Ciao everybody!

Oooookay, so here I am again, annoying everybody with my stories!

How are you? How are you enjoying your holidays? I closed the poll earlier than expected, because I had already started writing this! (It was a tie between the mafia story and the fantasy one, by the way X)) I don't know, I just can't stay without writing and I can't restrain myself from uploading now...! o_o I do not know about when the uploads will be... they'll probably be erratic and random until it's still summer, but will be more regular once september begins...

This story takes place during the 70's, around 1975 (still not sure about the year, I'll have to research some more.) Let me tell you, around that time, it was HELL.

I asked several people of that time, about the world in general, Europe and Italy and... wow. Just wow. Apart from the whole Cold War thing wich was at its climax, the whole of Europe was a mess. France, Enlgand, Spain, and Germany of course... In italy in particular, these years were called "Gli anni di piombo", ergo, "The lead years". I even discovered that in 1974 a bomb exploded in the plaza of the city just near my place... kind of scary, mostly because I always thought that this region was always kind of peaceful and isolated...!

Anyway, it was hectic. Politically, socially, economically... I'll talk more about it later on, when I'll know some more.

Here is the Prologue, I hope you'll like it! Sorry for the long rant, by the way C:

Please sit back... und ENJOY

PROLOGUE

It was a wonderful night. There was no moon, and it was cloudy. A perfect, completely dark night. No one could have seen the two shadows on a wooden dock by a harbour.

"No! Please! I have a wife!" the man at the end of the dock exclaimed. He fell on his knees, begging the man in front of him to spare him.

"See if I care." The standing man replied, looking annoyed while chewing on a toothpick.

"Please!" The kneeling man repeated, crying. "Please, I beg of you!"

The standing man broke the toothpick between his teeth, scowling. "…You should have known this would happen if you said anything to the police."

The kneeling man's eyes widened in shock. "I-I didn't tell anything! I-I-I swear!"

"…Bullshit." The man spat the broken toothpick to his right and reached for something inside the jacket of his suit. "Now jump. Or do I have to help you with that?"

The crying man furiously shook his head, while still on his knees. His hands were tied behind his back, and there was a cement block tied to both his ankles. "P-please! I…I have money! A lot of money! I can pay you!"

"Nah, it's too late for that. You fucked things up since the very beginning."

A gunshot and a cry echoed through the docks and the dark black night.

A splash. Followed suit by a second one, much heavier. Then, silence.

Now there was only one man standing on the dock. The man looked down at the moving dark waters, and then at the sky, while putting the still fuming Beretta away. He then hurriedly walked away, the wooden boards of the dock creaking under his shiny black shoes.

"Move it, assholes. We're getting the fuck out of here." The man said while passing in front of other two men that were waiting for him beside a building.

"Sure thing, Boss."

…Two days later…

"Captain! Captain!" A voice was calling for him from the end of the corridor. The Captain sighed, bringing his fingertips to his temples. It was barely even seven in the morning. Didn't most Italians sleep around this time? He was British, so he usually was a morning person. But that morning he hadn't had his tea, so he was kind of irritated by himself already. Why did they have to bloody bother him so early?!

"Captain!"

He sighed again, hearing the running footsteps of the Lieutenant running to his office. He prepared himself, sitting straight in his chair. In a matter of moments he would barge in slamming the door and-

"Captain Kirkland!"
Indeed, his subordinate slammed the door open, almost breaking the glass of it. The Captain forced a smile on his lips. "Good morning to you too, Delisi."

Delisi was panting, while looking to his superior. The Lieutenant blinked, straightened his spine and regained composure. "Ahem. Good morning to you as well, Captain. We have a problem."

The Captain sighed yet again. "What kind of problem?"

"Body kind of problem, sir. It's been the mafia again, by the docks."

The blond Captain scowled, standing up immediately to grab his coat and hat. "Bloody hell."

"There's no doubt sir. The mafia again." A police officer told him, while hovering over the dead man's body that had just been fished from the harbour's waters.

Captain Arthur Kirkland held a handkerchief to his mouth and nose so he didn't have to inhale the foul stench of the body. Of course, it was the mafia's work again. The man's hands were tied behinds his back, and his feet were tied together to a cement block. The body had horribly swollen, you could see that from the ropes that dug into the man's wrists and ankles.

