America sits in the large leather chair behind the imposing Mahogany desk. The news her right-hand man gives her makes her smile; but then again, everything does. Nevertheless, there is business to be taken care of.

"An agreement, you say?"

Canada nods. As the second-in-command, Canada is in charge of a lot of things. But this is a matter for the head of the family. America smiles again.

"Well then, let's get these negotiations rolling! But first, I need my clubs, my caddy, and a hamburger. It's time for golf."

Canada nods again; he is used to his leader's surprising and seemingly pointless whims. He has long since learned to trust them as well thought-out decisions. After all, you don't get to be head of the North American mafia by making reckless choices.

Cold-hearted murder, more like.

America stands impatiently on her private golf course, tapping her foot. She has neither her caddy, nor her clubs, both of which are essential to golfing. It's lucky someone remembered to get her a hot dog.

"Hel-LO! Golfer missing essential golfing tools here! How do you people expect me to play without even a golf ball? FLORIDA!"

"¿Sí, Señora?" The state called for steps forward nervously carrying a golf bag twice his size, fear making him revert to his childhood language.

"English, Florida, English. And my driver, if you please."

"S- Yes, Ma'am."

The first few notes of "The Star-Spangled Banner" ring out, and America reaches for her phone.

"We've recovered the stray. Suspicions confirmed," Canada's voice relays.

"Excellent! Send him here."

Almost immediately, a slight Hispanic man approaches where America is about to tee off.

"Panama," America greets, surveying the ball.

"You wanted to see me, Ma'am?"

America straightens her stance and swings the club with extreme force at the ball, sending it flying through the air. Panama shivers; for all he knows, he could end up like that ball.

These private meetings with the Boss generally don't end well.

"Someone told me you took an, uh, visit to see your dear old dad, Spain. It was only a family visit, right?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Panama fights to keep the stammer out of his voice.

"You didn't happen to give away any inside information, right?" America motions for Florida to set up another shot.

"No, Ma'am," Panama says.

"Liar!" spits America, and she swings. This time, it's not at the ball.

Florida turns away. He's already heard the sharp crack of metal on bone; he doesn't want to see the crimson pouring from his friend's head onto the green grass, like Christmas.

"You do not cross the North American family," snarls America, her words not meant just for Panama, and her cell rings again.

"The Guests are here," Canada reports, and the smile returns to her face.

"Fantastic! Send them in." Hanging up, America continues, "and Florida, get rid of this," she nudges Panama's lifeless body, "and this," she hands him the bloodied club.

Florida takes them with disgust. He really hates his job.

It's just too bad he's in too deep to leave.

Canada appears a while later, with three women in tow. Steadily, he pulls the golf cart up to the golfer and her returned caddy and lets the South American Boss and her escorts out of the ride.

The negotiations begin.

"Hey Brazil," America greets her southern rival cheerily. "How's it going?"

"It goes well, America. And you?" Chile and Argentina shift awkwardly next to their leader, and everyone but Canada flinches as their hostess takes a shot.

"Oh, you know," she says, and hits yet another ball. "Spies, betrayal, golf… the usually."

"Why do you take so many shots?" asks Chile, as she jumps again at the American's excessive force.

"Wha? Oh. I hit a lot of balls, so when I move on, I can pick the best one and hit a bunch of balls from there."

"Isn't that… cheating?" asks Argentina, tilting her head. America shrugs.

"Maybe."

Brazil frowns. "But what is the point? You end up using more effort than necessary. And how do you even keep track?"

"Look. I don't tell you how to do… whatever it is you do, so don't tell me how to play. Besides, like they say, it doesn't matter how you play, as long as you have fun and win."

"I think you messed that saying up."

"Did not. But whatever. You wanted a deal with me?"

"Sim." Brazil nods. "I believe we will both benefit from an alliance between our families, and we don't have any real issues between out families, anyway. Besides, we are all technically Americans, are we not?"

"Yeah, sure!" America agrees, deciding to move on with her game. "Canada, give them the papers."

Said country appears and produces a contract, which is promptly edited by Chile and signed by Brazil, who puts out her hand. The two most dangerous people in the western hemisphere shake hands. America smiles again, and this time Brazil is almost sure she sees a glimpse of malice in it.

"Canada, please take our new allies to the Caribbean house, and introduce them to Domi." At Brazil's puzzled look, she explains, "The Caribbean Family is a branch of the North American one; The Dominican Republic is in charge. I want you to meet her, so she can get to know her new 'friends'. Florida, my putter."

Canada gestures for the three to follow him to the golf cart and drives to the main estate, where a boy who looks suspiciously like a miniature France is arguing with a weirdly Canada-looking girl in the main hallway.

"The world needs more l'amour, not violence. We should hug, not shoot, and the only roughhousing should be during times of intense love-making! And, more importantly, you should not hit me!" says the French one passionately.

"No, Québec, you should stop being so French and stupid, and do your job right sometime!" retorts his companion, equally as passionate. "Oh, hi Canada."

"Ontario," he greets, frowning. "Québec."

"Bonjour!"

"English," hisses Virginia as she passes by.

"Oui, mademoiselle," Québec turns toward the guests, "Et bonjour à vous, "

"…Hi."

"And who are you?" Québec asks, ignoring the efforts of his fellow territory trying to shut him up.

"None of your business," Canada cuts in, and motions for Brazil and her entourage to follow him back outside.

