My (False) Love

001: Sicario

hit-man (n., slang) / a hired killer, especially a professional killer from the underworld


My grandfather once told me that 'fated meetings' are ones that occur unexpectedly, that cause your heart to stop, that you never realize as something other than 'chance' until the very end.


At dusk it echoes throughout the empty cobblestone streets. It resounds in a muffled manner, rises up into the clouded skies, and is swallowed whole by the heavy air. Then, for a short while there is silence.

Click. Clack.

Gold pellets clatter to the ground as a thin pillar of smoke is dragged up from the barrel of a gun by a sudden updraft in the wind. The barrel is pointed towards a small hole that indents the back of an elderly man's head. As the man slumps to his knees, the barrel - guided by a steady and unshaking hand - is lowered.

Thud.

The elderly man falls forward. His skull cracks against the worn down cobblestone.

There is silence. This time there is silence for a long while.

Noise comes several hours later. The wail of police sirens. The crinkling of yellow tape as it is drawn around the bloody scene. The gossiping whispers of onlookers and policemen alike.

A day later the local newspaper circulates through the neighborhood. Its headline reads — 'Sicario Romano Strikes Again! Believed Camorra Boss Found Dead in Alleyway!'


My grandfather once told me what 'fated meetings' were.

If what he said was true, I've probably had enough damned 'fated meetings' to last me ten thousand life-times.

Hearts are easy as hell to stop, after all.


[an officer's brief documentation]

The Oenotrus Family ("people from the vines") | A powerful organized crime family stationed in the heart of Italy. Deals in drug cartel, contract killing, and weapons manufacturing.

The Vargas | A special 'group' within the Oenotrus Famiglia that is viewed as the famiglia's head. Gave birth to the Oenotrus Famiglia. Head unknown after the death of Gaius Vargas.

The Castile Family | A powerful famiglia with Spanish origins that is slowly spreading its reaches across Europe. Deals in weapons manufacturing, human trafficking, murder, arson, illegal gambling.

The Sussex Firm | A mysterious British crime firm. Very little data known. Deals in drug cartel, human trafficking, and weapons manufacturing. Believed to hold rivalry with the Castile Family. Side-note: possible witchcraft relations?

The Teutonics | An old German organized crime group that has lost power in recent years. Now believed to be a simple motorcycle gang. Formerly dealt in drugs manufacturing. Suspected involvement of destruction of public property. Believed to be in league with the Castile Family.

Gaul Industries | A French cosmetic and culinary corporation headed by Francis Bonnefoy. Suspected mafia ties. To investigate.

Albion Corp. | A British multicultural culinary corporation headed by Arthur Kirkland. Rivals Gaul Industries in the market. Suspected British crime firm ties. To investigate.

Aragon Inc. | A Spanish company that manufactures alcoholic products as well as culinary products. Rivals Albion Corp and Gaul Industries in the market. Suspected mafia ties. To investigate.

Jones-William's Firm | A private investigation firm headed by two brothers - Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams. Somehow managed to uncover a series of murder investigations? Perhaps are involved with murders themselves. To investigate.

The Pool | The collective name given to a group of hired-out assassins and contract-killers.


His name is Lovino Vargas; and one notable quality he finds about himself is that he seems to be good at only one thing. Killing. It's not something that he flaunts boastfully, but it's not something he is particularly ashamed of either. (He has to put food on the table somehow, after all.) Regardless, he's been "praised" (Just a bunch of fake bullshit) by several members of his famiglia for it. Not as heavily praised as his brother Feliciano though. Afterall, his brother Feliciano has put aside the family business to attend university. The first to do so in over a decade!

"Was there really a need for that fucking serenade though?" Lovino grumbles to himself.

He tucks the bag of tomatoes he has just bought from the grocers under his arm and shoves his hands into his pockets. It's not particularly cold out but his hands are clammy and gross. That and they smell like gunpowder and metal. Not something he wants the cute girls littering the streets to smell when he flirts with them.

He lifts his head and scans the streets. There. Just by the opening of an alleyway sways a fair maiden who is smiling shyly at him. Curly dark brown hair and bright amber eyes. Kind of his type.

He begins to stride over to her; and he starts to mirror her smile. But then he sees something flash in the alleyway behind her; and he immediately scowls.

