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"Why the hell should I let you go after the crap you pulled last week?"
Enzo stood in the frame of the villa's main door, his eyes deceptively contemptuous as he glared down at Saul who was practically begging to be let out of the house. To a casual observer, one might think that Enzo was simply motivated by justified anger, but a closer glance could inform the observer of the slight upturn of his lips, and Harry knew that Enzo was enjoying himself.
"You're not still upset over that little joke, are ya? I would have thought you'd have a better sense of humor." Saul fawned in shock, unable to resist the opportunity to get into a dig on the older teen.
"Easy to say when you weren't the one confronted by a peasant shepherd shoving the barrel of a rifle up their nose."
Saul pierced his lips, "Ya know we could always just tell Mr. Corleone about this." He threatened, not bothering to even address Enzo's point as he felt no remorse.
Enzo, however, was quick to call his bluff, "Oh, by all means, take it up with Mr. Corleone! Of course, then he'll probably want to know exactly what you two get up to when you visit the village."
Saul's face turned an interesting shade of red, his hand balling up into a fist, looking every bit like he wanted to take a swing at the teen's smug face. Instead, he huffed and turned. He was well aware of the consequences of starting a fight in the Corleone house and wisely deemed it not worth the trouble.
Harry watched as Saul moved away to sulk and took the opportunity to intermediate for him, "Look, we're sorry for pulling that prank on you, I don't know how many other ways we can say it. We're not partial to being babysat."
"Oh, I'm sure that was the only reason, nothing else could have possibly motivated you to try to keep me from seeing what you got up to in town." Enzo snarked and Harry rolled his eyes, not appreciating the blatant sarcasm.
"And like I said then we were getting some bait, but we've already been over this," Harry said as though he were speaking to a small child, which was amusing considering Enzo was twice his age.
Harry sighed and adjusted his tone, seeing as they wouldn't get anywhere getting into a verbal slap-fight with the American boy, "You can trust I'm being honest now, Saul just wants to see that girl again."
"Harry!" Saul hissed loudly, the look of bloody murder in his eyes not being missed by Enzo who was now smiling like a loon.
"That's true, isn't it?" Enzo grinned like a shark ready to sink his teeth into this juicy bit of ammo, "You actually think you have a shot with a girl like that?"
Saul sniffed, ending his attempt to glare a hole through the back of Harry's head. "Oh sure, these Sicilian girls are all sexually repressed conservative Catholics. They play the nun, but they'll moan louder than a twenty-dollar whore at the slightest touch." He said in full confidence, trying to save face by playing up his words like they were a point of fact.
"Ah hah." He shook his head at Saul's crudeness yet smiled all the same. "You know what? Fuck it. Seeing you make a complete ass-clown of yourself is something I've gotta see."
Enzo stepped out of the house, missing the exchange of looks shared between the youngest inhabitants of the Corleone Villa. Saul clenched his fists as he glared at Harry, "I'm gonna get you back for this."
"A simple 'thank you' will suffice, Saul," Harry answered cheekily.
"Come on Romeo, I don't have all day!" Enzo called out as he peered into the house through the doorway. Saul grumbled at the smug look in Harry's eyes. Harry couldn't help but laugh as the older boy shoved him playfully in the shoulder, before following him outside.
-/ↀ\-
They took the road this time, Enzo didn't trust them out in the countryside, to which they had no complaint. The boys had been honest this time around about their intentions. The only contention was that Saul had to listen to Enzo disparaging his foolhardy attempt at romance every step of the way on their journey to the home of that Sicilian beauty.
"You know this is a waste of time, right?" Enzo taunted humorously, "What would a girl like that want with a runt like you?"
"You're just jealous I have natural charisma, not that you would know what that is with your nose shoved in a textbook half the time." Saul mocked, "Collage boy like you wouldn't know the first thing on how to charm the pants off of a girl."
That amused Enzo, who happily showed his derision with a snort, "And you do? You have the same kind of charm an old grease monkey might have toward a Desoto rusting in the middle of a junkyard. Let's face it, you have the romantic fiance of a flaccid cock being slapped across your face."
Saul just shrugged his shoulders, playing as though he were unbothered by the jabs. "Girls love me, think I'm cute." Harry snorted, ignoring the brief glare Saul gave him, knowing that for all of Saul's frankly sexist bolstering, his words were a mask to hide feelings of nervousness. Perhaps there was even a flicker of self-doubt in his mind that Enzo's words rang true, that nothing but rejection would come forth from the fair Isabella that had been the subject of a week's worth of dreams.
Harry continued to listen as the two bantered with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. Honestly, he couldn't understand what the deal was. Sure, he wasn't ignorant of the opposite sex, what with the dirty mags that Saul kept hidden in his room. But the amount of bravado and crude innuendo was simply perplexing to the soon-to-be ten-year-old. He casually wondered if his father had been this obnoxious toward his mother. The cruel description of his parents that Petunia had once uttered briefly entered his mind, but he'd rejected her narrative long ago, and the feeling passed. He had long ago given up on ever knowing those who had brought him into the world, a chapter in his life that would forever be left unknown.
Harry ideally tuned back into the conversation, amused by the growl that rose from deep within Enzo's throat, "And that's another thing. If you think for one moment that the girl or her mother will let you get anywhere near removing her panties for a one-and-done quickly behind the chicken coop, you might as well go home now. No matter what big talk you might say to inflate that fat head of yours, Sicilian girls have a level of class you never would have found in England."
"Ya sayin' I don't have class? I can have class." Saul gasped as though stricken, "I can wine and dine her and take her out to dance if all that muck is so important. I wouldn't even complain if it meant I could take her out at night to walk the village in a red dress that shows off those legs that go all the way! Why, I bet she even–!"
What he was about to say trailed off as he turned and skidded to a halt to stop himself from running into the grill of a car that was parked on the side of the road. He had been so deep in their banter that he had almost walked into it. The conversation was left forgotten as he blinked looking at it, noting the model. The car was a 1971 Buick Riviera Hardtop that had been kept in pristine condition, the copper mist color of the frame reflecting in the sun.
His eyes turned up and noted that they had arrived at the home of the girl who had begun to preoccupy his nightly visions. He looked at the house, then back at the car, a frown forming on his face.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a squeal of indignation that punctured the air around them. Saul looked around the car down toward the hill below where the house stood, where he saw two young men who looked close to entering their twenties trailing behind the object of his obsession, who glared at them over the brim of tomatoes she carried in a basket.
Saul watched as the shorter teen grabbed Isabella's arm to prevent her from walking off, forcing her to turn with a furious glint in her eyes. Isabella tried to wrestle her arm free, and it was evident by the pained look in her eyes that he had held on tighter in response to her efforts. Her eyes grew wide in shock the next moment when he forced his lips to hers.
Saul was already flying down the hill with Harry and Enzo in tow when she forced her lips away from the teen's and slapped him across the face for his boldness, which made him red in anger.
"Piccola puttana-!" The teen snarled, delivering a blow across her cheek that echoed throughout the yard. The girl held her injured cheek in horror as tears formed in the corners of her eyes, staring into the furious glare of the enraged man who raised his open palm again to strike. Isabella recoiled in fear, but as his hand came down to strike her again, a meaty hand reached forward and grabbed hold of her assailant's wrist.
"Now, that's no way to treat a lady, init?" Saul chidded, before slamming his fist into the teen's nose. He squawked and went down like a large sack of potatoes, holding his hand to his now bleeding nostrils and he threw obscenities in thick Italian.
"Stupido stronzo! Chi pensi di essere per toccarmi?!" He hissed as he got back to his feet, his voice was nasally as he sniffed to clear his airways even as he moved forward to return the punch Saul delivered, his friend taking a threatening step forward.
"Come on, Bitch, ya wanna piece of me? Ya ain't got no balls, pussy!" Saul challenged in a purposeful attempt to instigate a fight.
