Title: The Consultant
Rating: M
Summary: The Consultant is well known in the underworld, due to his impressive skills in strategy and analysis. One day, the mafia don of Vongola decided to hire him for training the next don of Vongola; the Vongola Decimo. In exchange of the information of his family and origins, Tsunayoshi accepts the job.
Disclaimer: I do not own KHR! This is merely a fanfiction.
Notes: Evening, boys and girls and them non-binary hoes. So, this is a fanfic I found lost in my PC the other day. I don't even know if I'd posted this before. Who knows? In any case, this was a fanfic based on a very much old fanfic I had called The Dark Sky. I read the rewritten version of it, thought it was interesting, so here I am.
Now this fanfic is slightly big (in my head, at least) so it will take some time for me to write it. Hopefully, I'll focus on it and finish it. As for Relicuum, I will also finish it, since it's supposed to be a short fanfic with a small plot. I promise I will. Anyway, enjoy this one!
Observation: English is not my mother language. Instead, Portuguese is the language that I am fluent. Although I must say, I am pretty capable of writing some things. Nevertheless, I would appreciate if you readers would point my mistakes.
Prologue - O Consultor
California was as bright as ever—sun gleaming at the center of the blue sky, illuminating every possible street; no clouds at sight. Only the sun and its deadly rays of light.
Not a problem, whatsoever. Albeit the discomfort of driving down the highway, in a busy traffic, at least the car had a decent air-conditioner pulling the temperature a few degrees lower. It was nearing midday, and the cab driver deduced that the congestion would not last for long—meaning that, whatever business the client had at 1PM, he would get there in time.
The client in question—a young-man, lean body, soft and feminine face, with chestnut-brown, spiky, short hair, and eyes with the same coloring—was not entirely worried about delay. And, surely, he couldn't blame the poor driver for the slow traffic. Nevertheless, once the car began to move again, the young-man was satisfied.
He wouldn't be that late, after all.
Thirty minutes later, the young-man found the car stopping in its tracks, parking near the gates of a deserted place. The cab driver didn't have any guts to question his client. However, it was fairly strange to be asked to drive towards the California state prison. And, even if he didn't want to judge the client's looks, the young-man had the looks of a model—not a person who had affairs with a prison ward. The brunet at the backseat didn't seem to mind, though. As if he knew full well how strange it was for him to go to the prison.
The cab driver kept his mouth shut, choosing to park the car instead. As soon as he approached, a few guards went towards the cab, wanting to identify the driver. As if in cue, the brunet got out of the car, a gentle and polite smile on his bright, reddish lips.
"Excuse me, gentleman," his voice was suave, not too deep, and not too high.
He eyed the two guards that came for identification, only to draw their full attention towards him. The driver had no time to thank the brunet for helping him; he was too busy paying attention to the young-man's face and soft voice.
In a swift move, the brunet took his wallet out of his pocket—a leather-black one, with few details. The guards were still paying attention, only to be surprised by the identification of the young-man—eyes wide, as if they did not believe in the information laid in front of their eyes. It took them a full minute to accept such information, only to smile in a polite manner and indicate where the entrance was. Before following the two guards, however, the brunet took a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, giving it to the cab driver.
"Thank you for the ride," his voice echoed inside the yellowish sedan, almost hypnotizing the driver. And, the fact that this man's voice had a tinge of Italian accent only made everything more fascinating; or rather, attractive. "Keep the change."
The driver had no time to answer. As soon as he took the hundred-dollar bill, the brunet was already following the two guards, without looking back. Instead of complaining, the driver turned the engine on, feeling the rumble on his feet.
The yellowish sedan disappeared off in the highway, never to come back. The young-man didn't care, though. His mind wandering at the thoughts of the prison ward. The brunet wasn't there for a simple visit—he knew almost no one important, or rather, someone worth his time. He had business inside that place; a mission.
Quietly he tucks the identification badge inside his pocket—it was a falsified FBI badge. Quite an easy bargain to get false information. The name on his badge flashing with the gleam of lies. Leon Howard was written in there, and the guards believed him without a doubt. As far as preparations go, the brunet had prepared himself with months prior to this moment. A few pulls of strings here and there, innocent feedback at the news and the name Leon Howard became a symbol of recognition.