The fair maiden's smile drops at the sight. She glances around the street, huffs, and walks off in the opposite direction. Her reaction causes Lovino to blanch and his scowl to deepen tenfold.

Begrudgingly, he trudges over to the alleyway where the woman once stood and slinks into the darkness. There he finds a suit-wearing man waiting for him with crossed arms and a Manila folder hanging loosely in his hands.

Nico Basilio. The famiglia's personal transporter.

"Couldn't you have picked a better time to do this, you bastard?" Lovino hisses. "I can't pick up any girls if you guys keep hovering over me!"

"I-I'm sorry, Mister Romano…" The man stutters as he straightens himself. "I had no idea—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Lovino brushes him off rudely, before he gives a slight nod towards the folder in hand. "So what is it this time?"

The man hands him the manilla folder.

"See for yourself."

Lovino raises an eyebrow, grimaces in annoyance, and yanks the folder from the man's hands. He flips it open and pulls out the photo and stapled papers within. The stack of papers is thicker than usual, but that oddity is not what captures the hitman's attention. Of all things, it is the photo of his next target that leaves him gaping.

To put it frankly, the soon-to-be-dead man is nothing but gorgeous. In the photo he is dressed in a crisp monochrome tuxedo that seems to be ironed stiff. His curly dark brown hair seems unkempt in contrast. An intense expression graces his unblemished olive face. The intensity of his expression — or so Lovino figures — comes from the man's eyes. They are a shade of green. A shade of poisonous, sickly green.

"His name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He's related to the Galician business as for as we know. People call him 'The Conquistador'."

"Like hell I'm going to remember that shit." Lovino grumbles in turn. He apparently does not convey his disinterest well enough because the suited man continues:

"They call him that 'cause he apparently has taken over — 'conquered' — numerous famiglia's and absorbed them into his own."

"So he's a don then?" Lovino raises an eyebrow, before he scowls. "A Spanish don, huh. I bet the bastard is just a puppet or some guy's bitch."

"Yes, well he arrived in the city just last week. Numerous hits have been placed on his head already, but none have been successful."

Shit. That's not good.

"Well that's cause everyone else sucks ass." Lovino huffs, swallowing the sudden jitters that ricochet through his body and trying to keep his voice even. "I'll get the job done."


Lovino spends the next three days following his target around at a distance. A long distance. Long enough to not get noticed by the several guards that seem to frequent the man's side, but close enough to see the glimmer of deadly green in the man's eyes. He spends the following three days learning the man's schedule, learning the faces of those the man is acquainted with. Two faces in particular. There is the pretty blond girl with almond-shaped green eyes who seems rather flighty; and then there is the rather terrifying stoic man with straw-blond hair. Lovino keeps in mind to try his best to avoid the latter. He then spends the next five days working up the nerve to actually go through with the hit. On the twelfth day, he moves out.

For an hour after five in the afternoon on Tuesdays, his target sheds his guards and hides away in a small apartment that is several blocks away from Lovino's own apartment. Or so Lovino has noticed. Either way, it allows for a quick escape route.

So on that twelfth day (a Tuesday), Lovino slinks through the dank alleyways behind the apartment. He hops haphazardly across balconies, climbs up rotting iron staircases, and somehow manages to make it to the window leading into the apartment of his target in one piece.

He peers into the window pensively and nearly lets out a high-pitched scream when he finds his target sitting right before him. Sitting right before him on a fancy leather couch and facing the window and… dozing off peacefully.

"Fucking bastard…" Lovino lets out a sigh of relief. Wipes off the beads of sweat that clings thickly to his forehead. Unlatches the lock on the window with his knife. Pulls the window up. Winces as it squeaks in protest.

He reaches over his back and into the leather holster that hangs at his side. Cold steel meets his fingertips. His fingertips wrap around the steel trigger. Bits of leather snag on the grooves of the gun as he attempts to pull it out; but after a grunt and a hefty yank, the weapon is free. It's free, and its mouth is pointed squarely at the sleeping man's face.

And it's such a handsome face — not that Lovino will ever admit that he thinks it is such. With his intense poisonous green eyes hidden behind closed eyelids, the man is rather pleasant and easy to look at it.