However, before either of them could deliver a blow, Enzo and Harry had finally caught up and moved to break up the fight. Harry was quick to grab Saul by the waist while Enzo got inbetween and pushed his hands against the two opponents, "Saul, you asshole, what are you doing?! Can't you go a day without trying to take someone's head off, goddamnit?!" He screamed in Saul's face.
As he helped hold Saul back, Harry took a moment to take a good look at the teens trying to tear their way through Enzo. The larger of the two, who had yet to speak, was a pigish sort whose heigh was only rivaled by the quantity of the muscle and fat that bulged from his bones in great heeps. His meaty hand held back his companion only for the sake of allowing himself enough time to size up their opponents, if the fight that glowed within his small beady eyes behind the mop of blonde hair was any indication. Yet, despite being a brutish individual, Harry could tell he was not the dominant of the two.
The other, who glared into Saul's eyes as though he were trying to will Death to take his soul, was an otherwise fair-looking young man but for the unpleasant creases that carved his face into a scowl. Even when he had smiled at the young girl not moments before, his pale lips had been twisted and cruel, a toothy grin that resembled a shark splitting his face up to a pair of black eyes that gleamed with greedy desire. Harry couldn't help but shudder when he looked into those eyes, something deep within his very being warning him that these two were serious trouble.
Those eyes now held a fire that cried out for vengeance to satisfy his wounded pride, even as he looked down at his knuckles as he wiped the dribble of blood that was pooling out from the corner of his mouth, "Che affari ha un maiale inglese da intromettersi negli affari di un siciliano, eh?!"
Saul, who despite having a poor understanding of the Sicilian language, was able to pick up a few words and the overall tone of the question as he growled back, "I don't give a fuck, You and Lurch here can piss off before I knock your teeth down your fuckin' throat!" He threatened, grunting a moment later when Enzo shoved him in the chest hard.
"Hey, hey! No one's knocking anyone's teeth down anyone's throat, got it?!" Enzo barked, stabbing his finger into Saul's breastplate as though to drive his point psychically through his body.
"Ohh, you think you so tough, American?" The young man's accent was thick as he questioned as though he saw Saul as an insignificant joke, which burned Saul up worse than any punch thrown ever could.
"I'm Irish, fuckface." Saul practically snarled. The young man only seemed to find this amusing.
"No class. You only know crude word, little boy?" He mocked, the humor in his eyes holding no goodwill whatsoever.
Saul returned his comment with a fake smile, "I suspect ya know all about being a 'little boy' if ya have to go around hittin' women, if you catch my meanin'?" He said even as he made a show of staring at the grinning shark's crotch.
"For fuck's sake, Saul, would you shut the fuck up?!" Enzo hissed angrily.
"Listening to your boyfriend would be good, yes? You get in less trouble." The rival threatened, smiling even as Enzo whirled around sending a glare his way.
"Keep your tongue firmly beyond your teeth before I decide to let him at you!" He warned, only for Saul to take that as permission to throw even further vitriol.
"Yer right, I do know plenty of crude words, wanna hear some more? Stronza, non hai le palle. Succhiami le palle, figa. What do ya think of those words, ya pencil-necked, weasel-faced goombah!" Saul called from over Enzo's shoulder in broken Sicilian, but his message had been received for what they were if the absolute furious red that broke out on both men's faces was any indication.
"What do you call me, little shit?!" The young man screamed, taking a hostile step forward.
Harry paled, knowing that Saul had gone too far this time. That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had grown to a crescendo, and he now felt compelled to try to defuse the situation himself by weighing in a voice of reason into the conversation. "Look he didn't mean that, okay? I'm sure if we could all just calm down-!"
"Who the fuck was talking to you?!" The young man glared down at Harry cutting his attempt at diplomacy as all his firey rage seemed to come to bear down on the smallest one out of them all, "You know who I am?! I am Antonio Pacinotti! My father big man here, cause you trouble. Who the fuck do you think you are, eh?"
Harry grew silent as he stilled, looking up at the now-named Pacinotti who was much larger than he so that his gaze could lock with him. Something within him swelled in response to the man's arrogance, something he had never felt before.
For never had he felt such feelings of distaste and contempt, and yet another emotion that was hard to identify, but he thought it was indignation. A compulsion of offense that this man would use his family's name to intimate him, as though he thought himself his superior. His glare bore into the man's as though to pierce his very soul. At that moment, he was driven by a sense of familial pride that had never moved him in such a way before, a concept completely foreign to the nine-year-old, that he uttered in a voice so cold and harsh a sentence that would echo for years to come.
"I'm the nephew of Michael Corleone."
Pacinotti froze, and the yard fell silent as the two locked eyes for a moment that seemed to painfully stretch on for eternity. He seemed to look at the boy with a level of clarity that had not been present before, studying him with every bit the critical disposition of a palaeographer who was studying an ancient text. Oh yes, he had heard of the Corleones, men of renown whose influence in America had reached even to the far-off shores of Sicily. He knew their reputation, and in Harry's eyes he saw a sea of disdain, a flood with all the depth of someone who would not be threatened by a name when his own was so much greater. A frown formed on his lips, and darkness crept across his features.
"So you are," Pacinotti remarked.
He turned to look at Saul. "Non è finita. Vedrai." He said ominously before inclining his head for his friend to follow as they both walked past the three boys up the hill toward their car. The three watched them slam the doors of the Buick, none of them daring to take their eyes off of them until they had driven away in a cloud of kicked-up dirt that picked up from their retreating wheels.
"Jesus, Harry. When did ya get scary?"
Harry let out a breath hadn't realized he was holding, blinking owlishly as he peered up at the impressed look Saul was giving him. Truthfully, arry was surprised by himself. He did not know where the aggression had come from, and now that his mind seemed to have had enough time to cool he was starting to feel a little embarrassed by the whole thing.
"Grazie." A soft voice called. The three turned at being addressed and looked at Isabella who had been momentarily forgotten and had cautiously come forward now that the car had driven off. Seeming to grow shy at the attention, she looked away as a distinguished pink color spread across the dimples of her cheeks.
The boys continued to stare at her to her growing discomfort, and while Harry and Enzo began to murmur their acknowledgments of her thanks, Saul took one look at her as a stupidly self-assured grin spread across his lips
"Ciau." Saul greeted, giving her a look that he likely thought made him look as sexually confident as Roger Moore. The girl tensed with trepidation as he sauntered his way over to her, ignorant of the looks of disbelief as Enzo looked on in amusement while Harry pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose with a groan. Saul stood in front of her, and, channeling the many Hollywood actors who had serenaded starlets with their practiced charms, held up her hand to kiss as he spoke in Sicilian heavy with his Irish accent, "Qualcuno ti ha detto che sono una bella principessa?"
The girl's eyes widened, and an amused smile danced across her lips to Saul's confusion. Harry and Enzo, whose fluency in Sicilian was far better than Saul's, goggled as they contemplated if they had heard Saul say what they thought he had said. Saul frowned as the two broke out into uproarious laughter
Saul grimaced, feeling that he was the butt of a joke he wasn't in on and had a mind to chew them out for laughing at his expense, but stilled at the soft giggle made in front of him. He turned, and to his despair saw that Isabella had her hand over her mouth laughing mirthfully at his blunder. A lump formed in his throat at the musical sound she made, feeling like he had made a fool of himself and perhaps ruined any chance he might have had.
It was then to his surprise that she opened her eyes to look at him with a sparkling glow in her olive-colored orbs, biting her lower lip as she seemed to come to a discussion in her mind before leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. She quickly pulled away, her cheeks pinked even as she giggled anew as she saw the dumbfounded look on his face.
"I don't fucking believe this." Saul heard Enzo saying to himself from behind, yet his mind barely registered the comment as his eyes locked with this flower of the Sicilian fields made flesh, and he sheepishly smiled in return.
