Generations: All In One

Generations is a joint project between Branch and Lys ap Adin to expand the KHR universe. In several sub-arcs it covers the women of KHR, the Ninth’s generation, and the Eleventh’s generation of the Vongola.

The Family You Choose

by Lys ap Adin

It is time for Timoteo to choose his Guardians, and he’s determined to do things his way. This project owes its inspiration to jetsam/thephoenixboy, who correctly guessed which fic was mine in the first round of khr_undercover, and requested a fic featuring Timoteo and his Guardians as her reward. I don’t believe she quite expected her request to spawn an entire humongous arc, but what can I say? It was a provocative prompt! *grin* General audiences

For a character guide, see the appendix (warning: spoilers for the arc!)

Character(s): Daniela Vongola, Gianni Staffieri, Maria Purezza, Michele Rizzo, Ninth gen, Paulo Gemello, Piero Gemello, Rafaele Martelli, Timoteo Vongola

“You wanted to see me, Mother?” Timoteo asked, as he let himself into her study after lunch. Her right hand, Taddeo, and her outside advisor, Cesare, were both with her, and Timoteo raised his eyebrows a bit, wondering what they had in store for him this time.

The Vongola Eighth didn’t look up from the papers she was studying. Timoteo waited and wondered, and kept his expression carefully neutral until she had finished what she was doing and looked up at him. “Now that the fuss of the wedding is past us, it’s time we confirmed you as the heir,” she said, brisk, the way she did everything—part of how she dealt with being the female head of a Family like the Vongola, or so she’d explained to him, once. “Who have you been thinking of for your Guardians?”

“Is it already time to be thinking of that?” Timoteo asked, to make time for his mind to race ahead and turn over the possibilities. “You’re still very young, Mother.”

“How kind of you to say,” she said, eyes glinting, not without humor. “I said that we were ready to confirm you as my heir, not that I was ready to step down. Don’t get too far above yourself.”

Timoteo grinned at her and settled in his usual chair. “Good, because I’m not ready to have your job yet.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, crisp. “Nevertheless, I want a clear succession set up. God forbid that you should be faced with the mess I was, but it’s better safe than sorry.”

Timoteo let the smile slide off his face and nodded. God forbid, indeed: all of the Vongola knew how his mother had needed to fight for her position. “Of course.”

“Well?” Cesare shifted away from his spot at the window. “Who are you thinking of for your Guardians?”

Timoteo was careful not to take a breath or to fidget—those were the tells that all three of them would see, and he needed every bit of advantage possible for this. “Paolo Gemello,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hooking an arm over the back of it, casual and relaxed. “For my Lightning.”

A careful first choice, that—Paolo was the one he expected the least trouble over. Who could object to Paolo, when Paolo was as steady as they came, serious and thoughtful and deadly with a pair of knives in his hands?

Mother and Cesare exchanged glances, and then nods; Timoteo stifled his sigh. No trouble there, definitely, though he hadn’t really expected any. “Good,” his mother said. “Who else?”

“Paolo comes as a set, you know.” Timoteo smiled. “Piero, for Storm.”

“Piero?” Taddeo echoed, frowning just a bit. “He’s… hardly as steady as his brother.”

“But he’s still steady enough on his own,” Timoteo said, keeping his voice even and relaxed. “If you know how to handle him. Paolo and I do.” It helped that Piero recognized his own limitations, and trusted himself to be guided by cooler heads when it became necessary.

And no one could deny that Piero was competent as a fighter—even when he hadn’t lost all control of his temper.

“Your Guardians must represent you,” Cesare pointed out, kindly enough. “The twins know that. I doubt Piero will feel slighted if you overlook him in favor of his brother.”

Timoteo frowned back at him. “It’s not about slighting him. Piero is my Storm. He’ll let himself be guided by my hand, even in his rages.”

“You’re sure of that?” his mother asked, not as Mother but as the Eighth. “Would you stake your life on it?”

“I would stake my honor on it,” Timoteo replied.

This time the look that she and Cesare exchanged was longer, more meaningful, full of barely-perceptible cues like the lift of his eyebrow, the flicker of her eyes—until, finally, Cesare nodded and asked, “Who else?”

Timoteo considered how they’d taken his choice of Storm, and made a rapid decision to bump the two most difficult candidates up the list. If he could get them to swallow the Cloud and the Rain, then they’d be able to take the Mist and the Sun as palate cleansers. “Maria Purezza. For the Cloud, of course.”

Cesare stared, and Taddeo covered his eyes, but his mother—Mother threw her head back and laughed, freely, right from the gut. “Oh, yes,” she gasped, when her peals of laughter had calmed somewhat. “Oh, yes, was there ever anyone more suited to be the Cloud than Maria?”

Timoteo permitted himself a smile, keeping an eye on Cesare and Taddeo all the while. “I doubt it.” Fierce, hawkish Maria, whose tongue was sharper than her knives and who’d broken the leg and the dignity of the last man who’d dared approach her with the thought that such a pretty face ought to belong to a sweet temper—yes, she’d been born to be the Cloud.

Cesare looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. “Yes, but…”

“But what?” Timoteo asked, smiling at him. “Doesn’t she have the ideal temperament for the Cloud?”

“Yes, but…” Cesare frowned. “Certainly she’s a splendid girl, but don’t you think that this job mightn’t be… beyond her capabilities?”

“I don’t think that they are, but perhaps you’d like to go a few rounds with her in the training rooms to reassure yourself?” Timoteo suggested.

Cesare blanched; Timoteo was careful not to grin at him. “I’m—sure that won’t be necessary.”

“Then I’m not sure I see what the objection might be.”

“It’s that she’s a woman,” Taddeo said, unexpectedly. “You can’t have a woman among your Guardians, for pity’s sake. It’s going to look terrible, and it’s not at all fair to expose a young woman—even a young woman as formidable as we all know Maria to be—to the kinds of things people will say about her if she’s your Guardian.”

Ah, there it was. Timoteo settled back in his chair, casual, keeping an eye on Taddeo and Cesare, and the other on his mother, whose eyes had gone sharp, but who hadn’t bothered to speak up yet. There wasn’t going to be any help from that quarter, not yet, but there didn’t seem to be any discouragement coming, either. “Regarding your last point first—perhaps it isn’t fair, but I’ve found people so very rarely are, in our world. It is, I think, Maria’s decision whether she wants to take on the burden of hearing such things said about herself. It’s not my place to protect her from even getting to make that decision. She’s a grown woman, not a child.”

“Some would say that there is no difference,” Mother said, with a little smile that was dangerous for all its apparent innocence.

Timoteo tipped his head, with a smile. “Then that is their great mistake,” he murmured, “and it’s one we can use to our advantage. I know how it will look to others if Maria becomes my Cloud. It will look as if I have a weakness, or as if I am showing favoritism, or any number of other unpleasant things. Since none of them will be true, I will be able to use that to my own ends. It’s not a bad thing to be underestimated by the other Families—is it, Mother?”

“I’ve found it useful,” she admitted, with a faint smile. “Though they do catch on, eventually.”

“That’s a bridge that I’m willing to cross when it becomes necessary.” Timoteo looked from her to Taddeo and Cesare. “If I am to be the Ninth, I must take all the needs of my people into account. Surely this is where Maria belongs. I can’t imagine that she will ever be happy doing the things that other women do.”

“Indeed, but… she’s a woman. Women have never been Guardians,” Cesare said.

“Women have rarely been bosses in their own right,” Timoteo said, with a smile he knew was sharp. “Surely you can’t say that a lack of precedent should hold us back? If we’d let ourselves be constrained by precedent, where would the Vongola be now, I wonder?”

Mother laughed, short and harsh, and looked at her outside advisor. “Indeed. Where would it be?”

Cesare frowned at them both. “I don’t like it.”

“Can you say that she isn’t able to do the job?” Timoteo asked him, letting the pleasant façade slip away entirely. Cesare shook his head. “Can you say that there is any law of ours which forbids her being a Guardian?”

“No. No law. Merely long tradition.” Cesare looked sour to admit it. “I see what you’re driving at. And I say, you had better consider all the things that will be said.”

“Talk is cheap.” Timoteo shrugged, spreading his hands. “I doubt it will continue after Maria has broken a few skulls.” He paused. “Diplomatically, of course.”

“And may I live long enough to see it,” his mother added, her devout tone undermined by her vicious grin.

“Indeed.” Timoteo held Cesare’s gaze, until Cesare finally looked away, muttering, “On your own head be it.”

“Thank you.” Timoteo kept his smile restrained, since it was too soon to gloat. There was the Rain to get through, still.

“Storm, Lightning, and Cloud.” His mother raised an eyebrow at him, expectant. “Who else?”

Timoteo smiled at them, cheerfully, with a calm he didn’t actually feel. “The Rain. That will be Rafaele Martelli, of course.”

There was a beat of silence, and then all three of them spoke at once, in a welter of protests, from his mother’s, “He’s a dear boy, but hardly Guardian material,” to Taddeo’s blunter, “You must be crazy,” and Cesare’s, “He’s not even Italian!”

Yes, he’d expected this to be the difficult one. Good to know he’d judged it correctly. Timoteo set his hands on his knees and waited for the immediate hubbub to die down. When it had, a bit, he raised his voice over it. “Is there any objection to Rafaele that you can give me that doesn’t involve where his parents came from?” he demanded.

The three of them paused, all of them frowning, and Cesare looking distinctly mutinous. “That’s not really the point,” his mother said. “No one is saying that he’s not a fine young man, and his father certainly served me with some distinction, but—”

“But they’re not from here,” Cesare broke in, harsh. “They’re from bloody Tripoli.”

“His parents are, yes,” Timoteo said, evenly. “Rafaele himself was born and bred here. He’s as Italian as I am.”

“A pretty sentiment,” Taddeo said, “but this isn’t the kind of thing you can leave to idealism, boy. He’s not one of us, and he never will be. You can’t possibly have him as a Guardian. It isn’t done.”

“No?” Timoteo looked at him, and slowly lifted an eyebrow. “Weren’t you the one who taught me our history? Who was the first Rain, if you please?”

“That was different,” Taddeo said, after an uneasy pause. “That was the First.”

“If it was good enough for the First, it’s good enough for me.” Timoteo shrugged. “At least Rafaele was born and raised here. I can’t imagine that the first Rain blended in half as well as he does, considering.”

“He doesn’t blend at all,” Mother said, slowly—regretfully, he thought. “Timoteo, you’re going to have to be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable.” It was difficult to stare all three of them down at once. Timoteo gritted his teeth and did it anyway. “There is no one who meshes half so well with my other Guardians. He even manages to get along with Maria, for Heaven’s sake.”

“No one’s saying that he isn’t capable, but he’s not one of us,” Cesare said, still frowning. “He never will be.”

“What does it take to be one of us?” Timoteo frowned right back at him. “To be born here? To follow all our customs? To shed blood for the Vongola?” He spread his hands. “Which of these has Rafaele not done?”

They shifted, uneasily he thought, and let himself hope that meant he was gaining ground. “It’s not that we aren’t grateful,” his mother said. “Especially about the last. But think of how it will look—”

“That will be my burden to carry, won’t it?” Timoteo replied. “I tell you, I would rather have Rafaele as my Rain and deal with every other Family out there than choose a Rain Guardian who will be expedient.” He could feel his Will wanting to flare with the anger he felt, and could feel it in his voice as he spoke. He couldn’t make himself care. “Rafaele is the right choice, damn it.”

His mother looked at him, hard, eyes glittering with her own Will. “This is your Will, then?”

“It is,” Timoteo said, low.

Her mouth thinned, and she slashed a hand through the air. “Enough. We’ll come back to the matter. Tell me who you want for your Mist.”

It wasn’t an outright refusal, so Timoteo smoothed his anger and his Flame away. “Gianni Staffieri.”

“Gianni. Yes, I should have known.” She smiled again, faintly, knowing, and Timoteo shrugged at her. The choice was obvious, since he couldn’t remember a time when Gianni hadn’t been his older, wiser shadow.

“Isn’t he…” Cesare paused, coughing almost delicately, clearly searching for the right words. “There’s always been something a bit… off… about him. Hasn’t there?”

Timoteo suspected that Cesare wasn’t exactly referring to Gianni’s fey sense of humor, and shrugged. “He’s the Mist. They’re always a bit odd, aren’t they?” he said, smiling and smooth. “Their feet don’t quite touch the ground, but that’s no barrier when you’re as competent as Gianni is.”

Cesare’s brow cleared. “Ah, yes. You make a good point.”

Timoteo breathed more easily as Mother and Cesare exchanged nods over the choice; that was Gianni seen to then, with even less fuss than he’d dared to hope for, considering. “And then, for the Sun… really, who else could I choose but Michele Rizzo?” No one had ever doubted where laughing, irrepressible Michele’s affinities had lain, not when he overflowed with energy and asked only to be aimed in a direction—any direction, really.

“True enough,” Cesare said, smiling—well, Cesare had raised some hell in his own time, or so Timoteo had heard. “He’ll do well for you.”

“Indeed.” Mother nodded at Cesare’s words, and that was done.

Five, then, and the question of Rafaele still up in the air. Timoteo held his silence as Mother rose from her chair and moved to the sideboard, pouring drinks—four of them, scotch gold in the cut-glass decanter as she poured and handed the glasses around to them. Were they to consider the business closed for the time being?

Timoteo turned the glass in his hands, watching her narrowly as she resumed her seat and lifted her own glass. “A toast,” she said. “To the future of the Vongola.”

Taddeo and Cesare murmured agreement for the sentiment, and drank with her.

Timoteo stayed still.

“Will you not drink?” Mother asked him.

“Not until I know what will become of my people,” Timoteo said, steadily despite the queasiness in his gut. “I don’t know yet what the future of the Vongola will look like. But I know what I am willing to fight for.”

Mother’s eyes went dark. “Think carefully,” she said, softly. “This is a small thing. Are you sure that you’re willing to declare war for it? I’ve told you how bitter the battles I’ve fought were. Is this really worth it, when you don’t even know that you will win?”

“I don’t see why I won’t,” Timoteo replied, quietly. “I know who I will have on my side.” He drew a breath. “And I can’t think of anything which would be a better reason to fight for. He’s one of my people. I will not betray him by saying that he isn’t.”

His mother held his eyes for a moment, and then another, and then her mouth ticked up at the corner. “Indeed.” There was something hovering in her expression—it was something that was normally only there when she was surveying the Vongola’s holdings. Timoteo blinked as he identified it as pride. “A worthy answer, Cesare, don’t you think?”

“I can’t dispute it,” he said, low and unhappy. “I’ve worked all my life to put the Vongola back in order. I won’t let it fall back into chaos now.”

Timoteo bowed his head, acknowledging the point. “Neither will I,” he promised.

“Oh, very well,” Cesare muttered. “Have him if you must.”

“Thank you.” Timoteo kept his smile restrained, because Mother had always insisted that graciousness in victory was necessary. “To the future of the Vongola, then.”

And this time they all drank.

The task of actually asking his six candidates to serve was left to Timoteo, as was only proper. He decided to begin with Maria.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think she’d say yes, but she did have a rather formidable nature. It would be all too easy to delay asking her till he couldn’t put it off any longer, and that would only offend her.

He found her—where else?—in one of the training rooms, and stood inside the door to watch her pummel Vittore, who was half again her size, into the mat with deadly efficiency. Watching her, Timoteo could only be grateful that her loyalty was to the Vongola—and that she’d disdained to use her own good looks as the weapon they could have been. If she’d played up the heart-shaped face and the curves of her figure, she’d have been unstoppable.