He would never understand the kind of entertainment the Mafiosi would get out of such a murder. Letting the victim beg for his life on his knees, probably crying, saying he had a wife and children, often offering money. The murderers would obviously never accept such offers, and the victims would obviously never jump by themselves. So they would usually be shoved into the water, or shot. This man had been shot. But not in a vital part of the body, of course. The victim was destined to drown, slowly and painfully. A bullet to the heart or the forehead would have been too merciful. So the Captain wasn't surprised to see that this man had been shot in the shoulder. The bullet would have had enough force to make him lose his balance so he would fall backwards, into the deep water. And then of course… the cement block would follow the victim and seal his fate.

"Do we already know the victim's identity?" he asked.

"Not yet. But we're working on it."

"It's…it's him again, isn't it, Captain?" Delisi asked, glancing at his superior.

Arthur Kirkland gritted his teeth. He knew who it had been. Of course. Everyone knew it. The Boss of the local mafia. No one knew his name, and his henchmen called him 'Italy'. What they did know was his surname. Vargas.

The so called infamous 'Italy' Vargas.

That damned man, he probably was the devil himself. His soul was blacker than the night, that is, if he even had a soul. But even if he were soulless, he did have a brilliant mind. Because he would always result clean from the crimes he and his organisation committed. He never made a mistake, so they never got enough proof to drag him in front of a court and a judge. He sometimes would spend one or, even more rarely, two nights in jail, of course. But Arthur always had to release him, much to his dismay, after that short period of time, because they didn't have any proof of anything.

"I'm afraid it is, Lieutenant." The Captain sighed. "So we're probably wasting our time here. We won't find anything." He walked away from the body, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket.

Delisi hunched his shoulders, discouraged, as he followed his superior.

"Sir! We found something! In the water!" a police officer said, running to them, waving a hand in the air, holding an object.

Something sparked in the green eyes of the Captain as he turned. But he did not hope for too much. It probably was nothing, it probably was a mistake, it probably was…

"A toothpick!"

… completely useless. The light that had sparked moments before disappeared quickly. The Captain huffed and shook his head, walking away again.

"Sir, sir! Wait! I recognize it!" Delisi exclaimed, taking the object in his hands, gaining his Captain's attention.

"What could possibly be recognizable about a broken toothpick?" Arthur honestly asked, turning to young Lieutenant.

Delisi grinned. "Italy has the habit of walking around while chewing on a toothpick. I noticed that some time ago. So I made some research, and it turned out that Italy always purchases the same toothpicks!" He held up the broken wooden object in his fingers triumphantly. "This kind of toothpicks."

The spark of hope returned in Arthur's green eyes. It wasn't much, but that toothpick was something. And it was more than anything they had found in those two years, ever since Italy Vargas appeared.

"It's definitely a start." Captain Kirkland murmured.

Captain Arthur Kirkland scowled, annoyed, as he leaned on his desk. He glared at the man seated in front of him.

Italy Vargas was sitting on a chair in his office, one hand cuffed, legs crossed one on the other. It hadn't been difficult to find him. Quite the contrary. He was walking around at the local open market in the plaza, that very morning. He always did that. He always did as if he were a normal, law-respecting, honest citizen, walking out in the open as if he had nothing to hide. Seeing his habit of staying up late in the evenings and the obvious sneaking around during the nights, Arthur was actually surprised that this man didn't look tired.

His face had a healthy tint of slightly tanned pink, no trace of the sleepless nights under his eyes.

He looked a bit older than twenty, but no one knew his actual age. He had documents, of course, but Arthur fairly doubted those were real. He was wearing a black suit, striped with thin grey lines, and brand new shiny black shoes. He had a black, also striped, fedora hat resting elegantly on his brown hair. He was softly humming a tune to himself, and the foot that was suspended in the air moved rhythmically. It was kind of irritating.

"Stop that!" Arthur snapped at the Mafioso.

Italy stopped humming immediately, and the foot also stopped moving up and down. A surprised expression appeared on his face. Arthur hated that face. It looked so boyish, so young and smooth, so…innocent. But he knew that behind those round features, there was a cold, criminal, crazy, unmerciful killing mind.

"Mister Captain, you don't like music?" He asked, smiling sweetly.

Arthur gritted his teeth, but did his best not to show he was irritated. And he did not answer the Italian. He would not give him the satisfaction of that.

Italy pouted. He pouted like a child to whom a biscuit had been denied.