"Damn it…" Lovino mutters, lowering his gun slightly. "Damn it, I'll be nice this time and I'll let you keep your face the way it is."

He points the gun at the man's chest — at the man's heart — and pulls the trigger.

At dusk the muffled sound echoes throughout the empty cobblestone streets. It is quickly followed by the nearly inaudible pat pat of shoes against the limestone alleyways of the neighborhood.

Lovino knows the backstreets of the neighborhood like the back of his hand. For that reason, he makes it back to his apartment less than five minutes after he has completed his hit. Relief washes over him immediately when he enters his apartment and slams the door shut behind him.

Peace and quiet.

Relaxation.

Oh god how he could use a nice nap right now. After he takes a nice, long bath that is. He is covered in sweat and dirt (thankfully not blood this time) afterall. Thankfully, the draft coming through the open window at the far end of his apartment is nice and cool.

He pauses.

His eyes widen.

His blood runs cold.

"My, this is quite the nice apartment you've got, el asesino."

A musical voice with a the tiniest hint of an accent.

There is a familiar sound — the cock of a gun. But it is not Lovino's gun. No, Lovino's gun is still holstered at his side. His hand shakily drifts towards it, but—

"I wouldn't try that if I were you."

The voice comes from right behind him; and the presence of the owner of the voice is confirmed as the cold tip of a gun barrel is pressed to the back of Lovino's head.

"L-Listen here, you bastardo!" Lovino stutters as he raises his hands above his head. His legs are shaking uncontrollably, but he keeps his stance firm. "I don't know who y-you think you are but you've got to be biggest dumbass of the dumbasses to try and do whatever the hell you're trying to do."

"Turn around."

Damnit. Damnit. Damn it all. God damn.

"I said turn around."

The barrel of the gun presses further against the back of his head.

"Now."

Lovino swallows. Tells himself that he is turning around only because he wants to turn around. Turns around. Finds himself meeting a poisonous green gaze.

Impossible.

He takes a step backwards and trips over his own two feet. He lands with a painful thud onto the wooden floor behind him. He scoots backwards and his lips quiver-

"G-Ghostt…"

The gun-wielding man pauses. Smirks. Begins to unbutton his shirt.

"W-What the hell are you doing, you perverted bastard?!" Lovino stutters in utter disbelief. He feels his cheeks burn red, feels his eyes begin to water, his head begin to buzz.

"Querido," the ghost of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo drawls in a sickeningly sweet voice as it gestures towards its chest, "it is called a bulletproof vest. If I didn't have one, I would be dead ten times over right now."

The blue nylon material glints in the dull light streaming through the open window as the not-ghost gestures towards it. A gold bullet is nestled in the very corner of the material at an area right above the man's heart.

God damnit!

"Now, querido," the man says slowly, as if he is talking to a mere child, "before I call my men over, I want you to tell me who hired you out. What famiglia you work under."

"L-Like hell I will, you bastard!" Lovino snaps almost on instinct.

The remark causes Antonio's smirk to drop. His green eyes seem to glow with rage in the darkness. And

matched with his unsmiling expression stir terror within Lovino's heart. The terror grows into hysteria as the man reaches down and pulls him up by the scruff of his neck.

"I don't like when I'm disobeyed, poco asesino." Antonio whispers —

— and his breath smells sweet yet nauseating like aged wine.

The dizzying scent sends Lovino's head spinning; and thus he does the only thing that makes sense for him to do in such a dizzying situation. He headbutts the man. The crack that resonates in the air at the moment of contact is unmistakable.

The man lets out a shout, releases the Italian from his grip, and stumbles backwards as he cradles his head. Using the sudden freedom to his advantage but still suffering from the dizzying sensation, Lovino whips out his gun from his holster and blindly fires a bullet in his assailant's general direction.

There is a piercing sound — a sound Lovino knows oh so well — and a pained grunt followed by a loud thud. And then… silence.

Lovino lowers his shaking hands and peers in the direction where the man once stood. Nothing. He glances downwards and his breath hitches as he finds that his target now sits slumped and motionless against the wall.

Pat. Pat.

Lovino draws closer to the man. Squints at him through the thin veil of darkness. Taps the man's leg with his foot.

"O-Oi, bastardo…" He whispers. "Are you still alive?"

