Italians made a lot of mistakes.
At least, Romano did.
He'd been in New York, waiting to meet up with his stupid little brother, his fratellino, after the G8 meeting for lunch. It seemed like a good idea, at the time. He'd been in America anyways, to talk to Alfred about business, so since he was in New York it couldn't have hurt to spend some time with his fratellino, eating at some fake Italian restaurant.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Romano jolted, taken by surprise by the gun at his back, eyes wide in confusion and annoyance. What stupid humans. "Come with us," the angry male said gruffly, digging the gun into his spine. Romano knew, of course, that he could take these bastard Americans on without a doubt, but he realized that if he did, innocent men and women would be hurt. Now, normally the brash Italian simply wouldn't care – in fact, in New York, it seemed like it would be a normal thing – however, he really didn't want the hassle of dealing with irate New Yorkers, so instead he decided to simply follow them, wait for them to be alone before giving them a piece of his mind.
That was his first mistake.
He let the taller man, with his scruffy face and darker hair, lead him as he was flanked by two other men. He snuck a glance at each, a curse coming from his lips. They were definitely Americans, one of them seeming to be either Italian or Greek. Maybe both, or neither. Turkish was another possibility. At any rate, his skin was more olive toned, with deep brown hair, a touch oily and down to his chin. His eyes were as black as coal, and he had a strong, athletic build. The other guy, however, was his polar opposite. Pale as snow, short, lean with short blond hair and wide, ocean blue eyes. He seemed innocent, as if he didn't really belong in this scene, and that terrified him the most.
Getting into the car was his second mistake.
The next thing he knew, a sharp pain in his neck, and the world went black.
When he finally came to, he had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he was, once again, surrounded by the three men. This time, however, he could see his captor's face – he wasn't nearly as scruffy as he had originally thought. In fact, had been clean shaven, and his hair pulled back, he would have been almost handsome. With one look, Romano could tell he was Italian. There was no doubt about it in his mind, which meant that, as he turned to look at the man with the questionable ethnicity, he was either Greek or Turkish. He didn't seem very Italian to him anymore.
A wave of fear flashed through him; was Feliciano okay?
"You bastardo! Let me go!" Lovino swore, jerking his hands free of the loose strips of fabric that were meant to be his confinement, launching himself at the Italian man, who seemed to be both the ringleader and was holding a gun. He jerked away, a shot going off and embedding itself into the concrete wall. The man, however, was not easily frightened, as he shoved his captive down to the ground, shooting him once in the stomach. A cry left Romano's lips involuntarily, despite his Mafia-like resolve to show no weakness.
Romano put his hands to the bleeding wound, digging his fingers inside with a gentle groan and gritted teeth, searching for the bullet and removing it from his stomach. This seemed to anger his captor and, as he quickly tore his hands from the wound, he was given a swift kick to the chest. His hands instantly went up to protect his face as another kick went to his ribs, then stomach. He groaned deeply, coughing as blood and bile made its way up his throat, vision darkening around the edges. "What a pussy." The Italian-American man growled, kicking him again. Romano coughed, tears springing to his eyes in pain.
'Oh Feliciano...' Lovino thought, remembering their bond, 'I'm sorry you have to feel this too... idiota.'
He hated himself, hated the bond he and Veneziano shared. He had always tried to block it out, trying to steal himself some privacy while also giving his younger brother the same opportunity. Sometimes, of course, that wasn't always possible, such as when the potato bastard insisted on pulling Feli's curl. Or when the tomato bastard pulled on his own curl. Romano hoped against hope, all the while loathing himself, that his brother would tap into their unspoken bond, and come help him. Or even that Spain would come for him. After all, Feliciano did it unknowingly all the time, with his obsession for pasta (which was more common in southern Italy than northern Italy), so why couldn't he do it with the southern Mafia, and use it to his Italian might. Instead of, you know, running away from it. Take on these idiots like he used to Turkey. He wasn't afraid, not at all, and he could certainly get away any time he liked, but he would rather not have to do anything, and just let somebody else fix everything. Even if it meant he was weak. And he hated being weak.
The other two men, the blonde and the olive one, swarmed him, his vision going fuzzy as he continued to bleed. "Let me go, you fucking bastard!" He growled, a groan coming from his lips as a boot met his face. He could feel the crunching of bone as blood dripped from his nose. Just fucking great. "Vaffanculo!" He spat, eyes narrowing on the Italian man, "Fottiti tua madre!"
The Italian man snarled, having understood the curses, and snapped at the olive man. "Nick, knock the pussy out. I don't want to hear from him, understand?" The newly named Nick nodded with a slight scowl, allowing the blonde to kick Romano in the stomach again, sending a flash of pain right through him, before injecting the sedative back into his bloodstream, watching as the anger and malice leave the Italian's eyes as the world around Romano once again faded to black.
"This is definitely our guy." The blonde haired man nodded coolly, breathing only slightly as he stared down at the unconscious nation with disgust.
