"Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Vito."
Fucking cocksucker. Did Lincoln think that he was going to just lay down and die without some fucking dignity? Fuck no. Leaning against the bar table, coughing up blood, Vito checked the magazine of his gun.
Sighing at what he saw, Vito let the gun and its magazine fall from his hands. "Damn thing's empty anyway."
Lincoln lowered his handgun, his hands dropping to his sides. Vito could see one of his capos – dead and bloodied, of course. Lincoln wasn't taking any prisoners – leaning on the other side of the bar. He was still holding his pistol. With more than a little difficulty, Vito began dragging himself toward it.
"I always thought that you'd be different from those other cocksuckers," Vito grunted in a half-hearted attempt of distracting Lincoln, "that fat Derek Pappalardo, Alberto Clemente, Leo Galante… but no." The feeling in his left leg suddenly went numb. Vito had to stop moving and cringed in pain. "Always somebody waiting to fuck me!"
Vito raised his head to meet Lincoln's eyes. Lincoln had taken a few steps toward him. Vito knew that if he tried to reach for the gun now, Lincoln would knock him down in no time. "Nobody forced you to get greedy," Lincoln said pointedly. "You could have sat back, been content, watched the money roll in... but nah, that wasn't enough for you."
"Fuck you!" Vito snapped. Fuck the gun. Vito slid a hand into his back pocket, making it look like he was nursing his bloody abdomen. "I gave up everything for this life. Everything!"
All the shit that Vito had to go through: the war, prison, Frankie telling him to stay out of her life, getting his fucking house burned to the ground by some crazy micks, getting fucked over by Marcano and the Commission, watching Henry get butchered in broad fucking daylight, losing Joe...
"Look where I ended up," Vito muttered. His vision was going blurry now. His fingers clenched around the handle of his switchblade. "I deserved better."
Vito lunged for Lincoln, but a bullet suddenly went right through one of his lungs. He choked, dropped his knife, and fell to his knees. He could barely feel a goddamn thing below his waist.
Was this how Carlo felt? Once on the top of the world, running a pretty decent operation, having a loyal point man always on the job, and then getting completely fucked over by that point man. Carlo must have felt like a king, thinking that he had had it all figured out when Joe had raised his gun to Vito's head.
Lincoln had survived a shot to the head, busted Vito out of that fucking freezer, and gave him some quality payback time with Grecco. In that first meeting with Lincoln, Cassandra, and Burke, Vito had sure as hell felt like a king having his war council for the next big conquest, ready to take over New Bordeaux, with Lincoln-fucking-Clay paving the way.
"Fuck you," Vito hissed at Lincoln.
With another gunshot to the head, Vittorio Antonio Scaletta knew that it was all finally fucking over.
X
It should have been fucking over.
There was no chance of Vito going to heaven. He wouldn't have complained about settling in hell. At least in hell, he'd probably get the chance to punch out his old man for leaving his drunken debt to Frankie and Mama. Vito could get Henry to give the full story about turning rat. Maybe he could even see Joe again. Joe must've went straight to work as a wise guy for one of the devil's capos by now, banging as many she-devil broads who'd open up their legs for him.
Instead, Vito found himself waking up as a noisy, drooling baby Jap in the Land of the Rising Sun.
The first five years were too confusing for Vito to really make sense of. Between shitting his pants, learning the language, and falling over his own two feet every time he tried to walk, Vito was hardly in the right mind to rationalize things properly. He spent all of those five years eating, sleeping, crying, and pissing nonsensically.
By his sixth birthday, Vito finally found the time and the mental capacity to really reflect on everything that had come to pass, and to reflect on his new life as Tsunayoshi Sawada.
The dad, Iemitsu Sawada, was never home. He apparently worked internationally, usually on some bullshit construction job drilling for oil in the Arctic. Vito knew that it was bullshit because the amount of money that came in the mail just couldn't come from lousy construction jobs. No, he had to be on the take. Nana must be one of his favorite dames for him to keep sending money, but not good enough to warrant him spending much time at the same house she and their son lived in.
