Yo, guyz. The good news is I have gotten off my butt and updated! The bad news is, I shall be vacationing for the next few days and school starts pretty much after that (dammiiiit) so I prolly won't be updating this quickly. But I promise i will update, because Im really quite surprise i actually kind of like this story i'm writing. Also, since i've heard that it's been not much Spamano in the first two parts, guess what? Happy New Years! x333 Sorry if it's not fluff enough. I'm not an experienced romance writer. Also, as you can tell, I'm not planning to drag this story on for too long. Maybe just one more part after this one to wrap it up. Or two short parts separately, whichever cuts off better. Anewayz, enjoiiiii~

Cosa Nostra: Part 3

Florence, Italy

December 25, 1962

He woke up to white. A thin layer of white, subtle and elegant. The ancient city dressed in an exquisite robe of silk.

He sat up in bed and rubbed away the cold mist that had formed on the windowpane with warm fingertips. As Romano gazed upon this city, so old and peaceful, he almost began to doubt. How could there possibly be a single grain of threat to his brother in this calm city, humbled by its age and only a mere reflection of its glorious past.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Gentle knocks at his door. Romano turned his head towards the door. It was still early in the morning, the sun barely up over the horizon. It wasn't Veneziano, who was probably in a comatose state of sleep at this hour, and it surely wasn't the potato bastard. Could it mean that it was…

"Romano, it's me."

Of course it's you, you jerk.

He went over to open the door with sluggish steps, feet trailing on the soft carpet. Romano turned the handle and held the door open just wide enough so Spain could slip in sideways. For some unspoken reason, both men were unnecessarily attentive. Almost secretive.

But what Romano didn't expect were the boxes Spain carried in his arms, all gift-wrapped in Christmas red and pine green. The Spaniard set them down on the bed as Romano counted the little pile. Four boxes.

His former guardian turned to him with a slightly awkward but (nonetheless) big smile on his face. "Feliz Navidad, Romano. I wanted your first gifts of Christmas to be mine."

Romano blinked. And stared blankly at the neatly-wrapped boxes on his bed, then looked back at Spain again. Coglione*. When you do stuff like this…how am I supposed to live with myself? It was all he could do to suppress the dull ache drumming on the inside of his head.

"Th-Thanks…"

To his surprise, Spain laughed lightheartedly as if expecting his reaction, and plopped down on the bed with a patient smile. "Come on, open them."

"Oh…kay." Romano sat down tentatively on the other side of the pile and laid a hand on the topmost box. It was red and sprinkled with little snowflakes. He took it in his lap and began to gingerly pry off the wrapping paper bit by bit, carefully keeping the noise to a minimum.

"There's one for every year," Spain explained as he continued with the methodical work of unwrapping, "I would always get a present for you, but you never showed up. And there's this year's too…"

Romano had finally successfully separated the wrapping paper from the box. It was a long, rectangular, box. In golden, dramatic, curly font was "Romanee-Conti*." Romano blinked, a little confused. That's odd…Why would he give me expensive French wine? He knows very well I'm not a fan of overpriced French wines. Weird…

"I got this in an auction," Spain began as if he read Romano's mind, "But I've really no taste in wine, so I think it would be less of a waste if it went to you."

A surge of irritation. Romano's face muscle twitched slightly. There's something he's not telling me…

With no word of thanks, the Italian reached for the next box and ripped it open with no trace of the former mind he paid. Whatever his former guardian was hiding from him, he was going to pry it out from his lips, by force if necessary.

The second gift was just as unusually trite, if not as extravagant. Neuhaus's* Belgian chocolate. Of course Romano liked Belgium's chocolate (who wouldn't?), but for some reason, he simply felt cheated that Spain was giving him something so mundane for the first Christmas they've spent together for decades.

If the chocolates were infuriating, then the third gift almost made Romano jump off the bed and shout various profanities in various languages at the calm, smiling man next to him.

A sapphire. Glittering brilliantly in the rays of the new Christmas sun, so gaudy, so dramatic, so large. It was nestled perfectly between the felt sheets in the velvet box. A beautiful traitor.

"What…" Romano seethed, "Am I…supposed to do with this?" He turned on Spain, a murderous flare in his green eyes.

