Title: L'ascesa di Primo (The Rise of Primo)

Genre: Action, Drama, Fantasy, Friendship, Historical, Shounen, Supernatural

Note: This story is an in depth look into the first generation, especially Giotto (aka Vongola Primo) as well as the founding of the Vongola Famiglia. No pairings, and lots of OCs.

Break of Dawn

In a river canal along the streets of a small Sicilian town, the rocky embankments were lifeless, rigid in their purpose as they towered over the river, like a captive device, enclosing onto the waters.

Then there it came bobbing down the waters; a woven basket, tattered and on the verge of breakage. It rocked ever so slightly, the tiny sign of life wrapped within its embrace unknowing of the fearsome waters that threatened to sink and devour it.

It was tragically common to witness young women along the streets of Italy, crippled by poverty and desperation, to throw away their only blood and burden. That goes to the same for this tiny one, who was abandoned, out of circumstances. The little bundle was very much alive. Yet this fragile existence was barely keeping itself afloat, small hands helplessly and innocently reaching out towards the air. Perhaps it was aware that the end was near. No cries were heard from the living being, and the river was deafeningly quiet.

Suddenly, incessant barks echoed down the river and shouts of a man rang across the streets. A frazzled dog with thin, sinewy legs, gray fur and blinded in one eye, came tumbling down the steps of the bank, into the water. It paddled frantically towards the basket, its toothless mouth clamping down onto the edge of it.

"Aberto, come back here!" A man called out from above the river. The dog complied and was soon reunited with his worried master.

He was a stocky man, muscular and had a full head of dark brown hair. His leather boots were worn out, and his soles were sore from running after his dog. He knew Aberto liked to run, but today seemed to be an especially hyperactive day for the canine.

"Bad boy, Aberto, bad boy!" The man scolded, and the dog whimpered softly before it set the basket down onto the ground and nudged at it. The man then stopped short, bright blue eyes landing upon the little thing swaddled in blankets in the basket. He squatted down, receiving the little basket gently and carefully with both hands. Peering inside, he was greeted by the tiny hands of the being wrapped within. An innocent chuckle emerged, and the man, who we shall know as Lorenzo Adelardi, widened his eyes in surprise.

A tiny baby with a warm pair of amber orange eyes peeked up at the stranger. And he was tiny indeed. With a tuft of blonde hair above his head, he was almost the size of Lorenzo's head, which was not quite large in the first place. His soft, delicate hands flailed about, brushing past Lorenzo's large nose and mustache, his gleeful laughter filling up the empty streets of the town.

Lorenzo looked at the boy lovingly and pitiably, wondering what would have happened to this baby if Aberto had not barked madly and jumped into the waters. He proudly patted his one-eyed dog, who looked as proud as he was. "Good boy, Aberto, good boy!" He praised.

Lorenzo then eagerly stood up and started running, his urgent footsteps erupting down the street, Aberto the one-eyed greyhound following closely behind.

His excitement was to be expected. Lorenzo was married to a wife too sickly to give birth, and he held little hope to ever raise a child or to be a father. He did not quite process the thought of picking up this orphan from the river, nor the thought of bringing this baby home.

"Camilla," he shouted as he burst through the bedroom door. "Camilla, look who I found!"

The wife, a pale yet gorgeous lady, sat up on the bed, alarmed by her husband's sudden declaration. She was frail-looking, her once silky blonde hair had long lost its sheen. Her youth was hidden beneath a diseased body, yet her lively, gray eyes stared straight at her spouse as she asked affectionately, "Whatever's the matter, Lo?"

"A baby, my dear," Lorenzo said, as he enthusiastically went towards his wife with the basket. "A boy."

Camilla's eyes widened the moment the baby was unveiled before her. Her eyes turned wet in disbelief, and she cradled the little bundle in her arms, cooing at the boy.

"How, Lo?"

"This poor one was left in the river."

"The river?" She cried out, aghast. "How could anyone abandon such a darling?"

