Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia
As a thank you gift for my 100th review on Shag Tag, Missrikkitikkitavi requested for something AmericaxFem!Romano and involving either the Mafia or the Prohibition (thank you Wikipedia for helping me on these subjects). I hope it's okay if it's in-universe.
I apologize for three things beforehand: I don't know too much about the Mafia, I haven't written much with these characters, and I know zip about most American history so...please don't eat me for any errors in this story. = x = Feel free to correct me, though. c:
Warnings: Genderbends, heterosexual couples, historical inaccuracy, swearing, implied hetero sex, serious Alfred, stupid author, etc etc.
The 1920's had its ups and downs.
When in you were in New York, these ups and downs often rassled with each other, tussling to see who would win.
Alfred watched silently as the African Americans pulled upwards to the hundreds and the thousands, tired old souls with drawling Mississippi accents, burned out from the cries of the discriminators and the white-cloaked beasts, all looking for the hoped freedom that came from the North.
He watched with the same sense of calmness as the Prohibition took place, resulting in floods and floods of boot leggers; most, sadly, coming from the land of his little sister. It pained the American to think that little Madeline would be shipping illegal alcohol to his people, though he knew that she herself never would do so.
Then there were the skyscrapers, the majestic giants of metal that managed to scrape the sky, more than any other modern structure.
And then there was what they called the Mafia. Scours of Italians -and Americans, though Alfred hated to admit it- brought up by criminal law, each group that was scattered across his home flourishing thanks to the Prohibition. This particular 'down' of the area tended to shove all of the bright sides roughly to the curb.
America, was by all means, still a rather young country. He had certainly heard of the Italian sisters (mostly from France; "One is as sweet as a head of cabbage, but the other is more feisty - but this is more or less a facade, mon ami. Both are as feeble in bravery as they are adorable. I simply cannot believe that they have such crime," the Frenchman had speculated over a glass of wine), but obviously had never met them.
In fact, he had no intention to meet them - until rumors came abound, rumors that an Italian woman had popped up around suspicious activity in the heart of New York. It was then that Alfred's silence was broken; he immediately made plans into seeing if this rumor was true or not.
If their spines were as weak as Francis described, convincing the girl to pull out her crime syndicates would be as easy as breathing the air in front of his face.
It was a spectacularly easy task to the find one of the personifications of Italy.
Alfred had been sitting in a cafe, idly considering about spotting out an Speakeasy, somewhere that an Italian would sure to appreciate, when there was a clatter of the screen door opening.
Long before golden-haired man turned in his seat, he was sure of who it was.
When he did turn, the first thing that struck Alfred was her blunt beauty.
The lady that had just made her entrance was perhaps 5'3, her slender frame supported by footwear that gave her a few more inches of height. Bushy, curled, chocolate-hued hair framed an olive-skinned on this face. And peering out from the olive-skin were bright, surprisingly scornful emeralds, flanked by fine brows that appeared to be stuck in the downwards position, giving the appearance that the woman was angry all twenty-four hours of the day.
She wore a simple brown dress - one that was extremely flattering, as her breasts pushed up against the thin material and her legs where shown from the incredibly short hem.
Her eyes quickly caught onto Alfred's. Instead of doing what the American expected (as in simply looking away, unfazed) the Italian lost the pissed-off expression, replaced it with one of simple fright, and shouted, "DAMNIT!"
The abrupt curse word caught America off guard. He - and the rest of the quiet customers of the cafe - watched in a subtle mix of amazement and confusion as the Italian woman took a step back, and then forward, eyes rolling wildly as she tried to figure out what her next move should be.
Finally, after offering a , "What the fuck are you looking at?" to the majority of the people gaping at her, the brunette trumped over to the table Alfred was sitting at and promptly took the seat across from him, huffily smoothing out an errant curl that Al had only noticed now. If he didn't know it before that she was a nation, he knew it now. The odd flyaway curls were strange trademarks of many nations.
Clearing his throat politely, America folded his hands and leaned over the table, watching the other warily. "May I be of service to you?"
The brunette flashed him a small sneer, though it had a bit of shake to it at the corners. "Oh shut it. You know who I am, and I know who you are, so stop with the nice talk." Her voice continued to have an edge to it. Thankfully, she knew enough to keep it low.
"Fine." Alfred leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning over the foul-mouthed girl in an almost unshameful manner. "Should we at least call each other by our human names?"