"I've called a car," he explains, and points to an extremely extravagant silver limousine in the driveway.

A short drive later, and the group pulls up in front of a different manor, though not as large. Outside stand who Brazil presumes are two members of the Caribbean branch.

"'N so tey take teh banana from teh mon, 'n tey trow it bok 'n 'is face, sayin' 'I ain't a sceered of no damn fruit'," says one in black, yellow, green, and dreadlocks. Her companion, dressed in a similar color scheme and sporting a huge afro laughs vivaciously.

Canada steps forward and the two spontaneously seem to notice the group and stand at attention.

"Canada," they greet.

"The door, please, ladies."

The two immediately engage in a mad scramble to pull open the double French doors. After several minutes, they succeed.

"The door, Canada," they chorus together in unison.

The South Americans step into a hallway alive with bouncing beats and several gratingly loud voices. A dark-skinned boy seemingly in his early teens appears.

"Canada," he salutes.

Brazil begins to wonder what the deal is with the saluting Canada thing is.

Canada turns to the three women behind him. "This is the U.S. Virgin Islands," he introduces. "V.I., this is Brazil, Chile, and Argentina. We would like to speak to Dominica."

The boy nods, and Argentina gapes. "You're the Virgin Islands? I'd always thought…"

"-I'd be a girl? Yeah, I get that a lot." The boy turns and leads the way through a maze of hallways, all filled with various Caribbeans, most of whom are being loud. Eventually, the come to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door.

"I'll just let her know you're here," V.I. tells them, and steps into the room, leaving the other four to stand awkwardly in the hall.

"U.S. Virgin Islands?" asks Chile.

"There are British ones."

"Ah."

There is a thud on the other side of the door, and a few seconds later V.I. opens it.

"Come in," he says cheerily, kicking bits and pieces of chair away from the entrance. Inside the large and sparsely lit room a small brown-haired and copper-skinned girl sits on the large executive desk, to the right of which is who Brazil recognizes as Cuba, smoking his iconic cigar expressionlessly. What may be the largest leather chair Brazil has ever seen is turned away from them behind the desk.

"Brazil, I'd like you to meet The Dominican Republic, leader of the Caribbean branch of the North American Family. Dominica, This is Brazil, head of The South American Family," Canada introduces. The leather chair whips around to reveal a tan Hispanic woman glaring as hard as she possibly can.

"Hell no," The Dominican Republic snarls.

"Excuse me?" asks Brazil.

"I see what's going on here," Dominica points a heavily jeweled finger at her guests. "An alliance. And I say hell no."

"Oh, really?" Canada lifts an eyebrow.

"Bitch, please, don't tell me when I can and cannot-"

"America has already sealed the deal," Canada informs her.

Dominica bites her lip and spins the chair around. A second later she turns back around, a kindly smile on her face.

"Hello," she says pleasantly. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you in the near future."

Canada nods approvingly, and then turns to the very confused South Americans. "I've contacted your driver; your car should be arriving about now. Come, V.I. will lead us back to the door."

Dominica watches as they leave her office, and when the door closes she scowls ferociously.

"There is no way," she hisses to her companions, "I will ever work with them. Ever."

Cuba grunts and Haiti nods in agreement.

The door creaks open, and V.I. slips back in, and hands Dominica a letter, which promptly get handed to Haiti to be read.

"Dominican Republic," Haiti reads, in Spanish, for Dominica's sake, "I understand you are… hesitant to start working with our Southern neighbors, but rest assured. We know they can't be trusted. But, it is as America says-"

Dominica snorts and spins her chair around, and comes face-to-face with Canada through her window.

"Keep your friends close, and you're enemies even closer," quotes Canada.

Dominica screams and hops up on her desk. Within the same instant, Cuba and Haiti whip out their guns, and V.I. has ducked for cover behind the desk.

"Creeper!" Dominica screams as Haiti and Cuba relax and The Virgin Islands peeps up over the edge of the desk. "You fucking creeper! What the hell are you doing outside my window?"

Canada taps on the glass, and Haiti moves to open the window. "Just trying to get the message across," Canada says amiably, and leans in. "After all, would you rather have them back in their own countries where you have no idea as to what they're doing?"

The Dominican Republic leans back in her chair thoughtfully, and then a smile creeps slowly onto her face. "Well," she says, "Boss knows best."

Down the street, a limousine is pulling away. Inside, Brazil sits across from Argentina and Chile as all three sip wine.

"They hardly seem like they could run a regular house, much less a Mafia one," notes Chile.

"True," replies Brazil, "But we should never underestimate an opponent." She grins and raises her glass. "To victory, ladies."

"To victory."

Author's Note:

This is second fic I've written that ended with the word victory. But I plan to make this one multi-chaptered (wrote three chapters already). You should review, to help fortify me against the murder that is typing.

YES. This fic supports Canada with a backbone. Deal with it.

I'm not entirely sure if Panama is dead. He may be alive. It's up to you.

V.I. had to duck, because he's not allowed to have a gun.

Hetalia doesn't belong to me, but Florida, Panama, Brazil, Chile, Argentina, Québec, Ontario, Virginia, The Dominican Republic, The U.S. Virgin Islands, those two chicks at the door (Jamaica & St. Kitts and Nevis), and Haiti do. Don't worry, I won't make his entirely about fan characters. It really is about America and China.

Review. Or else I'll send America with her club after you.