No answer. But this time he has to make sure.

Lovino shakily gets down on his knees and crawls towards the man. Observes him carefully. The left side of the man's face is painted with trickles of red; and there is a golden bullet embedded in the wall just a couple centimeters away from the man's head. Alive. The man is still alive. Simply unconscious. The man's steadily rising and falling chest confirms this fact.

"Take that, you cocksucker!" Lovino spits as he rises to his feet and brushes himself off. He raises the gun in his hand and points it at the unconscious man again. This time, it is pointed squarely at his face. "Who's the one being disobeye — I mean… whatever, you bastard! Time to finish thi—"

Rap. Rap. Rap!

The sudden hammering on his door cuts him off short.

His head buzzes with panic, and his heart hammers rapidly, uncontrollably in his chest once more.

"Fratello! Fratello! Open up, Fratello!"

The cheery voice rings in Lovino's ears; and he is left with cold sweat and a sense of relief. Then he looks down at the unconscious and bleeding Spaniard; and once again, panic ricochets through his chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit. There's no way in hell he will drag Feliciano into the family business again.

"Fratello, come on, fratello! It's cold out here! Let me in!"

"God damn it, you idiota! What the hell do you want?!" Lovino growls as he rapidly scans the room for a reasonably place to hide a large body. "I thought you moved into your dorm with that potato bastard already!"

"He forgot some of his things." Comes a deep rumble of a voice.

Shit!

"God damn, you brought the potato bastard too?!" Lovino hisses as he drags furniture, bodies, and carpets around the room. "And you just realized now that you left things here? You moved out two weeks ago! Whatever you left here might as well be mine, dammit!"

"I'm sorry, fratello!" Comes the voice behind the door. "I was just so excited about university that I forgot!"

"Yeah, more like you were so excited to move in with potato bastard." Lovino shouts back. He unwraps his holster and gun from his hip and tosses it into the corner of the room. It lands with a loud clunk as he approaches his apartment door and peers through the eye-hole. Sure enough, just beyond the opposite side of the door stands his idiot brother and his idiot friend. Taking in a deep breath, he reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and gives it a tug. The hall's light floods the room. "Well you better be fast, dammit!"

Before he can even let out another swear, he is smothered by a warm and overly friendly hug.

"I missed you so much, fratello!" Feliciano sings.

"G-Get off of me, dammit!" Lovino hisses as he fights to tear his brother away from him. "Just hurry up and get your things!"

"Okie dokie!" Feliciano nods as he flips on the light-switch. The room is bombarded with blinding light. "I'll be quick!" But after taking several steps forward, he pauses in place. Stares at something — rather, someone — whom he deems foreign within the room.

"What's wrong, Feli?" The Potato Bastard inquires with a raised eyebrow. "You said you'd be quick."

Lovino swallows nervously.

"Say, Fratello," Feliciano blinks as he gestures towards the elongated couch that is tucked away in a corner of the room, "who's that guy buried under all of those blankets and pillows?"

"H-He's my roommate." Lovino says suddenly, quickly. And he almost punches himself in the face right after he says it.

"Roommate?" Feliciano repeats loudly, so loudly that the bodily mass hidden under the bundles stirs ever so slightly.

"Yes, roommate!" Lovino clips angrily. "And he just got piss-ass drunk at a bar and has a fucking terrible hangover and I don't want to hear him complaining in the morning, so hurry up and grab your things and go!"

Feliciano stares at him for a moment, before his face brightens and glows. "I'm so glad you finally found a friend, fratello!"

"He's not my friend, dammit! Now hurry up and grab your things and go!"


When Lovino finally manages to get his brother and his brother's friend out of his apartment, he is quite certain that the Spaniard has long bled out and died. That is why he is very surprised to find a very alive and breathing (yet still unconscious) Antonio "dozing" away beneath the mountain of blankets. Lovino grimaces at him and walks over to his gun holster and picks it off of the floor.

He has wasted two rather expensive bullets on this man, and yet the man is still alive. Tough bastard. He sends the said bastard a glare. Probably a rich bastard actually. A rich tough bastard.

Lovino pauses at the thought and a haughty smirk begins to play on his face.

Rich. Ransom. Riches.

The three 'R's'.

