First chapter of my Hetalia Big Bang entry! This will update once every week unless I state otherwise. There will be a point where I will change it to two weeks because the middle of the story has yet to be finished and parts of the ending are not yet either. I'm not sure how long this will be but definitely longer than 20k words. This story does contain elements of the American mafia it does not glorify it so if you can't handle that then I don't know what to tell you. This is unedited so sorry for any mistakes. Somethings might not make immediate sense but everything ties together eventually, like the File thing.

Please enjoy and check out the awesome fanart for it on the heta big bang page where it's linked!

It was supposed to be a day just like any other. Go to class, stress out over whether or not I'll be able to pass, stop by the café for a boost of energy, go to Alfred's dorm room to get back my text book he'd borrowed, and call nonno Roma to see how his vacation in Greece was going; but when I'd gotten back to the townhouse Feliciano and I share, it was clear that something was off. For one, the door was broken in and my brother Feliciano's room was flipped upside down—for two, there was a note from him saying to ignore the mess and that he'd be gone for a little while. The only problem with that? He'd used his new pastels he'd been saving for a new project to write this in our native language. Certain letters were written in Green and Red while the rest was in a creamy blue.

When I'd shown this to the police, they hadn't done much. They said it was probably just that he'd left the door open and some vandals had gotten in. They told me I had seen one too many cop shows and brushed everything off as a coincidence. One guy even suggested that my fratello was probably just messing with me and would be home in a little while.

It's been two weeks and there's no sign of Feliciano. When nonno heard what had happened, he'd cut his vacation short and rushed right home. Since then I've barely seen him; out taking care of business, he says. He's also been super protective of me, trying to hole me up and not let me out of the house ever again, so we've been fighting more often than usual. I don't blame him but I'm being suffocated and he's not even around to do it properly! If he were here, he'd have broken the fights up and told us to make pasta, not war.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

File:

Chiarina Lovina Vargas: A 19 year old college sophomore of Italian descent living in Boca Raton, Florida—born January 7. At the age of four, her younger brother, youthful grandfather, and she emigrated from Lake Como, Italy. Milk chocolate brown hair that gives off a red shine in the sunlight and honey flecked olive green eyes; light olive skin and a slightly petite frame. Short tempered, brass, and a bit of a scaredy cat; that's what you'd get if you only looked at the surface but in reality there's so much more beneath the thin veneer no one bothers to look past.

Looking down at the address on the scrap of paper one last time to make sure I was at the right place, I straightened my shoulders and threw the crumpled slip into my school bag. Stepping forwards, I pushed open the glass door to the tan stoned building and stepped inside as the bell above the door rang. There seemed to be a small reception area in front but no one sat behind the desk. The walls were striped white and caramel while there sat a bench along the wall for their 'customers'—probably to keep up the appearance that they're as busy as any other place, hence the reason why the reception area was empty. Besides, I'm sure most called first.

Scowling a bit, I rubbed the back of my left calf with my calf-high lace-up booted right foot before steeling myself. I couldn't risk calling to make an appointment first because of Romulus, or nonno Roma as Feliciano and I called him. Striding forwards, I headed past the cheap oak reception desk and into the hall with several paintings that weren't actually half bad hung along the wall. The first door to the left held a nameplate right next to it with the name Mr. Fernandez C. engraved on it. Is this guy Spanish or something? I raised my fist to knock on the surprisingly thick rosewood door before once more preparing what I was going to say to the man.

After a moment the door swung open to a guy who could have passed for a male model. "Guys I'm not in the mood, did you forget something?" His accented voice complained before his tropical green eyes fell on me. For a moment it was like the rest of the world had melted away and everything but the man who could only be described as delicious stood clearly. A confused look crossed his face and his voice broke through my dizzy haze. "Excuse me I thought you were someone else. Do we have an appointment? I don't remember having anything marked down though…"

Why does he have to be Spanish, darn it! I have a weak spot for Spanish accents.

Trying to tamp down the blush that was threatening to rise by pressing my nails into my skin, I said. "I know I don't have an appointment but your website says you take walk-in cases and I need your help!" There, I said it.

The guy—Mr. Fernandez blinked before he sighed and nodded. "Okay, follow me to the back room—I need to grab a few things first." Heading back into his office for a moment, he grabbed notepad, pen, and a recording device it looked like before closing the door behind him and passing me and leading me to a room at the end of the hall that instead of having a normal wooden door like the rest, it had a cloudy glass door leading to it. Taking a quick peek at him I noticed that he wore fitted grey dress pants with suspenders and a half buttoned white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off the olive forearms corded with muscles. I resisted snorting at his odd fashion choice. Who wears suspenders now-a-days? Is he some kind of a hipster or vintage kook?

As he opened the door with a small little key he'd taken from his pocket, I noticed that his arms weren't the only part of his body he'd worked out. Is this some kind of a test? Why am I being tempted by Spanish man candy; I'm supposed to be worrying about my brother! His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of the shirt and—dare I say it; he had a great—

"This is just a break room but you can sit over there if you'd like. I'll be recording the conversation if that's okay?" My eyes snapped up to him as he turned around and his dulcet voice broke filled my ears. My face reddened at the direction my thoughts had taken.

Oh, great Chiara, he just caught you staring.

Focus on what really matters and not on his so-not-hot butt.

"Sure, just don't do anything weird with it." I grumbled before taking a seat—albeit rather ungracefully—and looked down at my gold accented sailor nails a Hungarian boy had actually done for me in an attempt to teach me how to do nail art. I can do simple stuff but nothing too complicated. I resisted the temptation to pick at it like I do when I'm nervous or upset—and even if I was nervous—which I'm not—it'd be understandable given the amount of stress I'm under right now.

