A/N
Hello all! Commence chapter 2, and please review!
.
.
"Stop picking at it."
"Ugh, fine."
I scrubbed at the hole in the seat I'd ripped open, stuffing starting to show.
A squirt of water hit my face.
"Merde! I mean, um, gavno-er, shnitzel?"
"Do not replace one swear word with another. Speaking in Russian doesn't cancel it out, replacing it with gibberish doesn't cover it up. Enough with the foul language, you've got a job to do."
"глупое отродье, отвали." (1)
The nozzle of a silencer suddenly gleamed between my eyes. Reborn was as cool as a popsicle, flicking a piece of lint off his suit.
"не смей так со мной разговаривать." (2)
I shivered and nodded quickly, slumping down to hang off my seat when Reborn took Leon away from my face, the lizard morphing back into its animal shape. First class seats on a jet used solely by the Vongola afforded a good deal of comfort and privacy, but I'd been on this dang plane for eight of the almost twelve hour flight, and I was ready to lose it.
I've done long plane rides before, this isn't even the longest one I've been on, but I've never, never had to share the plane with a guy like Reborn. Three words rotated in my head: putain de merde. (3)
Please pardon my French.
.
.
The baby is adamant that I break my cursing habit, which I honestly didn't think was that bad. I had arms class with eight year-old's that outdid the guys on the street, so forgive me if I was shocked to hear I'm not a bar of Irish soap.
But no, the cursing has to stop and I understand. My Gramps used to say a dirty mouth showed a dirty heart, and there is something posh about a clean vocabulary. Mostly I think it'd be nice to kick the habit since Reborn curses, and he's a hitman. I don't want to be a hitman, or Reborn, so the cursing has to go! He's got a surprisingly foul mouth for such a small body.
Just the other day, as revenge for tossing out my entire wardrobe and replacing it, I burned the coffee beans I found in his luggage at exactly 5:20 am, ten minutes before the shitty baby came back from his morning exercises. You would've thought the country was going up in flames and a sailor had been grounded the way he was going on.
The next 24 hours are a bit blurry and broken up, but at least the baby respects me now! Somewhat.
Back to cursing.
In my normal day-to-day vernacular, I'd say I'm alright (and Reborn agrees), but when I get irritated or freaked out, well, all bets are off. And since I slip up the most when I'm frustrated or caught off guard, guess what Rebo-dearest has been doing for the past two weeks and eight hours? Enacting his revenge.
Today he woke me up with an ice bath, unpacked my suitcase 10 minutes before we had to leave the hotel, stole my passport and left it in a ditch on the side of the road. That was before we got to the airport.
He got my computer confiscated at security by saying it was a bomb along with my Level 2 Japanese textbook and original copy of The Brother's Karamazov (I will kill him). Then, when I thought it couldn't get worse, he threw my phone out the door of the plane right as the stewardess sealed it.
The demon child has been spraying me with a water gun like he's Ivan Pavlov and he's going to die before we land. If he (I) survive this hell, I'm going to make him hate the thing he loves most: coffee.
.
.
Flicking open the window shade, I watched the clouds hang in the sky, flat bottoms and poofy tops spread out as far as the eye can see. It's sort of peaceful, when you ignore the fact that you're flying hundreds of miles an hour, thousands of feet above the surface of the earth, in a metal tube. Cheerful thoughts.
Reborn and I are heading to Tokyo to establish a secure connection with our (his) contacts there and to ensure my "seamless integration" into Namimori Middle.
We've decided to pass me off as 14 and keep me in as many of Tsunayoshi's classes as we can without being suspicious. The fact that my 17th birthday is closing in is not an issue: I take after my paternal grandmother, short and round faced. So far we've agreed that I'll lurk around in the shadows rather than making myself known, since rule number three in the mafia handbook says "hidden enemies are more dangerous than the those in the open."
Apparently Reborn helped write that handbook, so I've decided to skeptically agree. Like, taking everything in it with a pound of salt, I'll agree. He's an ass, you'd understand if you met him.
It's unfortunate that we'll be arriving a month after school starts, but it can't be helped. No one asked for Nono's sons to die, there certainly wasn't a schedule for tragedy.
.
.
My expression darkened at the thought of Nono's sons.
I didn't know them, not personally, but everyone knew who they were in the underworld, and it cast waves like a tsunami when they all ended up dead. Cesarino's brother held a mass for each one of them, and his wife Julianna wore black for the rest of the month. She was still wearing a black veil when we left Italy.
Federico's story was the most chilling of the three brothers. They still don't know exactly who or what got him, too little left of the body to say anything beyond the word "acid." The others left more evidence behind, but there are no comforting answers. I've heard all the rumors floating around about infighting, but those are from crass people who don't understand Nono or his kids: they genuinely loved each other, all of them.
I'm not saying I get how the Vongola operates, but Cesarino knew and believed in them, and he was the epitome of the word "family." It's strange now, having heard about the situation and mourned the Vongola's losses, now that I'm caught up right in the thick of it.
