Author's note: This is my first full sized fanfiction, though certainly not my first time writing from Voldo's perspective. In this story, I hope to analyze the tense and admittedly unhealthy relationships within Voldo's rather dysfunctional family of seven. Of course, Vercci's later involvement should put a nice spin on that. Note, however, that this story will not contain any smut and/or romance elements. This is less of a focus on Voldo and Vercci and more of an origin story for Voldo himself.

I feel that it is reasonable to assume that "Voldo" is not his birth name, if only for the fact that it isn't an Italian name at all. For that reason, I refer to young Voldo as "Vincente Valerio," only switching to his better known name when I deem it appropriate. For reference, Voldo is twenty years old, and his brother Matteo is sixteen.

Anyways, this is my first time navigating through this website, and I certainly hope that you enjoy my story! Please feel free to leave me a review with your comments, critique, and recommendations. In fact, I encourage it!

Thank you very much for reading!

-Valentín

"Vincente, wake up. It's time for breakfast."

Monotone as always, his mother called his name over and over as she tore the blankets from around his huddled form. Vincente curled around himself and squeezed his eyes shut. Just once in his life, he wanted to wake up of his own accord.

"Stay in bed for one more second, and I'm giving your portion to your brothers. I'm certain they'd appreciate it. God knows there's not enough food to go around in this household."

"And whose fault is that? Certainly not mine." He had nothing to fear: his mother wouldn't risk angering him. Not when the family's meager livelihood, if one could even call it that, depended on his blood, sweat, and tears. As expected, she took a hesitant step backwards at his cutting tone before losing her courage entirely and stalking out of his room with her tail between her legs. "…Puttana. Go to hell."

Despite his exhaustion, he dragged himself out of bed and began his morning routine. The fading moonlight cast dismal shadows on his spartan furniture as he dressed himself. How very fitting, considering his mood. It would be another hour or two until the sun rose. He muttered a string of endless curses under his breath as he stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen where his family sat waiting for him.

"Buon giorno, Big Brother!" Matteo, cheerful as ever, beckoned him over from the breakfast table. "Are you still tired? …Here. You can have my share of the coffee. It isn't as if I'll be needing it." With his only functioning arm, he pushed the mug over towards Vincente's seat. Though he still possessed the ability to move the limb, he lacked the motor function to control his clumsy, underdeveloped fingers. In a way, Vincente took pleasure in the fact that no matter how far he sank, there would always be someone else in their household more miserable than he was. He cared for the boy- truly, he did- but after a decade of sixteen hour work days, he learned to take his victories where he could. Without a word, he swiped his chair out from under the table and slumped into the seat. He downed Matteo's cup of lukewarm, watered down coffee before starting on his own. As the family patriarch, he deserved it.

Every so often, his father stole frightened little glances at his joyless expression. Pathetic bastard. It hardly mattered who sired whom in this family- Vincente had a bone to pick with all of them, and if they knew what was good for them, they would pay him some well-deserved respect.

"Why are you even awake, Matteo? You could sleep in until noon like the other children, if you wanted."

"What do you mean 'like the other children?' I'm only four years younger than you!" Despite his claim to maturity, he puffed his cheeks with an immature pout.

"Yes, and when I was your age, I had already been working at the docks for six years. What do you do besides drain away all the money I earn?" Though he would never admit it, he regretted his words the second they escaped his lips. His brother's forlorn expression of pure guilt only served to deepen his wounds. Before he could apologize, however, his mother, in a rare authoritative moment, decided to take charge of the situation at hand.

"You speak like you're shouldering the family's burden on your own! What about your father and I? We-"

"Yes, pray tell, what about you and Father?" He slammed his hand on the table, effectively silencing her before she angered him further. "The man who can't even support his family without sending his own son off to work like a slave. And you..." With a snide and mirthless smile, he pointed an accusatory finger at his mother. "Can't keep your damned legs closed for one God forsaken minute. Like this family doesn't have enough mouths to feed as it is. Five sons. Ridiculous. We should fall to our knees and thank the Lord none of your daughters lived to take a single breath in this hellhole you've created for yourself. Truly, well done."

He watched on with a dull, unamused expression as his mother's face grew beet red with humiliation. "B-Blasphemy! God will punish you for-"

"Punish me? What more can He do? How could He possibly send me to Hell when I'm already in it?"

With trembling rage, she sent her palm flying at his cheek, though before she could make impact, her husband caught her arm in his grasp and tightened his grip upon her, urging her to calm herself. "Come, now," he implored, "The boy has a long day of work ahead of him. We can't send him to the docks with such a bruise on his face. What would the others say?"

"That I take after you- a brutish oaf and a womanizer. Basta. Everyone be silent- you're giving me a headache." He finished his last piece of bread as he stood and put on his thin coat. Without even a simple goodbye to his parents, he sauntered out of the house.

"…Have a good day at work, Vincente. Come home safe." Though Matteo knew his brother wouldn't hear, it still eased his guilt to wish him well. Unlike the others, he knew just how heavily he relied on the other man. With a heavy sigh, he glanced down at the familiar sight of his deformed right arm and the short stump that he couldn't always bear to call his left. It didn't matter if Vincente disrespected their parents, or beat the children, or swore like, well, a sailor. He sacrificed so much for the sake of their family, and Matteo would show his gratitude in any way he could. After having joined his brother for his early breakfast, he limped back to bed to rest until the afternoon, much like the other children.