"You're telling me this piece of shit is a fucking country? Forgive me if I find it hard to believe, Michael. Nick, clean up this damn mess. And stop his fucking bleeding, can't have him dying on us yet."
Michael shook his head. Sometimes his boss could be an idiot. "Raphael, don't be an idiot. No human could bleed as much as he is and still survive. He has to be a nation. I thought you said you'd done this before."
Raphael snarled, shifting his gun to point at the arrogant blonde man, "Watch your fucking tongue. I run this show. Your paycheck comes from me, don't forget that."
Michael rolled his eyes, but refrained from speaking.
Nicholas sighed slightly. He never enjoyed the power struggles between his boss and Michael. Mike may have been smarter, with a talent for finding people who didn't want to be found and making them disappear without touching them in the process, but he didn't like to be somebody's lackey. He certainly didn't enjoy being told what to do. Meanwhile, Raphael Russo was an idiot, of that any person could be sure, but he was the sort of idiot who made sure you never questioned his rule, and did whatever it was he told you to do.
He lifted the small nation up over his shoulder with a wordless grunt, grimacing at the blood stains already on the ground. It was going to take him forever to clean those out of the concrete, and of course that stupidly impatient Italian wasn't going to be understanding of that. No matter what he would say, it wouldn't matter. Excuses, excuses.
"Castellanos, what did you get yourself into?" The Greek man said quietly to himself, adjusting his grip on Romano as he carried him carefully into the bathroom. All he wanted was money, so he could get himself through school, pay for his father's rehabilitation, his mother's chemotherapy. That was all. Of course, it could be worse. He could have been his sister...
With a glance around for a place to lay down the unconscious nation, he eventually decided the bathtub would be the safest place, stripping the smaller male of his clothes. Nick grimaced; he hated blood. With a sigh, he realigned the broken nose before fixing it with a splint, drawing a strangled gasp from the Italian's lips, even in his unconscious state. "Sorry." He grunted quietly, despite knowing that he wouldn't be hurt, before setting on the gunshot wound to the abdomen. When he did the best he could, hoping that Michael was right and that they healed abnormally fast, he checked the ribcage carefully, noting any breaks or fractures. At this time, he was glad to find, there seemed to be none. Now came the unsavoury task.
Another sigh, deeper this time, came from the young man as he went to grab a sponge, wetting it down with warm water before returning to the sedated captive, washing him slowly, careful of his wounds and the bruises that were already turning a nasty purple. He clucked gently, brushing his hair back from his face with gently, stroking his slightly swollen cheeks with his index finger. "An... Antonio..." the Italian man groaned gently in his unconscious state, following up with his iconic, "tomato bastard. Chigi."
The Greek chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Alright now, time for bed." He said, quiet once again. No one really knew why Nicholas Castellanos insisted on being so silent around people, it was just who he was. Raphael Russo was loud and forceful, Michael Baker was cold and arrogant, and Nicholas Castellanos was quiet and introspective. Somehow, even if they didn't enjoy each others' company all that much, it seemed to work. Nick lifted the Italian into his arms, careful not to disturb the rapidly healing wound as he carried him back into the concrete bunker, laying him down on the hospital-like bed that had been set up inside. With a look of careful apathy, he shackled Romano's hands and feet with steel handcuffs, knowing that he would be reamed out by his boss later on for such a haphazard job earlier. He then inserted the IV's of fluids and blood into the incapacitated brunette's veins, figuring that even if he did heal quickly, he would likely need blood.
With a brief nod to himself, he returned to the washroom to retrieve the bucket from under the sink, filling it with hot soapy water. He carried the water bucket with a grunt, water sloshing from one end to another in a violent tidal wave as he waddled back into the concrete room, scrubbing valiantly at the already darkening puddle of blood on the dreary grey floor. All the while he muttered to himself with irritation, sitting up to wipe his brow of its sweat. At that moment, Raphael decided to walk in.
"Never mind that," he said, glancing at the ground before turning his attention away, "it's clean enough. Now come here."
Nick grunted, giving a small glare. He hated being interrupted when he was in the middle of a task. It was his biggest pet peeve. At the same time, however, he couldn't just ignore a direct order. With just one glance at the task he had yet to fully complete, he sighed and stood up, following the older male out of the room, down a hallway and into the office.
Unlike the cold and dreary room the captive was being kept in, this room was well lit and decorated. The floor was hardwood – midtones, he thought, some honey but dark enough not to be offensive to the sight. A large Persian carpet covered the most of it while an elegant oak desk sat in the middle of the room, a leather recliner behind the desk. Against one wall was a set of bookcases, full of texts from all over the world. Knick knacks lay all over the room.
"You must think horribly of me, for doing this to a seemingly innocent man." Raphael stated, sitting down his chair. He offered another chair, seemingly from the same set, to Nicholas. After a moment's hesitation, he sat, staring into the brown eyes of his boss with his impenetrable black ones. He paused a moment, carefully calculating his words. To the intelligent young man, the man who once dreamed of being a doctor, this seemed like a test.
"My opinion does not matter," he stated slowly, "you do not pay me to think. I am paid to do as I am told."