Maria only deigned to notice Timoteo when Vittore was a groaning mess on the mat. “Here to fight?” she asked, raking sweaty tendrils of hair back from her face.

“Yes,” Timoteo said, after a moment’s consideration, since a fight nearly always put her in a receptive mood.

“Well, hurry up, then,” she said, snapping her fingers at him as she turned back to Vittore, urging him off the mat with her foot. Timoteo stripped out of his jacket and tie as she did, and stepped into the ring, calling on his Will as Vittore limped away.

Maria’s eyes lit with an unholy sort of joy as they circled each other, until she lashed out with a fist and the sparring match could begin properly.

They traded blows for several minutes, fighting each other to a standstill, and only stopped when they were both winded and bruised. “All right,” she said, after they’d begun to catch their breath, bracing her hands on her hips and studying him. “What do you want?”

“How do you know I want something?” Timoteo replied, amused.

“It’s all over your face. What is it?” she demanded, impatient as ever.

Timoteo felt his mouth crook; she was a Cloud, through and through. “They’re going to confirm me as the Ninth,” he said. “Will you be my Cloud?”

He rarely had the luxury of being able to surprise Maria, but this time he seemed to have done it. She stopped short and stared at him, eyes rounded just a bit. “Say what?”

“Will you be my Cloud Guardian?” he repeated, patiently.

Maria stared at him, and then snorted. “How the hell do you figure they’re going to let that happen?” she asked, voice gruff, the way it went when she had to hide some emotion. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got the wrong set of dangly bits for the job.”

“So does my mother, technically,” Timoteo said. “She and Cesare agreed to it. Will you?”

She folded her arms, regarding him silently. “You’re serious, then.”

“Of course I am.” Timoteo grinned at her. “Who else can I trust to give me the whole, unvarnished truth?”

“Mm.” Maria continued to study him until, finally, she was satisfied, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, and then did something he wouldn’t have expected—she bent over his hand and kissed it. “I will be your Cloud,” she promised, and then straightened up again. “Besides. I want to see what kind of Ninth you’re going to make, anyway.”

“A good one, I should hope,” he said, elated by the acceptance.

Maria’s answering smile was faint and fierce. “We shall see what we can make of you.” She dusted her hands off. “Now. Who else have you spoken to?”

“You were the first.”

She didn’t quite manage to hide the pleased look in her eyes. “Idiot. You should have gone to one of the boys first.” She sniffed. “There’s propriety to consider. Or so I’ve been told.”

“People are going to talk no matter what,” Timoteo said, firmly. “So fuck ’em.”

This time her smile was broader. “I suppose I can go along with that.”

The twins shared a set of rooms in the wing given over to such things, living among the rest of the Vongola’s foot soldiers like they had their whole lives. That would probably need to change, Timoteo thought, knocking at their door. But perhaps their new status would encourage them to make the shift without protesting. Besides, Paolo had been paying court to a pretty girl in town, last he’d heard. This would probably decide her, one way or another.

Piero was the one to get the door, and grinned when he saw that it was Timoteo. “You’re just about in time for supper,” he said, waving him and Maria in.

“I wasn’t aware that either of you could cook,” Timoteo said, dry.

“Oh, we can’t.” Piero waved an airy hand, and lowered his voice. “But Paolo’s woman can.”

“Ah, I see.” And indeed, now that they were inside the apartment, he could hear laughter from the kitchen—a woman’s, clear and bright, with Paolo’s lower tones beneath.

“Yeah.” Piero turned and yelled, “Paolo, hey! Company!”

Company manners never had made much of an impression on Piero.

Timoteo was conscious of the way Maria had positioned herself at his shoulder, silently, as Paolo appeared from the kitchen, looking relaxed. “Timoteo, Maria. This is a surprise. Are you joining us for supper?”

For a moment, Timoteo hesitated to interrupt the domesticity of the evening with business, especially as Paolo smiled and curled an arm around her. Paolo’s woman appeared behind his shoulder—she was pretty, round and soft, with melting eyes. Just now she looked worried and uncertain—perhaps because she hadn’t been expecting guests, though Timoteo suspected it was more than that. “No,” he said, and hid his smile at the flicker of relief in her eyes. “We’re just stopping by for a moment. Business.”

The smile slid off Paolo’s face. “Ah. I see.” He looked rueful. “You have terrible timing, I hope you know.”

But Piero’s eyes turned bright, avid. “Yeah?” he said, eager. “What’s up?”

“I’m to be confirmed as the Ninth,” Timoteo told them, and watched their expressions change again: Paolo went even more serious, and some of the brightness in Piero’s eyes was replaced with—wistfulness, regret, possibly resignation. The woman’s mouth turned tighter. No doubt she was wondering whether she wanted to hear what was to come.

“Congratulations,” Paolo said, after a moment. “Boss.”

“Thank you.” Timoteo stood straighter. “Will you serve me as my Lightning, Paolo?”

“Yes, of course.” Paolo moved away from his woman and crossed the room to bend over Timoteo’s hand, pressing his forehead to the back of it. “I’d be honored.”

“Hah, I told you so!” Piero grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I told you that he’d pick you, you great ninny.”

“It’s not my place to presume what the boss’s plans are,” Paolo said, primly enough, though he was fighting down a grin. “Honestly, Piero…” He turned to his woman, who was standing still and white-knuckled in the kitchen door. “Well, Anna? How about it now?”

“Will I have to share you with your job now, too?” she asked, low and strained.

“Don’t be stupid,” Maria said, dry as dust. “You would have had to share him with his job even if he weren’t going to be the Lightning. Use your head, woman. He’s Vongola.”

The woman—Anna, Timoteo supposed—flinched. “I have to think about this,” she said, and whirled around, disappearing into the kitchen.

Paolo’s mouth flattened as he looked after her, and tightened even further as things began to clatter in the kitchen. “Women,” he said, shaking his head.

“My apologies,” Timoteo said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Boss,” Paolo said, and shrugged. “You haven’t ruined anything. She’ll come around.”

Piero grinned and slapped him on the back. “Congratulations,” he said, dispelling the brief moment of grimness. “Don’t forget us little people when you go off to be the big bad Guardian, huh?”

Yes, he’d thought that Piero had been brooding on being left behind. “Piero,” Timoteo said, before Paolo could make a reply to that. “Will you be my Storm?”

He rather wished he’d had a camera, just so he could preserve the goggle-eyed look of surprise that Piero turned on him. “Me?” he said, pointing at his own chest. “Really?”

“I can’t think of who I would rather have,” Timoteo told him, as an identical smile bloomed on both their faces.

Piero bounded over to him and seized his hand, kissing it. “Yes! Hell, yes, even! I’ll be the best damn Storm the Vongola ever had.”

Timoteo grinned. “I know you will be,” he said, pleased with the sense that his people were already beginning to fall into place around him.

Family etiquette called for him to take at least one of his new Guardians with him as he made his rounds, but Timoteo stopped by Gianni’s quarters by himself, late in the evening—the last thing he would do before making his way home.

Gianni didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him, and had, judging by the decanter of wine and the glasses already set out, been expecting him. “I hear that congratulations are in order,” he said, with a small smile, after he’d seen Timoteo installed in the apartment’s most comfortable chair and had poured him a glass of the wine.

“How do you hear these things so quickly?” Timoteo asked him.

Gianni shrugged, smiling behind his glass. “I have my ways.”

“I’m sure you do,” Timoteo snorted. He swirled the wine his glass, slowly, watching the motion of it. “Tell me—does the Devil offer good terms?”

Gianni smiled. “Reasonable enough, I’m sure.” He tipped his head, watching Timoteo, inscrutable. “Are you ready?”

“For a job like this one?” Timoteo huffed softly. “Can you ever be ready for a job like this one?”

“A good point,” Gianni conceded, and they lapsed into silence over their wine.

“I suppose I’m as ready to get started as I can be,” Timoteo said, presently. “But all the same, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m glad Mother has no immediate plans to retire, God willing.”

“God willing,” Gianni echoed, with a nod.

Timoteo took another drink of his wine, and looked at his friend. “So,” he said. “Will you stand at my side?”

“I’ve always stood at your side,” Gianni said, low and intent. “God willing, I always will.”

“Thank you,” Timoteo murmured to him. “I’m glad that I have you to depend on.”

“Always,” Gianni promised him.

Timoteo smiled at him; after a moment, Gianni settled back in his seat, and inquired after who Timoteo was calling to be his other Guardians. They passed the next half hour discussing Timoteo’s plans for the future and the Vongola pleasantly enough, until Timoteo set his empty glass down and eyed the time. “I should get home,” he said. “Gabriella will be wondering where I am.”

“Of course,” Gianni said, easy, and rose to see him to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Until then,” Timoteo said, and let himself out.

He spent the walk back to his and Gabriella’s rooms considering the sacrifices that friendship felt called to make.

Timoteo found Michele in the morning, coming in, before he’d even meant to go find him. By the appearance of him—scruffy around the chin, blond curls a mess—Michele had been out all night. He greeted Timoteo with a grin and bright eyes regardless. “Timoteo! Just the man I wanted to see!”

“Am I?” Timoteo couldn’t help but wonder if Michele had already heard, but Michele’s merry grin didn’t seem smug in any way. “What on earth for?”

“I’m going to be married.” Michele announced it with a flourish of his arms and little jig. “She said yes!”

“They always say yes to you,” Timoteo said, entertained, and not honestly sure which “she” Michele meant this time. “They never seem to mean it for very long.” The swathe Michele had managed to cut through the local female population was amazing. A person would think that they’d have learned by now, but apparently not.

“This time is different!” Michele glanced around, and drew a little closer. “There’s going to be a baby,” he confided.

“Ah,” Timoteo said, because now it was coming clear. “My congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Michele grinned at him. “So, what do you say? Will you be my best man?”

“If business allows, yes, of course.” Timoteo smiled as Michele whooped and did another dance, and waited for him to calm down. “I have a question for you as well.”

Michele spread his arms wide. “Anything you like,” he proclaimed. “Anything at all!”

Timoteo glanced around, but for the moment, the front hall was empty, except for them. “They’re going to confirm me as the Ninth.” Michele’s eyes went wide; before he could exclaim his congratulations, Timoteo hurried to add, “Will you be my Sun?”

That stunned some of the open glee off Michele’s face, and his expression turned serious. “I’d be honored,” he said, dropping to a knee and taking Timoteo’s hands between his. “My life for yours, Boss.” Then his expression changed back to a grin as he bounced to his feet. “Though you’ll forgive me if I hope that such a thing doesn’t become necessary. I’m going to be a family man, you know.”

“So I’d heard,” Timoteo said, dry, but Michele didn’t hear him, already off on another tangent.

“Perhaps it’ll be a boy,” he said, eyes gleaming with the light of his new scheme. “We can raise him with yours—Gabriella’s got to get pregnant soon, right?—and he can grow up to be your son’s Guardian, too. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”

“I can’t imagine anything finer,” Timoteo told him, gravely, and let Michele draw him off to spin more castles in the air. He didn’t have the heart to ask Michele what he’d do if it were a girl.

Given Michele’s enthusiasm, probably concoct schemes that would have her married off to Timoteo’s first son, he decided, with a grin.

Rafaele had elected to stay on at his mother’s even after he’d come of age, because (as he’d quite sensibly pointed out) she’d had no one else to look after her. The quest to find him, therefore, took Timoteo and Gianni from the main house down to the little cottage that she kept and Rafaele looked after.

They were probably going to have to change that somehow, Timoteo thought, surveying it and its neat little garden. He couldn’t imagine that she would be willing to move from the place that had been her home for decades. They’d have to find someone to keep house for her, he decided, and made a note to speak to Gianni about it later.

Rafaele himself came around the side of the house, interrupting Timoteo’s thoughts, and greeted them both, cheerfully. “I’ll be with you in just a bit,” he said. “I have to finish watering Mother’s flowers for her.” He gestured with the brimming buckets he carried, as if to underline the point.

“No rush,” Timoteo told him, amused.

He and Gianni watched as Rafaele puttered through the garden, until Gianni leaned over and asked, in an undertone, “Does he ever give you the sense that you’re an absolutely horrible son?”

“Occasionally,” Timoteo said, wry. “You get used to it.”

Rafaele was as quick as he’d promised to be, though, and invited them inside for cool drinks as soon as he’d finished with the garden, along with a tray of bread and fruit. “It’s not much,” he apologized. “Market day, you know.”

That must have been where his mother was. “It’s plenty,” Timoteo assured him.

“Mm.” Rafaele’s eyes moved back and forth between the two of them, quick and assessing. “I’ll hazard a guess and say that this isn’t a social visit, is it?”

“Not entirely,” Timoteo said, and set his lemonade down.

Rafaele’s smile was wry. “How ever did I guess?” he asked, and clasped his hands on his knee. “What would the Vongola like from me today?”

“Something a bit more complicated than helping me steal peaches from Signor Ferla’s orchard, I’m afraid,” Timoteo told him, and heard Gianni’s muffled snort of laughter. “They’re confirming me as Mother’s heir. Will you serve as my Rain?”

Rafaele went still and surprised. “Timoteo…” he said, slowly. “It’s an honor, really, but… have you thought this through?”

“From every angle,” Timoteo, watching the hesitation moving across Rafaele’s face. “You’re the man I want.”

“What we want and what is practical are very different things,” Rafaele persisted, hesitation beginning to settle into stubbornness. “I’m not sure that this is practical. At all.”

“I am more than willing to deal with impracticalities,” Timoteo assured him, a bit dismayed by Rafaele’s resistance, which he hadn’t really expected to be more than token. “That’s the whole of the job, when you think about it. So. Will you do it?”

“I’m not really Vongola,” Rafaele said, quietly. “You know that. I’m happy to serve your Family, but I’m not a part of it and I’m never going to be.”

“Don’t be such a jackass,” Gianni said, before Timoteo could react to that. “You’re not the one who gets to decide who’s Family and who’s not. The boss is the one who does that.”

Rafaele stared at him, clearly startled by the blunt language.

Timoteo forced himself not to smile; it was always entertaining to watch Gianni catch someone off-guard for the first time. “Just as Gianni says,” he murmured. “It’s my decision who belongs in my Family, and I say you do. You’ve already fought for me and bled for me. You’ve laughed with me, and you danced at my wedding. What more is there to Family than that?”

Rafaele looked at him, the seconds ticking past, and then smiled, faintly rueful. “A few things, perhaps.” He stopped, looking away from them both. “Are you sure that this is the decision you want to make?”

“Very sure,” Timoteo told him.

Rafaele looked back, and then nodded, slow and measured. “Then, yes.” He stood and moved, kneeling for Timoteo. “I will serve.”

“Thank you,” Timoteo murmured, relief running through him. He drew Rafaele up. “Anyone who says you’re not Vongola will answer to me,” he promised.

Rafaele’s smile in response to that was bright, and even a little wondering. “If you say so, Boss.”

There were some sour faces among the highest-ranking members of his mother’s advisors and the other men who helped her run the Vongola. Timoteo scanned them, noting who looked most irritated and committing their names to memory. He’d have to be their Boss one of these days—pray God one of these days a good way hence—and it wouldn’t pay to burn too many bridges with this, if he could help it.

But for now, there wasn’t much that he could do, so he ignored them for the time being, along with the faint susurrus of talk about his Rain and his Cloud. It quieted when his mother accepted the two boxes from Cesare and turned to the room at large. “These are the Vongola rings,” she said, firm and clear, and opened the boxes to display the halves of the rings to the crowd. “They are our greatest treasures, and today we bring them forth to mark the way for those who will come after us.” She drew the first pair of ring halves from their places and fit them together. “Maria Purezza, come forward and take the Cloud ring.”