And then there was Nana Sawada. Vito couldn't in his heart call her "Mama" like she constantly tried to make him say. He had mixed feelings on Antonio Scaletta, but inexplicably reborn or not, Vito felt that he would be betraying Maria Scaletta's memory if he did that. Still, he couldn't say Nana was a bad mother. Between the Sawada patriarch's money rolling in and Nana's caring watch over Vito – or Tsuna, rather – this life's childhood was far better and cleaner than his last one.
During his sixth birthday, Iemistu brought a friend home. It was an old man, all grandfatherly toward Vito – or Tsuna, whatever – and charming with Nana. Vito was pretty sure he was Italian. Probably a trusted associate of Iemitsu's in whatever unscrupulous jobs he gets into.
Vito might have actually liked him if it weren't for the fact that everything the old man said and did reminded him too much of Leo Galante. Iemitsu's friend might have just been a kind, elderly man who wanted to spoil his close business partner's family, but Vito had faced backstabs from seemingly friendly father figures one too many times to let his guard down around him.
Plus, there was that weird dream of the old man placing his hand on Vito's forehead, igniting an orange flame that didn't seem to burn either of them. That dream haunted Vito for a long while after the old man and Iemitsu had left. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that fire, and he couldn't understand why.
Eventually, that particular dream was replaced by other ones. Dreams about his old life: driving fast getaway cars with cops on his tail, parachuting into hostile kraut territory, beating up no-name schmucks for fifty dollars a head for a three hundred dollar cut, and all of the dirty work Vito had to do to finally become somebody worth respecting.
A part of Vito wanted to stay at home, be a good son, and take the second chance to live like a normal civilian. There was no Joe Barbaro around the neighborhood to get Tsuna into trouble, and the Sawada household was never strapped for cash. If Vito really wanted it, he could probably stay on the straight and narrow path for the rest of his new life.
Then, one night, Vito dreamt of finding Henry's body, of seeing him so cut up, broken, bloody and brutalized. Six-and-a-half-year-old Tsunayoshi should have been scared out of his wits at seeing such a macabre image, but all Vito could feel was an uncontrollable rage at one of a hundred failures that nearly got him killed and got plenty of his friends killed.
Where Vito grew up, the only guys who mattered were the ones who had the balls to take what they wanted. As the years passed, Vito learned that that lifestyle wasn't mutually exclusive to his own neighborhood. Lincoln Clay was living, breathing proof of that.
At age seven, the same age Vito Scaletta had been when he and his family had moved to Empire Bay, Tsunayoshi Sawada hitched a ride out of Namimori to the next town over. It was a place without the Hibari family's iron fist keeping a leash on the local gangs and mobsters. A place where no one would be able to easily connect Vito no-name, with hair dyed black and cut short, to the missing spiky haired, brown-eyed son of the innocent Nana Sawada.
X
Vito started out doing small-time crap, of course. He couldn't exactly find work as hired muscle or as a reliable driver with a tiny body like his. He definitely struck out in the height department. So, Vito took to stealing. If there was one thing he had to give credit to being Tsunayoshi Sawada, it was his undeniable adorableness that women could never resist. Vito never outright begged, but walking in tattered clothes and garbage bags down the streets or the local parks did more than enough to catch a good Samaritan's attention. Some folks were too attentive or cautious around Vito for him to take any more than a charitable ice cream cone or a half-eaten bag of chips, but on Vito's good days, he could snatch seven or eight wallets easy.
Obviously, it couldn't last. Word would get around eventually about a homeless kid robbing people blind. Fortunately, once the cops started looking into it, so did the local crooks.
Vito got picked up by a two-bit gang, and a pretty young one, at that. They were the kind of trouble-making kids stealing shit and smoking dope that Joe's buddy Marty might have gotten mixed up with if not for Joe looking after him. The gang was full of cocky little shits and would barely last a year before they pissed off the wrong people, but their boss was a bright, ambitious stud who could tell Vito would be fast enough and smart enough to have on his side.
