Kids, i'm tired. So very tired of rel life. When was the last time i published sth... one month ago? more? i'm truly Sorry for t hat! (_ _) College is killing me. Work is killing me. They try, & try, & i try not to let them do. But it's really tiring. Back then i used to antcipate every chapter. I 'd write teh whole story months in advance & only ch ange details when i published... now i can barely find time to write at all. not even bc i don't have time. it's worse: i do have time but when i'm finally released form work, i'm too tired to do an ything else. even wtching animes had become hard for me. if i hav elike 20 or 30mn to cool down, i sleep!

But in spite of everything i hope u guys will like this chapter. i've started writing it weeks & weeks ago and only totally finished it recently. PLease stay reassured there wont be any difficult storyline to understand or wut. This chap was merely to "set the decor" or sth. Next chapters, i'll be back with aaaaall teh drama i stored up for days now!

Please enjoy! ^^


'That's right. Now is my present. I just won't be able to face Xanxus if I don't settle all my shit by myself. ' Squalo pondered as he made a step into what, at first glance, looked like a gigantic greenhouse – nothing to do with an office like the raven's one. The whole place actually looked like a garden in summer: the sweet and fluttering scent of the flowers, the warmth of the sun filtering through the roof, and even the chirping of birds and the sound of a fountain running somewhere behind the massive flora.

Such a tasteful man, that Vito Giordano.

Turning right and left, the silverette finally spotted the form of a man sitting at a table, enjoying a black, steaming coffee while leafing through his newspaper. Even though the man had his back to him, Squalo immediately recognized him.

He smirked at the other man. "Voooi! Ol'man Giordano. Aren't you gonna welcome your guests properly-"

A che escaped the long haired man lips: right under his chin was now glowing the blade of a sword, dangerously threatening to cut his trachea. Holding the sword was a man about his age with bobbed straight dark hair, amber eyes, and three other sheathed swords at his waist. "Won't you tell your fucking gorilla to put that down?" Squalo resumed without losing his calm – and in the same time, his rudeness. "Kids should know better than playing with those kinds of toys."

"Signore Giordano…" Genkishi said.

"It's alright. You can let him go." Vito ordered.

Squalo flinched at the old man's voice. Vito Giordano wasn't, strictly speaking, a man that one could describe as 'frightening". He was a 67 years old businessman, tall, with short hair slightly going gray, but in a very appealing way. The finest bespoke suit was concealing a body that hadn't totally lost all of its attractiveness yet: broad and still muscular shoulders leaving a wide shadow on the ground, hands that used to get broken by hard work now perfectly manicured, their grip firm on the back of the seat where Vito had been seated one minute ago.

The old man's face, on the other hand, couldn't catch on the appearance of youth and power of the rest of his person. The wide and strong-willed forehead was now a sea of wrinkles, the eyesockets hollowed out by years and years of worrying, making the nose and high cheekbones look strangely prominent and the jaws cruel, carnivorous. But in spite of everything, Vito Giordano's grey blue eyes were denoting an intelligence that wasn't common to every man.

Vito Giordano wasn't frightening, not in the strict sense of the word: for those who knew him personally, he was way scarier than that.

The young Vito must have been a real looker, back then, Lambo thought as he got in the garden.

At any rate, many rumors were circulating about Vito Giordano, each one more rocambolesque and unbelievable than the previous ones. A whole book wouldn't be enough to tell all of them, so we'll omit all the frivolous tales and confine ourselves to what Lambo knew about the man.

To tell the truth, no one in that part of the world was accurately au fait with how the old man had built his fortune. What most of people knew about him was his current position (at least, his position back then) as one of the most powerful men in New York, if not the most powerful. Anyway, Giordano didn't work like the 'big ones', that is to say, those who can walk in the light – those who can walk freely in the light without the constant fear of getting shot in the head by a sniper or stabbed to death by some resentful junkie.