His family certainly will not be too upset if he lets the man live if he brings billions of dollars home in turn. Not that they even have to know in the first place.

He pauses once more and shivers as he recalls the man's acid green eyes.

1 Tying up the man and making sure he didn't rise for murder time - a key component to the plan.

He pauses for a third time and squints at the blood from the man's head that is staining his couch.

2 Bandaging and stitching the man's head up so he didn't bleed to death isn't too bad of an idea either.

Two hours and several thousand curses later, the Sicaro Romano sits heaving and groaning across the don Carriedo Fernandez. The former is covered in grime and sweat and smells like metal. The latter… Well, the latter isn't off too much better either. However, his face is now clean of the crimson streaks (such a pain in the ass to clean it all off too); and the rather large gash across his temple has been sewn shut (thanks wiki-how). White gauze is wound around his forehead and braided rope around his wrists which are tucked away behind his back.

"You better be grateful." Lovino grimaces at the man.

He is tired, his body aches, and he wants to take a shower. But he doesn't want to take his eyes off of the man. What if the man wakes up and tries to murder him Psycho style in the shower? Yeah, hell no. Not good. Lovino tells himself that he must let the Spaniard know who is above whom in his situation. Tells himself that he isn't an idiota for deciding to do this in the first place. Tells himself many other things as he studies the unconscious man's face. Tells himself all of these things before he unexpectedly drifts off into a deep sleep.

When he finally stirs to some semblance of awakening, it is morning. Faint light streams in through the now closed window (when did he even close it?) across the room. And there is a slight chill in the air that escapes his notice because of two things. One, he is covered in a thick linen blanket. And two, there is a wonderful aroma in the air. Someone is cooking.

He thinks in his dazedness.

He pulls the blanket around his body and saunters sleep-eyed into the kitchen.

Eggs. Unfamiliar spices. And are those potatoes…?

"Feli…?"

His mouth waters as he waves away the smoke that clouds the kitchen. His mouth waters and then it opens up into a gape as he identifies who it is that is working so busily away in the kitchen.

Standing right in front of the sink before him is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the don. The don who is calmly chopping peppers and onions with a dangerous-looking knife.

Lovino swallows a shout and takes a step backward effectively knocking a China plate off of the counter he is standing beside. The sharp sound draws the attention of the man; and he stops short of slicing an onion and turns his head. His gaze first falls onto the remnants of the plate on the floor, before it rises up to meet Lovino's own wavering gaze.

His eyes, a dark shade of brilliant emerald, prod at him curiously before they brighten.

"Ay, you're quite clumsy, aren't you?" Antonio asks brightly with a smile that seems to light up the room almost instantly. It is such a blinding smile that Lovino finds himself stumbling backwards and shouting nonsensically.

"W-what the hell do you think you're doing, you bastardo?!" He shouts furiously, panickedly. "I don't know what you think you're doing but my guys are right outside of my apartment so if you even think of doing anything remotely funny, you're fucking dead, you hear?"

Antonio blinks at him, and his smile falters for a moment. Just a moment.

"Sorry, I don't really understand what you're trying to tell me." He responds as he scratches the back of his curly head. His gaze drifts towards the potpourri of ingredients behind him, before it brightens with some sort of 'realization'. "Ah, I see! You must be allergic to potatoes or something, si?"

Lovino shakes his head incredulously.

"What the actual fuck are you talking about?"

"You see, I was trying to make something nice for you for breakfast." The don Antonio Fernandez Carriedo explains. "Since you're my new roommate and all."

Lovino blinks. His heart nearly stops beating in his chest.

"What…?"

"Ay, by the way. You wouldn't happen to know my name would you?" The man asks, looking puzzled instead of happy for the first time that morning. He tentatively prods at the bandage wrapped around his head, before he smiles. Again. "I can't really remember it… or much of anything else really."

"What…?"


My grandfather once told me that 'fated meetings' are ones that occur unexpectedly, that cause your heart to stop, that you never realize as something other than 'chance' until the very end

but what kind of utter bullshit is this?!


sicario [Spanish]

hit-man (noun, slang) / a very, very confused, disturbed, and screwed Italian


A/N: I've been dragged back into the Hetalia fandom again; and I'm in Spamano hell. Save me.

Review? o u o