The Spaniard mustered an awkward chuckle. "L-listen, Romano, I know it's a weird thing to get you, but I was just thinking that…you know…if there was ever a girl that you fancied or something…And I just happened to have this handy and everything…"

And that was it. All the rage boiled over with those innocently-spoken words.

" YOU HAPPENED TO HAVE THIS HANDY? WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND HAS A BIGASS STONE WORTH ABOUT A MILLION BUCKS HANDY?" For some obscure reason, Spain's comment inflamed Romano like that one small deadly spark in a small, enclosed room filled with carbon monoxide.

"Romano! Romano, c-calm down! You'll wake them up!"

At the thought of his idiot brother and that potato bastard barging in the room to find Spain showering him with chocolates and women's jewelry forced Romano to slowly sit back down on the bed, a hostile glare still fixed pointedly at the Spaniard.

Spain forced another awkward laugh, quickly handing him the last box.

This was different. Heavier. Somehow, solemnity lingered about the silver Christmas wrapping. It was neither big nor small, fitting perfectly in Romano's lap. The Italian fingered the present curiously, piqued by its unexplainable aura. He stole a glance at Spain, who was still smiling at him encouragingly but intently. A slight frown contracted on Romano's forehead as he shifted a little uncomfortable on the bed, then began to fumble with the packaging. Why is he looking at me like that?

Inside the box was…another box. An ancient wooden box. Exquisite carvings of lofty angels and dignified saints lined the border, guarding the deeply engraved words of ancient Roman calligraphy:

"BIBLIA SACRA

VVULGATAE EDITIONIS

TRIBVS TOMIS

DISTINCTA*"

Romano's breath caught in his throat like the words frozen on the tip of his tongue. With trembling hands, he slid open the smooth wooden lid, so delicate but well-preserved, to reveal a leather-bound book with worn corners and yellowed pages. The same words were engraved in golden print. His hands stroked the antique binding familiarly. Then -

"No." He firmly shoved the book back at Spain. "No, I can't take this."

" Awwwn, Romano, don't be cruel," Spain whined.

"No! I'm not fooling around. I can't take this!" The Italian turned his head away. He wouldn't, couldn't, let Spain see the desperately pained expression emerging on his face.

But Spain's expression grew unprecedentedly stern. "Neither am I, Romano. I want you to have this." Never in the past five centuries had he ever seen the easygoing man so serious, not even during times of war. Then he was suddenly lighthearted again. "After you left, I really had no use for it. It just lay on top of my shelf gathering dust for three hundred years. It's really a waste, so I thought you should have it."

Romano squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying hard to clear his mind. "You're not making sense, idiota, none of this is making sense."

He watched the cheery man from the corner of his eye. Then, a flicker of anxiety on Spain's face. He blinked. And it was gone. Suspicion began to brew. He eyed Spain more cautiously than before.

"W-what do you mean, Romano?" The grin plastered on his face was forced.

The Italian carefully slid the wooden cover back on and twisted around to place the antique Scripture on his bedside table. With his back to the nervous Spain, a sly smile settled on his lips. Romano flexed his wrists. I've learned lots of tricks over these past four years, coglione. Don't try to deceive me.

He lunged, quicker than the eye could perceive. A flash. A split second. Spain was pinned down flat on the bed, wrists struggling futilely under Romano's vice-like grip. Angry green eyes glared down at the helpless victim.

Spain gave a nervous chuckle, secretly shocked by the lightning speed of the attack. "R-Romano…what're you…"

"Look, idiota. You've always been a horrible liar. First of all, you do have taste in wine, you're the third biggest wine-producer in the world. Secondly, why would you spend so much money at a wine auction for French wine? I know your taste in wine, coglione, and thank goodness it's not French! Also, your economy's been in a slump for the past two decades! You expect me to believe you just happened to have the kind of money to buy a bunch of high-class luxury goods? And lastly, you know very well that there IS NO GIRL I FANCY BECAUSE-"

The words tumbling out of his mouth suddenly halted to a stop. Romano knew that with that last unfinished sentence, he had just wound himself up in deep shit. There were a million things he wanted to say, but somehow he had blurted out the one thing he had never intended for anyone to hear.

"Because?" Spain was extraordinarily tranquil, a small smile still lingering on the corners of his mouth. But there was something else in his liquid green eyes. A flicker of pain?

Romano paused, gritting his teeth to compensate for all the heated words he vied to shout. But his rage soon simmered down into a jumbled muddle of disconnected thoughts.

