Chapter 1: He's No James Bond

A white dot blinks, going from left to right. Reaching the end, the dot opens up into a gun's rifling, the spiral grooves of the gun going towards the light. Through the barrel of the gun, a man walked by.

It was a man that walked though the white void of nothingness, clad in a crisp suit. He walks from the right to the left, his strong profile like a silhouette against the white.

He turns towards you quickly –silently. With nary a wasted movement, he draws his pistol and a gunshot is heard. Blood spills over the vision and the gun barrel dissolves back into the white dot. The white circle moves across the screen, wavering, and eventually settles into the corner.

It expands, blinding white exploding into a scene of the aforementioned man sitting beside a tanned, curvaceous woman at a bar counter. His lips were twisted in a perpetual frown, but that only seemed to enhance the grey-blue of his eyes and sharp angles of his jaw. His hair was jet black and fell over his right brow, showing only slight signs of graying at the temples. The man offers the woman a smirk as he downs his Vesper in one go, then sets the glass on the smooth table as the brown-eyed beauty watches him with tears in her eyes. The graying man does not offer her any comfort, instead picking up the tab and briskly walking away from the bar –away from her.

The woman calls out his name in a desperate sob, but he does not look back, his angular features set in steel as he adjusts the golden cufflinks on the sleeves of his suit. He crosses the bar while drawing various appreciative and considering looks from women, but he pays them no heed, heading straight for the door. He was a man on a mission.

― Opening to the 48th James Bond film, The Darkest Day, directed by Javier Ross.

Yamamoto Takeshi grimaced as he packed the last of his clothes into his luggage. He looked around his empty room, stripped of its posters of baseball stars and personal photos.

They were leaving Japan.

The fact had yet to sink in, even though his father had dropped the bomb nearly two months ago. His father wanted to move to Italy with him and wanted him to continue his studies there. That was somewhat acceptable, though he had hell going over his Italian again, polishing it until he was adequately fluent. His father also used to work in Italy as a professional assassin/murderer, and wanted to go back to the country and have some connection to the world of action that he had left behind. That was somewhat acceptable.

He also wanted Takeshi to inherit the Shigure Soen Sword Style. That was not acceptable.

Not being one to think ahead, Takeshi couldn't really grasp the concept of killing someone for good. It was so contradictory, and he believed ―wanted to believe that his father was a good person, so he trusted his dad when the elder Yamamoto said that he'll understand when 'the time is right'. He was in a state of denial, but Yamamoto Tsuyoshi was the only family Takeshi had left, and Takeshi couldn't bring himself to leave him, even if he turned out to be a mass-murderer.

Besides, he couldn't really force Takeshi to hurt or kill someone, so he was content in playing along with his dad and trained kendo diligently. Kendo was not anywhere near as fun as baseball, but it made Tsuyoshi happy and that was all that mattered. Yet he had been in Namimori for all of his life and the idea of leaving never even crossed his mind when he considered his future options. He had thought of going pro once he finished university with a baseball scholarship…

He sat on his suitcase, desperately trying to stuff in eighteen years worth of things into it, biting his lip back as he remembered that he might never see his friends again, never hang out with them after baseball practice. He blinked back involuntary tears, before, with great difficulty, squeezing in the remainder of his belongings.

The time for brooding was long over, he chided himself; he had two months to do so, and now was certainly not the time to get sentimental. With that in mind, Yamamoto Takeshi slung his duffle over his shoulder and wheeled his baggage out the door of his room, exiting the door for the very last time.

Tsuyoshi stood in the middle of the kitchen of the sushi shop, lovingly polishing the last of his knives before packing them away. The store had been open until only a few hours ago; Tsuyoshi wanted to work here in this shop, where he had met Takeshi's mother, where he had worked for the past eighteen years, until the very last moment.

He had brought a lot of joy with his work. The blade carving through marbleized fish, eliciting praise and expressions of joy as he watched his customers, giving him a sense of satisfaction that was unsurpassed by any other.