I shuddered. Knowing all that happened, how were we supposed to go and take this kid, a 14 year-old civi, and tell him to be the next in line? I mean, it's crazy! If you look at what happened to the previous candidates, the position looks cursed!
No sane person wants to inherit a power that requires the death of the predecessor and expects that death to be bloody and violent. This is not Harry Potter or the British royalty, you get no perks for becoming the next in line, just bloodshed and a lot of paper work. Japan is supposed to be pretty pacifistic, barring the Yakuza: if we drop this into the lap of a teenager it will 100% throw him out of wack.
Glad that's not in my job description…I think.
I glanced at Reborn.
The baby hasn't given me any clues, hasn't shared his plans for teaching the kid, and that's fine with me. I don't really enjoy the way our conversations go, but they have given me a sense of his style: spartan torture. He's not the first mafia teach I've gotten that runs with that stance, but I honestly feel sorry for the boy. Growing up with a mafia background gives you a certain acceptance of the strange and ridiculous, and all my classmates and colleagues have an innate adaptability to physically punishing tasks.
Tsunayoshi doesn't have that.
Really, looking at his profile, I'm not even sure he's hit puberty based off his height and weight, and his school stats show very low academic and physical performance. It's concerning, Reborn's gonna hit him like a hurricane. Aside from crap test scores he has wonderfully bad luck inheriting Vongola blood stemming from the main line, but I guess that's not his fault. I blame his ridiculous father.
I can't help but wonder what Reborn thinks of all this, and I'd love to turn his mind reading powers against him (I seriously need to figure out how he pulls that trick, it's infuriating). It's been only two-ish weeks since our first meeting, but I can tell the baby is an expert at whipping out hitmen and he fully expects to break Tsunayoshi into his mold. Apparently Doofus Dino is his former student, and considering the turn around in the Cavallone famiglia, he's did an impressive job.
According to my personal sources, Dino was going to be held back again or expelled if he failed another year at the academy, but these sort of things are buried once a boss gets big. I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm being taken on as a sort of halfway charity case based on a phone call I may have snooped on, but I have no proof.
Stupid baby caught me before I could hear what the principal wanted, so the only thing I can say for certain is the king of assholes needs to give me up.
.
.
I took a long sip of pineapple juice and squinted out the window at the sun. Manicini is not worth the anger, but he's unfortunately latched himself onto my life and has no intention of letting go. I do not yet have a way of exterminating the pest, but I'll find one.
I pulled on air, and hailing the pretty young stewardess, I asked sweetly,
"Another juice please? I try the mango this time."
.
.
Mango is delightful! I've found a new favorite drink to spend Reborn's money on, and in doing so, I've also acquired the strength to bear with the crap I'm still mulling over.
This is why I don't have friends, I brood like a sparkly teenage vampire.(4)
That old man is his own box of nightmares: the headmaster has his fingers in a lot of pies, and if the rumors are true, he's related to one of Nono's guardians. I pity the guardian, but that's serious political clout for the devil, even though it means zilch for me. Despite the fact that I'm under the oath of Omerta, I still don't know why the heck we're digging up this Japanese kid, and I can't tell from Reborn if he's supposed to have potential or the Vongola's really that desperate.
Personally, I think they're really that desperate based on his scores. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," cue Reborn. You could also replace that phrase with "stupid is as stupid does," and you wouldn't be far off.
Reborn is staring at me. Crap.
Think happy thoughts! Like fairy dust, long naps, sunshine, a good cup of tea!
The demon returned to his book.
I need to call up an exorcist for my resident demon, he's starting to get more creepy, and more importantly, accurate.
.
.
I focused on my juice for a while, purposely shoving my brain into the game of "what can I see in the clouds," but eventually my thoughts rounded back to what was weighing on my mind when Reborn left for the toilet. I had an irrationally strong desire to lock him in for the rest of the ride, or the rest of his life.
I did not act on that impulse, and thus kept on breathing the, relatively, free air.
I'm not Vongola, as you may have guessed, my situation and "my people" are sort of…weird, so the specifics of the history and lore of the famiglia is something I can't access. Not having access, not having information is scary at a time like this, where the unknowns have literally killed people. I don't want to walk forward with a blind fold on and my hands tied, so I'm hoping I can ferret out some secrets from Reborn's contacts.
Don't hold your breath though, I don't have much confidence if they're like the baby.
The next best is the rumor mill, all the stories that changed hands in Cosorini, the nowhereville where I last lived in Italia. The Vongola was a favorite topic of the people there: basically the entire town was mafia run, subsidized, or happily oblivious, and you'd hear things all the time about the mighty orange famiglia. Other people were popular too, but stories about the Vongola were different from any other family.
Obviously they were embellished and blown up until they were mere caricatures of the truth, but truth still anchored them, made them worth re-telling and polishing up. It's what happens when you get that big, secrets don't stay secret and get mixed in with tall tales old men tell over cigars and whiskey.
The big stuff people talk about are the flame attributes and the magic rings, since anyone who's someone has a handle on that power. Heck, even I have flames, but fat lot of good they've done me. They aren't some mythic super power that suddenly turns you into a warrior-wizard, and I can say hands down I'd trade what I have for a NE-3280 Sonic Steamer. The microwave is useful, the flames? Total scam.