When a twenty year-old Vito showed up from nowhere in Miami at the end of the 60s, no one would have bet a cent on that scrawny, sallow Calabrian boy that could barely speak English and whose possessions could be summed up to the clothes he had on his skin. However, if there was something the young Vito could be proud of, it was his inhuman self-control. Even driven against the wall, the young man still could easily find a way out of the crap he was in: killing one or two men meant nothing to him if he felt his life threatened. But when he found himself in that kind of situation, the young man never made any mistake of any sort. Vito sure was a witty boy. And quiet, too. Soon, his capacities were known by those who needed them the most. That's how, three years after young Vito Giordano arrived in town with only rags to cover his ass, that's how said young Vito officially entered the American branch of the N'drangheta.

It's hard now to imagine that dignified old man, too well dressed in his Armani suit, Ferragamo loafers at his feet, and Rolex watch at his wrist, hair perfectly combed and hands manicured – it's hard to imagine that man running in the streets in ragged jeans and sneakers, hair a mess, shooting random passersby in a dark alleyway, just because some bosses told him to do so. Yet, it was the plain truth, and Giordano wasn't going to hide it or anything. If someone asked him, he would tell anything. Probably. No one ever dared to ask him about his past, even back then. Even for an organization like VR Co., it had been quite a drag to gather the information about Vito's past. All they could find was record of the man's life after he arrived in the States, nothing before. Was he running away from some crime he committed back in Italia? God only knows. Anyway, at the moment, there must already be limitation.

Back to the Calabrian man. His younger self.

Giordano did climb up the social ladder to get where he was now. Where he was, that is at the head of one of the biggest holdings of that godforsaken continent, SLW Ho., more or less the equivalent of VR Co. in the western hemisphere. At the end of the 80s and with the fall of their main support in the old continent, the 'group' where Vito used to work in had to undergo some activity reorientation. Killing in broad daylight had become inefficient, useless. It was high time to put the guns down and instead to pick up the computers and black ties. Quiet and skillful Vito Giordano got easily accustomed to his new job. In barely one year, he supplanted the old dinosaurs, vestiges of a past that didn't have its place in the new world anymore.

At first, Vito and his associates started with a humble debt collection agency. It didn't take time before their business evolved into a loan company that rapidly swallowed up the same small businesses miles around (they remained Mafia after all). It took a lot of work, a lot of sweat and blood and broken bones, but in the early 2000, when they decided to settle in Manhattan, SLW Ho. was finally a society acknowledged by its peers. At the time Squalo was reading the report about the holding's activities, SLW was already a little more than simply a finance company: building trade, law firms, and even modeling and food distribution, SLW had its hands everywhere. And at the top of everything was sitting enthroned Vito Giordano, now an old man, father of two sons and three daughters, and grandfather of eleven grandchildren.

So basically, this is how those big monsters were working: if you want to do some business in VR Co.'s territory, no matter what kind of sectors as long as it was comprised in the society's panel of activities, you have to pay your respect to VR Co.'s overlord. Same thing for SLW: you poke around in their place, you pay. In the end, it doesn't differ much from the streets. Knowing this, for Squalo, the rest was just about sweet-talking the old man to get what he (what his Boss) wanted. But now, there's a problem: Squalo was bad at sweet-talking.

After frowning wickedly at Genkishi, the silverette sat on the chair Giordano was presenting to him. The latter took a seat at the opposite side of the table. A maid was summoned to serve coffee for the new guest.

"I assume your lackeys have already told you a word about our boss' proposition. I'm not gonna waste my time in chit-chatting, old man. Your answer. Si or no. Of course, I won't accept 'no' as an answer…"

Indeed, Squalo wasn't just bad at sweet-talking. He sucked at it. Nevertheless, as a man who was hardened to youth's insolence, Giordano didn't take offence. After the maid filled up the old man's cup, he just smiled at the silverette, his grey blue orbs eyeing at him in an almost fatherly way.