Vito was making long-terms plans of getting the gang's act together, of whipping them into shape to move on from robbing soda packs from grocery stores and pennies from their little siblings' piggy banks, when a big job opportunity came in. An art show was going to be held in town, the boss explained it. They and the other gangs from all across the city were going to rush the gallery and take as many paintings as they could, along with whatever else the art goers had on hand. Word was that the art dealer running the show only had six guards posted around the big gallery, so all the gangs thought they were in for a big payday.
Boy, were they fucking wrong. Those six bodyguards might as well have been six Brian O'Neils pumped full of steroids and God only knows what else. Hell, they had to be on fucking something to conjure up those multi-colored flames. Vito was pretty sure that someone had spiked his juice box when he saw those things. It looked like something out of that manga crap the other members of Vito's gang liked to read.
One of the guards knocked Vito out cold with a single backhand across the face. When Vito woke up, he was surrounded by dozens of unconscious wannabe gangsters and hoodlums. The guards were standing over the bodies and chatting quietly to themselves. Vito scanned the art gallery for an escape route till he spotted an open window. Quiet as he could be, Vito tried to make his exit.
Immediately, someone caught him by the back of his shirt collar. Vito reacted by turning around to bite his captor's fingers, kick his shins, bring him to his knees, and poke his eyes out, in that order. Anything to catch the guy off-guard and let go. Unfortunately, for all of Vito's struggling, his captor's grip never wavered.
It was the art dealer. His eyes were wide, looking shocked at what he saw in Vito's face, though Vito couldn't say what spooked him. Speaking as if the wrath of God was about to unleash itself on him if he spoke otherwise, the art dealer whispered, "Vongola Primo?"
"Name's Vito," Vito growled.
Vito could hear the bodyguards whispering further. "Vongola... missing son... CEDEF... Sawada..."
For a second, Vito was worried that, if he wasn't going to get axed outright, he was going to be sent back to Namimori.
Makoto Kozato was the art dealer's name, he soon introduced himself as, and before Vito could even try to get a word in, the two were standing before the front entrance of the Kozato house.
A girl a year or two younger than Vito waddled from the house's front steps into Makoto's arms. "We missed you, Daddy!" the girl squealed in delight. "Why couldn't you come home before going to the artsy tow?"
"It's called an art show," Makoto corrected, affectionately holding tightly to the girl as he spun her around in the air. "Where's Enma and your mother?"
"Mommy's teaching Enma and me how to sow stuff," the girl said brightly. "But Enma keeps poking his fingers with the needles." The girl looked pass Makoto and spotted Vito. "Who are you?" she asked curiously.
Vito shrugged and ducked his head. He wasn't too sure how to feel about this arrangement.
"He's yours and Enma's new brother," Makoto answered as he put the girl down. The girl kept staring at her new sibling. "Vito, meet Mami, my sweet little girl. Mami, meet Vito Kozato. Let's get inside and introduce him to Mommy and Enma."
X
Makoto Kozato was a somewhat well-known fine arts dealer by day and the head of the Simon Crime Family by night. Of that, Vito caught on to pretty quickly.
Vito had no idea why Makoto had called him "Primo" when they first met, but it was clear Makoto saw through Vito's disguise right off the bat and recognized him as Iemitsu Sawada's son. Tsuna's dad must have put the word out that he was missing. Instead of shipping Vito back to Namimori, though, Makoto decided to formally adopt him and maintain his disguise. It had to be some sort of power play on the Simon Family's end, to one-up Iemitsu's crime family (which might be called the Vongola Family, or the Primo Family, or who the fuck knows. No one told Vito anything whenever he asked. Not even Enma or Mami).
In any case, Vito decided to stay. Makoto saw something in Vito that would be beneficial to the Simon Family, and Vito saw something valuable in being raised as Makoto's adoptive son. Makoto was the boss of his crime family, meaning Enma was more than likely going to be his successor. The Simon Family was small, but with Vito growing up as Enma's brother and as, hopefully, the equivalent of a childhood consigliere, that wouldn't always be the case.
