The Life and Death of a Mob Boss

by YourDarkMistress

In 1906, Odin adopts an unusually pale, unusually intelligent Sicilian child. Loki is a darling boy, but something about him is distinctly deviant. Mischief and intelligence do not a complacent child make, and soon Loki finds himself in a dark world of lies and deception, a world he grows far too fond of. His brother follows him, and together the name of Odinson falls from grace.

1. Prologue

A/N:Wow. I've been working on this first period for about a week now and figured I might as well post it. The first arc is done (I forsee three plus an epilogue) as well as two chapters of the second. I apologize in advance if I offend anyone for any reason, and I likely will. I tried to make Odin sound like a likeable racist asshole, sort of like Tom Buchanan from the Great Gatsby. I'm also probably gonna use some derogatory terms for different kinds of people. I'm desensitized to them, but I don't think everyone else is. Most of the Italian will be intentionally wrong, too, or spelled wrong at least. Additionally, this is not likely to be all too descriptive or realistic when it comes to the Italian Mafia, simply because I don't feel like going into the inner workings of the system. Enjoy!

Part One: Birth

Baby Joe had arrived as an illegal immigrant on a boat

Like all the immigrants – the Irish and Italians – on Ellis Island in 1920

Accompanied by a Sicilian great-uncle and protected by his' own

Heir of a notorious Mafioso, Joe, your destiny was preordained by the Black Hand

Joe, you will be the Barron, you will be the Godfather, of the whole Italian District

But Joe, you will spend your whole life in Little Italy and you will die there too

Prologue

March, 1906

He was pale for a Sicilian. Odin couldn't help but marvel at his luck.

One son born a bastard, wife infertile. Really, adoption was the best option. It was luck that brought him the pale Italian, hair greased back, lips pink and cheeks white as snow. Sicilians, he knew, were often dark. Exclusively dark. This one must have been of mixed blood, and though Odin always frowned on intercourse between the races, he couldn't help but marvel at what such an ill-conceived act created for him.

He came with a name. Chiaro Serrare Luciano. It was cute for one so small, but the type of name one would grow out of and resent later in life. The boy's trousers were held up by a belt far too big, his sleeves rolled up as far as possible, pushed over his elbows and tightened snugly. His shoes seemed to be too small, if the way his toes poked out the worn edges were any indication. It all added up to a rather adorable picture.

His records said he was four, but Sicilian records were known to be wrong. He could be three, four, five, or even six, but he was small and Odin thought it best to keep the number as it was. He would get to start school at the proper age this way, get a proper education, and leave just enough time in between for Odin to teach him the proper ways of society.

But of course, he could not remain Chiaro Serrare Lucciano. He was an Odinson by law, and Chiaro Serrare Odinson just didn't sound right. Odin remembered the stories from his youth, stories told by his father of his long-deceased uncle, Loki Utgard, a man of great presence and even greater humor. And so, Loki Odinson was born, a proper American boy with a proper American name. Of course, he didn't speak any English, but who did at first? Learning how to play is half of the game, after all.

Frigga fell in love before the boy had a chance to part his pinkish lips and mutter 'boungiorno'. His little face, bright green eyes, porcelain skin, and oversized clothing marked him as in terrible need of a mother and God knew how Frigga wanted a boy of her own, one she didn't have to share with another woman (even if she was dead). She pressed kisses to his face and his little nose scrunched up unhappily.

"What's his name?" She asked her husband before turning to the child. "Come ti chiami?"

"Chiaro Luciano." He said softly before Odin placed a heavy palm on his shoulder. The child looked up to his new father and saw the disapproval there. He didn't need to speak English to understand that he had done something wrong. The nice lady at the desk had told him – in very broken Sicilian – that he had a new name now. He repeated it back to the woman who seemed so unusually fond of him. "Loki Odìnsonne."

Frigga smiled, eyes darting between her husband and their new son. Yes, all would be well in the world. With enough time, anything could be made well.

One could take the boy out of Sicily, but it would prove impossible to take Sicily out of the boy.