It had been quite easy, after spending some fortune with the IT team back in his home-land. If asked authorities about the Special Agent Howard, no one would be able to answer with exact information. It would always be misleading, a ramble mess of news together with the false facts of such man. No one dared to investigate, though. Leon Howard, as the news enjoyed to say, was a national hero for the United States.
That because a few weeks ago, a real criminal was put in jail. A serial-killer, one of those who you'd never encounter unless they wanted you to. It was evident for the population of California that this assassin had female victims for a full period of ten years. And yet, no one was able to find the culprit. That was until Leon Howard appeared as a national hero; a legend ready to uncover the mystery behind murders.
A few leaks to the actual FBI, an anonymous source, and the creation of the agent Howard had been enough to draw everyone's attention towards the newly entitled hero.
The brunet had now a full entry in the California state prison—with permission to visit the culprit behind the killings. Except, his mission did not entail visiting the serial-killer. No. Instead, his job there was to find the mastermind behind it all. Truth be told, that man—a two meter tall, almost a hundred and fifty kilograms and stupid, thick glasses—could never harm a fly without leaving witnesses behind. Jonathan was his name. And he could be considered a simple victim of the big-boss' plans. Except, he had wanted to be involved with the plan, thus making him as guilty as the mastermind.
Jonathan was a real useless piece of shit. The man had no abilities with social interacting, always running around between jobs at fast-foods. And, as the useless person that he was, he had no skills, nor knowledge, on how to assassinate people. However, his body was built in a way that made everyone believe that he had enough strength to strangulate and slice a knife down woman's throat. And it was believable. The mastermind of this whole ordeal had made sure of it.
Except he wasn't expecting someone near the brunet's caliber to unravel the truth behind it.
The guards led the young-man through the hallways of the long, gigantic prison—it was quite easy to get lost within those walls. Passing through a few blocks, encountering a few prisoners, the two guards stopped next to one of the most secured blocks in the prison. It had a name of an important cop back in the fifties, or something among those lines. The brunet hadn't been paying attention to the chitchat of those two guards—it was obvious that they had been trying to enchant the brunet with their pitiful words and cheap hookup-lines.
The only thing that mattered at the moment was the fact that, inside one of those cells, the brunet would find his target. Oh, and he would also find Jonathan, the useless piece of shit. Not that he wanted to, though. It would be pointless to meet that man.
The guards smiled at the brunet, opening the gate to the block, letting the young-man roam around the place. The brunet followed through the gate, stopping only to turn towards the guards—that were still following him.
"Actually, boys," he made a gesture to stop both men. "I need to check some facts with Mr. Miller." Both guards had their eyebrow risen, slightly confused at the statement. "Alone, that is."
"Of course," the first guard said, chuckling in a nervous manner.
The other soon followed suit. "Right! Sorry, Mr. Howard."
With a grateful smile, 'Leon Howard' turned his back on the guards, ignoring their stare. Following through the hallway, the brunet kept his eyes focused on the many numbers and letters on the signs.
The perks of having connections all over the world meant that he had a business meeting in a special place inside the prison. He had, obviously, bribed a few guards and the director of the prison. The meeting was important, after all.
'Leon' knocked on the door, with a code. As soon as he knocked, the door swung open, showing two bulky guards and a man sat at a table. The guards must've done a great job, since the man was ties up at the hands and ankles, while his mouth was taped shut. 'Howard' smiles at the guards and signals for them to leave the premises of the interrogation room. The door closes with a thud, and soon he's left alone with the target.
The brunet approached the table, carefully. The target peered up, confused and annoyed at the sudden approach, but ultimately scared. Eyes staring onto the brunet's chestnut-brown ones. The man didn't whimper, but it was a close thing, considering his eyes were shaking in fear. Not asking for permission, the young-man sat down in one of the chairs, right across the target. Both kept staring, until the brunet decided that it was enough of the stupid, boring competition of stare.
'Leon' rips the tape off the man's mouth. The man grunts and gasps for air, as he feels his lips again. He moves it around, making tiny sounds.
"Raphael," the brunet murmured, low and dangerous. "I've been meaning to meet you."
"Well, you sure don't look like an American," the man pointed out. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?" The man moves around, trying to free his hands from the rope.