He searched exasperatedly for a hint of anger, irritation, disappointment, anything, in Spain's liquid green eyes. Nothing. Just benevolence. It was torture, facing all the kindheartedness bestowed upon him but knowing he didn't deserve a single drop of it. What right did he, the coldblooded murderer, have to demand anything?

Romano's grip on his victim's wrists slowly loosened, but Spain did not push him away. Instead, he became uncharacteristically sensitive. He extended a careful hand to gently touch Romano's cheek with the mysterious appearance of rue. Romano only grew more confused at this gesture, but somehow the Spaniard's soft, warm touch bridged the gap.

"It's okay," the Spaniard whispered.

And for a moment, it was okay. The last five years suddenly made no difference at all. Romano was of Florence and of Rome. He was of the days when the sun would be high in the sky when he woke up. He would quarrel with his brother and try to make a fool of Germany. He would spend his days harvesting tomatoes with Spain. He would call Spain multiple names. Then, at the end of the day, he would laugh.

Spain. The familiar image of that dauntless smile. And that was when he realized they were literally nose to nose.

Romano's breath caught in his throat at the closeness of Spain's smiling green eyes. No, not just green. Many different shades. Emerald and jade, turquoise and lapis lazuli, all at the same time. Romano heard his own deafening heartbeat that resounded like a tolling bell inside his chest, reverberating from his core. But the most curious part was that, for the first time in a very long while, he was not annoyed.

But the moment was over much too soon.

Thud. Romano whipped his head around, alarmed by the sudden movement. The dainty velvet box containing the sapphire had fallen to the floor.

Something snapped in Romano's mind, and he immediately sprang off, backing away with a look of distrust on his face. Distrust of himself.

Spain sat up slowly, rubbing his wrist. The expression of subdued sorrow, though still lingering, was fading fast.

A long pause that felt like a century.

"I'm…sorry," Romano said, a slightly reproachful frown on his face, "I overreacted."

"Haha! That's probably the second time you've ever apologized to me. Boss is happy!" Spain laughed merrily as he picked up the velvet box on the floor and set it on the bedside table. Then he bounded over and steered Romano towards the door. "It's Christmaaaass~! Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad…" he sang.

God, he bounces back like a three-year-old.

Romano sighed, but the frown on his forehead would not leave.

But what was that look that he gave me? What was any of that? Ugh…there's something very wrong here. And this cheerful bastardo is just making it worse…Madonna…my head hurts.

It was night. A different kind of night. Sparkling lights hung from every building, every narrow, bustling street, like stars that descended from the heavens. The mightiest spruces, firs, and pines were carefully hand-picked according to detailed specifications of proportion. They were from all over Europe, brought from as far north as Norway and as far south as Turkey. The shimmering decorations intertwined the trees with exquisite grace. The people rushed back and forth in the markets and piazzas. The children ran to and fro the winding boulevards between magnificent, ancient cathedrals and palaces. The city was laced together with red bows and laughter.

The four nations made an odd group as they stood amidst the crowd in the Piazza del Duomo*. Veneziano was skipping around the entire piazza, running and playing with random children. Germany kept yelling that he was going to slip and fall with his usual uptight seriousness. Spain was at one of the flea market stalls, bargaining with a stubborn old man for mini Christmas decorations.

Romano simply stood in the middle of the plaza, breathing in the crisp winter air teeming with life. He felt the ancient tiles beneath his feet and inhaled the pleasing fragrance of i dolci* floating out from a houses nearby. A rare smile lit up his face.

Suddenly, someone flew up from behind and tackle him with a tight hug.

"What the?" But the rest of his sentence was lost in laughter. His own laughter. It's been far too long since he'd heard that wonderful sound. It gave everything around him a fuzzy kind of glow.

"Buon Natale*, fratello!" The younger Italy shouted.

"Buon Natale, fratello," Romano echoed. When did I last say that to him? How long have I waited to say it again?

Veneziano let go of him with an even larger grin on his face. "Veee…"

They ran around and chased pigeons for a while. For one fleeting moment, Romano thought they were children again, upturning stalls on the streets of Venice as they chased each other around. I guess some things never do change, do they? But he soon found that he was oh, so wrong.

"Fratello, why were you gone for so long?"