"Isabella! Entra in casa, signorina!" A voice from the house called out, and out stepped an elderly woman wrapped in a dark shawl onto the porch looking down upon the group with obvious displeasure. Isabella's eyes grew wide as she stepped back and rushed back toward the house, hastefully picking up the discarded basket of tomatoes in her hurry to obey the woman's call.
"Che cosa ti ho detto riguardo al parlare con giovani strani? E anche uno straniero pagano. Entra prima che ti frusta!" The woman began a lecture, one that the girl seemed to wisely know not to interrupt or argue with.
"Mi dispiace, nonna." She replied respectfully as the boys watched in bemusement.
"Non dovresti parlare con ragazzi strani. Non avranno buone intenzioni per te." The old woman went in on her like a drill sergeant, wagging her finger forcefully in her face.
"Sì, nonna." Isabella nodded her head obediently, a motion that was obviously well-practiced from experience.
"Farai bene a ricordartelo. I bambini di questi tempi, come faticano a turbare il cuore di una vecchia." The old woman complained while shaking her head as she made her way into the house, leaving Iseblla on the porch. The young girl turned around and looked at them once more, smiling prettily when she caught Saul's eye and gave him a small way with her dainty hand. Saul slowly waved back, startled by how everything around him seemed to be spinning in light of how things had developed, and he couldn't help his own grin when she giggled once more at his actions.
"Isabella! Perché ci vuole così tanto tempo? Se provi ancora simpatia per quel ragazzo, allora aiutami...!" The voice of the old woman called from within the house with warning.
"In arrivo!" Isabella called back in exasperation, giving one final glance at Saul before disappearing back into the house. Saul let out a breath, then turned around to give Enzo a self-satisfied smirk. The young man huffed and looked away with a shake of his head, while Harry smiled and congratulated Saul for his efforts. Today had been a good day, and like many days in that enchanted land, another romance had bloomed in Sicily.
-/ↀ\-
The first hint of trouble came when the boys entered the villa gates to see the jet-black frame of a Bentley Turbo R parked beside the courtyard well. The house of Michael Corleone rarely had visitors outside a few close acquaintances of the man, and none of the men who worked for him owned a vehicle as luxurious as this. A man stood leaning against the good of the car, his dark eyes illuminated by the dying embers of his cigarette. They locked gazes with him as they walked past, the man smirking in the direction as he flicked his spent MS at them.
The second came when they stepped up to the front door just as it opened to let out a large wall of a man dressed in a tailor-made suit. The man looked down at them from under the brim of a black panama, his electric-blue eyes glaring at them in the fading evening light. His gaze ignored Enzo yet lingered for a moment on Saul, before turning his focus on Harry. A wide, shark-like grin formed, not unlike Antonio's, as he simply chuckled to himself while shaking his head, walking casually to his car where a man was waiting to open the door for him.
"Signor Potter, Signor Thompson. Signor Corleone wish to see you." The boys were startled as Philip addressed them from the doorframe, the car driving out from the gate forgotten from their minds. Harry and Saul exchanged a glance as they were led down the hall toward the study, bracing themselves for what they expected this take to be about. Philip stepped to the oak doors and rapped his knuckle softly against the door. A moment later, the door swung open, allowing Mr. Corleone to step into the frame.
Mr. Corleone looked down at the boys with an unreadable expression, before finally he spoke in that casual way of his that promised that serious matters were soon to be discussed. That was their third and final clue.
"Harry, Mr. Thompson. Why don't you both step into my office for a moment." He said, inviting them in.
Harry swallowed as he stepped into the study. Truthfully, this was the first time he thought he might be in trouble with the man, and he wasn't sure how to respond to it. He couldn't help the apprehension he felt as unpleasant memories of how the Dursleys dealt with him when he had done something to offend them, even if he had the faint understanding that such feelings were irrational. In the three years they had lived behind the walls of the Tommasino Villa, Michael Corleone had never given him a reason to think he was given to fits of rage or held a need to throw undeserved vitriol at him to satisfy a need to cut him down. Never had he struck him in a moment of rage, or given any indication that he was retraining himself from doing so.
Yet, the thought lingered.
Mr. Corleone sat down in his chair behind the oak desk and gestured for them to take a seat in front of him. Saul gave Harry a hesitant glance as he sat down in his chair, and Harry couldn't help but feel relieved that Saul was nervous as well. Something about knowing he wasn't alone in his worries set him at ease. He turned his attention back to Mr. Corleone, who was tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair as he seemed to be evaluating them both, a calculated look in his eyes.
"I just had a meeting with a man who told me a very interesting story. It seems you and his son had a disagreement earlier today, which was instigated by you when you decided to shatter his nose with your fist." Mr. Corleone said as though he were usually discussing the weather, yet the edge in his tone grew prominent as he dropped the other foot. "I'm trying very hard to understand why you would do something so stupid."
Harry recognized the calm demeanor for the deception that it was, but Saul, being bolder and not as experienced in dealing with the temperament of adults holding back their emotions let out a rude scoff. "He didn't mention why his son got punched, did he? What the hell does it matter, anyway? The cocksucker deserved it."
"Hmm. And do you know who that boy is? No?" Mr. Corleone asked, raising a brow in challenge. When Saul failed to answer beyond a satisfying shrug, he decided to help him with his dilemma, "That cocksucker is Antonio Pacinotti, son of Mariano Pacinotti, also known as the Don of the Pacinotti organization that controls a substantial portion of the land outside the borders of Corleone."
Saul cocked his head, a gesture that conveyed that he didn't see why this should be his problem or why Mr. Corleone was bothering him with it. "Am I supposed to feel sorry? The runt needed to be taught some manners."
Mr. Corleone frowned, not liking Saul's flippant attitude. "You gave that boy a black eye and a split lip." He pointed out, his voice clipped.
Saul ignored it, rolling his eyes. "He was slappin' that girl around like he was gettin' paid to do it! I couldn't just stand there and do nothin'." He said as though that explained everything away. Harry watched as Mr. Corleone leaned back, pressing his fingers together beneath his chin as if in prayer.
"Ah yes, a young woman. And I suppose getting your dick wet is important enough to provoke the son of the Pacinottis?" He asked innocently.
Saul's cheeks flushed red, his eyes glowing in embarrassed rage. "It's not like that." he gritted out.
"Yes, I'm sure it isn't." The old Don mocked, telling them both just what he thought on the matter, even as he moved on. "Well, what it is and isn't is immaterial. I am too old to be going to war over foolish teenage hormones run amok. I don't care what you think you have with this young lady, but it ends now. Stay away from her."
Saul serged out of his seat, leaning over the desk in a fit of teenage rage, "Why should I do that when-?!"
"You'll do it because I said so!" Mr. Corleone suddenly erupted, silencing Saul's protests with shocked wonder. Michael Corleone rose from his chair and loomed over the desk, his piercing gaze pushing Saul back into his seat as he looked up at the old man with a hint of fear he never thought he would ever feel in his presence. "The fact of the matter is that the Pacinotti runt has taken an interest in that girl, and continuing to play around with her will prove to be nothing but trouble. Now, you listen and listen well! I've tolerated a lot of your bullshit for Harry's sake, Mr. Thompson, but I'm drawing the line with this! You're gonna stay away from her, or so help me God I will call Mariano Pacinotti and throw you to the proverbial lions! Do I make myself clear?"
Saul nodded, and Harry was shocked to note that he seemed to shiver under his glare, submitting to the man with a hoarse whisper. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Mr. Corleone said, and back was the gentle tone they had become complacent with over the years. He sat back down, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he allowed the three to sit in silence for a minute so that the words exchanged could sink in before he broke the silence once more. "As it is, things may get a little heated, but if you do as I've instructed I don't think much will come of it. That said, I would advise staying within the confines of the villa's walls for the next few weeks while young Antonio's head, and more importantly his father's, cool."
When neither rose a protest, he slapped the armrest of his chair before giving Saul an uncharacteristically warm smile considering what had been said over the past ten minutes, "Well, since that is settled, I don't think there's anything more we have to discuss further, Mr. Thompson. You may leave now."
