Summary:
Renato isn't intimidated by anything. Except nothing. That's why he's a hitman. [drabble] [character study]
Disclaimer:
I don't own KHR! or the cover picture.
The main difference between an assassin and a hitman is their publicity.
Assassins strike silently, as close to the ninjas of legend as they can, already moving off into the shadows before their target even knows someone's there, or that they're already dead.
In that respect, the Varia are closer to hitman.
Their target always knows very well that someone's there and that they're going to die; they die with fear in their eyes and the knowledge of that inevitable end.
They're more... flashy, shall we say, though their intimidation factor is useful for building a reputation.
With a good reputation comes good jobs comes fame.
.
Renato isn't intimidated by anything.
Except nothing.
As child of an unknown Mafioso and a neglectful drug-addict whore who soon bled out on the harsh and pitiless alleyways when Renato was nine, he doesn't have many options.
Out of them, there are even fewer that he's actually willing to consider, and still less that he'd pick.
So he wipes off the blood from the jagged piece of glass in his hand, stands up from his defensive crouch, and decides to become a freelance killer in the Mafia.
.
Nobody takes him seriously at first, which is both okay and really, really not.
On one hand, he makes a lot of mistakes starting out, and it's useful being forgiven for those mistakes since newbies as young as him aren't expected to follow high standards.
On the other hand, while underestimation is good, it rankles him to keep quiet under their clearly derisive glances and scoffing words of doubt.
Worse is when they just look right past him, right through him, like he's not even there, not even worth their notice.
And maybe he's not yet.
But he will be.
Because he is Renato Sinclair, damnit, and he is something that will be someone great.
He will never-not-ever let himself be reduced back to that nameless little gutter boy who nobody would know or care about if he died, he will never-not-ever be nothing ever-not-never again.
If he dies?
He's going to die in blaze of glory so bright everyone will not be able to ignore it.
He's going to die a hitman.
He is not, however, going to die an unknown rookie one.
Renato savagely presses harder on his chest wound, teeth grinding against the bitten bullet, and fires off another round to fell the last wave of attackers, all the while fervently ferociously fiercely wishing this gaping probably-mortal injury would just hurry up and heal already.
.
Yellow fire blooms in billowing blossoms around him, glittering blindingly like the edges of a diamond dagger.
He doesn't die an unknown rookie hitman.
.
Assassins, with their secrecy and shadowy silence, are a breed of criminal whose lives he would never be able to mimic.
Now, as the famous, globally-recognized Greatest Hitman in the World, he has enough recognition to soothe his anger and worry and fear, and he occasionally picks up a few assassinations here and there, ones where he sneaks up behind instead of saunters in front, and can accept not being credited for his flawless kills by anyone other than the client.
But he's a hitman, a born prodigy in the art of visible kills, and Renato refuses to fade into the dark as an invisibly killing assassin.
He shines bright and burns light and for a while he's king of the trade, all wrapped up in capes of gore and glory, reigning among the ranks of similar monarchs.
Talks lunch with the Vongola, pals around with the Chiavarone, meets often with the Giglio Nero: big names with big money and big power, legal or not.
.
Then that fucker Checkerface shows up.
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