"You did WHAT!" Cried the medium-short young man. His dark auburn locks swished as he moved around, his hands a blur as he yelled.
"Romano, calm down, it was only a few thousand dollars extra," the white haired man across from him casually spoke, "sheesh."
"THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT! YOUR GOAL WAS 2 MILLION!"
Romano's Attolini suit was drenched as the three men stood in the cold Sicilian rain.
Slamming himself upon the brash man, Antonio Hernandez-Carriedo pressed his hand over his boss's mouth. "Are you trying to get us caught?" His velvety Spanish accent was heavily threaded trough his fluent Italian.
The mob boss slowly released his anger, and the bodyguard placed the 24-year-old mob boss down, his stylish Gucci shoes tapping onto the cobblestone road.
"Discussing this on the streets of Sicily is not the best idea." He agreed; "If we had an alterior base like Grandpa advised me, we would already be there. And 'why?' may you ask we are not in our original base? Because SOMEONE lead the police RIGHT TO IT!" He slowly his gaze moved the third man with them in the alley, his red eyes glistening with mischief.
The albino's trademark laugh rang through the passage as he threw back his head. "Kesesesese!... Bye!"
And then he ran.
Growling, Romano Vargas, head of Credodi Snake, the most notorious mafia in Italy, pointed at the running albino. "You know the drill." He barked, head whipping to Antonio.
The other man turned to him, face confused. "I was wondering about that," he said, "I always leave you alone; I'm not supposed to do that." A new rage came on, and Romano rose is fist in the air, then punched his bodyguard in the abs, nudging him slightly.
"I'll just come with you then."
"Really?"
'He's so stupid.' Thought Romano; sighing, he took a deep breath then screamed, "IT DOESN'T MATTER, IDIOTA! WE'RE LOSING HIM!"
So they both ran, feet pounding on the cobblestone as they pursued their hit-man, on the run from them once again. The mud from the rain washed up on their clothes,"Merda," Romano grumbled under his breath as he tried to keep up with his workers. "My suits all ruined. I'll need to get another."
Antonio huffed from far in front of him. "I see him! GIL! COME BACK!"
A loud scream was heard from ahead of Romano, followed by a German curse. "GILBERT! NO GERMAN!" He called, "YOU REMEMBER WHAT'S GOING ON IN GERMANY! WE CAN'T HAVE PEOPLE THINKING YOU'RE A NAZITA!" The last word rang through the passage and Romano whispered a small prayer that no one was around to hear him.
"I WOUNT LET THEM TAKE YOU, GIL!" Antonio cried, "NOT MY BEST FRIEND!"
Another slithery chuckle echoed down the stretch of street and soon two sets of pattering feet stopped. Romano wheezed as he finally caught up with his closest aides as they stood with one arm over the other, their backs leaned over so their other hands could touch their knees.
They both grinned like clowns.
"Alright, perdenti. Let's get back." Huffed Antonio.
"No." Spoke the Italian in front of them.
"What?" Both goons gasped.
"You heard me, fottuto bastardo. You're not allowed back. Consider yourself lucky, Gilbert Beilschmidt, for you have been liberated from Credodi Snake forever without having to cazzo morire. Get up, Antonio. We're leaving."
Standing up straight, Romano Vargas, known as Scheletro del Consiglio on the streets of Italy, adjusted his white fedora and brushed off what little dirt managed to reach his jacket. His tongue clicked as he looked down at his suit pants. "Il fango no uscira mai dei miei pantaloni Dannazione." He mumbled.
'D*mn-d*mn-d*mn. My pants are ruined. I hate mud.' Romano thought.
Turning on his expensive heal, he headed back down their path his closest friends ran down, leaving them staring at his disappearing form. "ROMANO!" Antonio called, chasing after his boss. "Wait! You're not thinking properly."
"NOT THINKING! YOU THINK I'M NOT THINKING!" His hazel eyes dashed over to the heartbroken 20-year-old on the ground, eyes wide with disbelief. "I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR YEARS!" He lied, turning his back to his friends to hide his misting eyes.
Dio, what would he tell Feliciano.
Translations:
(italian) Credodi Snake: Snake's Creed [GUESS WHO WANTED TO PLAY A CERTAIN VIDEO GAME]
(spanish)Perdenti: Joker
(it)Idiota: idiot
(it)Nazita: Nazi
(it)"Il fango no uscira mai dei miei pantaloni Dannazione." The mud will never get out of my pants, D*mn.
(it) cazzo morire: ef-ing die
(it) Scheletro del Consiglio: Skeleton's Council
AND THAT's PART 1!
A friend and I have been procrastinating this fanfiction for months. :)
I OWN NOTHING.
Please tell me what you like, if I missed any spelling/grammar mistakes. Seriously.
Tell me.
読書をありがとうございました！