abri-chan fic journal | multifandom

Calogero’s face lit up with enjoyment as the waiter placed a slice of cassata in front of him, and he eagerly forked a mouthful of the gelato and cake based dessert. It was a warm late March afternoon and Gaetano found it the perfect weather to eat lunch outside. The two brothers sat under a white parasol at the Marea restaurant, a family-owned little place located on a narrow cobblestone street, and shaded by a series of three-story brick condominiums on each side. There were no decorative railings to demarcate the row of square tables; instead, clay pots of plum and green foliage and red to yellow begonias stood at the straight edgings.

“You can eat all you want,” the young mafioso spoke with amusement, regarding the teen’s healthy appetite. “We can also order something for back home.” Calogero was sixteen of age and the pride and honor of his older brother. While usually shy of demeanor, the youngster was always in high spirits during their time together; and as he gulped down the full-course meal, he chattered volubly about school and friends and the soccer matches he played every evening.

A curious passerby would have been amazed by the grave contrast between the two siblings. Calogero was slender and with delicate features, and there was something melancholic about the pretty face his black curly hair adorned. His pullover was laid atop the backpack tucked under the table, and he sat in the cozy sunlit air wearing the white shirt of his school uniform. In contrast, Gaetano was strong and muscular and not a stranger to luxury; an extravagant black suit with white spiderweb patterns complemented the straight blonde hair he had tied into a neat ponytail. A few loose strands fell on the man’s face as he sipped his espresso with measured satisfaction.

“How is the old man doing?” Gaetano finally asked, putting the coffee cup down. He rested his right arm on the table and gazed at the teenager beside him. Unmistakably they had the same blue eyes, a genetic gift from their Northerner mother, who had passed away years before Gaetano became a thorn in his father’s side.

“Tanu… He never says much anymore—about you—anyways. He used to curse and shout and now—” The boy broke off and stared at the restaurant’s facade with sorrowful eyes. Tangled jasmine leaves crept wildly along the orange-colored wall and the milk-white flowers swayed gently in the cool breeze.

The mafioso sighed and reached into the left pocket of his jacket. Glancing at the folded liras laid on the table, Calogero's eyes widened and he put the fork down.

“Look, Lillo.” Gaetano clasped his brother's hand as it clenched around the money and held it steadily. “I know you never touch any of the money I send home. This is for you, understand? I want you to buy something nice. You're not a kid anymore, and maybe if there's someone you like—a gift. I wouldn't be against it.”

Calogero colored under the man's words and dropped his gaze, making Gaetano let go of his hand. “Oh,” he breathed, raising his eyebrows in surprise as a teasing spirit awoke within him.

“You rascal! And you never told me!” the man guffawed, hitting the boy gently on the arm. “Here I thought you were only good in school. Your brother can teach you a thing or two about girls, if you want.”

“Tanu, stop! It’s not like that! I don’t…” Calogero was blushing up to his ears as he massaged his arm.

“Fine, fine...” Gaetano conceded, ruffling his younger brother’s hair before changing the subject. “I’m thinking of going to Naples in a few days. Will you come with me? Two or three work meetings and I should be free to go around the town.”

Calogero raised his head and noticed Gaetano was now leaning back in his chair, his hands tucked in his trousers's pockets. The youngster had never been to Naples before; he hardly ever left town and never to go sightseeing. In his head he tried to weigh the excitement of being somewhere new with Gaetano, against the concern of leaving his father alone.

“You think he won't allow it?”

“I doubt he’ll forbid me. It's just—I don't want it to happen again—like that night.” Their father had always been a hard-working, honest man, and everything he’d ever earned was by the sweat of his brow and the calluses on his hands. It must have taken a toll on his soul to accept money from his scoundrel son, so much that one day, Calogero found him drunk and sobbing over the kitchen’s table. Gripped by fear the boy had called his older brother, but Gaetano’s arrival threw tinders into an open fire; his anger ablaze, their father screeched and growled that his crooked, devilish son were never to set foot in his house, for as long as the old man lived.

Watching his brother fiddle with the tablecloth, Gaetano spoke softly: “Think it over. Let me know before Sunday and I’ll arrange two tickets for us.”

---

The apartment’s door-bell rang repeatedly and Gaetano awoke from his slumber in a haze. He reached for his watch on the glass-top coffee-table and cursed under his breath looking at its hands. It was now two in the morning, and he had fallen asleep on his living room sofa still dressed in his outdoors clothes. He rose with a grunt, and pushed back his loose hair with a hand before answering the door.