Romano froze. How was he supposed to answer that? "Erm…"

He caught a glimpse of Germany listening to the conversation a small distance away with a quizzical look on his face. Damn that potato bastard. Now I can't just make up a lie. It has to actually make sense. Why can't he just mind his own business? And why's he looking at me like that?

" I was…"

Suddenly, a spot about ten meters away caught Romano's attention. On the bottom corner of the Companile8, just at the height of his eyes, was a small mark carved into the ancient marble. The mark was small and insignificant, but it was new. And familiar. Romano's eyes quickly traced the white, green, and pink gothic patterns of the slender pillar-shaped bell tower to its top floor. From the narrow, high-arched windows, a flicker, but only a split second, as if a reflection of light. Green eyes narrowed in fury, teeth gritted in pure loathing, hands clenched into cold fists.

Why here? Why now? Cazzo*…

"Romano?" Veneziano was puzzled but genuinely concern.

Romano bit his lip. Then he seized his younger brother's shoulders to look him straight in his chocolate brown eyes. Veneziano seemed to understand that his fratello was serious, though this unsettled him even further.

"Listen to me, Veneziano. Go home. Right now. And don't leave the house until tomorrow morning, got it?"

"Wha? But fratello! I don't understand!" he whined, tears threatening to waterfall down his cheeks.

"Go. Now."

"But-"

Romano looked up at Germany, who was standing right behind Veneziano at the sudden turn of events. "Take him home. And don't leave the house until -"

"Romano, what's going on?" It was Spain.

Merda!*Don't make this harder, idiota. Tears stung Romano's eyes. It took all he had to hold them back. Because it was Spain, the smiling face he couldn't forget.

" All of you, go home. Now. And don't…don't leave the house. Don't leave the house until…until…I'm gone."

"Romano! You mustn't leave yet! Boss just got to spend some time with you!"

"Fratello, but it's Christmas!"

"Si! Tell me what's wrong!"

Germany stayed silent behind Veneziano, who was tearing up. The German's expression was even more solemn than usual. Romano hated that it had to come to this, but he gazed up into Germany's steely blue eyes and knew he had no choice but to trust him. "Germany, make sure they get home."

A curt nod passed between the two of them, and Romano sped off towards the Campanile without another glance backwards. But he could hear them calling after him. The two most important people in his life. And every step he took toward the bell tower, he was letting them slip a little farther away.

The loud pitter-patter of his own quick footsteps as he sprinted up the old, stone stairs bounced around the tight, square walls of the perfectly geometric spire.

Veneziano, stop crying, he thought. And Spain. Spain, you stupid wonderful idiota. Please don't come after me.

The echoes of footsteps finally ceased. He had emerged onto the top floor. A man in a black suit facing away from Romano was waiting, hands in his pockets. But Romano recognized him right away.

"Moretti."

Moretti turned around and gave Romano a small nod in courtesy. "Buon Natale, padrino," he said in a monotone. His expression was blank and unreadable as usual.

"Buon Natale my ass," Romano spat.

Moretti was unfazed. "The Don requests your aid. We will return to Palermo tonight."

I knew this was coming. I knew it. And yet…Romano trembled with fury and anguish. He said nothing in silent refusal

Upon his denial, Moretti drew out a palm-size metal clicker with a small red button on its tip. "Padrino, I apologize, but you must come with me," he said politely.

Romano's eyes widened in horror at the sight of the clicker. "Where is it?"

"I am afraid beneath the foundations of your brother's home, padrino. I suggest you think this over carefully."

Then, the pieces began to come together in Romano's mind. Of course. Not only do La Barbera have a whole squad operating in Florence just to ensure my loyalty, he also secured his "investment" with a backup. Exactly five years ago, Veneziano moved to this house just to be closer to the Duomo, his favorite place in the entire city. Come to think of it, Veneziano didn't just buy the house. He commissioned it. It was specially designed…and construction is what they're good at, and it's how they got to him!* Of course La Barbera knew that I would tell him to stay at home in case of any danger…Cazzo, this is all my fault!

Romano took a deep breath through his gritted teeth. His jaws were beginning to ache. But defeat was already written all over his face. "Fine. Fine, I'll come with you. Just…just don't hurt them. "

Moretti nodded and tucked the dangerous clicker away in the inner breast pocket of his suit. A slight pause, then he said, "Thank you, padrino. I shall meet you at the train station tonight at 1:30. We must depart immediately. The situation is dire. I hope you understand."

