Alright, guys. Here's the deal. Remember when I said on the last part that i released way back like two months ago that this would be the last part. Well, I lied.^^' Once again, after adding in all the detail, it's WAY longer than I expected... TT_TT So i'll hafta work at this for like another month. and SO SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE. I lost a little inspiration somewhere in the middle and was distracted by my strong urge to write my other fanfic, Prussian Blue. But enjoiii~
Palermo, Italy
January 14, 1963
9:24 pm
Three days. It has only been a mere three days. But these three days had revived in him a kind of flame, a spirit, the past four years had slowly eaten away. It was hope.
In the mafia, being such a widespread and complex system of mobs and gangs, there were always small, scattered groups of dissenters or conspirators: those who were coerced, those who were hateful, and those who were ambitious. This he knew very well. But, prior to now, he had never bothered to find out to what exact extent. Or perhaps the scale had doubled, or even tripled, with the imminent collapse of the La Barberas' vast empire. And all they needed was a little…incentive.
"What do you have to offer us?"they demanded of him. It wasn't a conspiracy, but all the conspiracies gathered in one dark, tiny, room below a rundown factory in the outskirts of Palermo. Romano stood on slightly elevated ground, on a platform, so all the men could see the face of the man who had gathered them here and ask him rude, biting questions. As for Romano, there was a dangerous and mischievous joy in standing on this platform. That tempting sensation of being in control.
He simply shrugged, "Whatever's left of the La Barbera's empire."
A hushed whisper passed through crowd of shady men gathered in the room, followed by greedy, suspicious glances aimed at the capo who claimed to be making an offer for the overthrow of the family.
Romano gazed back with cold, green eyes. "Really, I have no interest in his money. Gold befouled by dirty hands will remain unclean." The tension in the room peaked. Every man's fingertips swept towards his pistol hidden beneath his suit. Every pair of paranoid eyes flickered dangerously at its rivals, scrutinizing them with the worst of intentions.
The greed that burned so darkly in their eyes made Romano want to throw up on the spot. He subconsciously glanced to the back corner of the room, searching for reassurance. Standing by the door like a quiet usher, Spain met his gaze and flashed him a meaningful smile, then a quick wink. Taken aback, Romano immediately faked a cough to cover up his fluster. Don't flirt with me now! This is serious business!
"Ahem…compare*, there is one last 'prize,' so to speak, that may prove a nice decoration for your book shelves at home…" From inside his jacket, Romano carefully drew out the precious sapphire. Under the dim light of the dark, grey-walled room, its blue brilliance seemed to radiate even brighter, permeating every corner of the dank, stuffy space. It seemed to spark a blue flame of hunger in each pair of insatiable eyes, reflecting its luxurious, azure glow like flickering jealousy.
One quick sweep of the men's faces before him, and Romano knew that he had won. "When the family is defeated, I'll leave this," –he weighed the sapphire in his hand as if it were nothing more than a pebble he picked up from the roadside—"at the Don's current place of residence. You're free to do whatever you'd like with it." Their silent, craving eyes traced the sapphire in Romano's hand all the way back into his suit jacket, where it disappeared to leave behind a feeling of emptiness.
"So," Romano continued in a tone of finality as he examined the ambitions of the men standing before him, "Do we have a deal?"
Subdued whispers. Then, finally, a tall man with a square jaw stepped up. "How do we know you'd keep your promise?"
"You don't," Romano shrugged again, "But I will. I don't care about power or money in this wretched place. My goal is revenge. The La Barberas are becoming an eyesore, anyway."
Another round of whispering among the mafiosi. Then, they answered. "We'll do it."
"Romano was so scaaaryyyy!~" Spain whined as they proceeded down the pebbled shore path towards the docks. "Boss is frightened!"
"Ehi, shut up, bastardo. It's all your fault!" Romano snapped impatiently.
"Huh?"
"Whose fault is it that I grew up watching you and that bearded bastard France at each other's throats* all the time, huh?"
"Romanooo! Boss is sorry! Boss is a failure as a parent!" Spain cried, clinging to Romano's arm and on the verge of tears.
"Stop being so dramatic, coglione! …Alright! Alright! It's not your fault! Now shut up, your apologies are annoying!" The Italian shook off the Spaniard's grip rather harshly.