The blade carving through flesh and bones and eyes, eliciting shrieks of horror and pleas for mercy that flowed from their lips like blood did from the wounds, ignored and unheard as he watched passively, giving him a sense of-

"Takeshi!" He smiled when he saw Takeshi walk into the kitchen. It was a sunny, bright smile, one that caused people to remark on how similar they were. And Takeshi loved that because he wanted to become just like his father who raised him and showered him with enough love so that it numbed the pain of losing his mother. He admired his father; he was the sole breadwinner of their little family, had cared for Takeshi when his mother died, handled household affairs and always visited both sets of Takeshi's grandparents biweekly. He had fulfilled his duty as a father and a son all with a sunny little smile.

It was the same sunny smile that his mother had fallen in love with, the same sunny smile that he had inherited from his father, the same sunny smile that had greeted him for nearly every morning in the eighteen years of his life.

The same sunny smile that adorned his face as his katana glinted, eyes unforgiving despite the superficial expression of mirth, bearing down on the helpless-

"Are you sure they'll let you take those knives? Maybe you should just leave them here." Leave them for the pair of workers that now would manage the sushi bar. Takeshi leaned on the wooden counter, elbows on the surface and chin propped up on his palms.

Tsuyoshi shook his head. "I'm keeping them with me, one way or another. These were given to me by your mother."

"Your mother was pregnant with you at the time, and your grandfather insisted that I learn how to make sushi…" This perked Takeshi's interest. His father was an excellent storyteller and he was especially drawn to tales of the woman he had never met, yet was so integrally a part of his life. Idly, he wondered if going to Italy would spark more of these stories; Takeshi knew this father and mother had been to Italy for the their honeymoon, lived there for a year before returning to Japan for Takeshi's birth.

Takeshi could piece together everything, even if his father didn't tell him everything. His father had been working for organized crime even after coming to Japan. That meant that his mother had likely known his occupation. In fact, had his mother not died during childbirth, his father might have never hung up his sword, never stayed in Japan…

The call for danger went out and delicate, feminine fingers searched for the pistol under the counter, clicking off the safety as she raised it level to the man's head, the eyes he has only seen in pictures narrowing-

"Are you alright, Takeshi?"

He blinked, then grinned. "Oh yeah, I'm just feeling a little nostalgic. I just remembered that there's a kid from the other class, Sawada, who is going to Italy too. Wonder if I'll see him."

Tsuyoshi pursed his lips. "Italy's a big place, I doubt it. We should be going off now," he added, stowing the box of knives away. "Or we'll be late." Takeshi nodded, casting a final, backward glance at the sushi bar. Suddenly, he didn't mind leaving the place so much anymore.

She hummed thoughtfully as she paused in her typing, drumming her fingers against the table. She smiled as she leaned across to tap her fellow trainee on the shoulder.

"Hana, do you think you could go through the interrogation with me again?" The slightly intimidating woman twirled a strand of dark, curly hair over her finger, nodding in agreement to her request as she stood, resting an arm of Kyoko's chair.

The witness was a plump, thirty something mother to a girl who was now being held hostage. The Hana in the video drew out answers from her in silky, professional tones, reassuring when the woman needed it, squeezing the woman dry of every last bit of information.

Hana squinted at it. "See this bit here? She keeps hesitating and listen to the way she words her sentences. She doesn't want to say anything definitively, but whatever she knows, she is being very careful about it in case she gets it wrong. Judging from-"

Sasagawa Kyoko hadn't really imagined this as her career. She knew she was a looker, all shiny chestnut hair and wide, doe eyes, so she had briefly toyed with the idea of modeling, but scrapped it almost immediately when she realized she wouldn't be able to eat much, if any, cake. There wasn't anything in particular she wanted to do. Joining Hana in attending a course in psychology was mainly due to peer pressure.

When Hana was offered an interview for internship in Vongola Enterprises, Kyoko had tagged along and both were accepted. It was only later that they realized they had been roped into the mafia. It had been a little frightening at first, but her work was kept separate from the action and blood and her missions so far have been quite mild and unimportant.

