The trimmed sound byte, edited to perfection came on a day as regularly as no other.
Members of the syndicate had started to evaporate as their fellow colleagues ran more confrontations with the cops. Men were quietly taken into cop cars as the weeks rolled by, without any explain. It became apparent to the Vongola familia, that there was a mole in the bunch. The mafioso, so airtight in its protection of their members, for the first time in hundreds of years, feared for the worst.
As it were, when the e-mail appeared from a dummy account (his computer contracted a virus as soon as it opened, he should have known better) when a smooth, faintly accented voice crooned out of his laptop's speakers.
"Welcome to this week's edition of The cat's out of the bag, with 'T. '"
The feeling of a cold bucket of water being dumped over him was simultaneous with the accented man's (Japanese, late twenties) condescending tone. Each sentence he spoke was laced with venom under a veneer of false politeness. They curled off with mirth, as if with each syllable, he was on the verge of laughter.
He had the find the mole, and when he did, he would murder the son of a bitch. Nobody had to know, nobody would be none the wiser.
The mole, did not escape Gokudera's attention, and while a part of him relentlessly wanted to defend the honor of his syndicate, he knew it was a lost cause.
Men with money, head clouded judgement. They bought whores, fast cars, kept up stable drug habits, and the law turned a blind eye because such a society was necessary in order to maintain the illusion that was the word 'justice'.
So when the mole began to denounce the members, always a new one, every night, steadily working its way up, he was unworried.
Gokudera was clean, as far as records go. The only time he could say that was tainted was the day he saw his father wordlessly drag his lifeless mother by the scalp in the dead of night, all in the name of the Vongola familia, he accepted it. There was no police report, no witness, no clean up. It reminded him that there was nothing in life more important than sustaining 'justice' on the surface by taking up the role. The bad guy. He was good at it, spot on. Besides, it's not like he liked most (any) of his co-workers anyways.
When he was sent the link from the dummy account, he didn't open it. He deactivated the account from existence in a split second it had taken for him to glance at the screen.
The next day, he received an attachment on his phone.
"This is 'T' with the cat's out of the bag. Let's get started on this week's guest, Tsunayoshi Sawada. "
The silver haired man spit his cup of coffee onto the screen. The voice continued on, ignoring his folly.
"So sweet. So good. Donated three million to the Children's make a wish foundation. Philanthropist, dealing in, what was it called? Oh, 'pharmacueticals?' they must have worked on his mistress when they needed that abortion."
Abortion? Mistress?
"That's not even the worst part, though!" T, giggled without restraint.
"The pharmaceutical company, is a cover, for nuclear warheads!"
"Have fun collecting your prize. Your move, justice system."
Gokudera felt paralyzed on spot, as T's manic laughter faded out from his phone's speakers.
When he played the sound byte on his phone, Tsuna's face went pale, draining of its color.
"I DID WHAT I HAD TO! In order to keep the hands of the Vongola clean, I stained my hands in the filth of this world so you could keep your hands clean."
Gokudera reeled in shock, the tenth, so sweet and good natured and reliable, had never been this severe and wrong.
"That decision, " he said slowly, fists clenching so hard the flesh on his palms broke. "Was not yours to make. "
His face went shuttered at his guardian's response. Gokudera managed to swallow around the lump in his throat and slowly backed out of the room as the mafioso's face crumpled and the brunette buried his face in his hands.