Maria stepped forward, head held high, and accepted the ring. The room held its breath as she slid it onto her finger, but nothing happened.

As Maria stepped to the side, Mother drew out the next pair of halves. “Paolo Gemello,” she called, “Come forward and take the Lightning ring.”

Timoteo glanced through the faces in the crowd as he did, and found Paolo’s Anna there. Her expression was still a bit strained, but she found a smile as Paolo took his ring and his place. They must have reached some accommodation after all.

“Piero Gemello, come forward and take the Storm ring.”

Piero very nearly swaggered forward, every line of him set with pride and eagerness. He fell in at his brother’s side with a blinding grin; Timoteo noted that some of the observers couldn’t seem to help grinning themselves, watching him.

“Rafaele Martelli,” his mother said, and every face went still and watchful. “Come forward and take the Rain ring.”

Rafaele moved forward to accept the ring from her hand, steady and careful, and gravely slid it onto his finger. Nothing happened, and the crowd muttered and shifted as he took his place with the rest of Timoteo’s Guardians.

“Michele Rizzo, come forward and take the Sun ring,” his mother called, her voice cutting across the rustling and muttering.

A good next choice: Michele’s step practically bounced, and he won more than a few smiles after accepting the ring and turning to blow a kiss into the crowd. Timoteo just hoped it was aimed at his fiancée and not someone else.

“Gianni Staffieri, come forward and take the Mist ring,” Mother called.

Timoteo swallowed butterflies down as Gianni moved forward and accepted his ring, solemn as a judge, and moved to stand with the circle of Guardians who were waiting. That was six, then.

Mother fit the last set of halves together, forming the Sky ring, and looked to him. “Timoteo Vongola,” she said, slow and serious, “come forward and take the Sky ring, and let the people see how you will lead them with the Guardians you have chosen.”

Timoteo drew a breath and stepped forward, taking the ring from his mother’s hand. It lay cool and heavy in his palm until he slid it on; then it fit on his finger comfortably, and nothing terrible happened to prove that he was unworthy of its weight.

He rather thought that his was not the only stifled sigh of relief.

Timoteo squared his shoulders and turned to his Guardians, who came to him with hands outstretched and faces that reflected his own joy and pride and solemnity back to him. The rings burst into Flame and light as they did, making their collective Wills manifest and burning the last traces of doubt from Rafaele and Maria’s eyes.

Timoteo finally let himself smile at this, the first proper beginnings of his Family, and joined his hands with theirs. Let the outsiders doubt his choices if they liked. With a Family like his, a man could do anything at all.

– end –

Two Hands Make A Pair

by Lys ap Adin

In which the Vongola Ninth’s Mist and Rain reach an agreement, and establish a pattern that will carry them forward. This is set about ten years before “Blood Will Tell.” Timoteo has been the Ninth for a little under a decade at this point. This is a sidestory for the arc, focusing pretty much entirely on two of the original characters, and is not necessary to the main thrust of A House Divided—but it may make some character motivations make more sense later.Fraught smut

Character(s): Gianni Staffieri, Rafaele Martelli, Timoteo Vongola

Pairing(s): Rafaele/Gianni

Gianni may have been the Vongola Ninth’s right hand, and his Mist Guardian besides, but he wasn’t too proud to admit it when he was tired. And tonight, he was tired.

Admitting that he was tired to himself and letting it show to anyone else were, however, two entirely separate things. There were miles yet to go this night—metaphorical ones, if not literal ones—and Gianni frankly didn’t have the time to be tired.

He kept his eyes on the wall opposite him as Timoteo stooped over his wife’s bed and murmured his goodnights. Her reply was low, reedy, barely any louder than the machines that surrounded her.

She was getting worse.

A few moments more, and the Ninth joined him in the hall, closing the door after him, gently. The minute it was shut, some of the straightness left his shoulders, and the smile faded from his mouth.

There were times when one could say something, and times when nothing at all could help. Gianni had lived long enough to be able to tell the difference, and waited now until the Ninth had cleared his throat. “Come on, then,” he said, gruff. “We have work to do.”

“Of course, Boss,” Gianni said, catching Rafaele’s eye in passing as he fell in with the Ninth. The Rain looked almost as tired as Gianni felt.

But neither of them were as tired as the Ninth, so Gianni simply shrugged at him in passing. Rafaele hung back to speak briefly with the bodyguards who’d be taking the night watch at the hospital—no doubt to instruct them to telephone the hotel the instant there seemed to be any change for the worse—and then jogged after them to catch up.

Timoteo began talking almost before they were all in the car, bringing up plans for an expansion into the Pozzo Nero’s territory. He had lots to say, and Gianni was glad not to be driving, so that he could devote his full attention to the Ninth’s ideas. They weren’t bad. They were a little sketchy, of course, but that was only to be expected when the Ninth had come up with the idea while keeping vigil at his wife’s bedside.

The Pozzo Nero weren’t going to know what had hit them. If they were at all wise, they wouldn’t try to resist too hard.

“Well, then, get that started for me,” the Ninth said, as their little convoy rolled up to the hotel and the man they had stationed out front signaled an all clear. “I want to move at the end of the week.”

Gianni blinked; the Ninth wanted to move that fast? “The end of the week?” he repeated.

Rafaele broke in. “That’s short notice, Boss.”

“There’s no sense in wasting time,” the Ninth grunted, as one of their men sprang forward to open the door for him.

“Of course not,” Gianni agreed, stepping out into the spring evening after him. “It’s going to take time to get the ball rolling, though. We’re not exactly at home.”

“I could hardly forget that,” Timoteo snapped.

“I don’t think that’s what Gianni meant,” Rafaele said, smooth and calm. He surrendered the car’s keys to another of their men and came around the car to join them. “Boss, have you really thought this through?”

He’d timed it well, asking just as they stepped through the hotel’s front doors. The Ninth couldn’t answer as they passed into the hotel’s lobby and its crowd of rich, laughing patrons, most of whom ignored the knot of black-suited men moving through their midst. By the time they’d reached the elevators, the Ninth’s temper had had the time to flash in his eyes and then subside again. “You’re right,” he said, once they were alone in a car and it had begun its slow ascent to their floor. “I wasn’t thinking.” He ran a hand over his face. “I forget that not everyone has the time to sit and think that I do, these days.”

Gianni avoided Rafaele’s eyes in the mirrored walls of the elevator’s car, and simply shrugged. “I’ll call Maria tonight and have her and Paolo begin assessing things, so that everything will be ready when we get home.”

“Not tonight,” the Ninth said; Gianni watched his shoulders slump further in their reflection. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Of course, Boss,” Gianni murmured, as the elevator chimed for their floor and opened onto the hall.

The Ninth found a smile for them, from somewhere, as they stepped out of the car. “Indeed. Take the rest of the night off, you two. It’s still young.” He flicked his hands at them, and then moved away, flanked by his bodyguards.

Rafaele stopped next to Gianni. “Take the night off, he says.” He turned a wry smile on Gianni. “I think he’s mistaking us for Michele.”

“Perhaps,” Gianni agreed, watching the retreat of the Ninth’s back, until he disappeared into his suite.

“Still, it’s not a bad idea.” Rafaele stretched and knocked his shoulder against Gianni’s. “Come with me. I have a bottle of wine. I could use your opinion on it.”

Gianni glanced at him. “Rafaele, you’ve never in your life needed an opinion on a bottle of wine.”

“I need an opinion for this one,” Rafaele told him, placidly, and gestured. “After you.”

Gianni snorted, but let himself be ushered down the hall towards Rafaele’s suite of rooms.

“Well?” Rafaele said later, when Gianni reached the bottom of his glass. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.” Gianni held out his glass. “I’d better have another.”

Rafaele laughed and obliged him, topping off his own glass in the process, and Gianni settled more comfortably into his chair. Hotel rooms were the same the world over, but this one wasn’t too bad. It was comfortable enough for sitting in and sharing a bottle of wine, in any case, he decided, sipping the wine and savoring it, red and round and full on his tongue. “It’s a good bottle,” he said. He leaned his head back and sighed. “You didn’t really need me to tell you that,” he added, from behind closed eyes.

“No, but you needed to stop working,” Rafaele said, dry as bone. “And I wasn’t sure that even a direct order was going to get you to do it.”

“This is hardly the time to be lazy,” Gianni said, still with his eyes closed. “Or careless. Whatever he needs—”

“We should do, yes. But that doesn’t include rushing headlong into a petty war with the Pozzo Nero just because the Boss is too distracted to think straight,” Rafaele said.

Gianni’s eyes popped open, and he sat up to argue the point. “We both know—”

“We both know I’m right. Gianni, think, will you? Be his right hand and think about what it would mean if we went haring off on this.” Rafaele was looking at him, steady and calm. “If nothing else, think of what Maria would say.”

That was… a legitimate point. Gianni leaned back and covered his eyes, imagining what their Cloud would have said if he’d called to tell her they were moving against the Pozzo Nero this week. “God.”

“I suspect even God wouldn’t be able to help you.”

“Perhaps not.” Gianni lowered his hand and reached for his wine. “Just as well that we have you to be sensible, isn’t it?”

“At least when it comes to matters like this one,” Rafaele said, and shrugged.

There was something there that Gianni didn’t quite like the sound of. “Matters like this one?” he echoed.

Rafaele took a drink of his wine, dark eyes steady over the glass, and then set it down. “You’re not entirely rational on matters that touch the Boss directly,” he said, finally, matter-of-fact about it. “Not when it comes to doing the things that you think will make him happy. Or just ease his mind when he’s suffering.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you’re accusing me of failing him as his right hand,” Gianni said, anger rising in his chest, tight and hot.

Rafaele continued to look at him, eyes direct and clear. “I’m not. You’re a good right hand. One of the best, even. But when you look at the Boss and see Timoteo and not the Ninth, your heart gets in the way of your head.”

The knot of anger turned icy and changed into a sick twisting in his gut. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Gianni said, going cold all over.

Rafaele’s answering smile was infinitely kind, and slid between his ribs like a knife. “Gianni, I know,” he said, gently. “We all do, although I expect the twins try not to think about it too closely. It’s all right.”

The enormity of that simple statement was too much to grasp all at once; as precious seconds ticked by, Gianni knew that he ought to be denying the accusation, or pretending that he didn’t follow Rafaele’s meaning—doing something that would defuse the situation. But he couldn’t quite marshal the wits to do it with, and sat, staring like some lackwit as Rafaele watched him, patiently. “You…”

“Not everyone would be able to see it,” Rafaele continued, still with that gentle, relentless look on his face. “You hide it very well. But we’re your Family. We know you better than anyone else does. When we’re united in one purpose, you can’t exactly hide your heart from us.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Gianni demanded, taking refuge in harshness against the probability that he was about to lose—everything.

“It’s never presented a problem till now.” Rafaele lifted a shoulder, shrugging. He reached for his wine again and drained the glass. “And I don’t think it needs to be a problem. What you need is someone to watch your back for you.”

Gianni couldn’t help sneering. “I suppose you’re offering?”

“Of course I am. I’m your friend. And your Family.” Rafaele raised an eyebrow at him. “What else would I do?”

Gianni could feel his mouth twist at all the ugly possibilities. “I can think of half a dozen things. None of them involve watching my back.”

“We’re Vongola,” Rafaele reminded him. “That’s not our way. Not with our own.” He seemed to consider it, and reached over to close his hands around Gianni’s, his grip warm and reassuring. “Gianni. I will guard you. I will help you. You have my word on this—my word and my oath.”

“Rafaele…” Gianni took a breath and steadied himself against the strength of Rafaele’s hands around his and the solemn weight in his gaze. Now was no time for pride, not when the Family itself was at stake. “Someone to… oversee me in this would… be most welcome.” He looked away. “My weaknesses must not be allowed to affect the Family.”

“Here, now.” Rafaele gave his hands a shake; when Gianni looked back, he was frowning. “None of that. Love is not a weakness. You’re not weak, either.”

“Don’t try to flatter me,” Gianni said, not quite able to stop the way his mouth twisted on the words. “We both know what this is.” It was kind of Rafaele to try to spare his pride, of course, but the man ought to have been calling for him to resign—from his position as the Ninth’s right hand, if nothing else.

“No,” Rafaele said, slowly, watching him. “No, I’m beginning to think that we don’t.” He frowned again, eyes going thoughtful. “I think you’ve been carrying this alone for too long.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you share,” Gianni told him. “Not really.”

“No?” Rafaele’s smile was quick, sudden—one of his I’ve just had an idea smiles. “I wonder about that.”

“Rafaele,” Gianni began, although trying to forestall the Rain when he’d decided to meddle was nearly always a lost cause. “It’s—”

It’s all right, he’d been meaning to say, or perhaps, It’s nothing I’m not used to. Rafaele didn’t let him do it. He let go of Gianni’s hands and came out of his chair to lean over Gianni’s. “You shouldn’t think yourself alone,” he said, quietly, and curved a hand around Gianni’s jaw.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Gianni asked, low and harsh.

“Kissing you,” Rafaele said, with an easy smile. “We’ll see about the rest in a bit, I think.”

Rafaele had him caged in well enough that he couldn’t really recoil when Rafaele leaned closer and pressed their mouths together, kissing him, slow and hot and competent. If he felt any qualms about kissing another man, he gave no sign of it. He kissed Gianni insistently, mouth moving against Gianni’s until Gianni answered it, grudgingly, and kissed back, feeling Rafaele’s pleased rumble more than hearing it when he did. “What are you doing?” he asked again, when Rafaele finally drew back, just a bit. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need that.”

“It’s not pity, you stubborn bastard.” Rafaele smiled at him, wry and exasperated. He rubbed his thumb against the corner of Gianni’s jaw. “It’s friendship.”

Gianni leaned into the touch, to his own disgust. “You’re not—like I am,” he said. “Friendship doesn’t go this far.”

Rafaele’s mouth crooked. “There’s a man by the name of Kinsey who I think you ought to read up on,” he said, obliquely, and then leaned in to kiss Gianni again, slow and sure. “You let me decide just how far my friendship goes,” he added, against Gianni’s mouth. “Trust me to know what I’m doing.”

Gianni let out a breath that was shaky, and not just because of the thought of what it might mean to be able to trust Rafaele with this part of himself. “You really think you know what you’re doing here?”

“Been studying on it for a while, so I figure I do,” Rafaele said, still with that relaxed smile.

“Do you?” Gianni asked, low and harsh, resenting the easiness of the offer. “You’re ready to let me bend you over and fuck you? And to suck my cock? And to know it’s not even you I’ll be thinking about?”

Rafaele’s eyes and smile stayed steady. “Yes.” He seemed to stop, and reconsider. “But if you’re thinking about someone else the whole time, then that’s a sign I’m doing something wrong. Don’t you think?” he asked, letting his hand fall away from Gianni’s jaw. It dropped into Gianni’s lap, curving over the front of Gianni’s slacks and palming his cock through them, kneading the half-hard length of it. Softly, he added, “I don’t think your mind has even wandered all that far.”

Damn him for a smug bastard. “You should know what you’re getting into,” Gianni told him, half-gasping the words, hips lifting into the pressure of Rafaele’s palm—God, it had been too long since he’d done anything like this, and it showed all too clearly in how he was responding, especially when Rafaele smiled and pressed harder. “Rafaele—”

“Enough,” Rafaele told him. “I know what I’m doing.” He kissed Gianni again, slowly, purposefully, until Gianni arched against him and caught his hand on one of Rafaele’s solid shoulders, gripping it. “Unless you have other objections?” he murmured against Gianni’s mouth, fingers undoing his slacks and sliding inside.