The frown sitting between her brows creased her porcelain-like face, and Lorenzo placed a hand on hers while shaking his head. "But we can take him in," he said. "We can raise him. You his mamma, I his papà."

"Let's," She agreed, her eyes glancing at the baby who stared up at her with his warm, orange orbs. Lorenzo then realized that he never once cried, and he thought of how peaceful this little thing had been all this time. The child, so in tune with everything else, was a bright, warm existence that filled up the whole house and their hearts in mere seconds.

"Giotto," He whispered just loud enough for Camilla and Aberto, and most importantly, the boy to hear.

"A pledge of peace." Camilla nodded. "A fine name, Lo."

Her pale hands tenderly caressed the blonde locks of the baby boy, and he replied with a satisfied yawn, falling asleep, unaware of his beginnings, and he will grow up to know Camilla as his mamma and Lorenzo as his papà. And outside of the window of the house, the sun emerged, the light slowly flooding the town, signaling the breaking of dawn.

In the small town of Leggero, news of the adopted child of the Adelardis spread like wildfire. The Adelardis had always been a friendly couple, popular among the townsfolk, and the people around them were glad that there was a little human to join the duo.

The Adelardi couple arrived in Leggero a few years back and chose to reside in the small, broken town permanently mere months after they arrived. Lorenzo was one of the more able-bodied men in the town. He had firm muscles, a solid chest, and well-trained reflexes to call himself one of the best fighters anyone could find in Sicily. He worked as a porter, lugging and carrying anything from fresh produce to barrels of wine. The pay wasn't much, but it was enough.

Camilla herself was said to be a talented songstress in the past. However, attacked by an ill-fated disease that damaged her vocal cords, her body became wracked with sickness, her fertility reduced to none. She was incapable of work and domestic chores, and would have wasted away as a pitied damsel, had not her fiery passion for life drove her to become a teacher for the scraggly, illiterate children of Leggero.

The union of the unlikely two made many questioned if they would be able to raise an unknown child not of their own. Contrary to their expectations, Giotto was raised with much love and care, with education unlike any other, and he carried the generosity of his papà, the passion of his mamma, and the kindness of both. Giotto was by no means, like any of the other boys in Leggero. He was intelligent, soft-spoken, and his eyes possessed a sort of foresight. In just four years, the boy had grown wonderfully. He had a head of spiky soft blonde hair, a substantial bit of fringe hanging down on his forehead, a healthy glow on his small face, and warm, vast amber orange eyes that accentuated his charm.

It was soon the boy's fifth (or that was what the couple decided it to be) birthday, and Lorenzo was determined to teach the boy how to fight. He believed that fighting was a crucial survival skill in Italy, and he was right. The town, while peaceful and harmonious on the surface, hidden alleyways where crime abounded. Evil things lurked in the darkness, and Lorenzo knew he had to raise a child who was able to protect himself.

"What are we doing today, papà?" The young blond asked curiously, his warm, orange eyes looking around the spacious path. The pink pavement reflected the sun's glaring rays, and Giotto soon noticed his padre standing before him with an intimidating stance.

"I'm teaching you how to fight, Giotto," Lorenzo answered.

Giotto understood Lorenzo's intentions, and he cheerily thanked his padre. Lorenzo then sent in a weak punch towards the boy to commence his lesson.

But the punch was dodged by none other than Giotto himself. Lorenzo proceeded to send in another punch, thinking that the first was a fluke, yet the second was similarly dodged. He tried again, with more speed this time, but Giotto avoided it with minimal effort. Lorenzo blinked his eyes in incredulity, and he lost his fighting stance as he gazed at his son, puzzled.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"How did you know where I was going to hit?"

"I just did," Giotto answered matter-of-factly, puzzling Lorenzo even further. The porter soon gave up on asking the boy further, and all he did was to proceed with his lesson, teaching his son how to fight without a weapon.

And in the back of his mind, he was filled with excitement and worry at the thought of his son's potential.