"Oh, Raphael," a light chuckle echoed through the room, drawing the man's attention. "I'm here on behalf of the Consultant."
The man, Raphael, visibly stiffened in his place—hands stopping mid-air, completely shocked with the statement. The brunet watched as the man stared with a strange mix of fear and anger.
"Bullshit. I've done nothing against him." The target muttered. "I paid for his services, we had a deal, and it was over. Now I'm in prison," the other scoffed. "It didn't work out. Tell your boss that he's full of shit."
"Who?" The brunet asked, a quiet, dangerous threat. The man watched as the young-man leaned in, approaching him. "You or me, Gonzales? Who's full of shit?"
"What—you? What are you talking about?" The man stuttered.
"The deal was simple, Gonzales." The brunet had his eyes staring into the man's soul. "You paid me for my consulting, and you followed the plan—you followed the rules!" He staged-yelled, hands bumping on the table.
"I did! And now I'm in prison!"
"You are the one full of shit." The brunet leaned back on his chair. "You asked me for one thing: power. And I gave you a list of people who'd be willing to help. In return, you vouched for your trust. Gonzales, may I remind you what you said?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," the man grumbled.
"I have strict rules, Gonzales. And one of them is: not using my consulting against children and/or elders," he whispered. "And what did you do?"
"I've done nothing against those rules!" The man yelled in return, punching the table with both fists.
The brunet narrowed his eyes, deciding to take off his jacket the yellow-file. Throwing it on the table, the young-man opened the file, showing visible pictures of the grotesque assassination of a child. It was a tiny boy, average height for his age, a normal and healthy body. Except, in the picture, the boy was brutally sliced. In the picture, only the boy's head and torso were attached, while the limbs were missing.
"That wasn't me," shivering in fear, the man whispered. "That wasn't me, and I can prove it!"
"Bullshit. Don't try to outsmart me, Gonzales." The brunet spat, disdain all over his face. "You twisted my plan, and bent it over your needs. Using the people I assembled, you demanded the murder of a child!"
"You have no proof," the man snorted, daring to put a smile on his lips. The brunet felt his blood boiling in his anger.
"In fact, Gonzales, I do have proof," the brunet answered. "Why do you think I'm here?" This time the young-man smirked. "I don't collect trash. It's not usually on my schedule. No… I'm here to prove to my clients that no one disobey my orders—that no one outsmarts me," he got up from his seat.
"What? And who do you think you are?!"
The brunet glanced sideways, eyes cold and calculative. "I'm the one people call Lone Lion of the Savanna—the Lost King," the man shivered in place, eyes widening in realization. "My job mainly entails consulting; thus, people call me The Consultant."
"Impossible. No one ever saw The Consultant in person!" The man screeched.
"Not quite. A few people saw me in person..." the brunet went around the table, approaching the man's chair. "The problem is that dead people don't talk," he coldly whispered.
Gonzales trembled, suddenly aware of what was about to happen. The man got up from his chair, trying to get off his bounds. He stumbled on his own feet, throwing the chair on the floor—trying as hard as he can to run away. The brunet clicks his tongue, tucking the yellow-file back inside his jacket. Wandering slowly through the room, avoiding the chair.
Raphael Gonzales was cornered. The man now whimpered as he muttered some nonsense. The brunet approached, a sly grin on his lips.
"Looks like you've been caught." He chuckled.
"So what?! You gonna kill me or what?!" The man yelled, trying his best to push his body against the wall. If he could, he'd phase right through. "Didn't think you'd be such a pussy!"
"Oh, sorry if I gave off the impression that I'd kill you," he gasped, faking sadness. "I've already said that I'm not the one to collect trash. And, I don't like dirtying my hands with disgusting scum."
'Leon' moves away, leaving Raphael in the corner. He then taps on the door and waits for his 'subordinates'. The two guards from before come rushing in, immediately ready for their task.
Nodding towards the guards, the brunet turned away, deciding to leave the prison. His mission there was over. He heard the yells coming from Gonzales. The man would be dragged by one of the guards—one of those who sold their services in exchange for money—and be 'accidentally' murdered in his cell. It would be considered suicide. The press would be communicated regarding the killings in California, receiving information that the man behind them was actually Gonzales. That would be confirmed by a false suicide note. Jonathan would be released and Leon Howard would be considered a fraud. Not that the brunet minded, he would never use that name again.