Romano breathed a sighand straightened his coat, "It's just that I know how to deal with those kind of people from experience. They don't give a rat's ass about the civilians of this town, so you've got to convince them from their perspective."
However, Spain's reply was tinted with concern. "But don't you think it's a bit dangerous to use that kind of incentive? Won't they end up fighting over the spoils and cause even more trouble?"
"I know that, but it's the only option we have right now. We have nothing else to offer them, and what these so-called 'rebels' want is just a slice of the cake. As long as they do their job properly and mess up the family's system, we can strike for the core. If we get rid of the big bosses, these underlings will fight among themselves and eventually tire each other out. Besides, the other big families are just thrilled at the fall of Palermo Centro. One of them will definitely take hold of this area sooner or later. This is the best we can do for now. The fight with the mafia will be a long one, but I'll just have to try my best once I get back to mainland."
They were silent for a while as they approached the beaten docks, waves crashing against the shores like violent howls of anguish. The howls bashed against the small yacht docked against the wooden platform, shivering and shaking against the winds. The bright orange glow that lit up the inside of the cabin seemed to flicker with each bout of foam and wind.
Romano stopped in front of the yacht door. "Don't you think this is a bit conspicuous?" he asked with a frown.
Spain shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, so far no one even bothered to notice us."
"Or they have noticed but didn't conveniently inform you about it!"
"Well—" Spain began, but was cut off by the door being suddenly flung open in their faces.
They were greeted with a deep-throated and thoroughly aggravated bellow. "Hoi! If you want to bicker, then get your butts inside and bicker!"
"Netherlands?"
The tall blonde man glanced down at Romano with his usual half-bored, half-irritated, and thoroughly intimidating gaze. He drew in a deep inhale from his pipe and blew out a long stream of smoke, which was quickly dispersed by a strong gale of wind. Romano could only stare back dumbly, stunned by his sudden appearance. He hasn't seen the Dutch man ever since the beginning of the War, and he was certainly the last person Romano expected to see in Sicily. He was always too fond of his clean rivers, wide valleys, and endless windmills.
Netherlands's eyebrow gave an annoyed twitch. "What're you staring at? Get in! Now! Both of you!" he boomed over the loud gusts of wind.
Romano tripped his way inside the yacht cabin, followed by Spain, who smiled awkwardly at Netherlands as he passed. The door shut behind them with a clang. And it was suddenly quiet. The winds bashing at the cabin was reduced to only a low hum, and the boat was surprisingly steady in the angry waves. Heavy, sturdy, and steady. All the marks of a good German-made product.
Romano sighed, and searched for the owner of the boat. He mildly surprised, since the room was uncharacteristically posh for Germany's taste. A few comfortable sofas, a coffee table, and a few drawers were neatly arranged around the room. The ceiling was low, but the light colors of the furniture managed to give the room a more spacious feeling. What the…this almost feels like…
"Bonjour, little Romano! Ça fait longtemps*! Big brother has missed you!"
France burst through a door to the side with his arms wide open and a wider smile plastered to his face. Romano took one look and felt an involuntary shudder pass down his spine. "I'm not going to hug you if that's what you're waiting for, pervert!"
France immediately deflated into disgruntled protests. "How disappointing. Why can't you be cuter like your brother?"
Romano took a step backward and, noticing the French man's flashy red shirt, let out an exasperated groan. "Are you asking to be shot or something?" But before France could reply indignantly—
"Romaano!" When the shrill cry reached his ears, he was already being choked in a tight bear hug.
"Belgium? What're you doing here!" he gasped through her vice-like grip.
She finally released him, and put her hands on her hips matter-of-factly. "Who else do you think could design perfect cyanide chocolates on such short notice?"
"Ah…si…"he muttered to himself, a little bothered that so many people had to come all the way down to Sicily to clean up his mess. It was more than embarrassing, really.
Then, an abrupt thought struck him. "So, if you're the chocolates…" –turning to France—" and you're the wine…" –France flashed him a smug grin. Romano ignored him, then spun around to face Netherlands questioningly—"then what…"
"Tch. The sapphire, idiot," Netherlands scoffed as he puffed on his pipe, then added threateningly, "But it's on a loan only!"
