This humble maggot does NOT own the brain-child of Hidekaz Himaruya-san. She is not that brilliant. Nor does she own Missed Me, by the Dresden Dolls and the beautiful, radiant creature that is Amanda Palmer. She wouldn't know what to do with it if she did.

Hey, Mister...

She looked at the time on her wristwatch, and blurted a frustrated curse. "Ah, fuck! I'm gonna be late! Oh, man, babbo's (1) gonna be so pissed." She ran along the sidewalk of the relatively busy street, and turned onto a quieter one, following the usual way home. She had been running at top-speed for a while now, so she stopped to catch her breath and check her watch again, cursing her inability to keep track of time like her uncle was able to do.

At this point, because she was so nervous and worried, she also forgot the main thing her parents – her papà especially – had told her since she'd been allowed to go out on her own. 'Always be aware of your surroundings.' If she hadn't forgotten, she would have noticed the man approaching slowly behind her, wielding a small knife. She was just about to swing the bag she was carrying back onto her shoulder, when he grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back, and held the knife near her neck. Her eyes widened in fear for a split second and then she relaxed, resorting to biting the inside of her lower lip.

Steeling herself for what she had to do – thank GOD her father knew an amazing amount of self-defense, and taught her said self-defense – she took a deep breath and collected all her strength. In several swift, effective movements, she had elbowed him in the solar plexus, crushed his foot with the heavy and sharp heel of her boot, punched him in the nose, and delivered another sharp elbow to the man's groin, leaving him sprawled on the ground.

Again, if she had been aware of her surroundings, she would have noticed that tall, dark, and in pain had a buddy. And this buddy was now smart to her attack. Rushing at her, he grabbed both her wrists in a single rather large hand, immobilized her legs, and had her up against the wall in one quick move. He moved his other pan-sized meat hook up, motioning to grab her neck, when suddenly he was paused by a creepily innocent-sounding voice.

If you kiss me, Mister, I might tell my sister

And my sister, Mister, she might tell my mother

And my mother, Mister, she will tell my father

And my father, Mister, He won't be too happy…

"I wouldn't do that if I were you~" Her singsong voice conflicted with the menacing look in her eyes. The combination rivaled that of a certain Russian's threatening gaze, and sent momentary shivers up the spine of the attacker. She continued talking, with smug confidence, just to stall for time. 'Any minute now…' "You see, things won't go so well for you if you do what I think you're about to do." The smirk on her lightly tanned, cherubic face grew. If there was a better poker face out there, it'd be hard to find. The man whose vice-like grip kept her captive moved his free hand to his side, and revealed a holster to a Magnum. He shifted his right leg in the process of removing the gun – the leg that was currently keeping hers restrained – so she wrestled her lower half free. She dealt a swift kick to his gut, which deterred him momentarily, but served more to anger him than help her escape. He had her pinned up against the wall again before she could take three steps in the direction she was intending.

His breath smelled of booze as he whispered into her ear, "Now, we can do this the easy way, or" he shoved the cool metal of the barrel against her forehead "the hard way. Which do you prefer," his sinister grin revealed several missing teeth, "princess?" She tried to bring her legs up to kick him in the chest, but he caught on and crushed her legs with his weight. "Well?"

She heard approaching footsteps, and in a final act of courage, she spat in his face. "Go fuck yourself, bastard. I'm not a fucking whore." He cocked the gun and pressed it more firmly to the side of her head, but before he could do anything, the familiar feeling of cold metal pressed against his neck.

A voice spoke icily, in heavily accented English. "Drop her, you son of a bitch, before I blast your fucking head off." The man dropped the gun and the young woman, and turned to see the man who'd made him lose his fix. The man with the heavy accent, most likely Italian, stood at around 176 cm, with dark brown hair and caramel-colored eyes that gleamed dangerously. A menacing snarl was the last thing the would-be rapist had seen before pain went searing through his skull, and momentarily registered that he had been pistol-whipped before passing out.

So I wouldn't miss me

If you get me, Mister, see?