Hana, on the other hand, took it in stride. Her no-nonsense manner and efficiency made her popular among her peers and superiors and enabled her to stare down mobsters in an interrogation room. Kyoko followed her lead the best she could, though she was far more comfortable with the paperwork, her sweet smiles and girlish manner made her the perfect person for putting people off-guard. She even managed to socialize with mobsters in a small get together that was held a few weeks back.

Perhaps she ought to do therapy within the Vongola instead, she mused. Nevertheless, that could wait for later, when she graduated and had achieved some degree of recognition for her work. The urgent beeping from the office phone startled her out of her thoughts.

"We lost the signal of the solo investigative unit. We believe he might have engaged the criminals. The Poison Scorpian Bianchi wants details on the hostages and the general location of the criminals as soon as possible."

Phone now set on speaker, her fingers flew across the keyboard, drawing up a map of the city, a blinking red dot showing the last place the mercenary they had hired was sighted. On the outskirts of the city… "Hana," she called. "I'm drawing up information of all possible locations that might be used as their base. Please check for phone signals in the area and local reports for stolen items within the last week-" But she was already on it, barking orders into the phone as she multitasked.

Kyoko frowned. That identification code for the single investigative agent, wasn't that-? "Sir," Kyoko addressed the man on the phone. "I believe we need to change the danger level for this mission…"

Sasagawa Kyoko hadn't really imagined this as her career. But it was alright, because this was not too bad either.

Sawada Tsunayoshi was no James Bond fan. It was just so horribly unrealistic. Even if he had started watching the movies when he was seven, it wasn't all that hard to tell that it was all made up. Really, that man gets whatever gadgets he needs, uses every gadget issued, can bluff his way through poker with experienced veterans, shoot a man from three miles away with a handgun and always, always gets the bad guy to sit in the ejector seat. I mean, come on!

Not to mention the fact that he always gets the girl, even if she was lesbian or hated men or tried to kill him; especially if they tried to kill him. Even if the women were psychotic, they'd all fall head over heels for the man despite knowing he goes through women like his mother Nana went through tissues in a cheesy romance movie. James Bond was forty, but he could still dodge bullets and run on walls. He even had his own theme song. The only thing he was missing was the ability to change clothes in a brilliant flash of light and blast his enemies with pink glitter.

Despite his blatant dislike for the man immortalized in movies, Sawada Tsunayoshi found himself wondering if James Bond ever felt this nervous before a mission. He peeked down the dirty little alleyway, looking for a man that matched the description the Millefiore's Byakuran had given him.

His temporary partner was a Japanese man too, Moichida. He was a tall, lean kind of man, in his early twenties, with a look about him that Tsuna had no doubt was popular with women. But he also, Tsuna noted, was not a nice person. There was something just mean about his expression and the way he held himself. He reminded Tsuna of his bullies back in Namimori, the ones that would steal his lunch and ran away from the Disciplinary Committee because they were such cowards. He was also, for some reason, wearing a suit.

This impression was only strengthened when he snorted in Tsuna's face and called him a runt. He immediately installed himself as the leader of the two and Tsuna, deciding that there was no sense in trying to argue with the obstinate, arrogant fellow, acceded without protest.

The meeting place in question was a fashionable Italian restaurant on the wealthier side of town, classy, expensive and not somewhere that Tsuna, with his meager allowance, would be able to afford. He began to regret wearing an old baseball shirt and jeans, feeling very out of place, especially next to the crisply suited Moichida. But he had expected them to be fighting or something; out in the open, in a struggle to the death.

The restaurant, rather ironically, Tsuna thought, specialized in foods featuring clams. Baked, stir-fried, roasted and deep-fried; if you wanted it, they'd have it. They were greeted by a hostess at the door and Tsuna was given a incongruous tie to allow him to meet the dress code. Flushing brightly, he put it on and it hung loosely over his Yomiuri Giants shirt as both the hostess and Moichida laughed, though the former much more kindly than the other.

