achille again, but this time Achille was ready for him, ducking to the side and circling around Lorenzo’s back. Lorenzo had no skills, no finesse, no respect for his knife. He stabbed and lunged wildly, thinking that just holding a blade somehow made him important. Achille would teach him otherwise.
When Lorenzo came at Achille a third time, Achille acted. He had put too much forward force into his lunge, and Achille was able to sidestep him easily. Achille grabbed Lorenzo’s forearm and jerked the smaller man forward, sending Lorenzo stumbling. With one hard kick in the back of his leg, Lorenzo was sprawled on the dirty street and his knife, along with his reputation, flew out of his hands. Achille kicked Lorenzo again, this time in the face, punting his head as if it were a ball from his childhood.
There was a loud curse then Achille was tackled from behind by a much larger man than Lorenzo. Achille jerked his elbow backwards and connected with his attacker’s ear. His attacker reared back, giving Achille enough leverage to roll away. He got his feet under him just in time to catch the Ricci thug tackling him again. He used the Ricci’s momentum to roll across the ground and on top of the thug into the victor’s position. Achille punched the Ricci twice in the face, going for all the soft parts that would crack under his assault.
“Look out!”
Achille turned in time to see a piece of scrap wood hit him hard in the side. He fell backwards, and the thug with the board raised his weapon again. Suddenly there was a furious yell and a small wiry man leaped out of the shadows and onto the standing thug’s back. The Ricci thug stumbled while the small man went to town hitting every part of the thug that he could reach, even biting down on the thug’s ear in his rage.
The first Ricci thug was still conscious, trying to feel his way towards Achille because his blood marred his vision. Achille’s side was ablaze with pain, but the fight wasn’t over until he was the last man standing. He picked up the board that the second thug dropped because of Achille’s unknown ally’s attack, and swung it like a baseball bat that the people of this country were so fond of at the thug’s head. One hit and the Ricci was down.
Achille had to use the board as a brace to help him stand, but stand he did, just in time to see the last thug finally give out under the small man’s frenzied attack.
“Show you, you fuckin’ bastard,” the little man snapped, and finished his insult by spitting on the Ricci thug.
Achille stiffened at the man’s thick accent and readjusted his grip on the plank. “An Irishman,” he growled out. All the pieces fell into place. Immigrants from all different countries may work together in the city, but their neighborhoods were strictly divided and guarded from each other zealously. An Irishman walking into an Italian neighborhood was more than reason enough for the Riccis to attack.
The little man turned to Achille, and, though he kept a wary stance, he grinned in a way that was almost too big for his narrow face. “Aye, and you’re an eye-talian, but we made a good team despite that setback.”
Achille was unamused. Three Riccis were laid out in the dull lamplight, one of which was the son of the head of the mafia family. This was exactly what Achille had wanted to avoid in his new home. Assaulting the Riccis was a declaration of war when Achille had no desire or means to fight one. And he did it all to save a fucking Irishman.
He advanced on the little man, crossing the street and getting in his face in just a few steps. Achille pointed the plank at the Irishman. “Do you know what I just did?”
The Irishman put his hands out to show he meant no harm. “You saved me a beatin’. I’m obliged to you for that.”
“I should kill you now. Perhaps the Riccis will not seek retribution on me then.”
“Aye, you could do that,” the Irishman agreed, “But I think you and I both know that won’t do either of us a bit o’ good. I suggest we bugger off before these boys wake up. I know a pub close by that would be safe for both of us. Let me get you a drink as thanks for savin’ me arse back there.”
Unfortunately, Achille did know that the Irishman was correct. This was an insult to the Ricci family that would not be appeased so easily. It would be best to get away from the scene, and Achille was hesitant to go limping back to his family with blood on his knuckles. Rosetta would never let him hear the end of it.
“Who are you?” Achille asked first.
“Flynn the Nose at your service,” The Irishman bowed a little, still grinning.