There were plenty, only Gianni couldn’t quite manage to lay hands on them, not with Rafaele’s fingers wrapping around him, stroking over him, sure and unhesitating. He suspected that Rafaele knew it, from the way Rafaele smiled at the incoherent sound he made when Rafaele’s thumb dragged over his head. “Bastard,” Gianni said, low, managing that much, at least.

“Yes, when I need to be,” Rafaele agreed, and kissed him again, deep and hot, mouth moving against Gianni’s, coaxing, until Gianni surrendered to the slowness of it and to the heat twining through him, and let his hips rock into the grip of Rafaele’s fist. It took an embarrassingly short time after that for the heat to draw him out of himself, pleasure rushing down every nerve, sweeping him along with it.

When he could begin to think again, Rafaele had pressed himself close, fitting himself against Gianni as best as the chair would let him, and had an arm around him, supporting him. “Yes,” he was saying against Gianni’s ear, voice pitched low and intimate. “I have you. It’s all right, I have you.”

That sent a shudder of something down Gianni’s spine, slow and convulsive, and he rested his forehead against Rafaele’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he rasped, when he could manage to speak again.

“If you like.” Rafaele’s lips moved against the side of his through, shaping the words against his skin. “I’ve got you.”

“You’re absolutely insane,” Gianni told him, since it was the purest truth. Rafaele’s shoulder shook under his forehead—laughter, low and warm. “You are,” he insisted, and reached between them to prove it. “As much as I appreciate the—” He stopped short as his fingers encountered the unmistakable lines of Rafaele’s cock straining against the confines of his slacks.

Rafaele’s laughter husked against his ear. “Mmm,” he said, “you were saying?”

Gianni lifted his head and eyed him. Rafaele’s smile was sleek and satisfied, though his eyes were hungry. “I cannot believe you.”

Rafaele arched an eyebrow at him. “What is there to believe?”

Gianni declined to answer that; something about the way Rafaele looked at him suggested that he already knew. “We should move,” he said, instead, and watched Rafaele’s eyes go dark. “To the bed.”

“I like that idea,” Rafaele murmured, and collected another kiss from him before drawing back, straightening up and turning towards the bedroom.

Gianni followed after him, watching the easy, unselfconscious way Rafaele stripped out of his shirt and draped it over a chair, and shed his slacks with the same careless ease before finally stepping out of his underwear and then stretching out on the turned-down sheets.

It made him wonder if Rafaele actually knew how beautiful he was.

“Well, are you just going to stand there?” Rafaele asked him, after a moment, smiling like he was satisfied with the way Gianni had been staring.

“No,” Gianni said, coming away from the doorway and shedding his own clothes before joining him. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he added, leaning over Rafaele and kissing him.

Rafaele arched against him with a pleased sound, hands finding Gianni’s back and stroking down it. “Mm, glad to hear it,” he said, with a fearless smile. “What do you—”

Gianni stopped him, laying two fingers against his lips. “Enough,” he said, quietly. “Let me.”

“Of course,” Rafaele said, when Gianni took his fingers away. “Anything you like.”

The wonder of it was that he meant it, too.

“I know,” Gianni told him, and kissed him again.

Rafaele hummed against his mouth as he did, arching into Gianni’s hands as they followed the shape of him, moving over Rafaele’s solid shoulders and chest and stroking down over his stomach and thighs. He spread his legs against the sheets, willingly, and broke away from Gianni’s mouth long enough to say, “In the drawer on this side.”

Gianni couldn’t make himself be surprised when the reach over to the bedside table turned up a bottle of oil. “You’ve been planning for this,” he said, turning the discreet little bottle in his fingers.

“Of course.” Rafaele smiled at him, lazily. “It seemed like the prudent thing to do.”

“I see.” Gianni set the bottle down and shifted down the bed. Rafaele made an interrogative noise that turned into a gasp as Gianni knelt between his legs and bent his head to stroke his mouth over Rafaele’s cock.

Rafaele moaned his name, low and open, and again as Gianni ran his tongue over him, slow and deliberate, taking him in and savoring the heavy weight of him on his tongue. Gianni watched Rafaele as he moved his mouth over Rafaele’s cock, watching the pleasure chasing itself over Rafaele’s face and the way Rafaele arched and shifted under his hands, lean and unselfconscious, until he finally drew taut, shuddering apart on a low cry.

Rafaele turned against him when Gianni settled at his side, afterwards. “Mm,” he said, sounding distinctly satisfied, “I should have done that a while ago, I think.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been so desperate for a bed partner that you’ve been considering me for it,” Gianni returned, lightly.

Rafaele opened his half-closed eyes, the look in them going sharp. “Who said I was the desperate one?” He reached out and touched the place between Gianni’s eyebrows. “You’re the one who looks like ten years just came off him.”

“Was it that bad?” Gianni asked, rather than deny it.

Rafaele’s eyes softened. “Yes. Every time you look at the Ninth these days, it gets a little worse.”

Gianni rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his arm. “I can’t do anything,” he said, admitting it out loud, finally. “This is tearing him apart, and there isn’t a fucking think I can do for him, and—”

Rafaele’s arm slid around him, and Rafaele himself was warm against his side. “I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”

“Not like I do,” Gianni told him. “And now I can’t even trust myself because of it—”

Rafaele’s arm tightened around him as his voice broke. “But you can trust me,” he said, low and serious. “You’re not doing this alone. You have me.”

Funny, that it should be the assurance of that offer which finally broke him, but it did. Gianni turned and pressed himself against Rafaele, tucking his face into the curve of Rafaele’s throat. “Promise me that you won’t let me fuck up because of this,” he said, hoarse.

Rafaele’s arms slid around him, securely. “I promise,” he said.

Gianni closed his eyes, accepting that. “I’m so tired,” he admitted, after a moment.

That didn’t begin to encompass it all, but Rafaele seemed to understand anyway. “I know,” he said, gently, and set a hand in Gianni’s hair, stroking it. “But you can rest with me.”

Gianni exhaled, slow and stuttering; when he finally began to relax against that promise, Rafaele took his weight without a murmur of protest. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Rafaele told him, and held him until he fell asleep.

– end –

An Offer You Can’t Refuse

by Lys ap Adin

There comes a time in every young man’s life when he must seek his fortune. Sawada Iemitsu is off to seek his. Occurs not too long before “Blood Will Tell“. Teen+; some implicit, mostly-offscreen violence.

Character(s): Reborn, Sawada Iemitsu, Timoteo Vongola

Sawada Iemitsu couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known that he was—or could have been, if he’d wanted to be—the heir to a great mafia empire. It was the family legend, the story that his mother sang him to sleep by and the reason his father made him enroll in Italian lessons after school. That Iemitsu’s great-great-grandfather had chosen to leave his Italian empire behind was their family’s great regret, and their scapegoat any time something went wrong. They held to it like a talisman, promising each other that if only the First hadn’t left Italy so long ago, none of this—a refrigerator that was elderly and had to be coaxed into working regularly, the fact that Tousan’s boss wouldn’t give him a promotion, Iemitsu’s dismissal from the basketball team—would have happened, and life would have been infinitely better.

Iemitsu’s teachers didn’t get around to logic until late in middle school, but when they finally did, he was able to put his finger on the thing that had always troubled him about their family legend. They wouldn’t have been there at all, had the First never left Italy, since they were descended from the son Giotto Vongola had fathered when he took a new wife in Japan.

Such was the power of legend that his family didn’t question such things. There was power in having a secret identity that could not be discounted. Iemitsu found it deeply comforting to know that, if he had just wanted to, he could leave all the petty bullshit of his day-to-day life behind, and never have to deal with the demands of cram school again.

And then, the year Iemitsu turned seventeen, a thought occurred to him: Why not?

He did not tell his parents what he intended, since he’d seen with an adolescent’s eyes what he hadn’t as a child. It was a family talisman to say, “If we were still Vongola, none of this would be happening,” but neither his father nor his mother really believed it.

They didn’t want to, either. It was better to daydream than to reach out for more.

Iemitsu rejected that with all the scorn a teenager could muster. He pawned some things—his bike, his watch, his stereo system—and hit up all his friends for money that he promised himself he’d repay, and started working his way towards Italy.

The only thing he took with him from home was a copy of his family register.

It took him months to actually reach Italy, and Iemitsu saw parts of the world he’d never imagined he would: ports, mostly, that were filled with shipping containers and the smell of the ocean and grease and the stink of the harbor, plus men who shouted in at least twenty different languages. He saw the sun rise over Dar es Salaam and learned to dance from a woman in Cape Town. He picked up bits of Portuguese in Rio de Janeiro and a social disease in a whorehouse in Havana. Iemitsu decided that the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen was the aurora borealis against Reykjavík’s night sky, when the sky had been filled with stars so close that he might have reached out a hand and cut himself on them.

Had he been another person, in another life, he might have kept going, because the work and the travel both suited him. The months of labor packed muscle onto his frame and coarsened his hands and his voice. He’d liked the places he’d seen and the people he’d met, mostly, and wouldn’t have minded more. But he was Sawada Iemitsu, and he had a goal, one that let him walk out of Messina’s harbor with a duffel carried over a shoulder and his head held high, thinking himself a man.

The first person Iemitsu asked about the Vongola and where to find them made a sign that Iemitsu didn’t understand before backing away hurriedly. The second person he asked, a lovely young lady who’d been very friendly right up until then, slapped him. Then she hit him with a barrage of Italian so fast that he couldn’t even follow it and left him while he was still reeling.

Iemitsu persisted, undeterred, working his way south along Sicily’s eastern coast (family tradition and a thousand gangster movies having informed him that this was the place to begin). The reactions were the same wherever he went. Either the name Vongola inspired fear in whomever he asked, or it inspired anger. Sometimes, it did both.

He was reflecting on that curious mixture as he stood in the square of a town whose name he’d neglected to learn, rubbing his cheek and wondering why it should be so, when someone asked, behind him, “And who are you to be asking after the Vongola so freely?”

The voice was light and smooth enough that Iemitsu wasn’t sure whether it was male or female. What he was much more certain of was the solid pressure against his ribs, snub-nosed and blunt. “Well, now, why don’t we talk about that?” he suggested, with all the confidence eight months of working on freighters and getting in and out of sticky situations could give him.

“You’re going to talk, yes,” the voice said, and the pressure increased against his ribs. “Walk forward, now. Back to your room. I wouldn’t advise trying to get any ideas.”

“Who, me?” Iemitsu stepped forward; the gun stayed snug against his ribs.

He seemed to have become invisible; the square was full of people, but their eyes slid past him as if he were no longer there. That was the first point at which Iemitsu began to wonder whether coming to Italy had been a good idea after all.

The voice had advised him not to try anything, but that was clearly out of the question. Iemitsu bided his time until they had climbed the rickety set of stairs up to the little room he was renting, and then whirled around.

His plan had been to disarm the voice and then compel its owner to tell him about the Vongola. It didn’t work as smoothly in execution as he’d hoped it would. Instead of letting him twist the gun away, the voice simply sighed, sounding irritated about it. The next thing Iemitsu knew, the world had spun around him, and he was getting splinters in his chin from the rough wooden floor as a knee ground against his kidney. “I told you not to get any ideas,” the voice told him, calm and cool, and twisted Iemitsu’s arm behind his back until Iemitsu grunted and his eyes watered. “Now, tell me. Who are you to be using our Family’s name so easily?”

It was amazing, how he could hear the capital letters when the voice said Family like that, Iemitsu thought, to distract himself from the thought that he was, quite possibly, in a lot of trouble. “Sawada Iemitsu.”

“And who might you be when you’re at home, Mr. Iemitsu?” the voice inquired.

“The great-great grandson of Giotto Vongola,” Iemitsu announced, as calmly as he could manage, given the circumstances.

The pressure on his arm and his kidney increased sharply, till Iemitsu cried out. “That is not a claim you want to make lightly,” the voice informed him, gone sharper. “Let’s try this again. Who are you? And what do you want with the Vongola?”

“My name is Sawada Iemitsu,” he said again, unsteadily, with the uneasy sense that perhaps he could count out his lifespan in minutes, now, rather than years. “I’m the direct descendant of Giotto Vongola. You want my whole family tree?”

The voice twisted his arm tighter still, until Iemitsu was arched taut and panting with the agony of it. “One more time,” it said. “And then I’ll have to become unpleasant. Who are you?”

“I’m not lying, damn it!” Iemitsu yelped, and took refuge in the only thing he knew. “At the end of his reign, the Vongola’s First retired and came to Japan, the home of his Rain. He started a new family there, and—”

“I did tell you,” the voice said, sounding faintly regretful about it, and broke his arm.

It was later, though the only way Iemitsu really knew it was through an application of logic. His every nerve throbbed with pain. That had to have taken time to accomplish: hence, it was later. The process had driven most of the pride out of him, till he didn’t even mind the hoarse sounds coming from his own throat, or the fact that he had curled in on himself like a child.

Somewhere outside his immediate sight, the voice was speaking to someone on the phone. The short, abrupt exchange of words, one-sided, formed so much background noise for the thrum of blood in Iemitsu’s ears. He could make no sense of it, nor did he care to. At length, the voice stopped speaking. Iemitsu got his first glimpse of its physical incarnation when a pair of gleaming leather shoes came to stand in front of his face.

“You’re lucky,” the voice told him, as its owner crouched next to him. “The Ninth wants a look at you himself.”

The words filtered through the buzzing pain, slowly, and resolved into some kind of sense. Iemitsu would have liked to have said something—what?—to them, but could only grunt as a hand wound itself in his hair, lifting his head, and let him get a look at the voice’s face.

The last thought Iemitsu had before something rapped against his temple and sent him down into darkness was disbelief that the voice belonged to a pre-pubescent kid.

There was still pain when he came swimming back to consciousness, now with the added layer of a headache that threatened to split his skull open. He was tied to a chair in a room that he didn’t recognize and whose fittings were much fancier than the one he’d been renting, and there was a man sitting across from him. He was older, perhaps Tousan’s age or a bit more, with streaks of gray running through his mustache and wild eyebrows that shadowed sharp eyes. He was watching Iemitsu. “So,” he said, as Iemitsu blinked at him, slow and stupid with the pain. “You’re Ietsuna and Yoshinobu’s boy.”

The pain had burnt out most of his pride, but not all of it; Iemitsu had enough left to be ashamed that the gratitude of finally being believed made his eyes prickle. “Yes, sir,” he rasped. “I am.”

The man—the Ninth, Iemitsu thought, a dim memory surfacing—overlooked the reaction, which was unspeakably kind of him. “What did you go and do a damn fool thing like coming to Italy for?” he asked instead, gently enough. “If you’d just stayed in Japan, we wouldn’t have had to take notice of you.”

Iemitsu wet his lips, tasting the blood on them, and didn’t bother saying why. He’d told the voice half a dozen times, anyway. “Can’t go back, can I?”

“No.” The Ninth shook his head, regret shadowing his eyes. “Too many people know of you now, thanks to your complete lack of subtlety.”

Iemitsu hung his head as humiliation superseded pain—some of it, anyway. “Dumb of me,” he said, slowly.

“Yes, rather.” The Ninth’s voice was rich with kindness, and no less implacable for it.

Iemitsu raised his head after a moment, determined to meet the Ninth’s eyes and see it through. “What happens now?” He had a dizzy, sick suspicion that he already knew.

“I already have an heir,” the Ninth told him. “I don’t need another. And he doesn’t need a war for the succession, or for any of the other Families to get their hands on you.”

