A/N: A losing entry to a weekly Deathnote contest… The prompt was "Historical AU". I'm pretty sure the 1950s is far back enough to count as historical. I still quite like it, though, despite it not winning me any pretty graphics XD Enjoy!
Notoriety
Headlamps shone, cutting beams of harsh white throwing the thin silhouette of a solemn man into the halo of illumination they created, dark slicing through a pool of light.
The street was dark; a deep, midnight blue slicked with the silver of the moon, cobbles glistening. Rivulets of blood, blackened by the late hour, trickled down the road, pooling by the wheels of a hissing, perforated Chevrolet.
Hardened leather clipped against stone as the shadowed man stepped towards the broken figure sprawled on the floor. Its pinstriped suit was punctured and stained, virulent crimson leaking into expensive cotton. A pair of aviator sunglasses, one lens shot-through and shattered, lay useless next to a mop of obscenely red hair, its vividness only enhanced by the deathly pale skin of a cold corpse.
A scarred, guilt-stricken face surveyed the scene, dark eyes hidden beneath the rim of a trilby racing wildly over the mauled body, imagining each and every one of the sixty or seventy bullets lodged deep into muscle, tissue and bone.
Danger and grief hung heavy in the still night air as a gloved hand reached out to rest upon a torn chest, pressing lightly where a heart should have beat. Dirty blonde hair hung over tanned cheeks, catching silver in the streaming rays from a car's bulbs, and a head was lowered in respect for the fallen.
Silence except for the chug of a still-running engine engulfed the mourning man. I didn't mean for you to die.
It was a cruel trade they worked in; nothing personal, everything business. Money, drugs, sex, murder - nothing was done if there was no profit in it. Emotions - pride and hurt and love and sadness - had no place in this vicious underworld; it was eat or be eaten, no room for an eye for an eye. Mafia men were supposed to be ruthless and efficient - cold - and Don Mello's infamously short, fiery temper had sparked controversy and criticism from the older, more collected family heads.
With the heavy swish of thick wool as it was dragged over and away from smooth cobbles, Mello turned on his heel and walked away from the mess of man and vehicle, coat billowing with his quick pace, muttering orders and commands to the men now flanking him. His eyes lifted and flashed murderously, the fire of vengeance burning brightly behind his cool irises, belying his calm, swift movements as a trunk was wrenched open and the ominous click-chak of an automatic rifle resonated throughout the quiet street. Slamming doors boomed like drums of war and revving engines snarled, hungry for blood, eager for the hunt to begin.
Through the glass of a car window, one last glance was shot at the dripping remains of a trusted, similarly hot-headed and reckless consort - the first kill - before screeching tyres bit at the road and baying, mechanical hounds of death flew away in chase of retribution, the stench of foul play overwhelming and all too easy to follow.
Mello fingered the cool metal of the gun cradled in his lap. Right now, this was his only business.
Review, please? I am totally not feeling the love at the moment.