Anyway, the lesser known stories are what are more interesting, quiet mutters and whispers about blood pacts and ghosts. It's said the lost history of Italia's underground merges somewhere with our dearly beloved clam corps. My Halmonii always taught me to be careful of ghosts, they have a way of tearing through families, through people. You should always be on guard for those that have collected one too many haunters.
I bet Reborn has a few.
Speaking of which, I've been wondering if Reborn feels guilty about bringing all that darkness and danger to a brat, or if he feels anything at all. He's a bit different from my other teachers, and I can't figure him out behind the persona, the profile he's circulated. I hear Dino survived and doesn't hate him though, so that's a good sign.
Normally I wouldn't care, since my general stance is that civilians are either smart enough to stay away or not my business, i.e stupid enough that I want nothing to do with them. However, Tsunayoshi is about to be my job, a responsibility that will carry forward into the foreseeable future, and I like to do my job right, whatever anyone else says. Believe me, they say a lot.
Being a bodyguard is more than just caring for the physical well being of your charge, it's also about their mental and emotional state. The best bodyguards are the ones who can protect their assignment in such a way that the VIP doesn't even notice a lack of danger. It should be like breathing, so natural and free that their safety goes unquestioned. I'm not sure this kid will get that under Reborn's tutelage, but I'll try my best.
It's a hard job, but I'd take protecting an innocent over killing a man any day, and I think Nono knows that. I don't really understand how I'm here, but I want to do my best for this kid, for this boy that doesn't need the mafia coming into his life. If anything, the mafia, the famiglia is the one that should be getting on its knees and begging him, and if I have my way, it'll never, ever be the other way around.
.
.
I frowned.
The power dynamic, the lording over people, the creeping into everything and everyone you know, that's why I want to get out, that is what makes me crazy. The mafia stains everything. Even if you have the best intentions, the nature of this world is not conducive to a happy life. It's selfish. Just look where we are: on the orders of an old man, we're going to drag his grandson into a world of bloodshed and betrayal. What kind of person does that?
Your kind, you.
'You're not any different, birdy, you're just the same as the rest of us.'
Shut up.
I shook my head violently, pulling my glasses off and scrubbing them hard with the corner of my shirt. This successfully smudged all the oil and flecks of dust into the large lenses and I groaned before shoving them back on, adjusting to keep my lashes from scraping along the inside.
Reborn was back from the toilet.
.
.
Fourteen. Who was I at fourteen? Bad comparison, I'm not anything like a civi, but if I was, what would I have been like? Certainly not ready to lead a mafia organization, to be ready to fight and kill and die for people. That's what we're going to do, that's what we're bringing to him, and we have nothing of equal value to gift as compensation for that burden. He's living in a time where his greatest concern should be if he's got pimples or B.O. not if someone's watching him through the wrong end of scope.
What if he likes a girl? What if he's dating? His file says he's pathetic, but files have been wrong. What if we screw up a future he's always wanted, take away his chance to be happy, to be free? We're gonna take away his safety, his peace and happiness, for what? For wealth and fame? For grand adventure? Yes, but also no, big no.
We're calling him in so he can lead an organization, to navigate tense and complicated relationships so deeply intertwined with the shadows you'd think they made them. We're having him take up a long, disturbing, questionable history. We're making him a figurehead, a puppet on strings. There's no way a civi can run the Vongola, can withstand the storms, and the old man has to know that. Reborn has to know that.
It's a sham, and it's wrong.
.
He probably doesn't even know the mafia exists, and he's gonna be thrown right into the trenches.
.
He doesn't even have friends yet.
.
He hasn't even really lived yet.
.
We're going to kill this kid.
.
.
I shivered and started when a small, firm hand smacked my forehead.
"Stupid Bella, stop being pessimistic and trust me. Tsunayoshi Sawada will be fine. We will keep him safe."
There was a deeper promise lingering under those words, and a silent rebuff.
Even if the kid hadn't ended up as the next in line, he was old enough to start getting drawn into the politics, and inevitably he would have caught someone's eye. Honestly, he's overdue for this sort of interference it usually starts by the time the child is five, mafia fathers normally can track down their offspring by then. The famiglia is old school: children are power.
Knowing that doesn't make it better, but it makes our position easier. We aren't really the bad guys.
It's nothing short of a miracle that nobody's discovered him or tried to triangulate him in a fight sooner. In some ways, Iemitsu gave him a blessing and a curse by cultivating and protecting his civilian life. Safe and peaceful, but ignorant and weak to the dangers he's fated to meet.
At least this way we'll head off the storm, cast a net and reel in lurking threats before they have a chance to attack. Maybe, just maybe, we'll prevent him from being another Federico.
.
.
.
.
.
Translations:
1) Stupid brat, shove off
2) Do not speak to me that way
3) Fucking hell
4) Btw, I don't hate twilight. Any twihards reading? I was #teamEdward, heehee!
Set to update: 3/14/2020
(Please bear with the edits that occur after posting: I'm still adjusting to this platform)