Romano's eyes narrowed at these curiously beseeching words. He had worked with Moretti ever since he became capodecina, but despite this, Moretti's personality still remained somewhat of a mystery. He was always rather expressionless but good-naturedly polite. He said little, but when he did, it was simple and straight to the point. But there was something more in his words just now.

Romano shook his head, ridding himself of these details. It no longer mattered. He was idiotic to trust any member of the mafiosi even the slightest bit. He just stood there glaring at the unrevealing man.

"I will see you tonight, padrino," the silent man with a quick nod, then proceeded towards the stairs.

But Romano stopped him. "It was you all along, wasn't it? The one who keeps tabs on me for La Barbera," he seethed.

Moretti faced him again, politely apologetic. "I am sorry, padrino. It was the Don's orders."

Romano could only watch in helpless rage as Moretti descended down the stairs the stairs and soon, all that was left was the distant echo of footsteps rebounding against the tower walls.

He waited until the echoing had faded to bare whispers. Then, with a deep, dejected sigh, Romano began his own slow descent down the steep stone staircase. Once again, he was alone, a solitary man on Christmas night. Or so he thought.

He had only just landed on the next lower floor. A silent figure, tall and well-built, with neatly-combed light blonde hair and severe blue eyes was waiting for him. Germany. Romano froze.

Why does have to be him? I hate this bastard!

"I thought I told you to take them home." But he knew perfectly well that in the time he spent climbing the Campanile and talking to Moretti, Germany had ample time to make a round trip, though how he had the strength and speed to climb the tower in this short amount of time was unfathomable to the Italian.

Germany sighed and rubbed his temple haggardly. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said.

Green eyes narrowed. How did he know? How much does he know? But Romano had to leave these questions unanswered. Instead, he answered in a bitter voice, "I do this for my brother. You wouldn't understand," then hastened towards the next flight of stairs.

"You're wrong," came Germany's deep voice from behind.

Romano stopped in his tracks but did not turn around.

"I have a brother, too. He's suffering behind Soviet walls this very moment. So don't tell me I don't understand." The German's voice was steady and controlled, but his words bordered on threatening.

Romano was at a loss for words. He trembled with frustration. So what? What could you do? Why haven't you told them yet? A pang struck him as he imagined the look of revolt on Spain's face.

He shook his head and walked on, swiftly disappearing on the staircase. He didn't look back.

Palermo, Italy

January 10, 1963

Gunfire tore open the night. Ripped it into pieces like a ravenous beast. The shots rang out, lethal flashes in the disturbed night. The city shuddered and trembled with each new drop of blood. It shivered in terror.

"Hurry up!"

"But the money, padrino!"

"Forget the money, c'mon!"

Romano seized the boy's arm and sprinted for the door at lightning speed. A slight draft of fresh air hit his face. He dove.

Explosion. An ear-splitting blast. Romano and the boy landed hard on the sharp gravel. The force of impact sent them skidding off on the ground. Trained senses kicked in and overwhelmed the shock. Romano climbed to his feet, dragged the boy up, and hurriedly ducked behind some steel crates to take cover as the building continued to combust. The vengeful flames took hold of the entire structure and devoured it whole. The deafening bursts from the explosion were accompanied by the barrage of bullets being exchanged.

The capo could feel the boy trembling next to him in the semi-darkness. Under the light of gunpowder and gunshots, the youth's face was pale as a sheet, save the deep cuts that were bleeding crimson. He was only nineteen and had a young face despite his tall, muscular build.

A bit of a klutz, this one. Too hesitant. Too naïve. He's not cut out to be a Mafioso. But I guess for him, it's the family trade. Both his grandfathers, his father, uncle, and brothers…But look at him! And it's only his first brush with death.

Romano watched the frightened expression mutate in the youth's face with a worn frown. Worn from overuse. He had arrived back in Palermo a few weeks ago to find the cosche* tearing at each other's throats. The tension that had built up between each of the families was unfolding into a disastrous, bloody competition of bombings, midnight shootings, and assassinations. All tried to thwart the others' dealings. And stuck in the middle of it all were the La Barbera brothers, who were being forced into a corner by the Grecos.

Romano's body ached each day with the people who died, mafiosi and civilian. Yet he had to bear with partaking in the destruction every single night. In the five years that he had endured this endless torture, it had never been so unbearable.