Romano automatically backed away, the murderous intention on Netherland's face sending an icy chill down his spine. He glanced over Netherlands's shoulder to Spain, who could only muster an awkward chuckle. Merda…really shouldn't have made those promises to the mafiosi, he thought as he tried to hide his edginess. But Netherlands was too sharp. His light green eyes narrowed suspiciously and his face instantaneously darkened. "What did you do to it?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.
"N-nothing. It's perfectly safe!" Spain interjected nervously. Damnit, Spain, you're not good at lying!
Netherlands whirled around to face Spain, murderous intent written all over his face. "I told you that was grade A merchandise! If anything happens to it…no! I won't tolerate a single scratch! A single scratch, you hear me?"
"I got it! I got it! Ahaha…" Spain said as he took hurried steps backward.
"Haha, I think you're scaring him, broer*." Belgium quickly grabbed Netherlands and pulled him towards the same door she came through. "Let's go see how Germany is doing."
Right, where is that potato bastard anyway? Romano pondered as they followed Belgium into the adjacent room. His question was answered as soon as he stepped over the threshold into a windowless, square room, lined with sofas against each wall. In the middle was a wide coffee table, currently covered with different sets of maps, all placed neatly side by side. Facing this complex arrangement was Germany, thoroughly concentrated as he sat there, blue eyes studying the maps intently. So intently, in fact, that he did not notice the newcomers' entrance.
The other four automatically settled down around the table, France and Spain on Germany's left, Belgium and Netherlands on Germany's right. So naturally, so effortlessly, that it suddenly occurred to Romano how useless he was. His hands tightened into fists as he beheld the scene before him, only just able to swallow the salty tears. Here they were, the people he loved and hated. People he pushed away, people he had forgotten, people he mistreated, people he misjudged. But against all odds, they were somehow all gathered in this very room, on this very night, fitting together calmly and naturally, and for what purpose?
"Romano? What's the matter? Sit down." Spain's words brought him back to reality. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking down at his own feet to hide his face.
"R-right…" he mumbled unintelligibly. But before he could sit down next to Spain, Germany abruptly lifted his head, almost as if he was only just aware that the rest of the party had come to join him.
"Ah, you're here. Good, I need your help with something." He gestured at Romano "come over," and, after a brief hesitation, Romano sat down next to the German, albeit uncomfortably. But Germany's full attention was on the map, which, upon closer inspection, was a detailed analysis of Sicily, covered in systematically color-coded marks.
"Here," Germany indicated a spot on the map that evidently bore a few different blue arrows in different directions, but were all scribbled out, "Do you know an alternate route from here to the ghetto?"
"Éh, explain from the beginning, you're just confusing him!" France cut in, then turning to Romano, "Just so you know, we've been laboring away at a game plan for the operation while you were enjoying your little reunion with him." France jabbed finger at Spain. Romano blinked, still unable to wrap his brain around how elaborate their preparations had been. All this time, he had no idea…
"Ach, Entschuldigung*. Basically, we were thinking of having Netherlands go down from the north through here," –he traced the route as he explained, pointing to a route marked in green—"Then he could go from here, and eliminate the largest heroin cache to the southeast. Belgium,"—a route marked in yellow—"could head west along the shore and eliminate the two caches here and here. Then, she'll turn from here and cut through diagonally, eliminate the cache here, then meet up with Netherlands at this plaza here. Then, they'll cut through the major eastern mafia groups' active area to ensure that the job gets done, since it is possible the different rebel factions will end up fighting among themselves. Meanwhile, France," –a route marked in purple—"cuts through the city to the ghetto and destroy this cache on this way, then regulate the mafia groups in the west as he heads straight for Angelo La Barberas' residency. At the same time, you, me, and Spain,"—three parallel routes in black, blue, and red—"will take off from your apartment and cut straight through the center of the city, which is the quickest route, and also the one that will be under the most fire. I will escort you until reaching Salvatore La Barbera, then I will go straight to the ghetto and meet up with France as quickly as possible to eliminate Angelo La Barbera. However, the problem is here," he pointed to the blue marks he had indicated before, "After reaching Salvatore's base in the central plaza, there is no quick route to the ghetto. I'll have to zigzag through these streets no matter how I look at this."