"Celestina Maria Fernandez Vargas, what the hell were you thinking?" He slammed the door behind them, and Celestina winced, well aware that she was in an insane amount of trouble for one fifteen-year-old girl to get into in one day. She didn't think it was possible for him to actually get this angry… and he was aggravated more often than not.

"I'm sorry, Papà, I –" She bit her lip. She knew that no matter what she said, she was still in deep shit. He began his tirade, pacing around the room, worry pervading the cross tone he had taken.

"Do you realize what could have happened? Do you? You could very well have been raped! Worse, you could have been killed!" Celestina had started to tremble, the shock of the whole situation had settled in and compounded with the guilt, fear, and strain that she had felt during the ordeal, and it all came crashing down on her like one big wave. She gripped the fabric of her pants at her thighs, and clenched her fists tight, forcing the tears back with a stubbornness that would make even her father seem flexible. She glanced sideways through her dark fringe as he sat on the couch next to her, and she let out a shaky breath, one that threatened to break the floodgates she had kept in check. He spoke in a lower tone now, as the adrenaline he'd been running on left. "I don't know how many times I can possibly tell you, you have got to be more careful."

Celestina's eyes remained fixed on her hands, the angle of her head causing dark, wavy locks to curtain her face and shield her expression. She sniffled a little, but willed herself to not start crying. "I-I'm sorry for worrying you, father," she swallowed, almost daring the lump in her throat to impede her speech. "I can assure you I'll safeguard myself from unexpected attacks next time, sir." The venom in her words did not conceal the misery that was threatening to overcome her. She rose from the couch and stomped off into her room, slamming the door with so much force, it was likely to have come off its hinges. It was then and only then, in the safety and comfort of her room, that she let the hot tears blinding her vision escape, coupled with heart-wrenching sobs. Fatigue overtook her as the sobs shook her body, and she drifted off to sleep, her face still burrowed in the tear-soaked pillow.

The hot-blooded Italian man slumped onto the plush worn couch, elbows resting on his knees, tanned face buried in trembling hands. Adopting Celestina was one of the best decisions they had ever made, to be sure, but he severely doubted his ability to care for the treasure he was not worthy enough to call his daughter. His nerves got the best of him, and all the worry that had projected itself as anger settled itself in his throat. A few deep breaths wrested themselves from his lungs in a pitiful attempt to calm down the fiery tempered brunette. Sniffling, Lovino wiped away the renegade tear that escaped his honey colored orbs and trudged into the kitchen to make dinner for the three of them.

A soft, golden sliver of light ran in a small streak from the soft, crimson carpet to the plush, warm bed and painted a portion of Celestina's face in lights and shadows. The light sliver grew and grew until gradually, the room was filled with light from the doorway. A man walked in ever so carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping beauty. He knelt down next to her, a tanned hand raised slightly to stroke her dark wavy hair. As soon as she felt a hand on her head, she opened one bleary, caramel-colored eye. "Hi, Papa," she whispered sleepily.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" There was concern in his hazel eyes, but she was too tired for it to register.

"Tired," a yawn escaped her lips, almost as if her body was trying to emphasize it. "I was asleep just now…"

"I know, querida." A comforting smile snuck itself onto the Spanish man's tanned face. "I also know that you didn't eat your dinner. It's on the table, if you want it now." Her stomach answered eagerly in a loud grumble before her mind had the opportunity to process a protest, and a rich, smooth chuckle escaped from his lips. "Lovi made your favorite, you know," a mischievous gleam sparked in the man's emerald eyes. In a whirlwind of sudden energy, Celestina had thrown off the thick warm covers of her bed, jumped off the plush surface, thrown open the door, and bounded down the stairs before he could say "paella." Adopted or not, there were several things that Celestina and his hot-blooded lover had in common, one of those things was the simple fact that the easiest way to her heart was through her stomach. A small smile graced his face, and he slowly shook his head.

Even with all the rough patches they had to work through together, all three of them, life, Antonio decided, could never be better.

(1) Babbo = daddy, or so I've heard. Correct me if I'm wrong, please. I'm just an ignorant American (Oh my. That's redundant).