“For God’s sake Paolo, there's a reason we have telephones! What time do you think it is?” He froze noticing Paolo's grave face and the woman accompanying him. What was Lina, one of the capos of that region, doing there?

“Tanu, listen—I couldn't just call. Lillo, he——Tanu, promise you won't do anything hasty—”

Before the man could say another word, Gaetano lurched forward grabbing him by the collar. “What about Lillo? What happened? Don’t fuck with me, Paolo!”

“That’s enough, Gaetano,” Lina interjected, stepping into the dim hallway lights and gripping Gaetano by the arm. “We don’t need a fight breaking within our ranks. Let us talk to you.”

Gaetano couldn't recall for how long he'd been pacing about the shadowy streets before finding himself at the front door of his childhood house. He heard indistinct sounds coming from within the place and chanced the rusty doorknob a twist. It clicked open and the man let himself in.

He walked slowly in the darkness, following the light coming from the tiny kitchen towards the end of the corridor. The floorboards creaked under each footstep, announcing the man’s presence before his figure appeared in the doorway.

“Tanu...” The old man had raised his head, and for the first time in a long time father and son saw each other eye to eye.

In the clear kitchen lights Gaetano’s face showed haggard and colorless, and he had walked all the way in the night air without a jacket. Silent, he sat across from his father and rested his arms on the table out of habit.

“The police came... They will not do anything.”

“I heard from Paolo.”

The old man hung his head down and reached for his son's hand. Gaetano felt his heart jump in his chest but didn't pull away. He prided himself on his coolness and stoicism, and where men of that region were known for their hot blood, he should strive to be level-headed. So he listened, calmly, like a man should.

“He didn't even struggle!” his father sobbed, running his thumb over Gaetano's hand. “There were only rumors for a while. Someone had seen Lillo—with another boy. They only recognized Lillo. He—he confessed to it. Tanu—why did it have to happen to us?” With a sharp sigh he pulled back, and covered his face with both hands.

Gaetano felt his jaw tighten at the déjà vu playing in front of him. For a while he watched his father weep convulsively, then stood up and started moving around the kitchen.

“He’s upstairs,” his father whispered.

Like hell he'd dare enter the bedroom he used to share with Lillo! So the man dragged himself over to the living room instead, squinting in what little light came from the window.

It's not like it was unheard of; some even occupied high ranks in Passione. Deviants, they would call them. For most of his life Gaetano didn’t much care. He didn't much care about anything that wasn't of direct interest to him. But he loved Lillo, so why should it matter?

His parents' wedding picture still hung on the wall and Gaetano stopped in front of it, pressing his fingers to the glass. Lillo did take a lot after his mother, while Gaetano looked like none of his parents. He let his hand fall, and turned his head towards the door. His father kept sobbing in the other room, calling out his youngest son's name in between moans.

Gaetano walked back.

“It's okay now,” he said, laying a hand on his father's quivering shoulders. “You should rest.”

Dust plummeted to the floor, and Gaetano darted out of the room. His legs gave, and he fell back against the corridor wall, as Cyrillic green eyes flared and stared. In the silence that followed he laughed and laughed, like a madman.

---

Gaetano sat brooding over his morning coffee, secluded in a corner of his favorite bar’s veranda. Rays of empty tables and chairs emanated from his presence, as though the shadow of death lurked round. As far as anyone had heard, Gaetano’s father must have vanished due to the guilt of murdering his own son. But there were always whispers...

The mafioso looked up in confusion at the tall, chiseled man approaching the table. Without asking, the stranger pulled out a chair and sat down.

“I am sorry to hear about your brother,” the man said, removing his hat and revealing his short silvery-grey hair. Gaetano glanced at the peculiar headpiece placed on the table, and its metallic baubles with carved letters on them. To act so brazen, the stranger was either a fool or from Passione, and the imposing man didn’t seem like a fool.

Gaetano fixed the collar of his yellow dress shirt, then spoke: “I don’t think I know you.” He had put effort into keeping up his appearance, but dark circles and bloodshot eyes showed traces of how the last few days had stomped on him.

“Risotto. Risotto Nero. I’m with Passione.”

Gaetano motioned to one of the waiters. “And what business do you have with me, Risotto Nero?”