Arthur hated that. He hated everything of that man. Italy had been in his office many times already, and he knew he had two different attitudes: the scowling 'I'm a tough guy, do not mess with me' attitude and the smiling 'I'm so innocent, can't you see?' attitude. This was definitely the act number two. And he would not fall for it.

They had a… toothpick. Arthur wanted to kick himself. It was a small proof, and circumstantial. They had to find a witness next, or let him confess. But both options were highly improbable to happen. Arthur, after the initial euphoria of finally finding something, had to sadly admit that they didn't have anything against the smiling demon in front of him.

It actually sounded kind of ridiculous. A toothpick. Yeah, right. It would never work. Again, he felt the urge to kick himself for his stupidity.

Anger boiled inside the British Captain. He could practically see Italy kill that innocent man in front of his eyes. The victim, begging to be spared, at the end of the dock. Italy, smiling, shooting at him without mercy. The victim, falling backwards into the water, dragging the fatal cement weight with him, and Italy, slowly walking away, humming the same tune he was humming in his office.

He had to stop him. This had to be the right time. This had to be the time they could finally drag this criminal to jail for good and throw the key away. Even if the 'proof' they had found was kind of ridiculous.

Arthur heard footsteps echoing down the hall. He recognized them already. It was Delisi, finally - and hopefully - bringing to him the papers and the proof that would finally incriminate Vargas.

His man knocked at the door. "Come in." Arthur said, his eyes not leaving Italy. The Mafioso was staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly twiddling his thumbs in his lap. As if it were a normal nuisance, a normal misunderstanding. And he, the innocent man, had to be patient so that the stupid police officers could understand.

The Lieutenant opened the door and entered the room, and his expression already told Arthur everything. He felt completely, utterly powerless.

Italy would walk again.

Italy would walk out of his office, again.

Italy would walk and commit even more crimes with his organisation, again.

Delisi walked towards his Captain, delusion written all over his features. He gave some papers to the Brit. "We… we could pinpoint the hour of the victim's death. It was on Tuesday night, roughly around two in the morning. Vargas has an alibi. Around that hour he was at Giorgio's restaurant… having a drink."

Italy smiled, not looking at the ceiling anymore. "Giorgio makes a wonderful Limoncello. You should try it, Captain! It wouldn't stain your teeth like that awful tea of yours."

Arthur had to call upon all his self control not to lash out and strangle the madman seated in front of him. He breathed through his nose, closing his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. "How long did he stay there?"

"He… he was there from nine. He had dinner, and stayed until three in the morning."

"Who are the witnesses?"

"Giorgio himself, many clients, and one of our men." Delisi stated, lips set in a straight line.

Silence fell heavily in the room.

Italy smiled, and clapped his hands once, both feet on the ground now. "Well! That settles it, right? Could you please uncuff me? These things aren't exactly comfortable…"

The Lieutenant uncuffed, scowling, the Italian, who stood up rubbing his wrist. He then straightened his clothes, adjusted his hat and headed for the door.

Before leaving, he turned, smiling, to the obviously fuming British Captain.

"It was nice seeing you again, Captain! And remember what I said about the tea! Ladies don't like yellow teeth. As well as those big, bushy eyebrows of yours!"

Then, he left.

The Captain's face was distorted into a snarl. He tried distracting himself, while glaring at the door. "Do we have the victim's identity?"
"…Yes. Mario Torrisi, 41 years old. He ran a grocery shop with his wife. He tried to contact us on Tuesday morning because he had a… a 'problem' with the mafia in his neighbourhood…"

Arthur roared in frustration and punched the wall.

Outside, Italy Vargas stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling merrily while returning to the morning market. He needed to buy tomatoes.

That evening, Arthur sat behind his desk, after the umpteenth cup of tea to calm down. The knuckles of his right hand had a small bandage. He was staring at every information he had of Italy Vargas

Which wasn't much, really. Italy had managed to keep many things from them, even after being stalked for more than a year.

He had appeared two years earlier, already with trustful henchmen. He had immediately settled himself in Palermo and started his organisation. After one year, the Italian police department had called for him, Arthur Kirkland, because they couldn't stop him.

Vargas lived in a villa he had inherited from his grandfather, a certain Romulus Vargas. This was before Arthur's time there in Palermo, he had only heard stories of him, from one of the elders at the police station. This Romulus guy had been the head of the mafia for twenty years, before suddenly disappearing. He had also been untouchable, just like his grandson. It ran in the family, apparently. But Romulus had been a… well, even that elder that had been there couldn't really explain it. The only thing that he had managed to explain was that he had been a 'Good Mafioso'.

