Luca was 16 when he first laid eyes on Vincenzo Cassano. But he'd heard of him long before that. The Cassano Family's 'outsider', 'foreign imposter', some would call him. Others weren't so forgiving; spitting and muttering how he must be 'the Don's plaything', with that baby-face. Or even, Don Fabio's bastard child; which was – to anyone who put in half an effort to investigate – factually incorrect.
Luca was 16 when he, along with a handful of grumbling men, was sent by their Capo – who was told by the Underboss, who was ordered by the Don – to provide back-up. At the time, Vincenzo had already broken tradition by being granted the position of Caporegime. Even if it was no secret that none of the men assigned to his control remotely respected him. Even more scandalously, there were rumours of Vincenzo's associates not fitting the strict mould of Mafia traditions either. Rumours of his dealings and association with other 'foreign scum', people from 'questionable' lineages, enemies, rivals, even.
Luca was 16 when he realized how wrong everyone was. Realized that everything he'd heard, all the rumours, the snide remarks, were but the pitiful attempts of weak mean to undermine the sheer presence, the overwhelming tempest that was known as Vincenzo Cassano.
Luca was 16 when he rushed in with his fellow picciotti, guns tucked away but ready, only to come to a halt at the scene that greeted them. The ambush party were there, as expected, but what wasn't expected was Vincenzo Cassano, kneeling atop one man, looking like the devil himself.
Luca was the first to snap out of his shock, approaching to check on the status of the incapacitated. Two dead, one unconscious, and two with injuries that could become serious, if they left them be. The last… Luca had kept Vincenzo in the periphery of his vision as he did his rounds, feeling the hair on the back of his neck raise, his hackles strung tight.
Vincenzo had one knee on the last man's arm, immobilizing it, and another pressing on his sternum. Luca's eyes appraised the fallen man; noting with a wince the odd angle of his leg – he'd later find out that Vincenzo had shattered his knee – and the sluggish bleeding of an abdominal stab wound.
A knife was in Vincenzo's hand, and Luca's gaze doubled back around to realize that each of the fallen had bullet wounds, some fatal, except the one currently pinned under Vincenzo. He spotted what must've been the gun in question poking out unassumingly from Vincenzo's jacket pocket. And another lying not far from the man on the ground.
The rest of the picciotti had finally snapped out of their daze and gone to secure – or dispose of – the men felled by Vincenzo. But Luca was hypnotized by the scene in front of him. He couldn't get a good glimpse of Vincenzo's face, his hair mussed and the blood. It was on his hands, his sleeves, his clothes, his face. But it still paled in comparison to the dark, impassive expression in those eyes.
As his ambusher-turned-victim gurgled a groan, Vincenzo's face split into an almost… angelic smile. A primal shudder ran through Luca as he watched him lean down, almost tenderly, and press the knife to the other's wrist. Sever a tendon. The man would never be able to grasp a weapon in it again. As good as a death sentence, for a mafioso.
The knife tilted, undeterred by its' victim's screams, and tore the flesh and tendon until it was irreparable. Luca swallowed, distantly hearing the man's cries for mercy, offer service, ask for death. All while Vincenzo smiled quietly and slid his knife through the other's flesh like butter.
Luca's eyes darted to the side at soft sounds of disgust and revulsion. Saw some of his comrades turn away, faces green, and some shoot Vincenzo dirty looks – as if they were in the presence of a beast, a wild monster. Tilting his head, Luca couldn't disagree more. He waved away his comrades' signals to withdraw – bodies in tow – with an excuse that he had to take care of the last one once Vincenzo was done with him.
Vincenzo never once looked their way.
What seemed like both hours later, and yet mere seconds, Vincenzo finally withdrew and stood up. Lithe body unfurling like a satisfied predator after a successful hunt. Finally, he turned to Luca, who sucked in a sharp breath.
Despite being five-years his senior, Vincenzo certainly looked like he could pass off as younger than Luca. His baby-face was truth, its youthfulness unmarred by the blood and dark eyes. Strands of soft hair over his forehead only accentuated his youth. Somehow, even standing above his victim, knife dripping with blood, he looked… innocent, pure.
Those dark eyes pinned Luca where he stood, and he straightened his posture almost instinctively. They stared at him, and he wisely stayed silent, until finally a voice spoke. Smooth, silky, it said, "aiutami a tirarlo su (help me prop him up)." The Italian words sounded both surprising yet undeniably natural, coming out of him.
Unable to find his own voice, Luca shut his speechless mouth and nodded. He approached carefully, his instincts still protesting nearing the other. He took silent cues to heft the now-unconscious man up, and lay him out in obvious display against a nearby wall.
As he arranged the man's limp form, Vincenzo doubled back and ran a palm uncaringly through the puddles of blood littering the space. Above his victim's form, he swiped his hand on the wall, painting a bold letter C in blood. The small smile was back, as Vincenzo admired his handiwork.
It fell – and was that a pang of disappointment? – as Vincenzo turned to stare at Luca once more. Clearing his throat, Luca straightened back up and met his eyes. This close, he realized he was the same height as the other. But Vincenzo's presence made him feel much, much smaller.
"Grazie," Vincenzo's words startled Luca out of his musings. His eyes were still pinned on Luca, unnervingly focused.
Not trusting his voice not to break and embarrass himself, Luca only nodded and let out a soft sound of acknowledgement. He resisted squirming as Vincenzo watched him for a moment longer before glancing once at the man lying between them, then turning and striding off.
A breath he didn't realize he'd been holding wheezed out of Luca. It snapped him out of the reverie he'd been in from the moment he'd first laid eyes on Vincenzo. As if waking up from a dream, his head darted from the bloodied evidence around the warehouse, to the man lying deathly still by his feet – and he'd quickly jumped away from that – to the door Vincenzo had left out of.
Mouth gaping like a fish, Luca had no idea what to make of what just happened. What sorcery or spell he'd seemingly been under. Whether that meant he wanted to see the other man again… or not.
I have a few vague ideas / outlines of what I wanna write with this... let's see how far I last with it haha. Leave a comment if you like :)