A shadow suddenly flitted across the heavy onslaught of gunfire and dropped down beside the two crouching figures. Under the orange light, Romano made out the carved profile of Moretti, covered in sweat, blood, and dust. His breathing was a little heavy, but in his arms was a long black Tommy*. He handed the gun to Romano wordlessly and drew out a magnum* from under his torn suit jacket.

Romano was slightly taken aback. Here was the man who reported every one of his movements to the Don, and yet this very man was voluntarily surrendering about half his chance of survival to his target. Moretti recognized the apprehension on Romano's face, and his expression softened. "You're better with that gun than I," he said.

The capo heaved a sigh, telling himself not to think too much. He seemed to be telling that to himself way too often these days. Then, he gave the youth a gentle shove. "Moretti, take him somewhere else. He's seen enough of this shit for one night. I'll open a path." Moretti said nothing, only nodded, and put a guiding hand on the youth's shoulder as they positioned themselves to make a run for it.

Seeing that they were ready, Romano made a low dive for the open alleyway where the Greco henchmen were sending a stream of bullets towards the scattered but concealed La Barbera Mafiosi.. With a violent roar, Romano yanked the trigger. Everything became a blinding plethora of fusillade and rhythmic jerks as the bullets flew. Pandemonium ensued. His ears began to buzz.

Somehow, he managed to take aim among the shower of bullets that came his way. Two shadowy figures that were mere fuzzy silhouettes at the opposite end of the alley. The first collapsed. Then the second. And the gunfire ceased. The ugly, black machine gun slid from Romano's bruised and scratched hands, hitting the ground with a clank.

But the buzzing in his head would not go away.

"Aaah!" Blood. Blood on his hands. Seeping through the fabric of his suit. He clutched his shoulder. He could feel it, the cold metal bullet burning through his flesh.

"Cazzo! Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!"

1 Coglione- Jerk in Italian.

2 Romanee-Conti- One of the finest and most expensive varieties of French wine, produced in Burgundy.

3 Neuhaus- Neuhaus chocolatier founded in 1857 by Jean Neuhaus (Brussels, Belgium) is widely lauded as one of the best, if not the best, chocolate makers of the world.

4 Biblia Sacra Vvulgatae Editionis Tribvs Tomis Distincta- The title for the 4th century Latin edition of the Bible commonly known as the Biblio Vulgata or the Vulgate.

5 Piazza del Duomo- famous plaza in Florence. Has several of the most famous sights around it, including the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (famous for its Duomo, or dome, built by the architect Brunelleschi during the Renaissance), Giotto's Campanile (Giotto's bell tower), and the Baptistery of John the Baptiste.

6 I dolci- literally, Christmas sweets. Traditional ones include struffoli, cenci, dried figs, candied almonds, etc.

7 Buon Natale- Merry Christmas in Italian :D

8 The Campanile- an ancient bell tower often called Giotto's Bell Tower because its construction first began in 1334 under the architect Giotto de Bondone, though he only lived to see the completion of its first story. It is located adjacent to the Duomo. It is a slender, tall tower decorated with conspicuous colored marble on the outside.

9 Cazzo- F*ck in italian

10 Merda- I think I put this before, but just so you have another reference, it's shit in Italian.

11 …construction is how they got to him!- The period from the 1950s to the 1980s ushered on a construction boom in Palermo which destroyed its architectural grace and green belt. Known as the Sack of Palermo, the Sicilian Mafia's monopoly on real estate in Palermo was responsible for allowing the destroyed parts of the city (From WWII) to crumble and replacing its beauty with badly-constructed neighborhoods.

12 Cosche- plural for cosca (family). A mafia war is often called a war of the cosche.

13 Thompson submachine gun (Tommy gun)- invented by John T. Thompson, it was used throughout and after WWII. It is highly accurate and often used by the Mafia. It's about 32 in. long with a handle perpendicular to the barrel. Basically, it's the really badass type you see people walk around with in WWII movies.

14 Magnum gun- a pistol, often considered the most powerful handgun there is.

First of all, i know that there are prolly some things that seem confusing right now, mostly because the next part isn't up yet *shoots self* and if you read on it'd make sense! Also, I did max research like usual, so I hope I got all those gun terms right... O.o (i'm not real updated on firearm history) Ok, I really wanna hear opinions, k? So reviews? xP