Getting out of the prison, the brunet took out a cellphone. A number appeared on the screen as quickly as he typed them. A ring, then another one, until the person picked up and answered the call.
"Maria, dear," the brunet queried, Italian slipping through his tongue with familiarity. "Book my flight for this afternoon. No delays," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," the woman answered immediately. The brunet heard the clacking of the keyboard, indicating that she was typing. A few minutes, the woman decided to speak, "Flight for this afternoon, at 3PM. Is that good?." The brunet nodded, even if she couldn't see it. "Will I be expecting you today?"
"No. I'll be taking a few days off, you might as well take some days off, too," he murmured, turning the cellphone off.
Without a word, the brunet threw the device away. The cellphone landed on the ground, without much noise. Until it exploded in a small burst of flames, melting the device in a few minutes. Then, the young-man asked for a cab.
Minutes later the brunet was already in his way to the airport. In the cab, his real cellphone was notified with the news about Gonzales and his terrible crimes against people—including the one where he ordered to murder a small child. Leon Howard was discredited, people turning their back against him because, apparently, he was a fraud. The FBI was soon bombarded with questions, demanding to have the agent's personal information. Except, they couldn't give any, because the agent was never true to begin with.
The mission had been successful.
~x~
The cellphone ringed, drawing the brunet's attention towards the small device on the table.
It had been a quiet evening, he must confess. Taking a few days off was nothing he wasn't used to—the concept itself was pretty well known, since he wasn't a front liner. The brunet was the type of person that worked in the underworld only as the mere planner. Creating schedules, elaborating plans for attacks or defenses and assembling people for mafiosi was all part of his job. It usually gave him enough money to live through the year.
Each deal he made costed at least half a million euros. Not something many mafiosi could pay, but there were the exceptions. And, usually, he found himself being paid by important famiglias, in a normal rate of a service per month. It made him quite rich within a short span of time. Therefore, he had enough time to take days off and enough time to relax without being contacted by a potential client.
It had been a week since his last mission—something he himself made, because no one had contacted him for said mission. It was more of a warning to the underworld, proving that he demanded respect when people paid for his services. Usually, those missions were only necessary once in a year—and, usually, it only happened outside of Italy. Foreigners weren't experts in understanding the mafia rule, thus making a mess in other countries. The brunet personally went towards the person to fix the problem.
Since then, the brunet had been enjoying the quiet moments in his apartment in Sicily. A small complex in the suburbs, quite near the business streets. It was relaxing and calm. The young-man liked it, because it treasured his moments as a normal human being, instead of being the fierce mafiosi that he was. Not that he didn't like his living style, it was just that sometimes it was nice pretending he was a normal civilian.
But not everything lasts. And, apparently, today was the day he would be contacted by another mafiosi. The brunet allowed himself to sigh, leaving his cup of coffee back on the saucer—the steam floating on the air, inviting him for one more gulp of his delicious drink. Grabbing the cellphone—his professional line—he answered the call.
"Good evening," he said, playing with the strap of the cup, feeling the heat at the tip of his finger.
"The Consultant," the voice was gruff, quite old and tired, but still strong and demanding. A mafia don, then.
"That would be me," he answered, lightly. "For who do I owe the pleasure?"
"Oh, excuse my rude manner," the man chuckled, slightly amused. "I am Timoteo di Vongola," the brunet narrowed his eyes, suddenly serious and aware of the importance.
"Usually, the people who want my services are medium-class famiglias," the brunet quietly huffed, his fingers now fully wrapped around the strap of his cup. "I wonder what Vongola wants with a mere consultant."
"Why? I can't pay for your services?"
"Not at all," the young-man took a sip of his coffee. "It's just my intuition telling me that you don't only want my normal services. Something big is coming, isn't it, Vongola?"
"Sharp," the old man commented. "I assume that, yes, I'd be contracting you for a bigger service."
"I'll put my limits already," the brunet said, fierce and serious. "I will not kill people for you. I will not fight for you. I will not be your henchman. And I have rules, you might as well follow them," he advised.