"Your attitude truly didn't change at all, boy." Giordano sighed. "Oh, I shouldn't call you a boy anymore. Look what a stunning adult you've become… But how unfortunate said adult can't even say a simple 'good morning' to his benefactor."

The silverette gritted his teeth. "Benefactor my ass. I remember nothing I should owe you, old fucker."

"Watch your mouth." Genkishi threatened, his sword still glistening under his coat.

"Fuck off, you brainless hound." Squalo shouted, not once looking at the other swordsman. Then, to Vito, greyish eyes heavier than ever, "As I said. I'm not here for the fucking chit-chatting. And (Giordano tried to say something but was immediately cut by the silver haired man) and I won't fucking accept a fucking no."

Vito Giordano sighed. "That's harsh words you come to say this early in the morning to an old man."

"Bwahaha! You, a mere old man? Vooi. You, the head of SLW Holding?" Squalo burst.

"But this is what I am now. An old man with his grandchildren, his old friends, and even arthritis – here, look at my hands. No matter what I might have done in the past, this is what I am now, and this is certainly the biggest achievement in my life. Not the money. Family." He poured himself another cup of tea. "You see, money can buy you many, many things you need. Well, you can buy beautiful cars, beautiful houses, women are enthralled by you… but at the end of the day, what you're really looking for is the warmth and the kindness of someone who will love you for who you are, the joyful cries of children running in the house, and why not, pets, too. You've never wished for that?"

Squalo grinned a dreadful grin at the old man. At that moment, in spite of everything people had told Lambo about the old Giordano, the young man sincerely couldn't say which one of those men was really the scariest. Just what in the world did the older Mafiosi do to Squalo for the latter to despise him that much, all Lambo could do was speculate about. To tell the truth, the possibilities were innumerable, but at that point…

"I'd never believed you among all people would tell me that. Now, back to our main point," the silverette calmed down, back leaning on his chair and legs crossed under the table, "I'm not here for your lame jokes. The Boss wants to see VR Co. getting extended here in the States. And you're gonna let him do as he wishes, no fucking trickery, no shitty backstabbing, Giordano. Well, all the details are explained in the documents your lawyers must have received yesterday. I guess you've already had a look at it. As well as our 'compensation' for the endeavor."

"About that 'compensation', I think Mukuro is more suited to talk with you about it." Giordano cleared his throat. "I let this kid handle this kind of business now. You know, right now I'm… retired. It's new blood's time now. His, yours…" A pause. "And Xanxus'. I used to deal with his father, in the past. But never once did Timotheo talk about coming and competing with me on my own territory."

Giordano's voice had raised, just a little, but it had been enough to send shivers down Lambo's spine.

"Easy, gramps'." Squalo's grin stretched into a cruel smirk. "You told it yourself. Now is time for new blood. Yours has nothing to do here anymore. Just a fucking waste of space. Maybe I should empty your veins to make a good example-"

The blade appeared again, this time one inch closer to the silver haired man's throat, when a knock suddenly resounded from the entrance. "Come in." Giordano spoke.

Footsteps were heard coming closer to where the four men were. It was an errand boy bringing a leathered suitcase to the silverette under the astonished eyes of the others.

"Voi, Bel. You're fucking late." Squalo frowned.

The blond boy just laughed his signature laugh. "Shishishi. Sorry if scientists still haven't found how to teleport people. Here." Bel said then threw the suitcase on the table. He took few steps backward.

"Vongola. What's the meaning of all this…" Genkishi glowered.

"The compensation, you blockhead. I couldn't possibly stroll around with this shit." Squalo answered. He turned the suitcase to Giordano and unlocked it. For a fraction of second, the older man's eyes brightened up, in the same way as a starving wolf who just found a lost lamb on its path. "How's it?"

"Tempting." Vito Giordano closed the suitcase. He eyed at Bel who was indifferently scratching his ear. "And you've been carrying this alone in this city?"