“Guess that’s fair.” Iemitsu was proud of how steady he’d managed to keep his voice. “Doesn’t leave you many choices, does it?”

“No,” the Ninth agreed, calmly, watching him.

Yeah, he’d figured. Iemitsu lifted his chin a fraction higher. “May I ask a favor?”

The Ninth’s mouth quirked under his mustache. “Asking is free.”

Iemitsu sucked in a breath and grimaced as his ribs creaked in protest. “Let me—” no, not send, that presumed too much “—leave a message for my parents?” Not that he knew what he could say to them, exactly. That he was sorry, perhaps, or that he wished they’d never told him who his great-great grandfather had been.

Something that might have been respect showed in the Ninth’s eyes. “You’re taking this very calmly.”

Maybe he’d expected Iemitsu to beg for his life. “I’d like to piss myself, actually,” he confessed. “But that’s not going to do me any good.” And he had just enough pride left in him not to beg.

The Ninth laughed at that, threw his head back and roared, open and amused. “You’re a rare one,” he said, when he’d stopped again, and that was definitely respect on his face now. “Seems a waste.”

“You should see it from my seat,” Iemitsu replied.

That earned him another snort of laughter. “Definitely a waste,” the Ninth repeated, studying him. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he nodded, apparently reaching some conclusion. “You have two options,” he announced. “One is for me to have you shot, because, as you are now, you are a threat to my Family’s stability and its future.”

“What’s behind door number two?” Iemitsu asked, trying not to let himself hope too very hard.

“You’ve entered our world,” the Ninth told him. There was no trace of laughter in his voice now. “You can’t leave it again, so we must find a way for you to exist within it. There is only one way for that to happen that I am willing to permit.”

“What is it?”

The Ninth raised an eyebrow. “Not going to agree immediately?”

“Doesn’t seem like a good idea.” Iemitsu would have liked to have shrugged, but suspected that the pain of doing so wouldn’t have made the gesture worth it. “There could be worse things than getting shot.”

“Mm. Shooting you would definitely be a waste.” The Ninth spread a hand; a massive ring winked at Iemitsu from his finger. “There is an organization. It is of the mafia world. It is separate from the Vongola, though it serves us. Were you to become a member, you would renounce your own right to the Vongola ring forever. You would be bound to our service all your life.” He paused, and added, “We are not kind masters. We strive to be good ones, but we are not kind. It is not an easy life, or a safe one. You will be lucky to see your fortieth birthday if you choose it.”

“I won’t see my next birthday if I don’t.” Iemitsu felt his lip split again as he offered the Ninth a grin that he didn’t quite feel. “It would be you that I’d be serving, then?” he asked, studying the man.

“Yes.” The Ninth inclined his head. “And my son after me.”

Iemitsu studied him, this man who’d wanted to speak with him and had been willing to offer a stupid boy a second chance. “That,” he said, finally, “seems like something I could live with.”

The Ninth’s smile was faint but unmistakable. “I think I should like to see that,” he said, and then called for someone to treat Iemitsu’s injuries.

Later, after giving his vows, first to the CEDEF and then to the Ninth, forswearing his claim to the position of the Vongola’s boss and promising fealty to the Vongola for the rest of his days, Iemitsu made a third vow, this one private.

The First had retired to Japan for a reason. He had sought out obscurity after his reign, and it had been foolishness of his descendants to keep the dream of lost Vongola glory alive.

If someday he himself had a family, Iemitsu decided, bending to kiss the Ninth’s ring as stiff muscles protested the action, he would not tell them of the mafia at all. The First’s Japanese legacy could die with him, as he suspected Giotto Vongola had wanted in the first place.

And surely any family he might have would be happier for it.

end

Blood Will Tell

by Lys ap Adin

Sometimes one small mistake can lead to an entire avalanche of nasty consequences. Some small divergences from manga canon; a veritable confluence of clusterfuck.

Character(s): Enrico Vongola, Fedele Rizzo, Federico Vongola, Gianni Staffieri, Maria Purezza, Massimo Vongola, Michele Rizzo, Ninth gen, Paulo Gemello, Piero Gemello, Rafaele Martelli, Sawada Iemitsu, Timoteo Vongola, Xanxus

One of the first things Sawada Iemitsu did in his apprenticeship to the Vongola Ninth’s outside advisor was bring the Ninth news of the woman who claimed that her son belonged to Timoteo Vongola. It was an act that Iemitsu reflected on later, grimly, deciding that it was the event that colored his entire service to the Vongola.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if they’d simply had someone go around to have a quiet word with the woman instead of bringing it to the Ninth’s attention. Would things have gone to the hell the way they had later, or would one of Timoteo’s actual sons gone on to inherit the position of Vongola Decimo while his own son went ahead, bumbling his way through life, innocent of its darker sides?

Iemitsu couldn’t say.

Such speculations were only fit for musing on over a cup of sake, however, because the fact was, when he’d reported news of the woman who’d claimed that Timoteo Vongola had been the one to impregnate her, and that the result was a boy who could produce a Vongola Flame, the Ninth had simply said, “Hm.”

That, Iemitsu had already learned, was one of the Ninth’s thinking sounds. “If you like, I can go speak to her,” Iemitsu offered. “Explain to her why she doesn’t want to keep saying these things.”

The Ninth made another of his thoughtful noises, and left his desk. He paced the length of his office, slow, deliberate, to stand before the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Hm,” he said again, and then, “I suppose I’ll have to see the boy.”

“You will, sir?” Iemitsu repeated, cautiously.

Timoteo turned away from the window. “Yes, I think so. Make preparations for it, please.”

Iemitsu nodded, and said, “At once, sir,” and that was that.

“I take it that you don’t approve of this,” Timoteo said, thoughtfully, as Gianni maneuvered the car through narrow, twisting streets that were growing increasingly shabby with their slow progress.

“I haven’t said a word,” Gianni said, turning down an even darker, narrower street.

“You don’t have to. I can hear you thinking it from here.”

That was as good as permission to speak freely. “I don’t think you should be dignifying this woman’s claims with your attention,” he said, with a quick glance around as he parked the car. There were faces in many of the windows, but few enough people on the street. “She’s not stable, Boss. Everyone knows it.”

“Even fools and madmen can be right occasionally.” Timoteo unbelted himself, and waited for Gianni to signal that it was safe for him to leave the car.

Gianni half-hoped that he wouldn’t be able to, that this whole fool’s errand was a trap, but his men appeared at either end of the street and gave the all-clear. He sighed and nodded to Timoteo.

They emerged from the car together, both of them stretching and exchanging grimaces. The days of comfortable car rides that didn’t leave them with stiff backs and tired joints were already well past them both, and getting older was proving to be an unpleasant business. The street—which could hardly be called that, and was more like an alley than anything else—was filled with rubbish that stirred around their feet. Gianni grimaced again as they turned to the tenement where the woman Bianca Castelli and her son were supposed to live.

One of Gianni’s men slipped up the stairs ahead of them, swift and silent. Gianni and Timoteo followed more slowly, until they came to the top floor. The air inside the building was stuffy, filled with the smell of a thousand competing meals. Even in the middle of the day, the air was full of the sounds of babies crying and radios blaring. Somewhere, perhaps a floor down, a man and a woman were arguing.

Gianni did the honors of knocking on the door of 6010, which flaked paint under the brisk rapping. Castelli herself answered the door.

She must have been pretty, once, but the fineness of her features was blurred now. Her hair was tangled, and she was wrapped in a man’s faded houserobe. Her feet were bare and dirty, and her eyes darted between them, too fast and bright. “Yes?” she said. Her knuckles were white where they clutched the door.

She showed no sign of recognizing Timoteo Vongola.

Typical, Gianni thought, disgusted in spite of his best intentions otherwise. “The Vongola Ninth is here to see you,” he said, quietly, and watched her eyes go wide, terror mixed with wild hope.

“I knew it,” she said, like a prayer, clasping her hands under her chin. “Oh, I knew this day would come.”

Castelli brought them into the apartment, hands fluttering like trapped birds, and tried to offer them hospitality in between calling for the boy. Timoteo refused her offers, kind but firm, which, given the state of the place, with not a bit of clean floor in sight and surfaces that even looked sticky, was only wise. All the while she stared at Timoteo, eyes burning with devotion, or perhaps vindication.

“No,” Timoteo said again, when she offered them wine, still gentle with her, “no wine, thank you. If I could just meet the boy…?”

“Yes,” Castelli said, “yes, of course.” She edged away from them, backwards, as if reluctant to let Timoteo out of her sight for even a moment. “Xanxus! Xanxus, you stupid brat, where are you?”

The reply that came back from what Gianni assumed was the bedroom was in a boy’s clear soprano, but it delivered a series of curses worthy of a sailor. “I was sleeping,” he growled when he finally emerged, scowling.

Gianni was close enough to Timoteo to hear the quiet sound Timoteo made, as of recognition, as Castelli reeled the boy in and began petting him, obviously against his will. “There’s Mama’s beautiful boy,” she crooned, smoothing his hair back from a distinctive forehead. “Show your—” she stopped, perhaps thinking better of it “—show the Ninth what you can do, baby.”

The woman was canny in her madness, and had clearly passed that canniness down to the boy. His eyes went sharp, fixing on Timoteo, and he held up a hand that wreathed itself in Flame.

Gianni braced himself against the pressure of it, staggered. The boy couldn’t be more than ten, but to be able to produce that much anger, so very young…

Afterwards, he could only assume that Timoteo had been thinking something similar, tender-hearted as he was. “Ah, yes,” he said, very softly, crossing the room and kneeling, putting his face at Xanxus’ level. “That is indeed a Vongola Flame.”

Castelli made a sound, releasing her son and covering her mouth as tears began to cut a clean path down her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, nearly sobbing the word, “oh, yes.”

After that it was a matter of calling for another car to come for her and the boy as she flew around the apartment, gathering up pieces of rubbish that Gianni supposed held personal meaning for her. Xanxus stood, unmoved, watching Timoteo all the while, his back already held straighter and his eyes burning just like his mother’s had.

“I want to ride with you,” he announced when they came down to the street. (All the windows had faces pressed to them now, watching the drama unfold. It gave Gianni a headache, knowing that this news was already all over the country.)

“Of course,” Timoteo told him, easy about it.

Gianni bit his lip; he would have to talk to Timoteo later.

Later didn’t happen until well after they’d returned home and Timoteo had personally seen Castelli and her son installed in a set of rooms in the private wing of the house, and had told them to direct the household staff to provide anything they required. Xanxus accept all this with a stony expression, as if it were only their due. Castelli herself was already calling for a drink—this early in the day!—and Gianni was hard-put to suppress his shudder.

Timoteo didn’t dismiss him, so Gianni followed him to his private study, where Timoteo sank into the chair behind his desk and sighed. After a moment, he looked up at Gianni and smiled. “Let’s have it, then.”

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Gianni asked, since dire catastrophes required extreme measures. “That boy can’t possibly be your son.”

Timoteo laughed, though the sound was wry. “Of course he isn’t my son. Did I ever say he was?”

“No, you had the good sense not to do that much, thank God.” Gianni threw himself down into his customary chair, scowling. “That won’t matter one bit now that you’ve taken him in, though. You know everyone will assume that he’s your—” He stopped short, unwilling to say it.

“My bastard? Yes.” Timoteo’s expression turned distant. “Got, no doubt, during my wife’s final illness or shortly thereafter, when my manly needs overwhelmed my good sense. It’s a very tidy story, isn’t it?”

“Oh, very.” Gianni raked his hands through his hair. “Why the hell are you letting yourself play into it?”

“He’s very clearly of the Vongola line,” Timoteo said, brisk. “I suspect from one of the Second’s, actually. The boy favors him, and that one had at least half a dozen bastards that we know of, and probably a few more besides.”

That was fair enough, but— “You could have said so, and not let the world assume that he was yours.” The world would, of course, but at least it would save some of Timoteo’s face among those who knew him best.

Timoteo sighed. “Yes, of course I could have. But his Flame, Gianni… To be that young, and that angry…”

So that was how it was. Arguing with him was a lost cause when he’d made up his mind to right some wrong. “You can’t adopt every fatherless boy out there.”

Timoteo’s smile was quick. “No. But I can adopt this one.”

The crash was what seized Rafaele’s attention, but the shriek and the bellow which followed turned his steps away from the main hallway to investigate. That didn’t take long; a sobbing housemaid hurtled past him, her face white, as Xanxus emerged from his room, expression screwed up with anger. “Don’t fuck it up again, you stupid little sl—”

He stopped short when he saw Rafaele standing there.

“Now, what’s all this?” Rafaele asked, after a quick breath to calm himself.

Xanxus took a moment to answer; his struggle with the decision whether he was required to answer Rafaele was clear on his face. “My lunch was cold.”

“How unfortunate,” Rafaele said, as mildly as he could manage. “Was it worth screaming for? Or—” He craned his head; yes, it was as he’d expected. “—throwing the whole thing at the wall?”

“I was aiming at her,” Xanxus said, with the simplicity of honesty. “But she ducked.”

“You were—you do realize that you could have hurt her, don’t you?” Rafaele asked, with what he felt was really quite admirable restraint.

“It wouldn’t have,” Xanxus said, composedly. “If the soup had been hot, then I wouldn’t have had to get angry.”

Ice slid down Rafaele’s spine at the boy’s calm. “It wasn’t worth getting angry about in the first place.”

Xanxus’ eyes went flat and cold. “You’re not my father,” he said. “You can’t tell me what to do.” His hands flexed, and the air pressure changed with the first oppressive edges of his Flame dancing along his fingers.

“No,” Rafaele said, after a measured moment. “I suppose I can’t. But I can tell your father what it is you’ve done.” This time, he added silently. Xanxus really was a singularly unpleasant boy. “Perhaps you’d better come with me,” he added, turning away, careful not to let Xanxus entirely out of his sight.

“I’m not going to,” Xanxus said. “You can’t make me.” His chin lifted; what should have looked like a twelve-year-old’s petulance looked more like an adult’s contempt. “You know he won’t do anything, anyway. I deserve the best.”

Rafaele lost the struggle with himself, although, if he were honest, he wasn’t trying very hard. “The best is a privilege you need to earn,” he said.

“Bullshit.” Xanxus smirked. “Run along and tell the old man I said so, and see what he says. You’ll see.”

“Mm. I think I’ve known the Ninth a little longer than you.” Rafaele stopped himself and drew a breath. When had he sunk so low that he’d argue with a child? “You may want to clean that soup up before it stains.”

Xanxus’ lip curled, but he turned on his heel. As Rafaele started downstairs for the Ninth’s study, he heard the boy pick up the house phone and call for a servant to come clean up the mess.

He had to wait to speak with the Ninth, who was closeted with Gianni, Federico, Maria, and Fedele—discussing negotiations with the Barassi, Rafaele suspected. Given Maria’s predatory smile when the conference let out, he supposed they must have decided to get tough with the Barassi—she loved it when she got to intimidate other Families into behaving.

The other three remained, even after the Ninth called him in, and listened to the story too. Gianni stayed impassive through the whole thing, and Fedele tried to mimic his mentor’s stoic expression, but was at least two decades too young to master the effect. Federico, on the other hand, didn’t bother disguise his disdain for his adopted brother’s behavior.

The Ninth shook his head after Rafaele had finished. “That’s the third time this month. And he was so good last month.”

“For a relative value of good,” Federico said. “Dad, you’ve got to do something with him before we lose all our help.”

“Boarding school, perhaps,” Gianni suggested. “Some place that emphasizes discipline.”

“I’m not going to send Xanxus away.” The Ninth’s voice had just enough edge to it to make clear that the suggestion should not be made again. “I’ll speak to him.”