Saul couldn't move fast enough to get to the door, so was already stepping through its frame before Harry could even start to move. Before Harry could rise from his seat however Mr Corleone stopped him with a formal yet friendly address. "Harry, you stay. I wanna talk to you."
Saul turned and was going to say something, but one glance at Mr. Corleone made the words die in his throat. He looked at Harry, and with a look of concern and worry reluctantly closed the door with an audible click.
Harry looked at Mr. Corleone, and the man stared right back. Harry resisted an impulse to shift awkwardly in his chair, and his graying caretaker seemed to pick up on this if the approving smile on his face was any indication. "I heard how you handled this punk Pacinotti. You've got balls, kid. You've got brains and you've got balls, but you need to learn how to balance the two."
Not sure if he was being lulled into a false sense of security, Harry responded defensively. "He backed off, didn't he?" He asked, mentally wincing at the somewhat whiny sound his voice made.
Mr. Corleone nodded. If he picked up on the tone he gave no indication, choosing instead to address the substance of what was said rather than the emotion behind it. "Yes, he did. He also ran to his daddy, who then came to me demanding recompense for a perceived threat. And whether you recognize it or not, it was a threat."
Harry sighed, conceding the point. The truth was that he did recognize the threat implied, if only upon reflection after the exchange took place. Still, he wasn't yet willing to acknowledge an error on his part as he elaborated on the thought process he had at the time. "He's a braggart and a bully, like my cousin was. He thought because I'm small he could walk over me. I only called upon your name to show he wasn't as big as he thought he was."
"I don't fault you for this. Rather it is how it was said that has caused trouble. Perception is a sharp and deadly sword, Harry, when wielded with the finesse of a master, but it can prove fatal to one's well-being when we fall upon our own edge. The Pacinottis are small, yes, but even small potatoes can do stupid reckless things when they feel spurned against." Mr. Corleone explained, talking to him as a parent imparting worldly wisdom unto their child.
Harry looked away, embarrassment rising from within even as his skin reddened below his neck.
"Harry, I am not angry with you. I'm proud in a way." Harry looked up at him in surprise, and Mr. Corleone couldn't help but smile indulgently at the wide-eyed wonder that sparked within those green orbs, "In the three years you've lived here, I think today was the first time you've openly acknowledged me as being family to you. I know because of your experience that this might be hard to do, but I'm glad to see that you're beginning to accept that I'm not like them."
"I don't mean to offend, but-"
"But you don't want to be stabbed in the back by your own flesh and blood. I understand. After all, trust is earned and not easily given." Mr. Corleone concluded, and Harry knew by how he spoke the words that he was speaking to him from personal experience. He looked into Harry's eyes, a hint of familial tenderness in his next words. "I hope to earn yours someday."
There was a moment's pause as a thought came to Mr. Corleone. "Tomorrow, I want you to come to my study. I think it's time I began to teach you how to sharpen your wit into a weapon worthy of a master swordsman. I think you'll learn that our most potent weapons are most often our words."
Harry mindlessly nodded his head, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. When he woke that morning he hadn't expected any of the day's events to transpire. Frankly, he was a little worried about how events would play out in the coming weeks and how much trouble that complete tosser Antonio would cause. Yet, something deep within himself had sparked in response to Mr. Corleone's words, the same feelings he had felt when he had confronted Pacinotti. He didn't know what to think of it then, hell, he still didn't. But knew that he liked it, and that made his future troubles seem an acceptable price.
"Thank you… Uncle Mike."
-/ↀ\-
Three weeks passed since Mr. Corleone pulled them into his office for their discussion, and a feeling of unease had settled upon the villa.
Saul took out his frustrations on the target range, taking direction from both Mr. Bianchi and Philip on how to properly use a rifle to become a deadeye with a scope. Both men were experienced, one a former competitor in the States and the other out of necessity, and under their tutorage Saul's skills steadily improved as the days moved forward. Every day he went out past the vineyards behind the house, spending hours honing his growing talent with a firearm. Many a clay pigeon met their destined fate at the end of Saul's rifle, who shot them out of the sky with a remarkably increasing accuracy.
Mr. Bianchi was visibly impressed and encouraged Saul's progress, suggesting he go into competition someday. Saul however wasn't as enthusiastic. He had not missed the caution in Mr. Corleone's warning and had been on alert ever since. He confided his worries to Harry, and the boy reluctantly agreed. Target practice wasn't meant for fun, but preparation. They knew they had not seen the last of Antonio Pacinotti.
Even so, things seem to go back to what they were before. The tension in the air seemed to subside, and with Mr. Corleone spending more time in his office dealing with personal matters Harry began spending more time outside. Having spent a long period of his younger years trapped in the confines of a cramped broom cupboard, one could imagine how he preferred open spaces over the convincing walls of a dark house. Sometimes Saul and even Enzo on the rare occasion would join him in a game of European football, but most days he sat beneath the shade of an olive tree alone with his thoughts. When he wasn't occupying his time in the confines of the courtyard, Harry devoted his mind to tinkering with the various junk restoration projects he and Saul were currently working on.
Enzo took it upon himself to keep an eye on both boys. Even if he found Saul to be a detestable pain in the ass, he had a grudging respect for him after he had come to Isabella's defense. Of course, it did not escape from him the irony that it was that very thing that had them in a tense relationship with the Pacinotti family, but he had said openly when asked about the event by Mr. Corleone, "What can you do with shithead?"
It was then on an unusually hot day even for the island that Saul's patience had finally come to an end. The boy had grown restless just as restless as the weather, which had blown through the island the night prior bringing heavy rains and winds that gave way to smoldering heat. So it was as they sat around the lounge of the villa, that Saul began an argument with Enzo, breaking the endless silence between fanning himself with a newspaper.
"I need to get out of this house today, Enzo." He growled, beads of sweat forming on his brown like morning dew.
"And I'm telling you to wait."
Grunting, Saul slapped the newspaper down on the coffee table, an indignant whine cracking his voice as he rebutted Enzo's stubbornness with a sarcastic combativeness "Wait for what, the Second Coming of Christ? Face it, man. This house is starting to feel like a mausoleum."
Growing annoyed, both with his tone and the heat in the house, his voice rose as he responded. "Saul, stop being hyperbolic-!"
"Keep it down in there." The voice of Enzo's father called from the hall as the man peered into the room from around the corner, the hallway phone held up to his ear as he gave Enzo a pointed look.
"Sorry, Dad."
Harry looked up from his book, which he would admit was difficult to focus on due to the heat, "It is starting to feel a bit claustrophobic, Enzo." He added, wiping his hair back with his hand, Which held in place for once due to the buildup of sweat
Saul clapped his hands together, "Are ya hungry, Harry? I'm hungry. I could go for some caponata. There's a restaurant in Corleone that makes a mean caponata. I think I want one." He said rapidly, standing up from the couch.
"Mr. Corleone didn't say it was alright to go out just yet," Enzo warned.
"Yeah, but ya see, Philip doesn't know jack shit about how to make a caponata, so I'd rather get it at a restaurant. The restaurant is in town, not here. And I want to be there, and not here, because if I spend any more time here in this goddamn house I'm gonna take your dah's trainin' rifle and blow my fuckin' brains out." The last he spat out at a near shout, the hot air in the room no doubt driving him to near madness.
"At least it would be quieter around here."
"Ha ha." Saul mocked, ignoring the jab as he turned to his friend, "Harry, get some money, we're headin' out."
Harry shot out of his seat in a flash, eager to get out of the house that had grown to feel more like a cage in the past few days. Enzo watched him go with growing frustration, the thought of wiping the smug look on Saul's face was tempting enough that he had to mentally restrain himself.