"Whether that scum played monopoly or went to water slide with it, it's none of your business."

"And you say this is the compensation?"

"Yeah. The first part, of course, if you're sensible enough."

It was Vito's turn to lean on his seat and stare imperturbably at Squalo. Just what kind of reasoning that man's brain was processing, it was impossible for an outsider to guess. Fortunately for Squalo, he was anything but an outsider.

The silverette got up. "Anyway, make up your mind. I don't want you to die of a heart failure before I get your answer. We're leaving for now."

'Finally!' Lambo sighed in his inner self. He was already having pins and needles in his feet for staying up that long.

"Squalo," Vito called out to the silverette before they left the room, a rather sarcastic smirk on his face. "I know it's been a long time. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then. But in any case, be careful. I don't want you to get harmed by anything... or anyone during your stay here."

"Oooh. That was super theatrical, Consigliere Squalo." Bel exclaimed unconcernedly once they got outside Giordano's building. He was leaning on the Lancia and was talking to Squalo through the lowered window pane. There was a Vespa beside him, motor already started up, though the young man (much to the annoyance of Squalo) didn't look like he was about to leave at any time. The cold weather sure wasn't for him at all. And the fact that it was starting to get windy was getting everything worse for the silver haired man. Sitting on the passenger seat, he had practically wrapped himself up in his coat, the heat of the car being totally sucked outside.

"Shut up, brat." The silverette spit at the blond then lit a cigarette. Sniff. Don't forget what I told to do once you get to see the Boss. There shouldn't be any problems with what we've talked before… Do you have it?"

"Yeaaaah." The young blond took a strange and long package from the seat of the Vespa. "It's been a drag to make it pass the security check at the airport. You travel in private jet, don't you? Why didn't you bring this with you?"

Squalo stared at the package for few seconds before replying. "Forgot it."

Bel was doubled up. "You should be thankful to the Prince. Ushishishi."

"Yeah, yeah whatever. Sniff." The silverette swiftly pulled the package inside the car.

"Er…" Lambo inquired nervously. "I'm sorry to disturb you but what's that?"

"Nothing important." Squalo and Bel replied in unison.

"Ah. Really...?"

"Shishishi. You mere connection peasant don't have to worry about it."

"That's right, scum. You're a just connection for us. Don't get too nosy about our business."

"Okay…"

"Just shut up and do what you're told to do."

"Stupid pawn."

"Useless shit."

"I got it, so please stop." The dark haired man waved his hands in surrender.

"Voooi. How long do you plan on standing there? It's fucking cold, damn it!" The longhaired man pushed Bel away and raised the window pane. "And don't you fucking mess up everything like you always do!"

"Unfair! This time I did everything right!" Bel complained while sticking his face on the pane. Wait. Was that drool? Was that idiot really licking Lambo's Lancia Stratos's pane?

"And you trash (Lambo) fucking start this fucking car up! I don't want to freeze to death in this fucking place!"

The dark haired man sighed and obeyed. "Aye, aye. Bye the way, it's past noon. Maybe we should have lunch? I know a good restaurant."

"Do what you want."

If Lambo asked, that was because, at that moment, Squalo looked like the man needed a long, very long break. Was he already that tired when he got out of the jet? Maybe he just didn't notice it. While driving, Lambo wondered when the last time the silverette actually got holidays was. If he had any at all, in view of VR Co.'s hellish work hours – hours that could easily stretch into days, weeks or months. And the current deal didn't look like it would be a piece of cake either.

'I just hope he won't have a nervous breakdown before the contract is signed…' Lambo pondered.

As a matter of fact, the young man's fears weren't totally unjustified. All of a sudden, the silverette looked very tired and sleep-deprived, and his cold didn't seem like it would settle any soon. And that was precisely because of that that Squalo's screams of horror truly surprised him when they got in the young man's living room, as if he didn't think the man still would be able to yell that loud in his state.

TBC