“Because that does so much good,” Federico grumbled, and then held up his hands when his father frowned. “You’re the Boss, Dad, and he’s your… project.”

“And your brother now,” the Ninth said.

Federico’s mouth quirked. “So they tell me,” he said, dry. “It’s hard enough with Enrico and Massimo. Couldn’t you have brought us a cute little sister to spoil instead of Xanxus? It’s difficult to be brotherly to a porcupine.”

Rafaele hid a smile as Federico defused his father’s irritation; he was coming along nicely, that one. It was no wonder the Ninth favored him most of his three sons. Four sons, now. “I’ll be on my way,” he said, since he’d discharged his duty to that poor girl.

“So will I,” Federico said, standing. “Keep an eye out for that little sister, Dad. Come on, Fedele.”

The Ninth’s laughter followed the three of them out.

“Boarding school,” Federico said, thoughtfully, once they were safely away. “I like that idea. Pity it won’t ever happen.”

Fedele snorted. “Hard to make up for lost time at a boarding school.”

Rafaele raised an eyebrow; Michele’s boy had sharp eyes on him.

“Pity,” Federico said again, and shook his head. “I keep thinking that one of these days the kid’s got to settle down. Then I remember that we’re about to hit the teenage years and I want to go get myself a stiff drink.”

“Don’t go borrowing too much trouble,” Rafaele said. “He’s your brother, not your son. Leave that headache to your father.”

Federico’s smile was bright. “I think I will, at that.” He clapped Fedele on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s head down to the range. I want a rematch after yesterday.”

“Ready to be embarrassed again so soon?” Fedele grinned. “You’re a glutton for punishment these days.”

“Big talk, little man,” Federico retorted, and scrubbed his hand through Fedele’s curly hair. “I have a bottle of wine that says I’ll win this match.”

“You’re on, boss,” Fedele said, and they went off, laughing.

Rafaele watched them go, smiling. Perhaps there wasn’t any helping Xanxus, but at least the Ninth’s youngest made up for him.

Iemitsu was running late and knew it, but when he fetched up against the knot of the Ninth’s sons—who were supposed to be at the same meeting he was later for—he couldn’t help stopping, with a frisson of relief. Best to be late in company, he decided, and the higher the rank of that company, the better. He slowed to a saunter, and insinuated himself at the edge of the group.

The cause of their delay came clear at once. Xanxus was glaring at his adoptive brothers, expression as mutinous as only a fifteen-year-old’s could be. “Make me,” he said, jaw jutting out.

His brothers exchanged nearly identical exasperated glances with each other. “Father said we were all supposed to attend,” Enrico pointed out, with all the authority of the eldest brother, as if that appeal to the Ninth’s desires was likely to sway Xanxus.

“Then let the old man make me,” Xanxus grunted, and tried to push his way past them.

Massimo caught his arm; of the three of them, he came closest to matching Xanxus’ budding strength. “That’s no way to talk about Father, you little punk.”

“Ask me how much I don’t care,” Xanxus retorted, twisting out of his grip, though not without some effort.

Before he could storm off, Federico gave it a shot. “Xanxus, it’s really time you started attending these meetings. You’re part of our Family. You should know how it’s run.”

Xanxus stopped, arrested, however briefly. Then he shook his head, snorting. “Fuck that,” he announced, despite his brief moment to consider the argument. “I have plans for my day. And they don’t involve listening to a pack of old men arguing with each other.”

He broke free of them, stalking off, and they let him go. After a moment, Massimo asked, wistfully, “Do you think that excuse would work for me, too?”

“Your name Xanxus?” Enrico asked. “No? Then yeah, I’m guessing not. God, he’s such a little ba—”

“You know Dad doesn’t like to hear him called that,” Federico said, mildly enough, and checked his watch. “Doesn’t like it when we’re late, either,” he said, grimacing.

“Shit,” Massimo grunted, and they moved off together, at a brisk pace. He glanced at Iemitsu as he fell in with them. “What’s your excuse?”

“Up late on the phone with Japan,” Iemitsu said, rueful.

“Where ‘Japan’ means his lovely Nana,” Enrico sing-songed, grinning, and his brothers laughed. “And how is Japan these days?”

“Lovely.” Iemitsu shrugged at them, perfectly aware that he was grinning like a fool and not caring in the slightest.

“When’s the wedding, again?” Federico smiled at him. “In the spring, right?”

“May,” Iemitsu told him, grinning harder.

“Not soon enough, eh?” Enrico asked, nudging his ribs.

They were upon the room where the Ninth held his business meetings, though. Iemitsu had no chance to do more than shrug at him before they all schooled their expressions and filed in.

“Ah,” the Ninth said, from his seat at the head of the table. “So glad to see that you could join us this morning, gentlemen.”

“Sorry, Father,” Federico said, meekly. “We were trying to persuade Xanxus to join us.”

“Emphasis on the ‘trying’,” Massimo muttered, under his breath, while Iemitsu was grateful to Federico for including him in that ‘we’. “Not so much with the succeeding.”

It was a good excuse, though; some of the iron in the Ninth’s expression unbent itself. “I see,” he said. “Sit down. We’ve delayed this meeting long enough.”

Iemitsu slid into his seat next to Guiseppe with a sigh, and tore his thoughts away from lovely Japan in order to turn them to the Vongola’s business.

Piero’d had the teaching of all the Ninth’s sons, insofar as fighting and self-defense had gone. He’d been the one who’d trained Enrico to be able to shoot without flinching and pulling the shot wide. He’d also been the one who’d seen that Massimo would only ever be a passable shot but was a demon with a set of throwing knives. He’d coaxed (and then berated) Federico into paying attention to the martial side of being a Vongola, when it had become clear who the Boss was looking at to be the Tenth.

He’d had the teaching of all the Boss’s sons, but of them, Xanxus was by far his best pupil, for all that he hadn’t come to Piero until he was ten years old. The boy, who was sullen with every other Guardian—or so Piero had heard from his brother and from the rest of them—seized upon the things Piero had to teach him, from how to disassemble and care for a gun to the places where the human body was most vulnerable to a quick, sharp blow. He was a pupil to do any teacher proud: a quick study at ten, and a competent shot by twelve. He began a growth spurt at fourteen and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Piero by sixteen, which was the first time he beat Piero in a hand-to-hand match.

When Piero had gotten his breath back, he rolled to his feet. “Not bad,” he told Xanxus, who was giving him a fiercely delighted smile, one of the ones that showed all his teeth. “When you get done growing, there isn’t going to be anyone stronger than you.”

“Of course not,” Xanxus said, as if it were only his due. “Come on, old man. Let’s go again.”

Piero was happy to oblige him. Let the others fret about the boy all they liked—what he liked was that Xanxus knew the value of strength the way his brothers never had.

By rights, the duty should have belonged to the Ninth, but he and Gianni and Maria were abroad, negotiating a trade agreement in Moscow. That left it to either him, Michele, or Rafaele to do it—and Rafaele’s dislike of Xanxus was years-established at this point. In the end, Paolo had flipped a coin with Michele and lost the toss.

That left him standing outside Xanxus’ rooms, knocking loudly and wondering where on earth the boy was. All the intelligence they had said that he was on the premises, but he hadn’t answered the repeated telephone calls—not the one at nine p.m, or the more urgent calls at midnight, then two, or the final, most urgent call, just an hour ago at four.

The door jerked open, and Xanxus glared at him, ferocious. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“We’ve been trying to reach you all night,” Paolo said, pointedly ignoring the fact that the boy—not a boy, really, he was seventeen, wasn’t he?—was naked. “May I come in? I’m afraid there’s something I need to tell you.”

“So tell me,” Xanxus growled, scratching his stomach.

“This isn’t really the kind of thing—”

“Just fucking spit it out,” Xanxus snapped. “I’m getting cold standing here.”

“Perhaps if you’d put something on, that wouldn’t be a problem,” Paolo retorted. Then he composed himself; now wasn’t the time. “Are you quite sure—”

Wrath crackled around Xanxus’ hands. “Tell me or I’ll beat it out of you,” he said, low and vicious.

For a moment, Paolo was tempted, if only because an outright attack on one of his Guardians might force Timoteo into doing something with the boy. Then he dismissed the idea. “Your mother,” he said, quietly. “She went into her final decline last night. I’m afraid she passed away about an hour ago.”

“That it?”

Paolo had prepared himself for a number of possible responses, but he hadn’t expected that tone of disinterest. “I’m very sorry.”

“You should be,” Xanxus said. “Waking a guy up at five in the morning for that. Christ.” He turned away.

“She called for you till the last,” Paolo said, harshly, wanting to punch through that chilly indifference. “She wanted to see you one last time. She died promising the doctors you’d be there any minute.”

Xanxus looked back at him, mouth turned up in a way that was hardly a smile. “Yeah? Guess that’s what happens to you when you drink too much. You got anything else, or can I get back to bed?”

“Nothing else,” Paolo said, biting the words out with more calm than he felt.

Xanxus slammed the door on him. After a moment, Paolo turned away from it to go find someone who would make the funeral arrangements.

Clearly Xanxus wasn’t going to do it himself.

It was a good day up until that point. The sun had shone through the ceremony, but the breeze had been just balmy enough to keep things comfortable, and the wedding had gone off without a single bobble. All his children had come to see their oldest brother married, and their mothers had even (mostly) agreed to suspend hostilities for the occasion.

All told, Michele couldn’t have asked to be happier, and told Fedele’s little bride Evelina as much when he claimed his dance with her. She blushed prettily and thanked him when he surrendered her back to Fedele at the close of his dance. Michele just grinned at her and elbowed his son in the ribs, and grinned harder when it didn’t even begin to budge the dazedly happy grin on Fedele’s face.

Perhaps the boy had known what he was about after all, waiting this long to get married.

Michele congratulated them again, and moved off the dance floor to find himself a bit of refreshment. His meandering path towards the bar required several stops—once to speak with the Ninth, who looked as proud of his godson’s marriage as he had over his own sons’ marriages. He had to stop again to accept congratulations from Paolo and a vigorous round of back-slappings from Piero. Then he had to dodge lovely Giulia, who didn’t seem to quite grasp the notion of “suspended hostilities” after all.

It was when he’d ducked behind the stand of potted palms to hide from her that he became aware of the altercation taking place in the little nook to his left. Michele didn’t consider himself the type to eavesdrop—was, in fact, quite bad at it, since he never had managed the trick of being still long enough to hear anything interesting. He couldn’t help overhearing the argument, though, especially when their voices rose sharply and the gist of the argument came clear in the woman’s, “No, I said no—” and the man’s impatient, “Come on.”

Michele sighed, good mood dimmed, and went to interfere. “Is everything all right over here?” he asked, pleasantly, to the back of the boor in question. The woman—well, the girl—flashed him a grateful look over her would-be suitor’s shoulder.

That earned him a growled, “Fuck off,” and Michele had to bite back a groan. He recognized that voice.

“Ah, Xanxus. Just the fellow I was looking for.” He took his life in his hands and brought a hand down on the boy’s nape, pulling him off the girl, who immediately seized her chance to escape and eeled away from Xanxus. “Come, walk with me.”

He was no mountain like Piero or Paolo, but he managed to keep his grip on Xanxus all the same, at least until he’d marched the boy outside. “Let go of me,” Xanxus snarled, and finally wrenched free of him on the terrace.

“Mm,” Michele said, looking him over. “You’re what, seventeen now?”

Xanxus just glared at him, death in his eyes. “Eighteen.”

“Right,” Michele said, blithely enough, but keeping a wary eye on him. “Now, as I remember, girls can be difficult at that age—” It was a lie, but a small one, in service to a good cause. “—But if you have to force them, you’re doing everything all wrong.”

Xanxus growled at him. “She didn’t have any business saying no to me.”

Michele forgot to smile, and just stared at him. “The hell she didn’t,” he managed, after a moment. “She has every right to say no if she likes.”

“Not to the Vongola,” Xanxus said, stubborn, and Michele felt his blood run cold at the solid conviction in his eyes.

“Yes, even to the Vongola,” he said, sharply. “Being the Vongola means that you have a responsibility to your people. You don’t rule them because you dominate them. You rule them because they trust you to. And even then, they still have their rights.”

It was hopeless, and he knew it before he’d even opened his mouth. Xanxus barely let him finish before rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Are we done here?”

Michele nodded, short and annoyed. “I suppose so. Leave the girls alone,” he added, sharp. “I’ll be watching you.”

Xanxus looked him over and sneered, and the pushed his way past Michele, heading back inside to the reception.

Michele looked up at the sky and took a long breath, making a note to himself to speak to the Ninth later. Someone had better take the boy in hand, and soon. His sense of what it meant to be one of the Vongola was completely askew.

“You have a problem,” Maria said, without any preliminaries, as she let herself into the Ninth’s office.

As usual, she had to wait for them to catch up with her. “Which of us?” the Ninth asked, while his son and Gianni blinked at her.

“You,” she said, leveling her finger at him. “But you’re going to have this problem too,” she told Federico. “Especially if that old fool you call a father doesn’t get this cleared up soon.”

“I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what it is,” the Ninth said, too cheerful by half.

He ought to have known better by this point.

“Xanxus,” Maria said, and folded her arms. The smile slid off the Ninth’s face.

“What’s he done this time?” Federico groaned.

“Nothing. Yet.” Maria held up her hand for them to wait while she finished. “I don’t know who you think you’re planning on leaving all this to when they cart you out of here in a pine box, but I can tell you that everyone sure seems to think that it’s going to be Xanxus. Especially Xanxus himself. Twenty years old and he’s the lord of creation. If you don’t want to cause yourself a headache later on, you’ll set him straight now.”

The Ninth held up a hand before either Gianni or Federico could say anything. “You’re quite sure of this?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Would I have told you otherwise?” she asked.

The Ninth glanced at his son. “You see what you might have to look forward to from the Cloud?”

“I can hardly wait,” Federico said, drily.

“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Gianni said, quietly; well, he always had been a sensible one. His shadow Fedele seemed to be listening, too. Good. “Xanxus does have his supporters. And you do seem to favor him outrageously.”

“Would you like to add ‘I told you so’ to that?” the Ninth returned.

“It hardly seems necessary,” Gianni murmured.

The Ninth sighed, fingers smoothing over the mustache that had finally finished going grey. “I’ll have to speak with him.” He looked at Federico. “You may have a fight on your hands, my boy. I doubt he’ll serve you, else.”

At least Federico had the wisdom to look sensibly nervous at the thought. “I’ll do what I have to, if it’s for the Family.”

“Of course you will,” Maria said, and directed her attention back to the Ninth. “Do it soon,” she told him. “You can’t afford to wait.”

“I,” the Ninth said, easing himself down into his seat after the Tomasso delegation had finally been placated and shown out, “am getting too damn old for this. I should retire.”

“Bite your tongue, Dad,” Federico said, with a tired grin, and hooked a finger in the knot of his tie, loosening it. “If you retire now, who’s going to deal with the Tomasso?”

“Not me,” the Ninth said, with great feeling. “That’s the whole point.” He glanced past his son to Iemitsu. “Still think it’s an honor and a privilege to be the outside advisor?”

“Of course, sir,” Iemitsu told him, keeping his face straight. Then he added, “It’s just a big damn pain in the ass, too.”

They all laughed, except for Maria, but even she smiled, just a bit. “You’re not wrong there,” the Ninth said, with a rueful smile. “The whole thing’s a pain in the ass. But once we finish getting the Tomasso put to bed, you’ll have some time to go visit that little family of yours.”