Another sneer was sent his way. "Ramona Vargas. The lower half of Italy. Like I said, caranoya, I already know who you are. Alfred F. Jones, otherwise known as America."
"Of course you would know. How long have you been here?"Alfred asked, smiling brightly towards the sour Ramona, hoping that his charm would win the Italian girl over, as it would with most other girls. Instead, he got a, "None of your business. And stop smiling like that. Lord, you look like an goddamn idiot."
The American dropped the smile in favour for a wince, and went back to considering Ramona. My, wasn't she just a little fireball? Alfred absently remembered Francis explaining to him that her outwards attitude was nothing but a brittle mask, one that could be broken so easily it was sad. There was definite truth in this - he could easily spot the ways her jeers and sneers would falter for a few seconds, before springing back to normal.
She was obviously a feisty little thing, and would probably swear and curse and bite if provoked, but with some chipping Ramona would fall. And hopefully take her bloody syndicates with her.
"Besides, I heard that people knew I was her," Ramona went on to say, glowering at Alfred as it it were his fault. The accused man just smiled, beginning to find her little spurts of childish anger to be queerly endearing. "And of course, when those fucks hear that its a woman this time, they open their shit-faced mouths and never stop. Because of this, it was only a matter of time before the whispers got to you."
"Of course they would. It's my country, and because of that I have the right to know if other nations are in it." The American leaned forward again, smiling a bit as Ramona shrunk back ever so slightly. "And, now that we're on the subject that this is my country, I would like you, and every criminal-based Italian, to leave."
"Like hell we're doing that," the brunette practically snarled, her green eyes glittering dangerously, prettily. "I'm not going to leave because you told me to. My people aren't either. Besides." For the first time, a taunt smile graced her lips, and again, Alfred was blindly struck by her beauty. "I myself can't control what my people do. Go complain to my boss, if he'll listen."
And then there was silence. The two nations stared daringly at each other, both silently challenging the other to speak first. The cafe didn't matter at the moment - nothing mattered at the moment, as their eyes intermingled without a need for words.
Eventually, someone would have to speak up. And that someone was Alfred.
"You are extremely beautiful...you know that?"
Colour immediately spread high across Ramona's cheek bones. Her eyebrows furrowed again. The gesture this was time of puzzlement, as if she had never had someone call her that before. "You...what?"
Adorable. Alfred chuckled lightly. "I said that you're beautiful. You do know what that word means, right? You're awful fluent in English."
Ramona's blush flared angrily. "As a matter of fact, I do know what it means. I would just prefer that a bastardo like you would not call me that." As she spoke, the brunette's thick Italian accent grew eminent.
"And why not?" A grin stamped itself on Alfred's features. Curiously, almost mechanically, he reached forward, his hand aiming towards the curl. The American had no real idea why he was suddenly interested in it.
The other nation's eyes widened, obviously already realizing its destination. Hurriedly, she slapped Alfred's hand away, stood up, and, for good measure, slapped Alfred. It made a sound that resembled dry kindling being snapped over someone's knee.
"Do not do that, bastard," Ramona said, her voice wavering. "Our conversation is now over. I am not leaving, nor are my sister and I's people. End of discussion. It was a pleasure meeting you, Alfred."
Smug, she then made her exit, heels clicking against the floorboards until she left.
Alfred didn't follow her.
He didn't feel the need to.
It was a month later when he saw the nation again.
Interestingly enough, a Speakeasy had been nosed out by the police. Ramona was among those arrested.
Word had spread quickly enough to Alfred, and he was there at the station as they dragged the Italian in, said Italian cursing and spitting and kicking.
Between the vile words were others that America hadn't been expecting.
"Let me go, dammit! Fuck fuck fuck fuck! I'll do whatever you want, just let me go! Please, please! I'll surrender, anything, everything, anything you want in the world, just don't hurt me and let me go you fucks!"
She appeared to be struggling between the woman that Alfred had met in the cafe and...well, the one that Francis had described oh so earlier.
"Hey!" Al called over, raising his hand in a stop motion. "Give her over to me. I'll take care of her."
The officers holding her shared an uncertain glance, before nodding curtly and obediently handing Ramona over to Alfred. Alfred nodded back and pulled the wailing Italian off to the side.
"I had a feeling that I would see you again."
"Fuck off."
"I hate this. I hate you. I hate this house."