"So I've been told. Strict rules, indeed." The man took a deep breath. "I have an opportunity—an offer, rather."
"I'm listening," the brunet murmured, lips on his cup of coffee, enjoying the scent of his drink.
"I want you to help with the Vongola Decimo's training," before the brunet could interfere, the man continued. "I know. It's not part of your job. However, if you look at it, I'm actually asking for some planning. I want my successor to be a good mafia don, and learning how to analyze situations might be good for him," he explained. "You're ranked 1st in analytic and strategic knowledge—"
"Fuuta di La Stella," the brunet mumbled, slightly annoyed. "Never thought you'd ask for a brat's help."
"My point is that, you're perfect for the job. Consider it as a planning for the future of the mafia," the man insisted. "As for fighting, you won't need to interfere. I know you're fully capable, but the point is teaching the Decimo how to deal with situations. Letting him fight will suffice."
"Why would I accept that?" The brunet sighed. "In my perspective, this job would require me, at least, years of teaching. I'd be leaving my real job behind to serve the next generation of Vongola," he pointed out. "And you know how well I am at my job. The least you'd try to do would be hire me as the advisor of the next boss."
"That was not what I said," the man exclaimed, slightly offended.
"But you're planning that. It's common strategic knowledge. And you said it yourself, I rank 1st in both strategic and analytical. It would be stupid to lose such opportunity," the brunet sighed again, a little frustrated. "Don't think I didn't see this through."
"I won't deny that I didn't think of that," he admitted. "But, what about my offer?"
"Even if I accepted the job, I'd ask for more than half-million euros, and you know that," the brunet scoffed. "I won't take anything if it isn't money."
"What about information?"
"Are you serious? I live by extracting information, that's my job," he chuckled. "You'd either have to tell me one of your famiglia's secrets, or give me something that not even I can find."
"What about your true identity? The information about your parents?" Timoteo spoke seriously.
The brunet snapped towards the cellphone at his right ear, anger flushing through his blood. The cup of coffee in his hands shattering in small pieces of porcelain.
"You better be serious, Timoteo," he muttered in a deadly tone. "I won't take it lightly if this is just a mere joke. I'm not afraid of you or your group of stupid guardians," he growled in anger. "If you came here to joke on my face, then expect your headquarters to be destructed in a day. Do you understand me?"
The line went silent for a few seconds. The brunet cleaned the blood and coffee mix out of his fingers, ignoring the slight pain coming from the cuts.
"I'm not joking, Tsunayoshi," the mafia don answered.
"How do you know my name?"
"I have information on you and your parents. One of them are part of Vongola," Timoteo said, quietly. "I also know your surname."
"I don't even know my surname," the brunet laughed, dryly.
"Well, I can give you the information if you want. But I need to know if you accept the job."
The brunet stopped to think for a minute. For years he had been searching about his family and origins. A piece of memory was ripped out of his brain, making him confused and lost in the middle of Italy. He never understood what happened. Only that he needed to survive in the dark society that was known as the underworld—for some reason, everyone tried to capture him and/or murder him. After years of struggle, the brunet found himself thriving in this strange world.
At first, he was a dirty hitman. Doing the job that not many people were willing to do. It had been enough to maintain him alive—with all the money he received, he was able to buy an apartment and create a small organization. Afterwards, wanting to give up on the fighting and killing part, the brunet decided to live off as a consultant.
Surprisingly, he was very good at consulting. Building his fame off of people's successes, he became known as The Consultant. Many people knew him and feared him, because he was powerful, intelligent and mysterious. No one had ever seen his face. It was well hidden. He lived as a shadow, even though his nickname was well known in the underworld.
However, even with his power, no one seemed to know about Tsunayoshi. No one had information on the name, only that it came from Japan. He had no information whatsoever. And, unable to remember his surname, the brunet thought that maybe he would never know. And, through these years, he had learned to ignore it. He coped with the fact that he would never understand who he was, or where he came from. At the moment, he was satisfied with his job and life.
Until Timoteo came, that is. It made him think if he was willing to throw his job away and work for the man instead. It was tempting. And, honestly, he had nothing to lose.
Taking a deep breath, the brunet decided to speak.
"I accept."