Everything about the man sitting across from him was unordinary. His unorthodox attire, with nothing on his chest but two X-crossed straps, earned him plenty of stares; and his black sclera and iron-red eyes were uncanny. But his voice was resonant and composed, and there was a sense of calmness exuding from the man’s figure.

A young waiter placed two glasses of limoncello on the table, then politely excused himself.

“I am one of the capos in the Campania region,” Risotto started after the interruption. “And I'm looking to build my team into the strongest Passione has ever—”

“You should be talking to Lina, not me,” Gaetano broke in.

Risotto paused for a moment, then looked the man straight in the eye. “Come to Naples with me. You are wasted here.”

Gaetano sighed, and leaned back in his chair with a perplexed frown. He shifted his gaze to the half-finished espresso, then to the bottle of water beside it. “What makes you think I will?”

“In these parts family roots run deep. And an injustice done to one is an injustice done to many——Pluck out the affected leaf lest it infects the whole crop.” Risotto grasped the shot glass and downed the alcohol in one gulp. “I'm Sicilian too,” he explained, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after.

Gaetano’s sleep-deprived mind conjured a vivid wish of burning down an entire field.

“Come to Naples with me,” Risotto repeated. “There is nothing more for you to do here.”

---

Illuso opened the weathered door to the hideout in an elevated mood, and grinned significantly at the young man in front of him.

“Oh, you finally made it, Sir New Recruit! Quite the looker, too,” he said, regarding Gaetano from head to toe. “Our capo is not here at the moment, but I can show you around.”

Gaetano muttered an agreement, and followed the tall man into the room that served as the team’s main quarters. His soon-to-be teammate wore a fully quilted attire and his long brown hair was tied into six pigtails. The man carried himself with an air of lofty and smug self-importance, while Gaetano was of a more stoic composure. The mafioso was wearing his usual two-piece black suit, but his hair was presently braided and pinned at the back of his head. He sat on one of the green sofas and looked at his watch.

“You can call me Illuso. What name do you go by?” Illuso was reclining on the sofa opposite Gaetano, resting an arm over the back pillows and looking at the new member with curious eyes.

A memory came back to Gaetano.

“Say I decided to join your team. What codename would I go with?”

After a few drinks Risotto had warmed up quite a bit, and his voice and demeanor were starting to show hints of the amicability Sicilian locals were known for. For a moment he became pensive and let his eyes drift over the restaurant table, where wine and appetizers stood awaiting the full meal.

“How about Prosciutto?” Risotto asked, his lips curling into a barely perceptible smile.

“—what name do you go by?”

Gaetano leaned back on the sofa and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Prosciutto.”

“Another food name, huh? Well, Prosciutto… What’s the deal with the necklace?”

Prosciutto sighed. He wished to await Risotto's arrival in silence, but Illuso turned out to be no easy person to get past. His sly red eyes absorbed every detail laid before them.

“It’s just the initial of my codename,” Prosciutto replied, gently pulling the necklace’s chord with his fingers.

“Risotto wears something similar, too,” Illuso continued with an oily voice. “A gift from our team’s couple. Something like a charm.”

Prosciutto felt his mouth twitch; the perceptive man had hit the nail on the head. Second-glancing the piece after learning the capo’s identity, he’d realized the baubles did spell Risotto’s name. Perhaps the pendant could serve as an amulet for his new direction in life, Prosciutto had thought. He tried to push the awareness of having done something ridiculous to the far ends of his mind.

“A couple?”

“Not officially… not yet. I’m a bit of an information freak, you see. Check out this.” Illuso fumbled with the inner pocket of his vest, and pulled out a polaroid. He threw the picture across the table for Prosciutto to see.

“He’s the man Risotto is scouting next,” Illuso went on with impish glee, as Prosciutto leaned forward and picked up the photograph. “The prettiest face I’ve ever seen, but his stand is rotten. A real deadly nightshade, you know… Ah, Gelato and Sorbet are here!”

The wooden door panels were pushed open and a chattering duo walked inside. Prosciutto gazed towards the entrance as the dark-haired man threw his arm around his companion's shoulders, and he swallowed, his chest tightening with melancholy.

“Do you ever shut up?” Sorbet jabbed at Illuso, taking a seat beside him. “That’s why no one ever joins us; because you bore them to death.”

“Fuck off!” Illuso sneered.

Gelato crossed to Prosciutto’s side, and sat down with folded arms. “So… how did the capo fish you out?” he asked, amused.

Prosciutto took a deep breath to steady himself. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.