Iemitsu ducked his head, trying not to grin too hard at the thought. “Thank you, sir.”

“Perhaps I’ll go with you,” the Ninth mused, and his Guardians exchanged glances. “I understand that Japan is a fairly traditional retirement destination.”

Federico looked up, entire posture gone still in the process of shrugging off his jacket. “Dad?”

The Ninth looked back at him, mouth quirking under his mustache. “What?”

They all watched as Federico slipped out of his jacket, and hung it over the back of his chair before he spoke, carefully light. “If you’re not careful, we’re going to take you at your word there, and boot you out the door.”

“And why shouldn’t you take me seriously?” The Ninth leaned back in his chair. “You’re as old as I was when your grandmother retired. It’s time I found myself a beach somewhere and spent my dotage basking, don’t you think?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Michele sighed, as Federico and Fedele both goggled at the Ninth. “Can there be umbrella drinks, too? I think there needs to be umbrella drinks.” He grinned. “And pretty girls to serve them to us.”

“I don’t believe we were invited along,” Rafaele said, dry as dust, but Iemitsu thought he looked like he regretted it. Even Paolo looked thoughtful about the prospect.

“Why not?” the Ninth asked, with a grin. “Umbrella drinks for all of us, and we can let the kids get on with the business of running this place.” He glanced at his son. “If they’re ready for it.”

Federico glanced at Fedele, who shrugged. “Up to you, Boss,” he said. “You know I’ll go wherever you do.”

“Never doubted it for a moment,” Federico told him, and looked at his father. “I’m as ready as anyone can be, Father. If you’re ready to step down, then I’m ready to take your place.”

“Good, good.” Timoteo nodded. “After we finish with the Tomasso, then. We’ll start the transfer of power after all that is taken care of.” He brought his hands together. “Until then, I think a bottle of wine will have to serve us in the place of the umbrella drinks. Someone ring for that, would you?”

Fedele leaped to do as the Ninth had requested as the rest of them laughed and crowded around Federico to offer him their congratulations and advice.

Afterwards, Iemitsu always wondered that none of them, not even him, had thought to wonder how Xanxus would take the news of his adopted brother’s impending elevation to the position of the Tenth. In retrospect, it was an unforgivable oversight.

Michele, of all his Guardians, stayed closest to him during the hideous four days when no one knew where Federico, his third son, his successor-to-be, had disappeared to. When Timoteo looked at him, Michele’s tight, anxious expression, all his characteristic energy and good humor absent, felt like looking into a mirror. Federico wasn’t the only one who’d gone missing, after all. Fedele had been with him when he’d gone missing, as could only be expected of Federico’s right hand.

“I hate the waiting,” Michele said to him, on the second day, “but God knows I’m not sure I want it to end.”

Timoteo knew precisely what he meant. As the hours ticked past, with no word from Federico and no demands from the Vongola’s enemies, the ones who’d be delighted to use this lever against him, it became more and more difficult to hold on to hope, especially when the eyes of his people turned bleak, and then refused to meet his at all.

Timoteo waited, and hoped against all expectation of hope, and prayed, while Michele kept vigil with him, looking suddenly old, motionless except for the unceasing movement of the beads through his fingers and the prayers on his lips. Gianni stepped in Timoteo’s place while they waited, and young Iemitsu too, handling the Vongola’s business as well as Timoteo had ever managed to do.The rest of his Guardians worked tirelessly, searching for their lost nephews-by-proxy.

Enrico and Massimo and their families stayed where the Vongola’s footsoldiers could watch over them. Timoteo tried to look past the calculation in their faces, the way they looked each other with the weight of a shifting landscape in their eyes.

Of Xanxus he saw very little at all.

They sent Rafaele with the news.

He let himself into the south study quietly, shutting the door behind himself gently, as if too loud a noise would cause injury. Timoteo had been standing by the window, and turned at the first sound of the latch.

He could tell by the bowed line of Rafaele’s shoulders that there was news, and that it wasn’t good. “Rafaele,” he said, softly.

His Rain wouldn’t meet his eyes as he crossed the room, feet soundless on the thick pile of the carpet. He knelt, and pressed his forehead against the back of Timoteo’s hand. “Boss,” he said, very softly.

“Tell me,” Timoteo said, watching the convulsive way Michele’s hands tightened on his rosary.

“I’m so sorry, Boss,” Rafaele said, voice full of regret. “We’ll find who did this to him.”

“Fedele?” Michele said, hoarse, while Timoteo closed his eyes against the hurt of knowing for sure.

“No sign yet,” Rafaele said softly. “We haven’t stopped looking.”

“He can’t be far,” Michele said, voice gone thin and grey. “He wouldn’t have let that happen.”

No, he wouldn’t have, because Michele had named his son well. Timoteo opened his eyes. “What do you know?” he asked, when he thought he could bear it.

“Not… very much.” Rafaele hesitated, and climbed to his feet, grunting with it. He looked aside from both of them. “There’s—not very much left. Bone, mostly. It took dental records to make the identification.” He paused, swallowed. “Whoever did this… used fire to cover their tracks.”

Fire. As Michele’s head came up from his rosary, Timoteo said, “I see.”

“Fire,” Michele repeated, softly. “Flame. Boss—”

“I know.” Timoteo turned away from his two Guardians and the looks in their eyes. “I know.”

“Surely not,” Rafaele said. “His own brother—”

“Why not?” Timoteo asked, hearing the detachment in his own voice. “It’s a time-honored tradition. My own mother was quite ruthless with my uncles, remember?” And she had warned him to be careful with his own children, to boot. Why hadn’t he listened? “Oh, my boy,” he said, softly. “My boy, my boy…”

Even he wasn’t quite sure which of his sons he meant.

They found Fedele not long after they’d dispatched someone to the main house to tell the Ninth about Federico. Paolo had expected as much.

Fedele was still breathing, which he hadn’t expected at all.

No one had, actually, and it took a moment of staring at the mess of the man—bloody, unconscious, gasping for breath—for Paolo’s search party to decide what to do and how to react, when it was clear from the expressions on everyone’s faces that everyone was wondering how Fedele had managed to survive when Federico had not.

Paolo broke free of his paralysis first. “Vito, start the first aid,” he barked. “Don’t let him die on us now. He’s the only witness we’ve got.”

Vito sprang forward to do as ordered; he was field-trained and their best medic, and Paolo had selected him when hoping against sense and reason that they would find Federico alive. If anyone could keep Fedele alive just a little longer, Vito would be the one to do it.

“Someone get an ambulance and make sure the hospital is ready for us,” Paolo continued; Franco was already peeling away from them, running for the cars and civilization at a dead sprint. “Get word to the Ninth and the Sun!” Paolo called after him, and Franco raised a hand to indicate that he had heard.

“Sir.” Vito’s strained voice interrupted him before he could give any more orders. Paolo turned to see that the man was looking up from where he was kneeling over Fedele.

The bottom dropped out of Paolo’s stomach; surely the boy hadn’t lasted for four days only to die now— “What?”

“He’s trying to say something,” Vito said, slow, face gone shuttered and still. “You should hear.”

Paolo dropped to his knees next to Fedele, grunting at the ache of them, and bent close. The hiss and rattle of Fedele’s gasps for breath didn’t make sense, not at first, and Paolo frowned. “I don’t—” he began, and then stopped as the sibilants resolved into a word—a name.

“Xanxus,” Fedele said, each rasped syllable broken by a gasp for breath. “Xanxus has… the boss. Got to stop him. Got to…” He coughed, deep and wet, and the only thing Paolo could make out of the rest was Federico’s name.

“Shh,” Paolo told him. “We have Federico already.” It was the kindest thing he could think of to tell the boy.

Fedele stared up at him, eyes fever-bright and burning. “Alive…?” he rasped, flailing a hand and fisting it in Paolo’s coat.

“Shh,” Paolo hushed him again, wrapping his hands around Fedele’s and gripping it. “Save your strength. You’re going to need it.”

Federico had picked well when he’d chosen his right hand; Fedele made a sound, low and raw, and closed his eyes. “No…”

There wasn’t anything to say to that, so Paolo gripped his hand and stayed by him until the team of doctors came through the trees for him.

Gianni brought the report to the Ninth, carrying it from the hospital where Fedele was struggling with his injuries and infections and demons. “He’s awake again,” he announced, when he’d let himself into the Ninth’s study and had shut the door behind him.

The Ninth didn’t move from where he sat, hunched and exhausted, at his desk.

Gianni placed himself on the carpet before the Ninth’s desk, and drew a breath to steel himself for the report. “Fedele is willing to testify that he and Federico were lured away from the Vongola house by Xanxus, and were ambushed by him in a secluded location near where we found them. Fedele says he went down fighting Xanxus, and does not know precisely what happened to Federico, but will swear to it that Xanxus and Federico were fighting each other before he lost consciousness.” Gianni paused, and took another breath. “He insists that Xanxus shot first. Without provocation.”

The Ninth moved, slowly, passing a hand over his face; he seemed to have aged ten years in the past five days. “Yes. I had… thought that would have been the way of it.” He sounded exhausted. Resigned.

“What are your orders?” Gianni asked, when the Ninth didn’t say anything else.

The Ninth turned his chair away from him, staring out the window over the gardens. “It is traditional for a Family’s heirs to fight each other for the position,” he said, when he finally spoke. “Especially when there are multiple strong candidates.”

“Xanxus isn’t a candidate, Boss,” Gianni told him, after sucking in his breath sharply. “He’s not your son by blood. He’s not legitimate.”

“No. No, not technically. But he has the fire for it. The strength for it.” The Ninth fell silent again. “One must always think of what will be best for the Family.”

“Whatever that may be, it isn’t Xanxus,” Gianni told him, hearing the harshness in his own voice and hating the necessity of it. “Xanxus doesn’t give a damn about the Family. All he cares about is what the Family will do for him.”

“And yet that may be all that is necessary.” The Ninth’s voice was cool, remote—clinical right down to the heart of it. “He has enough of an instinct for self-preservation to remove Federico. He isn’t stupid at all. If he becomes the Tenth, he will have to hold the Family together in order to make it serve his desires. In the end, that’s all it really takes.”

“Boss…” Gianni stopped, and drew a deep breath. “Timoteo. Is that what you want the Vongola to become?”

“No, of course it isn’t.” The Ninth looked at him, eyes dark and full of pain. “But I wonder if it’s something I have a choice in, now?”

“There’s always a choice,” Gianni said, low. “You know that as well as I do. The question isn’t that. It’s whether we have the courage to make it.”

The Ninth looked away again. “No,” he said. “The time to make that choice is past. And because I chose wrongly, Federico has paid for it.”

“But Xanxus, Boss,” Gianni said, hands knotting at his sides. “You can’t leave the Vongola to him. Enrico and Massimo don’t have the fire, true, but they’re still better than Xanxus. I’m telling you this as your Mist, as your right hand, and as your friend. Don’t do this to our Family. Please.” When that didn’t seem like it was reaching the Ninth, he forced himself to add, “For the sake of your son’s memory, if for no other reason.”

Judging by the sound the Ninth made, he could have shot the man and hurt him less. Gianni held his ground, and kept his gaze steady, hating himself for it, and after a moment, the Ninth looked away. “Tell him,” the Ninth said, low and harsh. “Tell him why he won’t be the Tenth, no matter how many of his brothers he kills.”

Gianni exhaled, carefully, and bowed as low as he could manage. “Yes, Boss,” he said, quietly. “Thank you. For the sake of our Family.”

“Leave me,” the Ninth said, turning away from him.

Gianni swallowed hard, and let himself out.

“Ready?” Gianni asked, as they stood outside the door to Xanxus’ rooms.

“No,” Rafaele told him, frank about it since there was no way of being ready for this. He expected that Xanxus probably wouldn’t attack them, not here in the heart of the Vongola mansion, with most of the other Guardians present as well, but he almost welcomed him to try, just so they’d have the excuse. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gianni snorted at him, shifted the papers he carried to his off hand, and knocked.

Xanxus didn’t answer; instead, a girl came shuffling to the door, barely decent, and that only because the man’s shirt she wore came down to her thighs. She blushed to see them standing there, which was something, anyway. “Yes?” she asked, uncertainly, brushing messy hair out of her eyes.

“We’re here to see Xanxus,” Gianni said, kindly enough. “Tell him that it’s Family business.”

“Oh,” she said, sleepy eyes going wide, and held the door open for them. “I’ll just—if you’ll come in—I’ll go wake him?”

“If you would, please,” Rafaele murmured, as she ushered them into the sitting room of Xanxus’ suite.

“It’s going on eleven in the morning,” Gianni muttered to him, as they stood and waited. “Honestly.”

“It’s nothing unusual for him, I gather,” Rafaele returned, easily enough, despite his own disapproval. Perhaps it was the boy’s age, though, and because of the pretty creature who’d answered the door, and not any more sinister motive.

The girl came creeping out of the suite’s inner rooms after a few minutes, head bowed and clothes messy enough to indicate a hurried dressing, and let herself out without a word. Xanxus kept them waiting several minutes more, and when he finally appeared, he was freshly showered and wearing an impeccable suit.

Rafaele doubted that he’d taken such care with his appearance out of any respect for their business.

“Well?” Xanxus said, after he’d cast himself into the massive, ornate arm chair that dominated the room. “What do you want?” He smirked up at them, as if daring them to say anything about his attitude.

“Fedele Rizzo has been found,” Gianni said, voice chilly and professional. “He has indicated that he and Federico Vongola were attacked by you, wholly without provocation.”

Xanxus’ expression flickered, just briefly, uneasiness crossing it, before he shrugged. “So what?”

“The forensic evidence that we’ve recovered from Federico’s body indicates that the flames used to kill him were not the ordinary kind,” Gianni continued, still dry and relentless—what Rafaele privately thought of as his courtroom voice, the one Gianni adopted to execute difficult Family business. “As all three other Sky Flame users within the Vongola are accounted for, and the Sky is itself a fairly rare attribute, it seems clear from the evidence that you were the one who killed Federico Vongola.”

Xanxus had gotten a good grip on his face by this point, and the only thing that he showed now was lazy indifference. “So what?” he said, again. “He was in my way.”

“As it so happens, he was not,” Gianni said, calmly, and Rafaele held himself ready, keeping a wary eye on Xanxus as Gianni gestured with his sheaf of papers.

Uncertainty crossed Xanxus’ face again. “What the fuck does that mean?” he demanded, after a moment. “The old man was all set to retire and let him take over, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was,” Gianni said. “Federico actually was his son, after all. You are merely his adopted son.”

Xanxus stared at them, eyes gone dark and opaque. “Bullshit.” He raised a hand, Flame and wrath wrapped around it, oppressively heavy. “He said it himself. This is a Vongola Flame.”

“While it is true that the Sky Flame is most commonly found in the Vongola Family, it is not unheard of in other Families,” Gianni carried on, each word precise in the face of Xanxus’ crackling Flame. “The Giglio Nero are known to possess it, and we have reports that the young Cavallone does as well.”

“The old man said it himself,” Xanxus insisted, fierce. “He said that this is the Vongola Flame. He said that I was his son.”

“He said no such thing,” Gianni said, contradicting him in the flattest tones possible. “I was there, if you’ll recall, and the only thing that he said was that the Flame appeared to be a Vongola Flame. You and your mother inferred the rest.”

Xanxus stared at them for a long moment, and then laughed, short and ugly. “So what?” he demanded. “You don’t have any proof that I’m not, and I have the Flame. What else matters?”