Giotto loved the town. It had this sacred air of peace and beauty that was calmative to the mind, and he breathed every single moment of it. He adored the rocky pavements, the bumpy, washed-out walls that emanated mystery and the palpitating heartbeat of the town. He appreciated the warmth the townsfolk would provide to the town, and the daily greetings he'll hear every morning. He liked how everything and everyone was so carefree in this small town, each and every one of them living in peace and comfort.

But he hated it at the same time. Leggero was just like what his padre had told him. When there is light, there is darkness. Especially in the alleyways. He hated how dark it was, and he was afraid of what lies within it. His mamma told him to avoid it, and he did. Occasionally, he saw tiny beady eyes gazing at him, snickering at him in the darkness, in the narrow gap of the alleys. His nose would come into contact with the putrid smell of rotten meat, and the iron stench of blood. He would hear the pounding of muscle against bone, the explosion of gunshots, and he would run whenever he heard it.

It had been six weeks after Giotto started learning how to fight, and his papà told him that he was as competent as boys five years older than him, and it seemed to be a great big deal to his padre. But he was also told to never brag to others by his papà, for humility lets one go far in the streets of Italy. Up till now, he never had the chance to use his skills, for he never actively sought for any chances. He'll stay safe, and continue to bask in the light of the town.

And today was the same. He trod the pavements in a sinless manner, tip-toeing, then occasionally breaking into a run. His mamma, after teaching him a lesson on mathematics, had allowed him to do whatever he wanted outside, without failing to remind him to avoid the alleys. He said a cheerful good evening to the local barber signor Barbieri, then received sweets from signora Fiore, and made his way to his favorite part of the town. He was close to the darkest of alleys, or that was what his mamma told him. In the back of his mind, he told himself to ignore the stares, the snickers, the foul odor, the gunshots.

Then he heard it.

A helpless cry of a child reverberating from down within, bouncing off the walls, and amplifying itself. He heard it so cleanly, and the five-year-old's legs were numb, his orange eyes turning to look down the treacherous stairs that led into the obscure alley. It screamed danger, and Giotto was absolutely sure that he would be plunging into darkness the moment he descended down the steps.

He tentatively walked down to the halfway point of the stairs, right at where the light transcends into darkness. He will turn back, he told himself. He will turn back.

The same whimper rang out, and before he himself knew it, Giotto had already sped down the stairs, into the darkness that he was so afraid of, into the unknown that he never thought he would pick up the courage to walk into.

He was so scared, so scared. And he repeated the thought in his mind again and again. His mamma warned him to never go into the alleys, and he was disobeying her. His legs were shaking, but they still brought him into the darkness, towards the sound that had set him going.

Around the corner, he then witnessed it. A boy, no older than twelve, yelling at the defenseless child leaning against the wall. His feet and fists pounded at the tiny body ruthlessly without giving his victim any time to breathe. The bully had a wide, sadistic grin on his face, his stony-hearted actions merely for his own pleasure.

"Hey!"

The twelve-year-old boy stopped, his violet eyes turning to look at Giotto. Giotto could feel his blood turning cold. He was facing a person other than his papà for the first time, and his fear was increasing, his heart was telling him to either fight or fly.

"Can't you see I'm busy, idiota?" The older boy snarled. "Or do you want to join Rossi over here?"

Giotto flinched, and he glanced at the small boy curled into a ball, barely visible in the shadows. He glared at the older boy, deciding that he will choose to fight. His papà said he was taught to fight to protect himself, and this will be the first time he will fight.

Not to protect himself, but to protect that boy in the shadows.

The older boy was charging towards him now, and he could sense clearly where he was going to hit. He dodged nimbly, and he punched the bully at where his papà taught him with all his might. The boy backstepped, rolling over as he yowled in pain.