"Fine, I'm coming along. Someone has to keep you out of trouble." Enzo declared. Just as he stepped out into the hall, however, his father stopped him with a hand to his chest, "Enzo, I need you outside in five. That storm damaged the air regulator and no one's available to take care of it, so it's up to us to get it fixed before we all stroke out from this heat."
Enzo frowned. "Who's going to watch over them?"
"Michael told Philip to go with them. They can go a day without your nose planted up their asses, do as I say." His father chided, and Enzo immediately relented.
"Oh, tough break there. Better luck next time, I guess" Saul joked, laughing as he playfully patted Enzo's cheek as he stepped out of the room. Enzo frowned but didn't respond, going on his way to get the tools needed to repair the regulator unit. Saul and Harry were well out of the house by the time he retrieved them, and was about to head outside himself before he was stopped by the form of Michael Corleone who had just stepped into the room.
"Good morning, Enzo." Michael greeted.
"Good morning to you, Mr. Corleone," Enzo responded with a hint of reverence. His awed respect for the man had not wavered even after all the years he'd spent in the man's company, as it had been ingrained in him since childhood. Michael considered the young man who had only just entered adulthood in the past year.
"I see the boys are headed out. You're not going with?" He asked casually, though his eyes held a curtain intensity that implied he was calculating something in his mind.
"My father wanted me to help him take care of the damage to the air conditioner," Enzo informed politely.
"That does need to be dealt with." Micael nodded to himself, an odd smile on his lips, "But I'm sure it can be addressed when you return from the village."
"Mr. Corleone?"
Michael shrugged. "I'm sure your father mentioned that I'm sending Philip with them, of course, but you made note how they have a talent for causing mischief when they feel they're being mother-hened. I'm afraid they might try to give poor Philip the slip once they're well on the road. I think you'd be better equipped to watch their backs."
"And what will Philip be doing?" Enzo asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"He'll be there to watch yours."
Enzo paused. "What about my father? He told me directly that he wanted help with the regulator."
Michael waved his concern away. "I'll explain it to your father. He can't rightfully be angry with you when I was the one who asked you to disregard his direction. We'll just say you were helping to relieve an old man's worries, yes?"
Enzo looked away uneasily, conflicted as he was not accustomed to breaking his father's commands. Despite growing up in America he had been raised in the Sicilian fashion, which demanded total obedience to one's sires. But Enzo couldn't find fault in Mr. Corleone's reasoning, and the fact that Mr. Corleone was his father's boss was not lost on him, so he nodded with a smile, happy to do the man a favor.
Enzo made his way up the stairway toward his room, gathering his vest and shoes so that he could be on his way. As he stepped away from his closet he paused as he eyed the holster that hung from the banister of his bed. He only had to consider taking it for a moment before slipping it on and moving to his father's room, where he knew the man kept a pair of BDAs stashed in his dresser drawer. He took only one, shelving it under his left side where it would remain concealed beneath his vest.
Finishing his business upstairs Enzo descended the steps and flew outside, not having to go far to catch up with the others as they were standing at the front gates arguing with Philip who had his arms crossed as he peered down at them imperiously while adjusting the lupara he held slung over his shoulder. Saul saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, groaning aloud as he caught up with them.
"Oh hell, I thought we were free of ya today."
"Mr. Corleone thought it best I keep an eye on you both. Wouldn't want you doing something stupid again, would we?" He answered in a singsong voice, enjoying the grumbling remarks Saul mumbled under his breath thinking that he couldn't hear.
"Signor Lorenzo." Philip drew his attention, his eyes giving away his desire to speak privately. The man turned toward Harry and Saul and waved them away. "Go ahead, boy. I speak with Enzo, yes?"
The boys looked at each other and shrugged, doing as they were told as they had no problem giving them a moment of privacy. Once they were out of earshot, Philip turned to Enzo with a strong, no-nonsense look in his eyes.
"Sei Armato?" Philip asked bluntly.
"SÌ." Enzo nodded, pulling his jacket back discreetly to show off the 9mm he had concealed within a holster.
Philip nodded approvingly. "Bene. Ma, per ogni evenienza." He said as he pulled out another pistol that he held out for Enzo to take, "Meglio averne uno di scorta, non sai mai quando potresti averne bisogno."
Enzo paused as he looked down at the weapon, but took the offered gun anyway as he placed it down the back of his jeans, tucking his shirt over it. He hadn't expected to need a spare, but if Philip wanted him to carry it he wouldn't protest. Philip gave him one final look of approval before going on his way, gesturing for the boys to follow. Enzo watched them moving off with a sense of trepidation settling into his mind, the weight of knowing that something was going to happen.
-/ↀ\-
Isabella Marelli tended to the chickens in the yard with a practiced routine that spoke of how familiar the monotony of the task was to her. It was her daily responsibility to make sure that the animals were fed, the goats were milked, and the plants grown for food were kept healthy and happy. Such tasks were necessary for the standard of living enjoyed by herself and her grandmother whose roof she lived under, and the time spent each day going about her chores often left her alone with her thoughts.
Lately, she found that her mind often wandered toward a pair of pale blue eyes obscured by strains of wavey brown hair. Oh, how she found the boy charming in a peculiar sort of way. Where most would have mocked him for his poor attempt at seduction, she found a friendly kind of humor in it. It was cute in a way, nicer than some of the rapscallions who occasionally came around to give her trouble.
Often she had to take care of such things on her own, as there was no one to defend her honor but herself. Her parents had died when she was very young, victims of a fire that had broken out in their home far off in a provenance of Sicily near Syracuse. Her grandmother had taken her in after that, raising her as she had raised her mother before her. Yet, she was old in years, older than many of the women who still lingered on in this part of the world. Isabella suspected that it was only for the insurance of her granddaughter's well-being into adulthood that the old woman clung to life.
It was to her terror that it would then come to be that someone like that bastard Pacinotti had taken an unhealthy interest in her. Oh, never had a man been so bold with her, neither had she been struck before. Terror had gripped her heart at what she imagined he had desired of her. It was to her relief that he had been accosted by the most foolish of acts. To start a fight with a total stranger was not a common thing in Sicily, as you never knew whether the person you were smashing your fist into would hold the power to enact a vendetta against you. She had not known who any of these male combatants were and feared when the Pacinotti name was pronounced, but was awed greater still as the name Corleone was afterward declared.
Ignorant though she may be of the greater world and mostly ignorant of the dangers therein, she knew the reputation of the Pacinottis. They were a most contemptible sort, growing strong in the last ten years after the power vacuum that Don Tommasino's death had caused in the countryside of Corleone. She did not remember those days, but her grandmother had lamented the passing of the old Don, knowing the dangers that would arise as new players, who did not share the generosity and fairness that the old Don valued, dug their claws into the region. The Pacinottis represented everything that her grandmother had feared. Audacious, power-hungry, and cruel, they would have stripped the people of all sense of happiness and peace if it had not been for the arrival of old Don Corleone.
The Corleone family, though not as well known as they were in America, wielded an insurmountable fame that was felt even in the countryside of Sicily, but there was no place where that held more true than the birthplace of the family's patriarch. With his help, Don Tommasino had been able to overthrow that tyrant robber baron who had tormented her grandmother's generation. She vaguely remembered when his son, Michael Corleone, had come to meet with Don Tommasino as a little girl, smiling nostalgically as she recalled the fanfare that accompanied his arrival and the festivities that went throughout the streets of Corleone.
Now it seemed that a new generation of that family was being raised here in Sicily for the first time since Vito made his escape to America. Not that she knew of such matters, but if the family had returned, perhaps the town could soon be rid of the likes of the Pacinottis. Until now it had only been a whispered rumor, kept closely guarded by those who knew the family or were indebted to them. To have it confirmed was welcoming to a destitute peasant such as she, and despite the weeks of nearly a whisper of them, she hoped to see those boys again.
As fate would have it, she did not have to wait long for her wish to be fulfilled. Over the hill, just below the intense glare of the morning sun, Isabella caught the moving caravan of four traveling on the road to the village. She placed her hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and was delighted to find that her savior was amongst them. She called to the group, smiling as she waved happily in greeting.