“You are called ‘the Nose’ because you stick yours where it does not belong,” Achille surmised.
“I have a great talent for sniffing out opportunity,” Flynn corrected. He motioned to the Riccis, “That particular opportunity didn’t pan out as well as I thought it would.” He looked back at Achille. “But I have high hopes for you.”
“I am an opportunity that you would be wise to leave be,” Achille snapped back.
“Aye, I sniffed that. I bet the Riccis wished they’d had my nose before they got to scrappin’ with you.” Flynn laughed. “What’s your name, mate, and why are you so good with your fists?”
‘I am Achille Blaze,” he answered.
Flynn waited a moment for Achille to answer the second part of his question then grinned. “Come along, mate. I mean you no harm. Come to the pub and we’ll have us a friendly pint.”
“We are not friends,” Achille replied. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and relaxed a little. The Irishman was crazy like most of his people, but he didn’t seem dangerous. And if Achille had misjudged the little man, Achille was confident he could handle him. “But that may change in your pub.”
“That’s the spirit,” Flynn said. He leaned down and rifled through the Ricci thug’s pockets. He pulled a small wad of cash out and held it up with a grin. “The Riccis are buyin’ so I reckon we can buy us enough beer to become best mates by the end o’ the night.”
Title: New World, Old Problems
Prompts: Candy Apple #3: nose, Mango #7: if you only knew + butterscotch
Rating: PG13 for language, racial slurs, violence
Characters: Achille Blaze, Flynn “the Nose” Healy, Lorenzo Ricci, Ricci Thugs
Summary: Takes place after Love at First Sight. This arc seems to correlate with how often I come in contact with Assassin’s Creed. I tried to play it today (bad idea seeing as how the most intense gaming I’ve done before now are a couple rousing bouts of Tetris) and now I’m itching to write some more of the first generation. Achille may share a few similarities in terms of personality to Ezio Auditore de Firenze, but I can say without hesitation that Ezio has attained a level of badass that no other human, even a Blaze, can hope to achieve. XD Wop and dago were both racial slurs used in the US for Italian immigrants. And please forgive my sad sad attempt at writing an Irish accent.
Achille recognized the dull thud of flesh hitting flesh and the subsequent gasp of breath for what it was. Someone was getting beaten in one of the ubiquitous shadowy corners that defined the lower district of New Palermo. Normally, Achille would just keep walking by because he was not by nature or trade a man that bothered with other people’s business. But it was different when the assault was happening on the street of narrow row houses his family lived in. This wasn’t a rich neighborhood by any means, but it was one of the safer ones in the lower district, and Achille was not eager to see that change while his brothers and sister were in residence.
He paused on his walk home, and, as he expected, Achille was noticed immediately.
A short man with a lot of muscle came marching out of the shadows and into the feeble light of the street lamp. His face seemed to be permanently contorted into a sneer, and his voice matched it when he snapped, “What do you want, dago?”
Achille raised an eyebrow at the man who, judging from his looks and his accented English, was undoubtedly Italian. “This is the home of many good families. Perhaps you could take your business somewhere else, wop.”
Even in the poor light, Achille could see the little man turn bright red in anger. “Perhaps you should learn who you are talking to before you get big ideas.”
“And who are you?” Achille asked, more to confirm his suspicions than because he didn’t know. This neighborhood had only one master.
“Lorenzo Ricci, you stupid asshole,” he spat out. “My father runs the whole Ricci Family.”
Just as Achille thought. The Ricci Family was one of many Italian families that were trying to get organized and become a true mafia family. It was known throughout the city that the Ricci’s weren’t overly smart but they were vicious and there were a lot of them. As such, they were able to lay claim to a good deal of territory on the south side of New Palermo where most of the Italian immigrants lived.