The floors of the restaurant were carpeted and a giant, intricate and intimidating chandelier hung from above, crystals like lit dewdrops upon the gold structure. Every table was covered by a cloth of white and gold that looked suspiciously of silk, a set of candles and a single rose between them.

It was, Tsuna reflected, the kind of place where you expected that recommendation person. That one that told you what wine to take with what food or what food to take with what wine and had a special school. It started with an S… A summer… Some-something…

Tsuna must have spoken his thoughts out loud as a rough voice answered him. "A sommelier, dumbass." It wasn't, as he had expected, Moichida, but a tall, silver haired boy that couldn't be much older than Tsuna himself. There was a scowl on his face, a truly unpleasant expression, not unlike Moichida in that alone, as if he had something smelly under his nose.

He was much more good looking though. He had a strong jaw, striking, bright green eyes and silvery hair that fell to his chin; he was no doubt European, with his tall, sharp nose and light hair color. Tsuna remembered the list of requirements that he had been sent: Preferably with an impeccable Italian descent and at least three generations of crime involvement…

By this time, Tsuna had already followed Moichida and the hostess all the way into the VIP section of the restaurant, which was milling with people, more than half of which had appearances that seemed to be announcing to world that they were a part of the mafia.

From somewhere behind, a man rudely exclaimed: "You aren't Italian! You are Chinese! What kind of idiot are you, expecting to get into the mafia like you stand a chance!" Tsuna briefly wondered if he ought to correct the man. Moichida, for all his earlier bravado, was slinking away submissively. The person in question was a heavy-set, broad shouldered man dressed in an expensive silk button down. "And you!" An accusing finger was pointed towards the silver haired teen. "A half-blood degenerate and bastard child has no business in trying to join Vongola!"

The Smokin' Bomb, Gokudera Hayato, Tsuna recognized with a start. The infamous mercenary who started his bloody career the day he turned ten, who left the Family for which his father was the right-hand man. His temper was not done justice by the rumors. "I'm a quarter Japanese," he retorted with an animalistic snarl. "Besides," he sneered. "Least the rest of me is Italian! You're from Northern Italy; you're not Italian, you're German-Austrian*, retard!"

Things were probably going to get ugly soon, Tsuna reflected. There were whispers from the other candidates and a strange exclamation asking an octopus to be quiet, but the general atmosphere was one of impending chaos. He, therefore, chose this moment to speak up. In the last few years while attempting to pull his grades up, Tsuna had a rule to (hopefully) accelerate his rate of improvement: raise your hand to every question if you could answer it. Perhaps it was some sort of strange brain washing that had been unconsciously applied to him, but he raised his hand when he spoke now.

"Actually," his voice rang loud and clear, his hand in the air, as if he were a kindergarten child with the right answer to the teacher's question. "We're all from Africa." There was a deadly silence and a few groans. "I mean," he continued, "it's not like it makes a difference anyway. Even if you're from Antarctica, you'd still die if someone shot you in the head." The previously enraged man stood rigid from where he stood, staring at Tsuna like he was struck dumb.

Slow, condescending applause came from behind him and Tsuna whipped around in an instant, startled by the lack of presence.

She was a very beautiful sort of woman and very obviously Caucasian. Reddish hair like silk, startling green eyes and a figure that was both willowy and shapely. She was all seductive, cat-like grace; sultry, half mast eyes and pouty lips, no doubt the very image of a femme fatale. She was wearing a pair of goggles over her eyes, though they did not so much as conceal her identity as draw attention towards herself.

"Quite right," she praised, still clapping in that patronizing, haughty way. "The keyword to the requirements is 'preferably'. A flawless pedigree and wealthy connections aren't enough to secure you a position in the mafia anymore. Besides, the requirement was only put in place because foreigners attract more attention for a station in Florence, which is not something a crime syndicate needs."