Her rescuer stopped the moment he heard her voice, turning to look at her with a smile that told her the excitement he felt at her presence. Yet, he made no move to greet her, though by his look she knew he wanted to say something.
The oldest amongst them, a man who to her trepidation held a lupara aloft over his shoulder, turned around and called the boy's name glaring at him as he spoke harshly to him in broken English which she could not understand. Her hero looked toward the man and then back at her, a sad longing in his eyes. He seemed unwilling to depart, but a loud bark from the man forced his hand, and with one last longing look in her direction, he moved on to follow the rest.
She lowered her hand, a sense of disappointment washing over her. And, as she watched his retreating form, she was surprised to note that she felt sad as well.
-/ↀ\-
The muggle that waited on her had returned with her order, and she smiled gratefully as he poured her a fresh cup of caffè from the cuccumela he carried. She held the brim up to her lips and allowed the warmth of the coffee to fill her senses that whiffed up in the early morning breeze.
Amara Zabini was considered by many to be a dangerous beauty, having married seven men in twenty-three years who had all died under mysterious circumstances. Many looked upon her with suspicion, finding the deaths of the men who came into her life suspect, especially when considering the generous amount of coin left to her after each tragic demise.
Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. She certainly wouldn't bother saying one way or another, as the public believed what they wanted. What she would admit to was that she would do anything to provide for her son. Blaise was the light of her life, the desire of her hopes and dreams to have a better life than she had had growing up in the oppressive regime of the Italian Ministry.
For this, everyone knew of the Black Widow of Cagliari. What most didn't know was that Amara was no mere thorned rose of beauty. Amara was a witch. Not a worthy, green-skin hag that permeated the storybooks of children, nor a practitioner of that modern New Age bullshit. Amara was gifted with magic, an ability to break the laws of psychics, to bend reality to her every whim.
Such power was not an anomaly, for there were many like her, but they were few compared to those who couldn't. Witches and Wizards had long ago coalesced to form their own governments separate from those who did not possess the gift, muggles as they called them. With these unified bodies of power, they crept into the shadows to fade from the memory of history. However, even as the divide grew between the two societies, they still held disturbing similarities.
The magical government of Italy, for example, was a deeply religious one. Many a witch and wizard had escaped the persecution that had terrorized the magical populations of Europe by paying tribute and swearing fidelity to the Popes to fight in their crusades against the invading Muslims. Despite preaching otherwise, the seat of power of the Holy Roman Empire cared very little of the condemnation of the Holy Scripture against the practice of witchcraft. It was often that those who were accused of being a witch by the Church itself were merely dissenters of their authority, or held properties that the Church desired and wished to seize for their own uses.
But not the magicals of Italy! There they learned much from the educated elites of Rome, and over time integrated many of their habits and policies. So when the time came for the magical world to withdraw from the mundane, much remained the same. Though they worked tirelessly to hide the world of magic from the muggles, they attended the same cathedrals, performed the same Masses, and traveled the same pilgrimages to atone for their many sins.
Yes, such attitudes endured in the magical government of Italy, long after the armies of Napoleon marched onto the Holy See, ripping that obstacle Pius VI who stood in the way of that French tyrant's ambition from his throne in the heart of the Vatican to be condemned to exile. Many a Lord and Lady of that magical realm held to the same mentalities of the Catholic princes and land barons of old. Those who were born into the system who were not members of the elites were destitute, made to work the lands of the aristocrats to earn their bread. Those who were magical but born to the mundane were tracked down quickly, their families made to forget them, and given to peasant farmers and shepherds to bolster the workforce.
Education was poor, the respect for the institution even poorer, as it was not in the interest of the government to have a well-informed public. The rabble was kept content with entertainments, plays, festivals, and gladiator fights in the abandoned arenas that held matches of wizard fighters doing battle with exotic magical beasts, holding to a tradition fifteen hundred years after the muggles had moved on from such things. It was the design of the elites to keep the minds of those they subjugated simple. It was their philosophy to prey upon the ignorance of the goyim, the unlearned masses, exploiting them to maintain their own delicious lives. After all, what could they know of want? When you own nothing, and have no knowledge of anything greater, you will be happy with what little is given to you.
Amara, fortunately, had not been among the unfortunate ones. Her family were longstanding members of the higher echelon of society. She was a learned woman, her education obtained in the more progressive France. She was born into wealth, though she saw little of it as most went to her brothers. She cared little for such matters, as her beauty gave her avenues into the hearts and pockets of the men she courted.
It had not always been as such. Her first husband, whom she had truly loved, had worked tirelessly to raise the prominence of their budding family among the elites. He had truly been an honorable man amongst thieves and liars, gentle in his countenance, charitable in his disposition. His pursuit of wealth was always for the benefit of the benefit of the witches and wizards who lived on his land, and it was his joy to see those beneath him hold some happiness in their lives.
Alas, such virtues were not looked upon favorably amongst the land barons of that country. Even Amara who had been raised with their mindset had been weary of his exploits. But she had also been raised in the traditional fashion, in that the wife was subservient to the husband, and though she questioned, she never tried to subvert. That was left to their fellow noblemen who grew jealous of the devotion the lay people held for him, their anger for how he made them look by comparison waxing like hot coals in the fire.
She sighed at such dwellings, shaking her head to rid her mind of the memories that could so easily drive her to her least controllable passions. Soon she would long depart this accursed land, bound for more opportune shores. She had accumulated enough wealth to realize her dreams and enroll her son in the most prestigious school in all of magical Europe: Hogwarts. Normally exclusive to those born in Britain, it was a little-known secret that one could squeeze themselves into a position if one greased the right palms.
But, that was not her only opportunity available, as fate seemed to smile fortune upon her in the last few weeks. It had been, simply by a circumstance of luck, that she had been in the town of Corleone a month prior during a farewell tour of the lands where she had been born and lived for forty-five years. She had only stopped in the village as an inbetween before she would have moved on to Palermo. But as fate would have it, as she walked along the cobblestone streets absentmindedly browsing a few shops, a young man had accosted a pair of boys who appeared out from a side alley across the street.
This in of itself had not been anything unusual, really more of an inconvenience to ruin the tranquil peace of the afternoon stroll. But it had been as she had started to move on, already putting the matter from her mind, that one of the boys, the youngest among them, had lifted the bangs of his hair to brush to the side and revealed a scar that stopped her dead in her tracks.
The Legend of Harry Potter was known even as far as Italy, a rumor that most doubted and all found intriguing. A family targeted by the worst Dark Lord since the war with Grindelwald in the Forties, defeated by a boy still in diapers when the monster had cast one of the vilest of all magics upon him that before him none had survived, coming out of it with nothing more than that famous scar. 'The Boy Who Lived', that was what the British called him, and his status had risen to such heights to rival even the great sorcerer Albus Dumbledore in the growing mystery of the hidden hero.
That mystery only grew when the boy had been reported missing three years ago. No one knew what happened to the boy, only that the people he had been left with had been found dead in their own home by means that had been deemed to be muggle in origin. That had been the only relief given to the people, who had feared for the worst, that some disgruntled followers of the Dark Lord had discovered his location and set out to enact revenge for their fallen master. The details were not so well known out her in the countries of Europe, but it was understood that the boy was alive, somewhere unknown.
It was then to her great surprise that he would be here of all places, far from the British shores. Not that she was upset by such a development, in fact, she saw it as a presented opportunity ripe for the taking. The Traditionlists of Great Britain respected only three things; power, political standing, and the purity of one's bloodline. Though she could claim herself a pureblood by the British definition, she would hold no political sway in that country, and she was reluctant to admit that neither she nor her son held any significant magical power.