Romano nodded, allowing the image of the map to seep into his brain slowly as he drew in each detail. "Alright. Here's what you can do." Germany handed him the blue marker, and Romano drew a straight line that cut straight through the buildings blocking Germany's route. The others all looked to him with puzzle faces.
"There's an alleyway through this row of houses through a crevice between two twin buildings, each five stories high with windows boarded up, about here," –he made a dot to indicate the location—"You can slide through if you turn sideways. Then, as for this row of houses here, look for a shoe shop with a flat roof about here"—another mark—"Once you find it, go in and go through the back, which leads to another alley that cuts straight to the center of the ghetto. If the owner asks, just say Vargas sent you. At that point, you should be only two kilometers or so away from Angelo's location. But my primary concern is that he will already be prepared, what with all the ruckus going around…he's a sly one…"
Germany listened carefully to his instructions, and nodded. Romano glanced around, and found the rest of them all listening intently. His heart jumped a little in surprise. Then, he ducked his head back to the map, and continued, "Also, there's a big cluster of the Don's mafiosi about here, which I doubt the revolting groups could take care of by themselves…"
They discussed strategy for another two hours before everyone agreed on their routes. Romano had filled in several gaps in the routes to speed up their progression, and also pointed out a few caches they did not have marked down.
"Say, somehow this strategy strikes me as strangely familiar…" Belgium commented as they reveled in their finished product.
"Ah, about that," Germany explained, "I borrowed a strategy my Brüder used in the Seven Weeks' War* and applied it to guerilla style warfare, with a few changes of my own."
"Ah, so that's why…"
Spain heaved a deep, nostalgic sigh. "Somehow, I miss that noisy hooligan more than I thought I would."
"Oui," France agreed, "I could see him gloating about his genius war tactics right about now."
Germany remained silent, but there was a certain element of remorse in his countenance. Gazing at the tall German man beside him, Romano felt an immediate pang of a type of sadness he did not understand.
"Hei, how are we splitting up the weapons? " Netherlands had left the room and returned with a bundle of guns on his shoulder. He dumped them on the table, pistols, revolvers, assault guns, and all. "Got some Swiss stuff, German, French, oh, here's an English model one we got from Zwitserland* the other day."
"I'll be doing quite a bit of running, so I'll take revolvers," Belgium piped up, already toying around with one of her own models excitedly.
"Ja, that will work. Take whatever you're most familiar with, taking into consideration what your route. Also, we're going to use Molotovs, since grenades are too dangerous with civilians this tightly packed near each other. Everyone needs at least one pistol. Also a dagger and sparklers for emergencies," Germany instructed. It was obvious that he had had the entire plan thought out beforehand.
"How long will this last? Big Brother has already sacrificed enough time coming here to play with all of you. I have no intention of overworking myself and getting injured," France mused.
"It'll take no more than five hours. If all goes well, we should be back at the Italian mainland by the morning of the next day," Germany answered as he gathered up the guns and maps.
Spain yawned, as he stood up and stretched his arms. "Well, then, meeting adjourned."
Rising to their feet, all six nations shared a moment of mutual anticipation, woven inseparably with subdued thrill. Now, all that was left was the operation. The most difficult part, but yet the most exhilarating. Every single one felt the distinct tingle that electrified their body and mind. The tingle that belonged on the battlefield, before each fight. However, this was only a small taste of a delicious meal. They knew the real adrenaline, which stole their focus and blinded their sight. They knew the true rush, which manifested in the most animalist instinct of mankind. And they knew that every time, when the excitement faded away into an empty, black hole, they would emerge with crimson hands wrought by death's embrace.
Palermo, Italy
January 17, 1963
7:15 pm
A single knock. Heavy, but brief.
Romano and Spain shared a brief look, then both picked up their pistols from the coffee table and approached the door carefully, gun at the ready. The visitor knocked again, twice this time, with the same heaviness as before.
"Ich bins, Ludwig*," came the deep, throaty enunciation of the man's native tongue. Then, silence, as the visitor awaited a reply.
Spain reached soundlessly for the doorknob, then abruptly flung open the door in one swift motion as his gun followed rapidly to point straight at an estimated height of the man's chest. However, he found himself gunpoint to gunpoint with Germany, who was directing his pistol right at Spain's forehead.