Not true, Tsuna inwardly protested. There were probably purist factions in Vongola, large as it was, who'd only work with Italians. The family history of crime ensured that if you sold out the Family, you'd also be selling out your family. Rather dirty, in Tsuna's opinion.

But there was no way he was going to argue with the Poison Scorpion Bianchi in the middle of a mob of would-be Mafioso. Who were, he noted uncomfortably, staring at her with shining adoration in their eyes that he felt was more like the way his eight year old neighbor looked at superman than any sign of lust. Hero-worship; that was rich.

There were only a few exceptions. There was Tsuna himself, of course. Then there was Gokudera who was staring at the famous assassin with eyes gleaming with mistrust and doubtfulness. Then there was an odd, white haired man in the back of the room who screamed: "Extremely nice to meet you!"

While everyone turned to stare, Tsuna slunk back into the crowd without any attention whatsoever. Even his so called partner, Moichida, didn't see him. Unlike most of the people here, Tsuna, in a strange, twisted sort of way, was normal. He hated bloodshed and had common sense, possessed a sense of fear and wasn't very striking in appearances. Unless he opened his mouth or tripped spectacularly, no one noticed him. Byakuran had said that this ability would either guarantee his position as a reconnaissance infiltrator or give him a perfectly normal, uneventful life.

Bianchi briefly explained the test. They each had tasks to do, depending on whatever position they signed up for. Reconnaissance, retrieval, administrative support, medical support, front-liners… Each of them were asked to go to their seats, all marked with their names and were instructed to keep the phone that was placed on their plates. It was a phone, a sleek, black thing and completely unmarked. The name 'Sawada Tsunayoshi' was shown on the phone's screen.

"From this point on, this is how you are to communicate with each other; everybody's numbers are already inside the phone, with their roles stated inside the contact information. The tasks you are to do are detailed inside the phone and is to be kept with you at all times. If we need to contact you, we will through this phone. The results of your testing will also be sent through that phone. I will not lie to you, not all of you will pass and not all of you will come back alive. Your task begins now."

At once, the room exploded into loud chatters and several of them began to argue. Some of them were seeking alliances, others had already formed some. There were a few seeking people tasked with the same job. Tsuna checked his list.

He was, apparently, one of three doing scouting. Moichida was a front-liner, that Gokudera Hayato was part of the retrieval team… Poison Scorpion Bianchi ―Examiner: Number Unavailable. He snuck out of the restaurant before anyone could approach him. He drew a few looks from the actual patrons of the restaurant as the door to the VIP booth slid shut silently, but no one in the room had noticed him going, with the exception of, perhaps, the veteran hit men examining him alongside Bianchi.

The streets of Florence were bright and bustling with life. People walked on the streets without a care in the world, chattering happily and going on their way. The architecture was gorgeous; stone brick buildings and balconies that overlooked the streets, the abundance of spacious squares that peppered the city. There wasn't enough sun to make it unbearably hot, but just enough that it gave the streets and the people on it the air of wakeful, infectious energy.

Tsuna tossed the phone in the air then caught it, eyeing it contemplatively. Truthfully, he was feeling a bit anxious. Infiltrating the mafia and supplying information to Europol, or, more specifically, their branch Millefiore. He was sought out by them the day after he turned sixteen, when he discovered an odd flyer in his letter box. It seemed a bit dubious at first, but Uni had visited him in his house and brought him to meet Byakuran and the rest of the group.

It all snowballed from there.

He plowed through his school work and worked on his physical ability, forcing himself to do more than necessary. Learning Italian was surprisingly smooth, which Tsuna found strange since his English was horrendous. He took up aikido and took to the gym, running laps around the neighborhood every morning. His rate of improvement was astounding; teachers took to having him take his examinations in a separate room and searching him to ensure he wasn't cheating. He was less 'no-good' and more invisible.