Achille was going to have to swallow his natural instinct to do just as Lorenzo did and warn his enemy who exactly he was dealing with. It was what Achille would have done had he still been living in his old home working for the old Mafia. But here, in his new home, Achille was going to be different. He was not going to join any of the mafia families or do anything that would give his family undue attention from the families.
“I do not wish to fight,” Achille said, though it hurt a part of him to say it.
Lorenzo jabbed his finger into Achille’s chest. “Then you should not have stopped, idiot.”
Anger flared up in Achille at how insulting Lorenzo was being to him. Achille was not used to such treatment. But again he swallowed his pride and didn’t act. “I only wished to remind you that this is a family neighborhood full of children with prying eyes and mothers with wagging tongues. Your actions will not go unnoticed here.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Lorenzo poked Achille again. “I am a Ricci and no dago bitch fresh off the boat is going to say anything to me.”
Achille inclined his head in a short nod. If the fool of a Ricci did not understand the importance of remaining in the people’s good graces then it was not Achille’s problem. “Such is your business. I will leave you to it.”
He turned away from Lorenzo to go home. It didn’t feel at all right for him to just back down, but this was a side effect of the new life he had worked so hard for. There was no reason to go into crime when there were so many opportunities above the table for him to excel in. Achille was going to stifle the predatory part of his personality that he’d cultivated during his time as a mafioso in his old home. He had to.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Lorenzo grabbed Achille’s arm and jerked him back around. Or rather, he tried to, but Achille stiffened and pulled roughly out of Lorenzo’s grasp. It was a reflex, Achille told himself. No man would allow himself to be handled in such an insulting way.
“Do not lay your hands on me,” Achille warned Lorenzo. His anger was getting harder and harder to contain. Lorenzo Ricci was an idiot that did not have any respect for his fellow man. Achille did not like men that didn’t understand respect.
Lorenzo puffed himself up. “Are you stupid? I am a Ricci! You do not talk to a Ricci like this!”
“I want nothing to do with the Riccis,” Achille spat on the street to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth from even speaking the name of such a ridiculous family. Achille reminded himself of his plans. He was going to become a great man in this city, and he was going to do it without leaning on another mafia family to get there. He needed to leave now before Lorenzo made him forget his dream and Achille did something that would be very satisfying but ultimately destructive in the long run.
Lorenzo bared his teeth in a vicious snarl. “Then you should not have stopped, you fuckin’ wop!” The small man pulled a knife from his sleeve and lunged at Achille with no warning.
Achille jumped backwards on instinct, turning what might have been a fatal stabbing into a stinging scratch on his arm. All of Achille’s logical arguments and sound thinking went out the window. The disrespect here was too great for him to keep trying to ignore.
Lorenzo stabbed at Achille again, but this time Achille was ready for him, ducking to the side and circling around Lorenzo’s back. Lorenzo had no skills, no finesse, no respect for his knife. He stabbed and lunged wildly, thinking that just holding a blade somehow made him important. Achille would teach him otherwise.
When Lorenzo came at Achille a third time, Achille acted. He had put too much forward force into his lunge, and Achille was able to sidestep him easily. Achille grabbed Lorenzo’s forearm and jerked the smaller man forward, sending Lorenzo stumbling. With one hard kick in the back of his leg, Lorenzo was sprawled on the dirty street and his knife, along with his reputation, flew out of his hands. Achille kicked Lorenzo again, this time in the face, punting his head as if it were a ball from his childhood.
There was a loud curse then Achille was tackled from behind by a much larger man than Lorenzo. Achille jerked his elbow backwards and connected with his attacker’s ear. His attacker reared back, giving Achille enough leverage to roll away. He got his feet under him just in time to catch the Ricci thug tackling him again. He used the Ricci’s momentum to roll across the ground and on top of the thug into the victor’s position. Achille punched the Ricci twice in the face, going for all the soft parts that would crack under his assault.
“Look out!”