"You'll remember this!" The older boy shouted as he picked up himself, shaken. He then ran away, helter-skelter, down the pebbled alley, his figure vanishing into the darkness. Giotto huffed, his knuckles red, and he turned around, reaching a hand towards the bullied kid who came out from the shadows. The other boy had a full head of red hair and a pair of piercing crimson eyes. His face was battered with bruises, limbs turning blue and purple, making him a sorry sight to look at. The boy's wounds conveyed the pain he must have felt while he was mercilessly attacked by the bully, and Giotto could not help but to frown visibly. Meanwhile, the boy shot Giotto's outstretched hand a glare.

"Don't need," the boy murmured as he swatted it away. He then stood up, albeit unstable, and when he reached his full height, Giotto noticed that the boy was as tall as he was.

"Thanks," the boy said under his breath hesitantly, and he patted away the dust on his pants. Giotto, surprised at this sudden expression of gratitude, broke into a grin. He then asked, "What's your name?"

The boy stared at Giotto for a moment.

"Guglielmo." He finally said.

"That's a hard name to pronounce," Giotto remarked. "I'm Giotto."

"I know who you are," The red-haired kid said. "You're that trovatello."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Giotto inquired.

"I don't know, my zio always calls you that."

"Who's your zio?"

"That man who drinks and shouts every night."

"He's nasty."

"I know," he sighed. "My whole family is."

Giotto pursed his lips, not knowing how to continue the conversation until he saw the sun dipping down into the horizon.

"Wanna come to my house to eat?" He asked. "My mamma and papà will be happy to have you eat with us."

"I can't," The kid answered. "My madre will hit me if I don't eat with her tonight."

"Why would she hit you?"

"She hates me."

"Why would she hate you?"

"I don't know."

"Come to eat with us then," Giotto said again. "My mamma and papà won't hate you."

"I told you I can't." The boy said with a click of his tongue. "Leave me alone."

He took off, leaving behind Giotto in the dust, the young boy not able to call out to the boy. He stood there, watching the sun setting, diving deep into the edges of the alley. His bright, orange eyes remained wide open in the face of the sun's piercing rays. Giotto let out a barely audible gasp, his eyes going wider as he watched Guglielmo disappearing into the sun's embrace.

"A storm's coming."

"Papà, what's a trovatello?"

Lorenzo froze, his hand hovering in mid-air with his fork. Camilla, likewise, turned to look at the boy, her face filled with confoundment. It was your everyday dinner, and the boy had suddenly popped the question in the middle of it.

"Where'd you hear that from?" Camilla asked.

"G's zio called me that," Giotto replied honestly. "He called me a trovatello."

"Who's G?"

"Someone... I met today," Giotto answered while trying hard to not avert his eyes. "His name is hard so I shortened it. Mamma, what's a trovatello?" He persisted the question, earning a conflicted madre who had no qualms on how she should answer her son.

"Darling," She began.

"It's something bad, isn't it?" Giotto interjected. "It sounds nasty."

Camilla words fell short, and her eyes divulged a contorted look of pain, of reluctance. She turned to Lorenzo, who was still stoned in his seat for the past half a minute.

"Darling, you don't have to worry about it."

"Mamma?"

"Camilla, tell him," Lorenzo said. "We can't hide it forever."

"Lo!" Camilla gasped.

"We can't ever shut those chiacchierone." Lorenzo hissed, and Giotto was stunned, for he had never seen his padre looking so furious before.

"Papà?" Giotto took up the courage to ask, but his padre did not say anything, while Camilla inched closer towards the ragazzino.

"Giotto, my darling." She said in a pure, kind voice. "Trovatello means a foundling."

"A foundling?"

"Yes," Camilla took in a deep breath. "It means that you are an orphan. You're not our biological son."

"What is biological?" The five-year-old asked, his head tilting to one side, warm, orange eyes brimming with curiosity.

"We," Camilla continued with a strained voice. "Are not your real mamma and papà."

The house was soon submerged into a sea of silence and foreboding, Lorenzo laying his head on his hands, Camilla pursing her lips. Both of them waited for their son's reaction and his denial.

"I know."