His grades were much higher than average by the time he graduated. He learnt to shoot a gun and five ways to kill a man with his bare hands. He could disappear in a crowd, pick pockets like a pro and knew the crime sheet of every mafia man known to Europol like the back of his hand. He still couldn't shoot the antenna off an ant, hack into encrypted files or take down a hundred men in ten minutes. But Tsuna didn't mind; he wouldn't have to. (But he would later find out that he was wrong.)

If he was being honest with himself, Tsuna was not confident at all. He had only been trained at basic combat and still flinched when he fired a gun. His good instincts, or as Uni teasingly called it, 'female intuition', made up for that, but he still wasn't sure he'd make it out of this alive.

But he needed this. Finding a direction in life had given Tsuna confidence and energy and he wasn't about to give that up just because he was afraid. He needed… He needed to catch up to his father. Even though he hated the man for leaving their family and never coming back, part of Tsuna also admired him. Iemitsu… He wasn't stupid, as much as he pretended to be; Tsuna knew he raked in more than they would spend, more than Tsuna would've believed. When he came back, men in suits followed him around. He rode first class on planes and rarely contacted them.

Tsuna was sure that his father was doing nearly the same thing as he was. Likely the CIA, or perhaps something like the FBI. Tsuna wanted to be better than that stupid old man. He would prove himself to be more capable, more talented, a better man than his father ever was. Tsuna was protected by the people around him and, he believed, his father. But he was useless and a liar and never loved him or Nana enough to even call once in a while.

And maybe, once his father saw that Tsuna wasn't useless, wasn't No-Good anymore, he'd actually come to love him, actually go home once in a while.

In his office in Sicily, the CEDEF leader gave a great sneeze.

Laughing, Byakuran leaned back into his seat as he put his phone away.

Uni looked to him curiously from where she was sipping her tea and Irie Shouichi frowned. The open air café, while perhaps not the best place for a man wanted by seventeen mafia families to date, served excellent hot chocolate and would give extra marshmallows when asked. Hence, Byakuran insisted on stopping by there for lunch at least once a week.

"Moichida has lost Tsunayoshi. He thinks he's dead." Mirthful giggled escaped his cold, white lips. "How underestimated our little Tsunayoshi is."

Shouichi choked on his biscotti and at Uni's side, Gamma visibly stiffened. He paused, then voiced out his concerns. It might be true that he hadn't yet seen the boy in action, but he was little more than a child and it was uncertain that he would be able to be ruthless when the situation called for it. "Are you sure that boy-?"

A contemplative hum from the white clad princess brought his question to a halt. "Being underestimated is one of his greatest strengths. But Tsuna isn't going to contact us until something happens; he's too prudent to do otherwise." She stirred at her tea.

Byakuran smiled a Uni with a pleasantness that didn't reach his eyes. Really, his second-in-command was so interesting. Barely fourteen and she was showing far more insight than her loyal dog would ever possess. Looks were deceiving; Uni was more dangerous than Gamma and his underlings put together.

A flawless complexion, large, bright eyes and a saccharine smile on her lips… She was collected, charismatic and ruthless. Byakuran didn't think that he had ever met anyone more dangerous. Excepting, perhaps, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Uni moved to tuck a stray end of blue-black hair into her large, white cap. "Did he say what the test was about?"

"The escaped Rokudo Mukuro. And not to mention, Tsunayoshi is going to do reconnaissance~"

Shouichi knocked down his chair in his haste to the bathroom, muttering about stress and cramps. Gamma looked startled, but Byakuran was more interested in Uni's expression. Her expression stilled, but didn't change in the slightest. Yes, Byakuran decided. This was going to be so much fun.

*Truthfully, Gokudera's at least a quarter North Italian descent too, seeing as he inherited his fair looks and light hair from his mother.

(Northern Italy experienced invasions from the Germans, so most have mixed blood and generally have fairer complexions compared to the darker skinned Southern Italians. Some Southern Italians believe themselves 'true' Italians since they were part of the ancient Kingdom of Sicily. Those from Sicily even identify themselves as Sicilian before Italian. Legally, they are all considered to be of Italian ethnic.)