Raphael chuckled without humour, raking his hand through his unkempt black hair. "I like you," he said with a dark smile, "You're real refreshing to be around, Nicola. However, I do have my reasons." He reached out with his right hand, rings on each finger, for the framed picture on his desk. He sighed, touching the woman's cheek; long ago, he'd been happy. He was only thirty-five. His sister had only been twenty-six.
"She's quite beautiful." Nick commented offhand, not sure where this was going.
"This is my sister. My half sister, really, but we grew up so close together that we consider each other full blooded. She died a month ago in Italy." He said softly with a sigh before placing the picture back down. His honey-brown eyes turned cold and hard, fixating on the Greek before him, "It is this pathetic excuse for a nation's fault. He failed to protect her. He failed to save my sister."
Nicholas frowned a little, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss." He said, rather cliched.
Nick was saved from having to give anymore comforting words by an out of breath Michael, his ocean blue eyes alight with excitement. "He's awake!" Michael cried happily, lips curved up in a twisted mockery of a smile, "he's awake! He's awake!"
Raphael stood rather quickly, expression darkening further. "Good." He stated coldly, retrieving three knives from his drawer, passing on each to the Greek and the blond before tossing his from one hand to another. "Then let's go pay him a visit, shall we?"
Michael didn't wait for another word. He was already gone, running back down the hallway with childhood delight. Nicholas squirmed uncomfortably. He was alright with letting them get away with this, but actively participating? Could he do such a thing?
Of course he could, as long as it meant he got paid.
Romano thrashed against his restraints angrily, blood running cold as his amber eyes met those of the too-excited blue eyed monster. "Let me go, you Aryan bastard!" he snapped, thrashing again.
"Can I give him the first blow? Can I, oh can I?" Michael asked darkly. Raphael rolled his eyes, but waved him off.
Lovino had thought that there was no worse pain than the gunshot to the abdomen but, as the blade jabbed deeply under his ribcage and into his chest, he couldn't have been more wrong. Without meaning to, he let out a sharp cry, tears springing to his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, crying out more as it was twisted inside. Blood spurted to his lips and he spat it at his assailant, receiving a smack to the face from the Italian ringleader. "Tell me what I did, you sadistic bastard..." He wheezed angrily, glaring as fiercely as he could towards Raphael.
"Tell you what you did? As if you don't know." He snarled, glancing at Nicholas.
Nick sighed and raked the blade across Romano's skin, not digging in but making him uncomfortable all the same, not wanting to cause more pain than necessary. Michael, however, seemed to view it in a different manner, however.
"They're so beautiful in their pain, aren't they, Nicholas?" He giggled, twisting the knife in deeper. His troubles earned him a breathy "fangulo", and his grin twisted more. "The stubborn ones are always that much more... delicious."
The knife was jerked out with a sticky 'shlop'.
Raphael grinned in response, though it was not a pleasant sight. "Yes, they are, Michael." he said, in a rare show of agreeing with the sadistic young man, "so much more fun when they break."
"I'll never break, you donkey fucker." Romano swore, eyes as cold and hard as glass. He cried out, coughing up blood and bile as Raphael's fists landed precisely where the knife and bullets had both gone. "Fangulo!" He hissed, writhing in pain, lips parted in a silent 'o'
"Shut up, ya Italian bastard. We know what ya are." Raphael snarled, sliding his own blade cleanly into his ribs. The irony of the statement was not lost on the Greek beside him, "We know what you've done."
Romano gave out strangled cry, trying desperately to show no weakness to these men, even as he thrashed against his shackles, rubbing his wrists raw. "Vaffanculo! I don't know what you're talking about! Ah!" His voice raised in pitch, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks with shame as he twisted his serated knife into his ribcage, Fangulo! Che Cazzo! Cazzo vai via bastardo! Pezzo di merda!" With each swear, the knife dug in deeper, his mouth filled with blood and his vision grew fuzzy and black once more around the edges. All he knew was pain, "Porco Dio, coglione!"
"I said shut up!" The man snapped, digging the knife in harder, "You killed my sister!"
"Fan... Feli! Felici-..." his vision began to fade once more, his last thoughts to his brother. "Please find me. And kill them."
Raphael ripped the knife out in disgust, tossing it across the room. Michael whined, having wanted to 'play' more with the nation. "Clean up this mess." Raphael growled to Nicholas, "I'm going to my office. I do not wish to be disturbed."
The slamming of the concrete door punctuated his statement. With a deep sigh, Nicholas set about on his work, the endless cycle of repairing, cleaning and torture. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Wooo... this one was a quite a bit longer than the first chapter, it seems. I'm glad that the rest of you liked the first chapter. I have to admit, I worry about revealing the characters and everything so soon, but we'll see how it goes. They likely won't be staying in NY for too long (wink wink). What do you guys think about my Greek guy? Kind of interesting, I find, that the one whom seems most intimidating at the beginning of the chapter seems to be the kindest one by the end of it, ne?
Ciao for now~