Originally, she had planned for her son to integrate himself with the sons and daughters of the politically affluent. After all, one can become powerful and influential simply by befriending those with power and influence. However, it was not the most ideal of plans in her book. There was no guarantee that they would even accept her son in their midst, as in their eyes who would be a foreigner of little significance. Moreso, she feared that her son, who held an intelligence about him but was somewhat impressionable, would fall prey to the fanaticism of the political extremists who held power that had plunged Great Britain into civil war.
But if she could get close to Harry Potter, her ambitions would reach far greater heights than she could have ever dreamed. 'The Boy Who Lived' held a level of fame and intrigue shared only by a few, and would grow up to have influence in their world greater than many of the politicians. That is, of course, if he was set on the right path.
Therefore, who better to lend their services to that effect than she?
And today, at long last, there he was. She watched as the boy who held the promise of a prominent life for her son walked down the street toward a tavern flanked by a group of two older boys and a man who held a gun over his shoulders. Paying for her coffee, she got up from her chair and hurried across the street, peering into the tavern window to observe as the group took a seat in the far corner of the little restaurant.
She stepped inside, looking about the room when she noticed the oldest boy slipping into the booth to sit next to Potter. Taking a booth close to them, but not close enough to draw attention as she sat with her back toward them. Concealing her movements from anyone who might have been watching, she cast a spell to make herself as inconsequential as any other piece of the environment to any of the occupants at the Potter table. After that she cast another spell at them, concealing her wand under her arm as she did so, that would allow her to listen in on their conversation. Her task complete, she leaned against the backrest of the booth, hoping to learn more about the mysterious savior of the Wizarding World.
-/ↀ\-
"Don't feel so bad, Saul. It just wasn't meant to be." Harry comforted, seeing the way his friend curled within himself with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall with a far-off look.
"Harry's right, you know. Better this way than you making a total ass in front of a nice girl like that." Enzo said, showing off a shit-eating grin.
"Oh, you'd have loved that, wouldn't ya?" Saul barked back.
"You can bet on that!" He smiled as he cheered him with his glass, earning a growl from Saul.
"Play nice," Philip interjected. He had been half-listening to the conversation, keeping his eyes focused on the dark corners of the tavern. Many of the patrons were eyeing them wearily, shifting their gazes toward the lupara he had leaning against the wall within his reach. They could look all they wanted, as long as they kept to themselves he didn't care what they might think.
Enzo sighed but reluctantly obeyed as he leaned forward, "You'll get your chance someday. Maybe not with her, but, perhaps with someone better who comes along."
"I don't think there's any girl better than her," Saul mumbled miserably.
Enzo scoffed. "Eh, now you're just thinking with your dick."
Saul withheld from replaying as a waitress came over to serve them, taking their orders down on a pad she kept tucked beneath her arm. The buzz of the tavern slowly began to return as they waited for their food to arrive, its dwellers growing accustomed to their presence. It was over the clattering of dishes and chatter of patrons that Saul leaned in to speak again.
"Do you… do ya think Mr. Corleone honestly believes stayin' away from her is gonna do anythin' to make them back down?" Saul asked. Unknown to any of them, the woman who sat in a booth across and behind theirs choked upon hearing that name.
"Shouldn't talk of such things here." Philip chastised, glaring at him from across the table.
"Come on. Punks like Pacinotti need to be dealt with head-on, not this dancin' around eggshell bullshit." Saul complained, "If I had it my way, we'd be trackin' those bastards down right now knockin' their teeth out on the pavement."
"Oh, we would, would we?" Enzo inquired, looking unamused by the way his brow cressed in a disapproving way.
Saul noted the expression but ignored it, not caring whether Enzo agreed with him or not. "Those guys aren't gonna stop harassin' us. They'll keep comin' givin' us trouble, startin' shit and causin' headaches I'd rather not deal with."
Harry, who had sat back to observe how the exchange would progress, chimed in as he cast a sideways look toward Enzo. "I don't know about starting a fight, but Saul's not wrong. They'll hold a grudge." He added while eyeing both debaters, ready to analyze further points.
"See? Harry agrees." Saul declared victoriously.
Enzo rolled his eyes at the immaturity of the statement. He shot back, "And in the process, you would start a war you have no ability to deal with. There's more to consider than whether or not they'll make themselves a thorn in our side. Like it or not you threw the first punch, and it will be seen from that action that Antonio has every right to have animosity against you."
Any further point Enzo was trying to make was cut off as their orders were carried over to their booth, the waitress politely placing the various dishes on the wooden table allowing the various aromas to waft up under their noses. They immediately dug in, savoring the rich flavors of the local cuisine.
"He's already painted you as an aggressor for that stunt, and your past incidents don't speak well of you either. Going out of your way to pick a fight with him would only lend more to his claim." Enzo said between bites of red pasta, "You'd look rogue, unhinged. When that happens, you'd have more to worry about than Pacinotti."
"So what, ya just want me to lay back and wait for him to take a piss on us?" Saul exclaimed, punctuating his displeasure by aggressively stabbing his fork into his food.
"That's exactly what he's saying." Harry stated, a comprehensive gleam in his eyes as he looked up from his plate of ravioli al brodo, "It'll make him look unreasonable, won't it?"
"You got it." Enzo smiled at Harry, appreciative of the boy's ability to pick on the nuance of things that his older friend seemed to have such difficulty comprehending. "Flying off the handle helps no one, Thompson. The family heads have already come to a compromise. Let him make the first move, much more likely he'll slip up that way and do something stupid, then you can beat him into next week to your heart's content. I wouldn't stop you if you did. Personally, I don't like the fucker, either."
Saul couldn't help but laugh at that, "Maybe you're not so much of a stick in the arse, after all." he said between snickers, raising the fork to his mouth as his eyes glazed over, "Oh, this is so fucking good."
"Really? Let me have a taste." Without waiting for an offer Harry leaned over the table and scooped up a generous helping of caponata that he quickly popped into his mouth before Saul could even form a protest, moaning in delight at the flavor. "Oh yeah, that's good!"
"Hey ya little shit, get yer own!" Saul laughed, pulling the plate away when Harry went for another bite.
"Good morning, gentlemen."
The group raised their heads at the address, and immediately fell silent as a sense of foreboding came over them. Peering down at them with deceptively friendly eyes was a proud Captain of the Carabinieri. It was obvious the man held a proud sense of self-importance about him, with how he held himself upright, almost regal in his stance as though his presence demanded respect. As he studied each one of them with a calculated gaze, he jutted out his chest in such a way that made his medals pronounced below his snow-white sash.
Standing next to him was a fellow Sergeant with an unpleasant air about him, tight-lipped and grim as he held his hat under his arm formally, casting a deep frown under his pinched eyes as though he had smelt something foul coming off of them.
"Enjoying a day on the town, yes? Partaking in a decent meal." The Captain inquired, seemingly unaware of the tense silence his presence had created. His eyes shifted suddenly to the lupara leaning against the wall, "Perhaps then you could tell me what this is for, my friends?" He asked curiously, pointing to the weapon.
"Sicurezza," Philip answered.
"Sicurezza?" The Captain repeated the word as if he had come to some great epiphany Stroking his chin in thought, he looked down at them with a cruel smile. "Why do you need such security? Are we of the Carabinieri not enough for you to feel safe?"
Silence answered him.
"Perhaps, if you do not feel safe in a place like Corleone, you should not be here. Don't you think?" He said, reaching over to take the weapon. Philip shifted slightly as if wanting to intervene, and the Captain cast his pale gray eyes upon him that seemed to hold him in place on their own, "I think you shouldn't be carrying such things in this town. I think you are presenting a danger to the peace of the community. Now, I know you didn't mean to disturb the peace, right?"
As he pulled the lupara away from Philip's side, Enzo nudged Harry, who looked away from the officers to gaze up at him curiously. Enzo subtly gestured his head behind him, lifting the back of his shirt. Harry's eyes widened, his head snapping back up as Enzo mouthed the words 'hide it.'
