To be the descendant of a man who began something so great, to be the child of a father who never saw his son as a child but as a man who shoulders the responsibility of his heritage, and to be the epitome of everything he shouldn't be- he lives a life dictated upon his birth, a life that rids him of his right to make a choice for himself.

This was a curse, he then came to understand. The blood that flows in his veins and the name that he bears- this is the curse that he solely was meant to exist for.

It was inescapable. He was hanging on a weak thread, dangling dangerously over death's claim. It was the curse that pushed him over to the brink of madness, and young and naive as he was, all he could do was resist until hollow acceptance grew to overwhelm the part of him that desired for his freedom.

And before he willingly surrendered, against his better judgment, he made one final attempt to fight back.

It was midnight, October 7 when he orchestrated a plan that would inflict enough damage to set back Vongola's technological and weaponry advancement by several years by obliterating their progress. He planted bombs which according to the research department had a very wide range and a very massive destructive force that could penetrate the strongest of materials, and with his unparalleled knowledge of the HQ's interior, schemed like a man plotting a very intricate plan of infiltration and destruction in a den of monstrous beasts.

It was October 14 when he set the bombs off.

Explosions wracked through the headquarters sparing not a single second of comprehension to alleviate the men's gradually escalating plights. Fire engulfed what had used to be the center of operations of Vongola in Italy and anguished screams tore through the silence mercilessly.

And soon, it was naught but a man's voice the echoed within the wreckage which used to be the Headquarters of the revered Vongola Famiglia.

"How could you betray the family? How could you bring yourself to hurt your own men?" the man had cried, bleeding and severely injured yet hurting for other reasons than physical injuries, barely even breathing as he screamed. Rage and fury shone brightly within his eyes like a candle lit with blazing fire and he shook the child violently. "How?"

But the child looked just as angry as the man was, if not even more.

"You forced and taught a mere child to kill since the very day he learned to walk, to carry the sins of his ancestors who committed crime after crime for the sake of this damned Famiglia's prolongation, to conquer the underworld with violence and subject them under a rule of unquestionable authority just as you had for the past four centuries, and you ask me how?" he retorted, his mild tone upsetting and unsettling the man whose hands were trembling.

"You are the Decimo!" he told him. "You are the Decimo! What you have done is unforgivable! How could you betray us after we have vowed to protect you!?"

The child smiled, bitter and sharp with hatred.

"I never asked for your forgiveness. I never asked for you to swear your loyalty to me. And I never," he glared; ripping the man's bruising hold off of his neck, "wanted to become the Decimo."

The Ninth stood behind him, his scepter was alight with the sickeningly familiar Sky Flames. His face was schooled into one of solemnity and terrifying calm as he pressed the edge of his weapon against the child's throat, the sound of his skin burning from the scorching heat echoing loudly within the silence that had fallen over the ruins of the Headquarters.

"It really is a detestable curse isn't it?" he murmured as he gazed into Timoteo's knowing yet helpless eyes. The man understood it all too well. He should understand the sheer severity and weight of this curse and shackles that they bear as the inheritors.

"It is a curse," Timoteo replied weakly, and in a much softer voice added, "and it is our fate."

How pathetic.

All it took was a moment before he was being pulled away, shackles and chains harshly wrapping around his body in a bruising hold that knocked the breath out of his lungs, the mere contact scratching and tearing his skin. He closed his eyes as a grim expression overtook his face.

So they were here.

The protectors of the law; the Vindice.