A sigh of relief passed as they both lowered their weapons. There were no intruders. Spain quickly slid to the side so Germany could enter through the narrow doorway, then locked the door behind him firmly.
"Perdóname*," Spain said with an apologetic smile, "I had to make sure."
"It's better to be too careful than not careful enough," Germany agreed as he set down a heavy black bag on the coffee table.
Romano peered into the bag, which was full every imaginable type of firearm, and pulled out a silver submachine gun that caught his eye. He had never seen a similar model before, not to mention its unique structure. He aimed it at a glass of water on a drawer across the room and pretended to shoot, then weighed it in his hands for size.
"Nice gun," he said as he unloaded the cartridge to examine the bullets.
"It's a new, unreleased model. We're not sure about its design yet, so I figured it was best to try it out first," Germany explained as he himself pulled out a black MG 42*.
"Ah, you always make the best weapons. But of course, Prusia must have drilled gun-making into your brain ever since the day you were born," Spain sighed with a nostalgic smile as he picked up a simple pistol from among the submachine guns, "I think I like this one. Simple. A Walther*?"
"Ja," Germany nodded, then unzipped another compartment of the gigantic bag. "Here, put these on." He threw both of them a pair of black boots, which Romano instantly knew were top-quality combat boots, and unused judging by the creaseless leather.
"Grazie," Romano muttered before he began to unlace his own worn-out boots, gloomily contemplating his poverty-stricken state.
Germany picked out another revolver for himself, then proceeded to clear the table. "All right, are the Molotovs done?"
"Ah, si!" Spain immediately retrieved a box from the other end of the room and set it on the table. "We separated them into small bottles and bigger ones. But we made sure the explosions won't be severe enough to deal serious damage to any buildings."
Germany nodded in approval as he examined Spain and Romano's handiwork with a careful eye. The stoppers were all securely sealed—but not so tight that it would cause inconvenience—while the amount of liquid was filled up right below the neck.
Spain laughed a little sheepishly. "You don't need to worry about my Molotovs. They were technically first used in the Spanish Civil War, you know."
"Right, sorry, just, making sure." Germany swiftly cleared the table again and unrolled the map. "We should review the plan," he said without looking at either of his companions, a grave expression on his face.
Romano's brows furrowed a little at this. He continued to examine the German man as each of their routes were briefly summarized and coordination and timing among the six nations were explained. Germany never showed the slightest variation in facial expression other than a rather intimidating frown. This guy…how does my brother get along with him? They're practically polar opposites! For heaven's sake, this feels just like a military briefing…how does he live like this? Ugh…no. I can't let this get in the way of the operation. I still owe him for way too many things, after all…
"…and so we'll all meet back up at the dock at approximately 4 o'clock in the morning. If somebody doesn't make it back by that time, then make sure to hide the boat somewhere along the coast while we wait."
If somebody doesn't make it back… Romano watched Spain cautiously from the corner of his eye. The Spaniard was nodding his head with the vigor of absolute confidence on his face, as if he was absolutely sure there was nothing that would go wrong. Just like that idiota to be so optimistic…he's way too blunt. The plan seems flawless, but then again, doesn't every military strategy before the actual initiation? There was a strange feeling in the pit of Romano's stomach, as if something was bubbling uncomfortably on the inside. Bubbling upwards, fighting the walls of his stomach. He was unsettled. Anxiously, he rubbed his fingers together and grinded his teeth, a swirl of panicked doubt suddenly suffocating his train of thought. We have superior weapons, experience, skills, and knowledge in general…we're trained soldiers, army commanders, and born protectors of our people…but there's a limit to our strength, too. Here, where we have no armies, no imperial right, nor do we have political power…No, I mustn't be careless. There are only six of us. We're vastly outnumbered, we have to destroy their drug factories, defeat the mafiosi, and regulate the fighting to make sure civilians don't get hurt all at the same time. We might not be able to die, but pain is just as horrid. The others are all here for my sake… I can't let them…He fixed his gaze upon the cheerful Spaniard sitting beside him once more. No, I can't.