And Jesus Christ, Enma really needed someone to teach him how to act like a boss. Residence in the Kozato household meant enrolling in school, and Vito had to watch the other kids push Enma around like he was their personal chew toy. Enma perpetually had bandages covering his bruised face, and his clothes were so torn from the roughhousing and bullying that he had to sew them back together himself.
Makoto and the Kozato matriarch both had full time jobs, crime-related or otherwise, and with the bodyguards too busy keeping the more serious threats at bay (hired assassins, rival families, low-level upstarts, more people wielding non-burning fire in their hands and on their foreheads), the Simon heirs were more or less left to defend themselves from the schoolyard bullies.
By the end of the first week at his new home, Vito confronted Enma about the bullying problem. "Why do you let those assholes walk all over you?" Vito asked as he, Enma, and Mami were washing the dinner dishes. Enma and Vito stood on stepping stools over the sink. Mami sat on the edge of the counter as she dried the plates with a clean rag.
Surprised by Vito's loud voice, Enma jittered on his stool and nearly fell over. "What?"
Mami rolled up her rag and whipped at the side of Vito's head. "Bad Vito! You know da rules! Mommy's gonna spank you if you keep saying bad words!"
Vito rolled his eyes. Getting his bottom spanked was the least of his worries. "I'm serious. Enma's getting his ass spanked 24/7. You don't think he should be doing something about that?"
Enma's shoulders slumped, as did his head. "What's the point?" he said despondently. "They're never gonna stop."
"They're not stopping because you're not doing a damn thing about it!" Vito pointed out sharply. He dodged another whip from Mami.
"It's just how it is," Enma continued in the same tone. "No one likes the Simon Family, and no one will."
"Those bullies said the same thing about you wetting the bed," Vito said, causing Enma to flush in embarrassment. "That you'd never stop doing it."
"But you did stop!" Mami cheered triumphantly.
"They only know about that because you told them, Mami," Enma whined to his little sister. "They just laughed even more, and..." As Mami's tears suddenly appeared along her eyelids, threatening to burst, Enma rapidly backpedaled. "And you did a good job! They have to make fun of me for something else now!" In a flash, Mami's downcast frown was replaced by her innocent smile, a smile mirrored by an indulgent Enma.
God, Vito wished he was old enough for a smoke, or a drink. Just something to get the edge off. "My point is that you don't let others tell you who you are, what you are, and what you can do. Those bullies tell you that you're less than dirt? Fuck 'em. Other families say the Simon Family are at the bottom of the food chain? Fuck 'em, too. You stand up, knock them down, and show them who's really boss."
Enma became outwardly downcast again. "But I'm not the boss. Dad is."
"You're going to be the boss, someday," with Vito directly by his side, as Enma's right-hand. If Vito can't be his own boss, then he'll make Enma one. "It don't matter you only stopped wetting the bed, yesterday. Tomorrow, I'm going to show you how being a boss is done."
On the next school day, the usual cast of wannabe wise guys surrounded the three Kozatos by their favorite swing set. Enma kept Mami behind him while Vito walked up to the head of the posse. The kid smirked and sneered and smelled of bad breath.
All it took was one head-butt and one punch to toss the kid flat on his ass and literally send him crying back home to mommy.
From the looks on the bully's friends' faces, they were not expecting to see that. The kid must have been the alpha dog of their little group. Oh, little did they know how much that was going to change today.
Vito snapped his fingers. Mami walked up and handed him a small grocery bag. While Enma stepped up slowly and hesitantly to stand beside his siblings, Vito dug his hand into the bag and pulled out a handful of bite-sized candies. Vito tossed it into the crowd, the boys catching them zealously.
The posse didn't immediately start munching on the freebies. They looked up to Vito and waited respectfully. Vito had wanted to follow through with the tough guy act completely, but he couldn't stop himself from smiling.
"Go on and stuff yourselves," Vito said. "Courtesy of Vito Kozato, Enma Kozato, and Mami Kozato. You do what we say, there's more of that for you in the future."
Give it a few years. If Vito had his way, he and the Simon Family were going to be running this town. If anybody gets in his way, then they're either going to end up working for him or not at all.