I heard the brown leather couch in front of me groan as he sat down and pressed start on the recorder with a little beep. "So, what's the problem, and please try to be detailed about it; any information could help us with an investigation should we choose to take on your case."

Whoa, wait.

Did this guy just say if?

I swear I looked up so fast I gave myself whiplash. Indignation flared. "So even if I tell you, you still might not even do anything about it? I thought you were supposed to help people!"

"Whoa, I never said that we wouldn't take it!" His eyebrows and hands raised in attempt to dissuade my anger. "We can't just take on every case someone brings to us; we run a business here and if we took on every silly case people brought to us, we wouldn't be able to charge much. After all, if your keys or dog is lost then that's a little out of our range of expertise." He smiled calmly but the b** still looked slightly alarmed.

I stared at him skeptically for a moment before I nodded, looking down at my lap again. I almost feel kind of foolish.

Of course they wouldn't be able to take in every stupid case.

"Well, let's get started, shall we? How about you tell me your name first and then we can go from there."

Taking in a deep breath, I shifted so I was staring straight into his vibrant green eyes that bordered on hypnotic. "My name is Chiarina Vargas and my younger brother was kidnapped. I came home from classes one day and the door was broken in and only his bedroom was torn apart. The police said that it was just some vandals and that Feliciano was just trying to scare me because of the note he left but he used his brand new pastels that he was saving for a special project someone had commissioned him to do. He wouldn't have just run off like that, he's way too good for that—he's happy at home."

His face was neutral as he wrote a few things down. "Do you have the note and a picture of him with you?"

Digging through my little purse, I pulled out the little plastic bag with the note inside of it along with a picture I'd printed off of him where he was grinning proudly about scoring a date with a girl who later ended up confessing that she was five years older than him. He's still in high school so you can see how that might have proposed a problem. D** cougar trying to defile my brother. "Here, I put it in there; the police barely looked at it. They didn't even run it for prints since it was written by Feliciano."

With a puzzled look on his face he glanced at the photo for a second before switching his attention to the note. "It seems as though there's some sort of message hidden in the red and green colors. It was smart of you to preserve this; pastels smudge without a fixative and this will probably help us figure out who took him." Oh, maybe I should have done that—but Vene gets mad when I mess with his art supplies. Besides, isn't that tampering with evidence? "I can't read this though, is it Italian?" He looked up at me. I nodded and he sighed. "If we translate it, the hidden message will probably be lost. Do you have any clue what it could be?"

I shifted, uncomfortably. If he knows, he may not want to help.

Eyeing me, he leaned forwards, setting the items down. "Anything you can tell me will make my job much easier. Since you've already gone to the police, I assume they've already scoured the crime scene so there won't be much there in the way of evidence unless they missed something—that lessens his chances of being found."

A stab of fear and frustration pierced my heart. "I haven't figured out everything but the part of it spells the word 'mafia'. I don't know if that's what he was trying to say though!" I added quickly.

He leaned back, blinking. "Why would the mafia want your brother? And why would they be so sloppy? It's like they wanted to send a message…"

"My papa used to have ties to the mafia back in Italy. We moved here with our grandfather after his death but they don't like it when one of their own screws them over." I said in a low and bitter voice

Letting out a breath filled with emotion, he rubbed his hands through his hair. "Oh, boy…" He muttered.

"You said it yourself, you don't take on silly cases and this one isn't silly! I have to find my brother and you're my last chance! I doubt it's La Cosa Nostra; more than likely it's just a couple of local American men they payed off to do their dirty work! Papa wasn't that important to them." I pleaded in frustration, anxiety at him turning the case down because of the Mafioso ties filled me. Before I knew it I was half pleading/half insulting him in Italian. Not the best way to convince someone but I've found it works sometimes.

A somewhat annoyed look came across his face. "Señorita, please calm down; I never said I wouldn't help you!" He half snapped, causing me to fall into a stunned silence. Who the heck does this guy think he is to talk to me like that? What a b**! "Alright, now I need to know much more about the situation before I can talk with my partners so we can come to a decision on a case such as yours. American or Italian, the mafia is no joke. I'd be putting them in a lot of danger if the ties to the mafia check out. Normally I'd decide on my own but we make it a rule to confer on bigger cases." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Please, start from the very beginning. What happened to your parents? Every bit of information could help."

I resisted the urge to flip him the bird and instead took a deep breath. "My mamma disappeared shortly after my papa was murdered in a car accident in Sicily, where we used to live. She dropped us off at nonno's place in Verona and said she'd be back. It was about five months later when nonno suddenly handed off the vineyard he owned to an associate and moved us to America. He did his best to keep this from us but I managed to find out anyway. He told us he wanted to give us all a fresh start..."

I clenched my jaw, remembering how that stupid German man had betrayed nonno out of spite.

When I didn't say anything else, he nodded. "Okay. I want you to understand one thing; we are not the police. Private investigators don't hold the same authority that police do. I can't make any arrests, get a warrant, or any of that kind of stuff. I can only provide you with information that can then be either used by the police to further a case or to give you closure. Now that that is clear, before we continue any further, I'd like to talk to my coworkers."

I furrowed my brow and pouted. If I say something about how idiotic that sounds, he'll turn me away.

I nodded reluctantly.

If these men have any sense of self-worth or honor then they'll help me.

Who am I kidding, men these days run at the mention of honor as if it was some kind of disease.

"Tonio—we're back!" A raspy voice rang throughout the back room.