"What the bloody hell does that even mean…?!" Arthur sighed, rubbing his face with one hand.

The elder had not really been able to explain it clearly to him. The man is probably becoming senile already, Arthur had thought at that time.

"Bloody bastards…" he muttered, looking at Italy's file and the long list of his many henchmen, confirmed or suspected. He had added another name to the list in pen, beside the 'suspects' column. 'Giorgio d'Effremo, restaurant keeper', and a big question mark. Because maybe he wasn't one of his men, maybe he had been blackmailed, maybe he had been paid… but it was another man to keep an eye on.

Arthur took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Italy was always clean. As were his men. It had been an idiotic idea, ridiculous to say the least, to try and get him with a toothpick. But it really had been more than they had ever had against him. Which meant they never had anything. Except, of course, of everyone knowing who he was and what he did.

Arthur sighed, tugging at his hair. The wanker always had an alibi! Whenever a body showed up, obviously killed by the mafia, Italy would always have been somewhere else, seen and noticed by dozens of people. How could he always be in two places at once?! Because he really was.

Whenever there was someone to kill, Arthur knew Italy was there. He could see it in his eyes. Arthur knew that Italy was always the one pulling the trigger to end the victim's life. All other stuff was organised by his henchmen, and Italy would be present, but only supervising. The stealing, the black market, the 'pizzo'… but if there was a person to kill because of whatever reason, Italy would be there, and he would be the butcher.

He obviously had checked multiple times that the man walking around openly visible during the evenings wasn't an impostor. He had thought that it had to be someone that looked like Italy, and that needed to be the alibi while the real Italy arranged his dirty affairs.

But it had always been him. Italy Vargas, not a look-alike. Freaking always. And again, the two acts would show up. The scowling aggressive one, or the innocently smiling one. It was kind of unsettling how good Italy was in acting both attitudes that were so different from each other.

Arthur and the other police officers had concluded he must have a personality disorder. He indeed probably had it, seeing Italy was a madman. A crazy soulless murderer. Murderer, killer…no, that man was a butcher. And his madness was an organized kind of madness, which made him much more dangerous.

"Darn it all!" Arthur exclaimed, throwing all the files off the table with one arm sweep, along with his teacup - which fortunately didn't shatter, as it bounced on the floor.

He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't stop him.

That mad damned butcher.

Italy would still commit crimes, with that damned organisation of his, right under his nose. He probably was already active, that very night, while he was sitting at his desk glaring at the files.

Arthur scowled, and glared at the phone on his desk.

That was it.

That last murder had been the last drop.

He knew he couldn't do this. And he wasn't exactly a nobody. He was the still young, yet already famous Captain Arthur Kirkland, sent from London to Sicily, Palermo, because the Italians had needed someone experienced with criminals. They had seen him as a saviour, who would finally rid them of the demon, Italy Vargas.

But nooooo. He had not been enough.

Someone even more experienced than him was needed. And he just knew two people, who had fame over all of Europe that they could solve any case, any mystery, anything.

He grabbed the phone, but then let it go. Calling abroad would cost a fortune.

He would send a telegram.

He swiftly wrote two short telegrams, and gave them to one of his subordinates.

"Sorry sir, do I read right? Two surnames?" he asked, looking perplexed at the address.

"Yes, he's Spanish. Mister Fernandez Carriedo."

"Where to?"
"Madrid. Central Police centre, department of Investigations. Same counts for the other one, to Berlin." Arthur said, nonchalantly.

The subordinate's nostrils flared, eyes wide. "Berlin, sir? Which side?"

Arthur blinked. Oh, of course. The Soviets. "West side. Mister Beilschmidt. Go."

The young man sighed, relieved, and left with the telegrams.

Arthur put his fingertips together, while leaning with his elbows onto his desk. He glared yet again at the files which were now scattered on the ground.

"Soon, Italy Vargas. You'll soon pay for all that you've done. Enjoy your last few weeks of freedom."

So, there you have it, the prologue! :D

And? Did you like it? I sure did, and I'm fairly excited about all of this! I hope you are too! C:

Have a fantastic day, everybody!

...

Pizzo: Protection money paid by a business to the Mafia, usually coerced and constituting extortion. The term is derived from the Sicilian 'pizzu' = beak. To wet someone's beak (Sicilian: "fari vagnari 'u pizzu") is to pay protection money