His voice was calm, cloudless, like that of the blue horizon, and his parents looked at him with all sorts of emotions on their faces. The ragazzo claimed that he knew, and both adults stared at the boy, trying to find a hint of a lie in his words, perhaps to hide his denial. Yet all they found, was a quiet, peaceful smile that revealed the truth.

"How did you, no, when did you know?" Lorenzo almost shouted, but he kept his cool and his tone as even as he could.

"I just knew," Giotto said in return. "I knew it ever since I could remember."

And there it was, that same answer the boy often gave. He just knew. It sounded so simple yet so convoluted at the same time, and the Adelardi couple instantly lost all words to say. Camilla started sobbing, her little hiccups coming out in bits as tears flooded her cheeks. Lorenzo rested a careful hand on her back, rubbing it, trying to ease her pain. Extreme emotions were bad for her health.

"Mamma?" Giotto murmured as he climbed down his chair and approached his madre. "Don't cry, mamma."

"I'm sorry, Giotto." His padre said, his head hung low.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because..."

"Don't be sorry, papà. Don't be sorry."

His eyes gazed into his father's, then his mother's, and softly, kindly, he hugged his mamma, then his papà.

"You're still my mamma and papà, " Giotto whispered as he tightened his hold onto his parents. "No matter what."

Camilla, while weak and sickly, was an intelligent woman. She was well-versed in various areas, from languages to the sciences, and with whatever energy she had, she did her best to pass on her knowledge to the children, and most importantly, Giotto. And the more she taught the boy, the more she realized one thing.

He was a child with potential so immense that it both frightened and delighted her.

Though he did not have the brightest of minds, he had a strange yet powerful intuition that neither Lorenzo nor herself could understand. He knew many things a child his age shouldn't be knowing. He knew whether people are good, or bad. He knew when someone is lying. And he knew that he was an abandoned child.

Even after that sorrowful yet hopeful family dinner, Giotto didn't say anything else, as if the fact that he was a foundling, the fact that his real madre abandoned him, did not affect him in the slightest. He had accepted it wholeheartedly since the beginning, and it astonished her on how accepting he was.

"Giotto, darling," She called out, and the boy immediately headed towards her bedside.

"Yes, mamma?"

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, mamma. Are you?"

"Of course, mamma is very happy that you are here. You know, Giotto, mamma wishes for many things for you."

"What are they?"

"Mamma wishes that you'll find people you can trust. Mamma wishes you'll be strong. Mamma wishes that you'll be a great man in the future."

"I'll do that!" The boy said enthusiastically. "I'll find people I can trust, I'll be strong, and I'll be a great man."

"Of course you will. But most importantly, mamma wishes that you will have the power to protect people."

"Why?"

"Because," Camilla smiled gently. "The power to protect will make you stronger than anyone else."

Giotto paused, suddenly remembering that day when he went down the alley. That day when he first protected someone.

"Will you promise me that?"

His madre lifted her pinky, and Giotto did not hold an ounce of hesitation as he hooked his madre's pinky with his own.

"I promise!"

Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate):

Capo di tutti capi - Boss of all bosses

madre - mother

padre - father

zio - uncle

chiacchierone - blabbermouth

Just to note, this story is set in a fictional town. Yes, there's no such town called Leggero in Italy. Also, Leggero means "light" in Italian.

Hey there, this is my first KHR fic :) KHR really defined my childhood and it is my favorite series of all time, and I do believe me writing a fic about it has been due a long time ago. I know next to nothing about Italy except it has pasta, mafia, beautiful art, and streets until I researched about it for this story. Apologies if there are some inaccuracies in the Italian words used in this story.

Please do note that this story almost has none of the modern characters (aka Tsuna, the 10th gen, Reborn, etc). It is entirely on Primo and his beginnings, his journey, and how he founded the Vongola. It will also include elements of the Tri-Ni-Sette and the Arcobaleno since we all know that Primo was heavily involved with Sepira and Bermuda. Well, the manga kinda glossed over it, and I am not pleased.

And that is all for the first chapter. Hope you enjoyed it, and do send in a review on which areas I can improve in the writing! :)