"…Alright. That's final," Germany finally finished his lecture, then stood up to take care of the weaponry they had dragged to the other end of the apartment.
Spain flashed Romano a lazy grin and announced, "Since I'm going to be staying up the entire night, Boss needs a siesta right now." He stretched, yawned loudly, then, without warning, flopped down on the couch so that his head landed right on Romano's lap.
Romano felt the blood rise to his cheek and ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. "You bastardo! Get your big, fat head off of me!" He immediately sprang to his feet and mercilessly stomped away, ignoring as Spain landed on the floor behind him with a loud thump, followed by the whines of "Romanooo, you're so cruel!"
Romano trudged his way to the next room, and, seeing Germany in the back stocking up on magazines* for his machine gun, slowed to a stop in front of the German man, hands clenched tightly into fists. Germany turned around questioningly, machine gun in hand as he reassembled the MG 42 he had taken apart just to amuse himself.
"Ummm…ah, I don't know how to say this…" Romano hesitated, then continued, stuttering, "But…thank you. For all this. I mean, I haven't changed my mind about the fact that you're a hazard to my brother. Quite the contrary, the more I get to know you the scarier you are! But…thank you anyway."
A long pause. Romano averted his eyes, afraid to meet the Germany's gaze. Mio dio*, this is such an embarrassment! But after what seemed like hours of waiting—
"I envy you."
Romano's snapped up in shock, only to find Germany staring back with calm, serene, blue eyes, like the ocean waves after a brutal storm.
"Huh?"
"You see," –Germany returned to reassembling the gun—, "although you got yourself in a mess, you're doing this for your brother. I envy you because of that. The fact that you're doing something, that there's something you can do. Because for my brother, there is nothing I can do but gaze at the wall, day after day. Night after night." The last part of the machine gun clicked into place. Romano gazed up at the man before him, who spoke so steadily such painful words, with that same stinging sadness he could not understand. Is this sympathy? he wondered.
Germany turned away to tend to the sparklers, while Romano simply stood there staring at hi back. Ok, just say it. Just say it. Romano drew in a deep breath, hesitating slightly, then, he finally worked up the courage. "Hey...potato bastard."
"Hm?"
"There's one more favor I ask of you."
1 Compare- what mafiosi call other members who are their equals. Romano is simply using the term here to refer to the men since they're all against the La Barberas, thus equals in revolt.
2 …you and that bastard France at each other's throats- The Great Italian Wars (1494-1559)- a series of battles that arose from conflict between the Habsburgs (Spanish and Austrian royal family) and the Valois (French royal family) over the Duchy of Milan and the Kingdom of Naples. It dragged for a looonnnggg time…
3 Ça fait longtemps- Long time no see (informal) in French.
4 Broer- Brother in Dutch. I know that Belgium speaks French and German, but she's probably used to calling Netherlands in Dutch after so many hundreds of years...
5 Ach, Entschuldigugng- Oh, sorry in German.
6 Seven Weeks' War (1866)- Also, Austro-Prussian War. It was fought between the German Confederation (mainly Prussia) and Austria for control over Germany, which resulted in Prussian domination of the German Confederation and Austria's promise to never interfere in German affairs from that point on.
7 Zwitserland- quite obviously, Switzerland in Dutch.
8 Ich bins, Ludwig- It's me, Ludwig, in German.
9 Perdóname- forgive me in Spanish
10 MG 42- shortened by Maschinengewehr 42, a German light machine gun in service from 1942-1968.
11 Walther PP- a semi-automatic pistol still in use today. They were first produced in 1929 in Germany.
12 Magazine (firearms)- an ammunition storage attached to automatic firearm.
13 Mio dio- God in Italian
Phew, that was a whole lotta work. Half of my spring break that is. xD Hope you enjoyed our surprise visitors! Anewayz, this time, hopefully that next one will ACTUALLY be the last part. I've already extended this story so much already, so i'm hoping i dont have to extend it more. Don't get the wrong idea, i like this but i just really wanted it to be a short(er) story. ^_^'
So, the usual, reviews reviews reviews! I didn't get enough reviews last time so i wasn't sure how it was...TT_TT Please review, for the sake of Romano and Spain at least! (BECAUSE I'M SO EVIL I'LL KILL THEM AT THE END jk not really xD)