Alfred held back a smile. "Hey, I gave you the opportunity to leave. And since you're not, you're gonna live with me for the while. Better living in some dump with your mafia, right?"
Not knowing what else to do with the brunette (in all honesty, now he didn't feel like booting her out of the country), he eventually decided to bring her along back to his house. She had been naturally defiant at first, but now Ramona was seated on his couch, every now and then reminding Alfred of how much she hated this.
Alfred didn't mind.
"You were once under England? My word, I'm actually pitying you." Ramona looked down at the picture of a younger England and America with her usual sneer. To Alfred's delight, she had gotten rather used to being in his house. "That would be fucking terrible."
"Hey, I heard from France that you and your sister were practically ripped apart by different ownership's. And you were with Spain. He's worse than England."
"Well, France is a fucking liar. You can't trust perverts like him."
"Of course." Alfred stared at the back of her head as she turned and walked away, still reliving the urge to touch her curl. Or touch more.
He kept back the urge.
"Hey, bastardo. I heard some man named Capone or something has taken over some place called Chicago," Ramona said casually, poking at her coffee cake with something on her face that might have been disgust. She had never been a fan of coffee cake. "He's American. And you were so worried about my people."
"He was born in my country, but his parents are Italian," Alfred corrected gently, but firmly. It was one of those instances where he wanted to slap her silly; instances that had, unfortunately, risen often in the last couple of weeks or so.
"Whatever. He was born here, so he's American."
Like all the other urges, this one was held.
It was in October 10th 1924, the day O'Bannion was murdered, that Alfred blurted out, "I love you."
The two had been sitting in Alfred's back porch. The radio was off, so they were unaware of what was happening in Illinois. It was hot, and Ramona wouldn't stop asking for tomatoes.
Alfred interrupted her before she could ask for the tenth time with this confession.
He expected the Italian to scream and slap him, maybe even hoped for that, but nothing of the sort came. Instead, Ramona looked forlornly into the industrial distance and said, "I know."
"Ramona-"
"And I'm older than you. By centuries."
"But Ramona-"
"Just shut the fuck up, Alfred."
He did.
Days later, America managed to make a grab at Ramona's curl.
When he did, she let out the most erotic, keening little moan. With that moan Alfred felt his last piece of will snap. He pushed her to the floor and crawled over her, continuing to teasingly tug the piece of hair, frowning at Ramona's constant mumbles of, "But I'm older than you."
"I don't care if you're older than me," Alfred whispered huskily into her ear. "I just don't give a fuck."
After a moment of silence from Ramona's end, the Italian pulled up against Alfred and kissed him, sweetly. Parting, she said, "Dammit, I hate you so much."
"The feeling's mutual," America said with a smile. He passed a hand gently across her breast and kissed her again, before falling upon her.
When Alfred woke up the next morning, a pleasurable and familiar ache in his lower section, the American found himself rather alone.
There was a note beside his bed, but it was in Italian, so he obviously couldn't tell if it was a goodbye letter or if she had just gone out.
Groaning, he crawled out of bed and turned the radio on.
There was talk that a war might be coming. Right here in good ol' America. Hell, there already were little wars breaking out all over between gangs. As it turned out, the press was right here: six, maybe seven years later, New York was being fought for.
And, in one little review, there was mention of a mysterious woman within one of the groups in New York. Great.
As it turned out, Ramona did not come back that night. Or the next.
"Ya know that you still owe me, don't you?" Alfred asked abruptly, sidling up to the sour brunette.
Ramona cocked an eyebrow, leaning in the opposite direction. "And the hell do you mean by that, you cock-sucking douche?"
Alfred laughed. He couldn't help it. Ramona's vocabulary had really coloured up over the last near decade.
"You owe me for that one night. Remember? 1920's? You ditched me the next morning and never came back. Harsh."
"I never did such thing, because we never did such thing," Ramona responded stiffly, glancing around to see if anyone heard. "Now stop talking bullshit, or I'll slap you again."
Another laugh escaped from the American. Of course she hadn't forgotten. The Italian may have the lovelorn Spain on her backside twenty-four seven, but there still remained the soft spot for the North American nation beside her.
And oddly enough, they had the mafia to thank.
Well, there it is. - 3 -
So, I now know that they were Italian-Americans, buuut in my head Alfred doesn't want to admit this, which is the reason why he got to temperamental Capone came up. Ramona would be the same too, but they still have roots in her home, so she looks out for most of them.
Hope it was to your liking.