DISCLAIMER: KHR = mot mine
Okay, don't be confused. The chapters aren't arranged in specific chronology because that's how it formed in my head and I like it. But it's not as if it'll be all jumbled up and stuff the whole time. Just a few "jumps" every once in a while.
This one happens immediately after the rescue. Remember, they decided to proceed with it because being a Vongola was almost an automatic admittance to heir candidacy. And they wanted to seize that chance, no matter how large or small it was. So...
Start reading!
Chapter 3: Proposition
Sure she her appearance wasn't very Italian, or specifically, Sicilian, but who cares? Everything else about her screamed legit Cosa Nostra. She's a freaking descendant of the fork-wielding mofo Vongola boss! Maybe she already knew how to fight. That ought to be enough to convince the bosses of the alliance. Only one thing remained; one of the most crucial factor of decision – the attribute of her flames, that it, if she even has 'em.
It was only before entering the room that she understood (okay, Alfredo spitefully told her an hour back) why she was treated so well and pampered like a princess the whole time. They actually thought she could be the next boss.
Sheesh. Yes, she had the flames. But no, they weren't orange, they were freaking purple.
He was wrong to doubt his intuition. She cannot be the heir. But saving her he deemed right. The aging don fixed his gaze at the faint flame lit atop her index finger. It was almost translucent and trembled delicately at the slightest movement of the air. He had never seen such weak flame. Something wasn't right.
"We are one family, child, no matter how distantly related we may be. There is no need for pretensions." At this, the girl looked at him slightly annoyed and met the steely gaze that seldom aptly described the Ninth's stare. "Show me your resolve, Mirella."
For a moment, she merely continued to stare back, light blues bordered by lilac boring holes onto the old man's brown orbs. Then as sudden as gunshot, the flickering excuse for a fire burst forth and engulfed her hand, shooting a foot up before settling down as a dark, barely contained tongue of purple flame. "Is this enough, Vongola Nono?" He nodded, noting the stark contrast of emotion in her eyes now. That was all he needed to see.
"A wise choice." He placed his elbow on the hard wooden surface, and rested his chin on his knuckles. At first glance, one would never think Don Timoteo to be what he was; a kindly old man or a doting grandfather maybe, but not the boss of the number one mafia family in the entire world. But seeing the glint in his eyes against the backdrop of the darkening sky outside, she understood somehow why he was boss.
"I have a proposition, child." Her eyes widened upon comprehending the old man's words, biting her lips to prevent any word from breaking off from her desire not to be read. His parting words etched in her mind, playing repetitively like a broken record.
I will defy my intuition and trust you. Prove me wrong.
That definitely didn't feel right. What, now they were playing with her too? Her fists clenched at the thought but remained silent. Damn you all.
"Ah, and be patient with Fredo, he's just…"
Play with fire and you will be burned, so they said. All she wanted was to be freed from the bars of that family, and now that she was out, had she signed up for a worse hell? "You may now leave."
And she did.
"Alfredo." His mouth twitched at the sound of his name. Why was he stuck babysitting that girl again? It wasn't like she was that important…right? "Alfredo, the Ninth's calling you in." If anything, he swore the girl had some maturity issues. No sane eight year old kid can act like that. Again, he wasn't sure. He shot a glare at her. "This better be legit, brat."
She shrugged and left him at his post. "I'll be waiting at the lounge." He resisted the urge to chuck something, anything in her direction. He felt so pissed, so frustrated even though she hadn't done anything at all.
"Fredo, are you there?" He almost tripped on the carpet in his haste to respond.
The Ninth gestured for the young man to sit on the chair previously occupied by the girl. "A strong determination cannot be fully manifested without the means to express it," he said, receiving a brief puzzled look from Alfredo. "Too bad she did not pass the test."
Something clicked in his head. But stopped abruptly. Jumping to conclusions wouldn't do him any good, instead he huffed and raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, I'm listening. Fire away, Ninth."
"Those were quite wild flames I saw. Very, very irate flames."
"Leave it to me, sir," he said, preparing to stand.
"Ah, no. I did not mean stifling it."
He sat back. "Then-"
"If left uncontrolled, imagine how destructive the explosion would be once detonated. I trust you with that responsibility." The gears in his head went full throttle. He had just graduated from bodyguard to tutor, if he heard correctly.
"So," he put one hand palm down on the majestic table, smirk as wide as the Milky Way, "what's the lesson plan, Ninth?"
"I want you to teach her how to fight properly." He nodded in affirmation. Almost too eagerly it was suspicious. "And while at it, show her the ways of the Cosa Nostra. Train her how to deal our world."
"Why the need for that? She isn't gonna be the successor, right?" he suddenly blurted out, face wiped clean of any smirk. Except the Ninth's mother who was Vongola Ottavo and a few others including his own mom, women connected to the mafia were usually restricted as bargaining chips or stayed out the zone of danger completely. No offense, but this isn't exactly their world.
"Boy, I'm saying I know potential when I see it," the old man replied sharply. "Six months. By then, I expect positive result."
"Bet on it, sir," he said, enthusiasm not matching his words. He stood up and walked to the door. Gods, he felt so resigned. Upon making sure the young man had his back on him, the Don's expression softened. If there was something in common about them, it was a terrible sense of loss and regret over his son's passing.
He had already turned the knob when out of sync with his expectations, he heard the words he yearned to hear the most. It may have been from a different mouth, but almost, almost, he could hear his deceased friend scold him with that overrated lecture. "'You've always been a sitting duck for blaming yourself. Get over it.'" He turned and looked over at the Vongola Ninth. Never had he seen him so imposing, as if he challenged him on his next move. He exited the room in utmost composure. He having done so well over the past few weeks would be laid to waste if he broke down now. His shoulders were shaking as he continued walking down the hall, feeling as if his body wasn't his. And he forgot that there was one person who waited by him in the lounge. He was already halfway out the lawn when his companion caught up to him.
"Alfredo." Like a zap of electricity activating his control over his head, he jolted to reality. He felt numb. But somehow the girl calling his name wasn't making him feel bad.
"Mirella…" he absentmindedly replied. "Half a year…we've got half a year…" She swore she heard a sniff. He mentally cursed as he felt his eyes sting with tears. How wrong was he to think he had his mushiness in check.
Convincing herself that she just felt sorry for the guy, she placed her hand on his arm and softly muttered an apology, further aggravating what has been sealed deep down in his chest. She didn't know what compelled her to say it, but she did anyway. "Don't hold back, teach." No replies, no words exchanged between them as he completely broke down and cried.
Six months after, Don Timoteo adopted a son and invited the girl to live in the Vongola Manor.
Alfredo made sure by then his protégé was ready to kick serious ass. Especially that conceited son of the Ninth.
Yep, six months and the little missy's already off killing people. *Sniff* Dear Fredo must be proud.
There you go. Thanks for those who followed and favorite-d this fic (though I'd be immensely fired up to make more if you told me what you think)!