Harry nodded his head, leaning in close to Enzo while keeping his eyes on the Carabinieri as they continued to harass Philip. His hand wrapped around cold metal and pulled away, discretely placing the gun down the back of his pants just as the head officer turned his attention back toward them.
"Out of your seats. Now."
The boys were slow to obey, angering the Sergeant who grabbed hold of Saul's shoulder and yanked him out of the booth, throwing him chest-first into the wall of the tavern before he began padding him down. Harry climbed out of the booth upon seeing that, and Enzo was quick to stop him before he did anything rash.
"Agente, per favore, il mio datore di lavoro mi ha ordinato di vegliare su questi ragazzi, di proteggerli a costo della mia vita. Sicuramente puoi capire le complessità di-!" Philip tried to reason, only to be rudely cut off by the Captain.
"I see no reason why children their age need a grown man following them around with a lupara. Perhaps you are trafficking these boys across the countryside to some prominent buyer." He accused, pulling out a pair of cuffs while the Sergeant finished his search of Saul and turned to start with Harry.
"Perhaps you will be more willing to speak the details of your plight down at the headquarters." He suggested, spotting a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked at Enzo, and as he towered over him, he reached into the young man's vest and pulled out his Browning BDA.
"Perhaps we should run you in as well." The Captain mused, grinning down at the Enzo like a shark.
Philip, sensing that allowing the boys to be taken away by the policemen could only end badly, unleashed a sudden right hook to the Captain's face, catching the man off-guarded as he staggered back before whipping around to start landing punches on the butler.
The commotion drew the Sergeant's attention, and Harry took the opportunity to slam his foot down on the man's boot. The Sergeant howled in pain, drawing the eyes of Philip mid-wrestle as he cried out an order to run, before being clubbed in the head by the Captain's baton. The boys immediately bolted from the tavern, avoiding the sergeant's outreached arms as he chased after them.
The Captain had Philip bent over the table cuffing his hands behind his back when the Sergeant came back, growling angrily in Italian, "I piccoli bastardi sono scappati!"
"Lasciali stare, sergente, lasciali stare. Se ne occuperà il ragazzo di Pacinotti." The Captain smiled knowingly, laughing as he lifted Philip's dazed form off the table to haul him away. No one noticed or cared to notice the form of Amara Zabini running out of the tavern to find the boys, wondering to herself
-/ↀ\-
The boys didn't stop running unto they had reached the outskirts of Corleone finding themselves short of breath, each one reeling at what had just happened. Each one looked toward the other, each thinking the same thing.
"Harry, come here," Enzo ordered. Harry walked over, while Saul watched curiously as Enzo reached into the back of Harry's pants. Before he could begin a protest on his friend's behalf, his eyes were drawn to the pistol that Enzo drew out with growing alertness. Enzo pulled back the slide checking the chamber, examining it for any possibility of a jam before he unbuttoned his jacket and stuffed the weapon in the holster concealing it within his vest.
"Enzo, what's going on?" Saul asked, sensing the tension in the air.
"I don't know. The Carabinieri rarely come around here due to Mr. Corleone's influence, leaving the local police to handle the law." He explained, "That they showed up today…"
Enzo dismissed his thoughts with a shake of his head. "Let's just get home as quickly as possible. I don't want to be out here any longer than necessary." He proclaimed, leading them down the road, keeping them close to the overgrowth that lined the path so close to the village.
Saul eventually moved further ahead on the road with Harry closely following, while Enzo held back keeping his eyes searching in all directions.
Harry looked up at Saul, who had an uneasy air about him as though he were being tormented by a singular thought. Harry suspected what that thought might be. "Saul, you don't think-?
"I'd rather not." He answered, cutting him off, but that was all the confirmation Harry needed.
"What are we going to do about it?" Harry asked anxiously.
Both were so caught up in their speculations that neither noticed the familiar roar of a car engine coming down the road behind them. Enzo, however, did. He tensed and looked behind, ready to move at a moment's notice. Yet, the vehicle passed, the old man behind the wheel only giving them a brief glance before leisurely driving off.
"If Mr. Corleone had his was, fuck all." Saul snorted at the look on Harry's face, ignorant as another car passed. "Don't worry, Harry. As soon as the opportunity arises we're gonna find that son of a bitch and make him regret runnin' to his daddy."
Enzo caught the end of Saul's declaration, rolling his eyes at the short-sightedness of the claim. He would have responded to it had he not heard yet another car coming up the road. He turned, gazing at the vehicle that was coming toward them fast, kicking up dirt. Enzo strained to see the model which was partly obscured by a cloud of dust, but as he neared, his heart tremored when he recognized the familiar frame of a Buick Riviera Hardtop. His feet were already running, even as a figure pulled themselves out of the back door window of the car wielding a dark cylinder in their hands.
A cylinder he recognized as the barrel of a M3 Grease gun.
"Get down!" Enzo cried out even as the air was filled with the rapid spray of bullets. Enzo had enough time to reach Harry and shield him before his back erupted in pain and a spray of blood, sending him and Harry toppling over into Saul who fell with them into the patch of shrubs next to the road.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Saul cried as dirt and gravel were torn up into his face from the screeching tires that drove past. Hot tears burned the corners of his as he rubbed them, looking over in horror at Harry and Enzo. The older boy had taken the brunt of the fire if the torn fabric of his blood-soaked shirt was any indication, unmoving as his body was draped atop Harry's like death's shroud.
Though he had shielded the boy from most of the assault, Enzo's body hadn't been able to stop one stray bullet from hitting Harry's leg, the wound matting his trousers making them wet and sticky. More serious was the hole made by another stray bullet in Harry's abdomen, black blood oozing out of his stomach as his head lulled about in a daze. Their eyes seemed unable to break away from each other. Harry's lips moved, weak and incoherent with no sound coming forth.
Saul was pulled from his hysterical trance as the screech of the rear axle scraping against the undercarriage of the Buick tore through the air, drawing his attention toward the car as it spun around on the road to circle back for another run. Panic set in, knowing they were coming back to finish the job. Saul's eyes widened in a mad search as he sprung into action, his mind pulling up the memory of the pistol under Enzo's vest.
Saul half-crawled, half-jumped over their bodies pushing against Enzo's frame, shifting him onto his side as he frantically reached into his coat to fumble at the strap holding the pistol in place.
"FUCK!" Saul's voice shrilled, coming out as a high-pitched shriek, his fingers ripping out the button holding the strap down out, only for the barrel to snag on at the end of the holster, "Goddamnit! Come on!"
Just as the man holding the M3 pulled himself out of the back door window to shoot, Saul's hand got a strong grip on the pistol as he ripped it out of the holster, whipped it around at the incoming car, and opened fire. The sudden spray of unsuspected bullets caught the driver off guard, swerving the car as he ducked his head behind the wheel causing the gunman to lose his aim, the bullets firing wide over Saul's head.
Saul focused on the unbalanced man and unloaded the clip of his pistol in an effort to land a hit, and his luck ran true. The man let out a high-pitched scream as a bullet tore itself through his left cheek, another shattering the bone in his upper right arm. His body had gone limp and was then dragged down by the weight of the submachine gun that was still held in a death grip, the added inertia of the vehicle veering off to get out of the way pulling his body from the window, rolling about against the ground tearing up his flesh.
The whole affair was over in less than a minute, but that did little to alleviate the stress that was building up in Saul. Looking down, his mouth quivered as he watched the gathering blood of both Harry and Enzo pooling beneath their bodies. He couldn't handle the sight, the stress proving too much. Misty-eyed his mind shut down as he started to babble incoherently, unaware of the woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere running up the road toward them. His eyes could not defer from the sight, hypnotized by the bodies of two boys bleeding out under the noonday sun.
In most places, this would have been a horrible tragedy the likes of which no one would have fathomed. But here, it was just another day in Sicily.
-/ↀ\-
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Shoutout to my friend AlexWoundedSide, who I helped post his reviews. I'm happy that you enjoyed listening to my story so far!