Had the boy's presence really- intentionally- become more annoying- or was it just the repetition of this sequence of events?

It never changed: just like the dismal London weather, a mass of storm clouds hung over the situation, preventing any distinction like the travel of sailing ships.

A tap on the flat hard surface of a bent mahogany desk older than himself- it wasn't obnoxious at first but Finas knew that after a couple more harsh raps- five- seven- twenty- it began to alternately jar or numb the mind,
and to prick at a nerve like the drag of a claw down the surface of his inner ear. This was the noise of the door swinging open, of the sing-song lilt in the Italian's voice as he wished him Good Evening in a language the Englishman couldn't understand, but he'd heard the greeting so many many times now he could say it in his sleep.

"Buonasera, Master Kenway"

He drew his hand into his hair for a moment, not even turning from his desk.

Here he was, and there- there he was on a cold indigo Sunday night, like just like every week before it, hauling a pile of small crates that reached high above his head in his strong, albeit reedlike arms.

Finas wondered how someone so thin could lift so much-but the question was dismissed almost immediately as he had first contemplated it. He did it for the same reason Finas, in all his unsuitability, did his father's accounting: because he had to. Who or what else could could the Italian possibly be
suited for? It wasn't a question of wealth for Finas- the Kenway line had all that and more, for generations, but to let the businuess die while his father still lived? So he could go gallavanting off into the navy like he wanted? It was heresy. It was all a matter of patience. If there was one thing Finas took away from it all it was this: Patience was not only a virtue, but also the most important.

In the corner of his eye the Italian was looking for a place to put the new crates, making a small (and irritatingly disappointed) clucking noise when he found that most of the ones he'd brought last week hadn't even been unpacked: a testament to the hopeless nature of the situation.

Despite his insistence, admittedly "delivery man" wasn't the first word Finas would have used for him the first moment he saw him. In fact, he wouldn't have been able to think of one word to describe him if pressed.

When the boxes had been slowly lifted down to the last clean space of floor in the office, the Italian's dark eyes snapped upward. They were a complete molten black, but they seemed to shine in the intelligent, greedy way that a raven's did when it spotted something shiny.

Finas always secretly wished he could punch him for looking at him, one of his betters, as if he were a morsel, but he would not hit a man for his nature, he had learned this degree of patience long ago.

The Italian didn't act as poor as he was- as he ought to have acted. He held his head high,and never stopped the mindless flow of chatter after Finas had relented and exchanged the greeting.

Finas had never known him to be anything other than infuriatingly chipper despite the obvious wear and tear on the same clothes he wore every week, despite the numerous bruises that bloomed with a certain finality on his dark cheek. Despite having presumablynothing at all except what menial funds Finas's father shelled out to him for doing menial labors, the Italian seemed infinitly more happy than he did.

And this, like everything about the other man, his voice, his mannerisms, the cocksure grin on his thin face, got on Finas's nerves.

It wasn't that Finas was always somber, it was perhaps that the Italian had started working here in the past few seasons when his relationship with his father was experiencing, for lack of a better word: strain.

Finas was happy in action, happy with the weight of a horse underneath him, happy hunting in the mountains accompanied by the pack of pure bred dogs whose ancestors had hunted with his great grandfather, and his great great grandfather. Racing over impossibly foggy hill country on his palomino mare, led only by the baying of the dogs who smelled more than they saw with their eyes. Finas admired a good dog.

But this was where the young man wasn't happy, wasn't anything resembling happy: doing paperwork for his father while the old man slept and slept, as he'd been doing so often recently. Having to habitually deal with cheek from a not only younger but considerably less important man.

But for all this he stuck with his old staple, his words half hidden by his sigh.

"Good evening Casimiro".

[How should I continue this guys? Please leave suggestions in the reviews! I seriously have no idea where to take this story.]