Achille turned in time to see a piece of scrap wood hit him hard in the side. He fell backwards, and the thug with the board raised his weapon again. Suddenly there was a furious yell and a small wiry man leaped out of the shadows and onto the standing thug’s back. The Ricci thug stumbled while the small man went to town hitting every part of the thug that he could reach, even biting down on the thug’s ear in his rage.
The first Ricci thug was still conscious, trying to feel his way towards Achille because his blood marred his vision. Achille’s side was ablaze with pain, but the fight wasn’t over until he was the last man standing. He picked up the board that the second thug dropped because of Achille’s unknown ally’s attack, and swung it like a baseball bat that the people of this country were so fond of at the thug’s head. One hit and the Ricci was down.
Achille had to use the board as a brace to help him stand, but stand he did, just in time to see the last thug finally give out under the small man’s frenzied attack.
“Show you, you fuckin’ bastard,” the little man snapped, and finished his insult by spitting on the Ricci thug.
Achille stiffened at the man’s thick accent and readjusted his grip on the plank. “An Irishman,” he growled out. All the pieces fell into place. Immigrants from all different countries may work together in the city, but their neighborhoods were strictly divided and guarded from each other zealously. An Irishman walking into an Italian neighborhood was more than reason enough for the Riccis to attack.
The little man turned to Achille, and, though he kept a wary stance, he grinned in a way that was almost too big for his narrow face. “Aye, and you’re an eye-talian, but we made a good team despite that setback.”
Achille was unamused. Three Riccis were laid out in the dull lamplight, one of which was the son of the head of the mafia family. This was exactly what Achille had wanted to avoid in his new home. Assaulting the Riccis was a declaration of war when Achille had no desire or means to fight one. And he did it all to save a fucking Irishman.
He advanced on the little man, crossing the street and getting in his face in just a few steps. Achille pointed the plank at the Irishman. “Do you know what I just did?”
The Irishman put his hands out to show he meant no harm. “You saved me a beatin’. I’m obliged to you for that.”
“I should kill you now. Perhaps the Riccis will not seek retribution on me then.”
“Aye, you could do that,” the Irishman agreed, “But I think you and I both know that won’t do either of us a bit o’ good. I suggest we bugger off before these boys wake up. I know a pub close by that would be safe for both of us. Let me get you a drink as thanks for savin’ me arse back there.”
Unfortunately, Achille did know that the Irishman was correct. This was an insult to the Ricci family that would not be appeased so easily. It would be best to get away from the scene, and Achille was hesitant to go limping back to his family with blood on his knuckles. Rosetta would never let him hear the end of it.
“Who are you?” Achille asked first.
“Flynn the Nose at your service,” The Irishman bowed a little, still grinning.
“You are called ‘the Nose’ because you stick yours where it does not belong,” Achille surmised.
“I have a great talent for sniffing out opportunity,” Flynn corrected. He motioned to the Riccis, “That particular opportunity didn’t pan out as well as I thought it would.” He looked back at Achille. “But I have high hopes for you.”
“I am an opportunity that you would be wise to leave be,” Achille snapped back.
“Aye, I sniffed that. I bet the Riccis wished they’d had my nose before they got to scrappin’ with you.” Flynn laughed. “What’s your name, mate, and why are you so good with your fists?”
‘I am Achille Blaze,” he answered.
Flynn waited a moment for Achille to answer the second part of his question then grinned. “Come along, mate. I mean you no harm. Come to the pub and we’ll have us a friendly pint.”
“We are not friends,” Achille replied. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and relaxed a little. The Irishman was crazy like most of his people, but he didn’t seem dangerous. And if Achille had misjudged the little man, Achille was confident he could handle him. “But that may change in your pub.”
“That’s the spirit,” Flynn said. He leaned down and rifled through the Ricci thug’s pockets. He pulled a small wad of cash out and held it up with a grin. “The Riccis are buyin’ so I reckon we can buy us enough beer to become best mates by the end o’ the night.”