Rafaele didn’t have to be watching Gianni to know that he was raising his eyebrows in that infuriatingly superior way he had. “Proof?” Gianni repeated, tone deceptively mild, and Rafaele kept a close watch on Xanxus, who hadn’t sat in on enough of the Vongola’s business meetings to know how dangerous that tone was. “I have copies here of four paternity tests, for you and your adoptive brothers. Yours is the only one that turns up negative. You are not now, nor have you ever been, Timoteo Vongola’s son, except in the adoptive sense and in his patience with your arrogance in assuming that you were.”

“You’re lying,” Xanxus said, low and vicious, both hands wreathed in Flame and desperation. “You’ve never liked me, and now that that little shit Federico is dead, you’re coming up with lies to keep me from my rightful place.”

“Please.” Gianni drawled the word out, sounding bored. “You’re dealing with the right hand of the Vongola, boy. Give me some credit for knowing my business.” He dropped the sheaf of papers on the low table before Xanxus. “I have known the Ninth all his life. While your mother was conceiving you, he was sitting in the best hospital in Rome, holding his wife’s hand and watching her die by inches. He was not unfaithful to her then, and he hasn’t been since. But he’s a kind-hearted man, and chose to show more mercy to a madwoman and her son than either of them deserved. And you’ve repaid him by destroying his youngest son and the Vongola’s best hope for the future.”

Xanxus stared at him, something like doubt appearing in his eyes. Then he covered it with rage. “Get out,” he snarled at them. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

“As you like,” Gianni said, and they began edging backwards, towards the door, not trusting their backs to him. “We do ask that you refrain from killing either Enrico or Massimo. The Vongola cannot spare any more of its sons.”

“Get out!” Xanxus roared, reaching for the nearest object at hand.

They ducked into the hall and shut the door just in time to dodge the thrown lamp. The crash of its shattering against the wall was shortly followed by the sound of other crashes, which were themselves accompanied by a steady stream of roared curses.

“You didn’t tell him about the family tree,” Rafaele noted, neutrally, after a moment.

“It’s in the papers,” Gianni said, straightening his tie, face still. “He’ll find it when he looks through them.”

“If he looks at them,” Rafaele said, after a moment to consider it. And even if he did, it was entirely possible that Xanxus wouldn’t find being one of the descendants of the Second good enough.

“That’s not really something that concerns me,” Gianni said, clipped.

“I suppose it’s not,” Rafaele agreed, because he couldn’t deny that there was a certain dark satisfaction in finally seeing something punch through the shell of Xanxus’ arrogance after twelve years of dealing with it. He pushed himself away from Xanxus’ door. “Come on. After that, I need a drink.”

“You need a drink?” Gianni retorted, falling in with him. “All you did was watch.”

“I watched your back,” Rafaele corrected him.

The crashes and the curses continued behind them as they bickered their way down the hall, away from Xanxus’ room.

The crowd at Federico’s funeral was notable for its absences, gaps which were conspicuous among the faces of those who were present. Most prominent was Fedele’s, though he could hardly have been expected to rise from the hospital bed where he was still fighting off the effects of exposure and infection in order to attend. (Although it hadn’t stopped him from trying, and Iemitsu was only glad that they’d been able to stop him in time.)

Xanxus was absent as well, though mafia tradition had never precluded the triumphant presence of one candidate for succession at the funeral of his opponent. That was just as well, Iemitsu decided, since good taste did forbid such a thing.

More troubling, he decided, as he circulated through the crowd, was the undercurrent of talk that connected Fedele’s absence to Xanxus’. It was a nonsensical thing to suggest, of course, but that didn’t stop more than a few people from whispering as much to each other.

Federico’s wife and daughter were present, but the remote expression on Aminta’s face spoke of the bags she had already packed, and her intention to remove herself and her daughter from the Vongola house as soon as the funeral had ended. He hadn’t been present for the conversation she’d had with her father-in-law, but they all knew by now that she’d vowed that she and her daughter would have no more to do with the Vongola.

Much good as a vow like that could do her. Still, Iemitsu wished her luck.

Enrico and Massimo were both present as well, but their minds were clearly miles away—on the line of succession, now that Xanxus had vanished to parts unknown and the named heir was dead. Neither had demonstrated the flare for command that Federico had possessed, but… running a Family didn’t demand a flare, necessarily. It just demanded competence.

They both had that.

Now they eyed each other warily, speaking to each other in commonplaces, while they calculated their chances of becoming the Tenth now that the opportunity had been so precipitously opened to them.

Damn Xanxus, anyway, for having upset the careful balance that the Ninth’s sons had worked out among themselves, because Iemitsu had a sinking feeling that the argument between Enrico and Massimo was going to be a bitter one.

Really, he was entirely grateful that his own position as the outside advisor had removed him from the line of succession altogether. That was one less headache in his life, anyway.

Maria let herself into the Ninth’s study quietly, and waited for him and Gianni to acknowledge her presence. “I’ve found Xanxus,” she said, when they looked up. “Alive, even,” she added, which was, in her opinion, an absolute pity.

It had an electrifying effect on the Ninth. He sat up straighter, and passed a hand over his face. “Oh, thank God,” he sighed. “I’d feared he’d gone and done something—rash.”

Both she and Gianni pretended not to notice the dampness in his eyes. “Don’t make stupid assumptions, you senile old man,” she retorted. “He’s taken up with the Varia.” That was rashness enough to fill a book.

Gianni made a sound, surprised, and then thoughtful. “How appropriate.”

“Gianni.” The Ninth’s voice was low, colder than Maria had ever heard him be with one of them, though the Ninth had been remarkably cool towards his right hand in the weeks since Federico’s death.

Gianni flinched, and then raised his hands. “I mean no offense,” he said, quickly. “But the Varia would suit his personality, don’t you think? Give him some direction?”

“I can’t argue with that last,” Maria observed. “He’s found plenty of direction with them. Hell, he’s taken over.”

That made the Ninth forget his anger. “He has?” he said, sharply, and then frowned. “Pity. That Squalo showed a great deal of promise, especially for someone so young.”

“Squalo stepped aside, it seems,” Maria corrected him, since the Ninth was bound and determined to leap to conclusions today.

“Wise of him,” Gianni muttered. His voice was low enough that the Ninth let it pass unremarked.

“That’s good,” the Ninth said, and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together and tapping them against his lips. “Have you seen him, then?”

“He wasn’t receiving visitors,” Maria said, bland, which covered a multitude of the sins committed when the Varia had tried to throw her out, and the curses Xanxus had shouted after her, about the Ninth.

The Ninth was so used to taking her word as whole and complete that he didn’t ask for more. “Ah…”

“Give it time, Boss,” Gianni suggested.

The Ninth sighed again. “Time, yes. Time will do it, I hope.”

A pretty platitude, but not for Xanxus, Maria thought. Not for his rage. But perhaps the Ninth would be able to Will himself a miracle with his adopted son. She’d seen him do it before.

All the same, counting on a miracle was nothing but foolishness, she decided, catching Gianni’s eye and giving him a significant look.

He caught up with her a few minutes after she’d excused herself. “What is it?” he asked.

“The Varia,” Maria said. “I don’t like the looks of the ones Xanxus is gathering to himself. Don’t much like the look of Xanxus, either.”

“How so?” he asked.

“You ever seen a dog go rabid?” she asked him, and watched his eyebrows drift up. “They’ll turn on anyone when they do. Even their masters. Especially their masters.”

He took a breath. “The Varia?”

“I want to keep an eye on them,” she said. “And step up security.” These days, with Xanxus, surely it was better safe than sorry.

“Done,” he said, and Maria gave thanks for a man who was willing to be sensible. There were so very few of them, one had to acknowledge them. “Speak with the twins and do whatever you think is necessary. I’ll get the Ninth to agree somehow.”

“Done,” she said, and turned away. The Ninth couldn’t over-rule them when it came to his own safety, after all—that was what Guardians were for, and they were damn well not going to let Xanxus get away with any more slaughter than he already had.

The Ninth would just have to get used to it.

– end –

War of Aggression

by Branch

Squalo meets Xanxus and Xanxus meets the Varia, and everything follows from that. Beginning overlaps the end of “Blood Will Tell“. Drama, I-4, Squalo->Xanxus UST

Character(s): Gianni Staffieri, Michele Rizzo, Ninth gen, Rafaele Martelli, Superbi Squalo, Timoteo Vongola, Varia, Xanxus

The sword was everything to Squalo—the purity of a single goal and the cleanness of perfection. In a world that hid so much, despite the stark edges of every word and action, the sword was one thing that made perfect sense. It made him a little crazy that no one else seemed to understand that.

Really crazy.

He’d started his training journey hoping to find other people who understood, looking for them eagerly around every new corner, and a few even seemed to. But only a few, the ones it took a few days to defeat.

He had started out killing only when the fight went that way, when the swords called for it: the man in northern China, with the hawk that watched them fight and flew when he fell, the old man in France who’d torn a line through Squalo’s ribs and smiled with his last breath, blood trickling past his bared teeth. After a while, though, Squalo started asking the swords for it, asking to obliterate disappointment after disappointment. It was only a small ease, but it was something.

Even that wore thin after a while, and he killed indifferently. Perfection was the only thing left to chase; someone else to understand it was obviously too much to ask the world for.

When he returned, Tyr shook his head and told him he’d live happier if he served the Vongola instead of the sword. Squalo wanted to scream his denial of that, but he didn’t use his voice to do it; it was better to let his sword answer, scream after scream of steel on steel through the hours, through the slant and set of sunlight, as his breath came light and burning in his lungs. He didn’t bother telling Tyr’s body that he would serve the sword; Tyr’s body already knew.

Walking among the Vongola was like walking among any other people—like walking through paper dolls, clumsy and thin, only a few of them with any fire in them and that infuriatingly hidden. He went where he was asked, showed around to the few who knew what he would be, and it meant nothing.

Until him.

Squalo didn’t even know who he was, at first, only that in a garden full of thin, airy people, he was dark and dense and hot, hot enough to melt even sword steel. When Squalo asked his name, burning eyes slid through him and he barely heard the answer.

"Xanxus."

Squalo had never known a human could be a sword, be that single of mind, that perfectly focused—that crazy. It only took a few days to realize the last part, but by then he didn’t care.

Before

"The Varia." Xanxus frowned a little. "Who are they?"

Squalo cocked his head; did the Boss hold that back even from his sons? Well, he hadn’t been told not to tell the heirs, so it didn’t matter really. "We’re the Vongola’s assassins. We’re the best."

The fire at the back of Xanxus’ eyes flared for a moment. "The best, huh?" His thin mouth curled. "That’s a start." He focused on Squalo and Squalo almost swayed back with the weight of it. "Show me."

"Our headquarters are in a different house."

Xanxus shrugged. "So?"

After a moment, Squalo laughed. Of course it wouldn’t make any difference; nothing would make any difference to this man or mark the purity of his purpose. He swept out his right hand and bowed with a flourish, half mocking and dead serious. "Right this way."

They walked past the mansion’s guards without a word, and Squalo saw the way Xanxus’ eyes marked where each one stood, aware of every target around him. They took the best car from the garages; Xanxus pulled the keys out of the cabinet and tossed them at Squalo, who shrugged. It was appropriate, wasn’t it?

He did want to see, some time, how Xanxus would drive, whether he’d do it as fast and hard as he walked and spoke and looked, but that could wait.

They were waved through into the sprawling old building the Varia kept, as soon as the guards there recognized Squalo, and no one commented about the man he was showing around the white plastered training rooms. People did gather, though.

"Weak," Xanxus muttered, eyes passing over the lower ranks working out, adding cuts and craters to the walls, to be patched over like all the others. Squalo snorted and nodded toward the far corner where Viper was playing mind games with one of the stronger of the new recruits. Xanxus watched, not blinking as walls appeared and vanished, as Levi punched through them trying to reach his opponent. "Hmph." Finally he pushed away from the wall. "All right, then. I’ll take the Varia."

A startled sound ran through the watchers and one of the squad leaders shouldered forward. "Only the Varia decide who we’ll recruit and accept. Who says you’re good enough for us?"

"I say he is." Squalo’s flat voice cut through the mutter of agreement and stilled it.

Xanxus paused in his step forward to turn and glare at him. "And who are you?"

"The leader of the Varia." Squalo lifted his chin, matching Xanxus’ hot stare. A corner of Xanxus mouth curled up, neither a smile nor a snarl.

"Not any more."

"Not any more," Squalo agreed, voice a little husky despite himself, because standing under Xanxus’ eyes was like standing in a fire.

"Fucking right, not any more, if you give it up that easy," Fazio called, moving up to stand across from them. His squad second, the one who’d protested the most when Squalo, instead of Fazio, took over after Tyr, stood at his shoulder and suddenly there was a block coming together. Squalo curled his lip and reached for his sword; his new left hand wasn’t ready yet, but he could take these right handed and end this now.

Light flickered at the corner of his eye and he glanced over, breath catching as what had to be the Vongola Flame gathered in Xanxus’ bare hand. Squalo looked up at him, at his suddenly fixed smile and the rage in his eyes, and bent his head, stepping back.

He watched, leaning against the uneven wall, while Xanxus’ fists pounded the third squad leader until he couldn’t have three unbroken bones left, while Xanxus shot Fazio’s second five times and barely looked at him, while Xanxus closed his burning hand on Fazio’s face and blasted his head off. In the silence afterwards, broken only by Xanxus’ hard breaths hissing past his teeth, Squalo looked around and nodded.

"Looks like that’s that, then." He waited until Xanxus looked at him and a little of the killing glaze left his eyes, and added, "Boss."

Xanxus flexed his hand, breath steadying, shoulders relaxing a little. "Damn right."

Xanxus took over rooms on the west side with a balcony hidden behind trees; Squalo was glad, because Xanxus wanted to see him at odd times and he didn’t much care for the insipid atmosphere of the main headquarters.

"So what is it you want, anyway?" he asked one afternoon, leaning against the balcony’s rough stone rail, watching Xanxus slouch in one of the two chairs. He asked half just to see the fire in Xanxus’ eyes flare, but half because he was really starting to wonder.

"The Vongola," Xanxus growled.

"So you’re passing the time here until the Ninth kicks off?" Squalo’s mouth twisted, but he couldn’t manage too much bitterness. The time he had to be near this fire was more than he might have expected to get from one of the heirs.

"I’m not going to wait for that."

Squalo started upright, wavering on the rail before he caught himself, eyes wide as he stared at the thin, crooked smile Xanxus was wearing. "You… what?"

Xanxus looked up and Squalo got lost again in the raw ferocity of his gaze. "They won’t let me inherit."

"I thought you were favored for it, now that Federico is dead," Squalo said slowly. He swore he’d heard at least half the under-bosses of the Family talking about how they’d want Xanxus to be the Tenth.

"Not by the old bastard. Not by any of the old men." Xanxus didn’t move from his slouch in the dappled shade, but violence in waiting sang from the line of his shoulders, the tension of his hands. It made Squalo a little breathless.

"So you’re going to take it anyway?" he asked, low, eyes fixed on Xanxus. "Take it now?"

Xanxus smiled up at him, teeth bared, and the weight of his intent nearly buckled Squalo’s knees. "Yeah."

Squalo’s brain finally kicked into gear. "That’s why you want us?"

"Mm." Xanxus’ intensity banked again and he picked up his glass and drained it. "Some of you anyway."

Xanxus’ particular attention to a few dozen of the Varia snapped into a pattern and Squalo laughed. This was a goal that matched that burning focus. "If that’s what you want. Boss." They both heard the difference in the way he said it, this time, and a moment of satisfaction hooded Xanxus’ eyes.

Only the strongest should lead, that was an article of faith among the Varia. As far as Squalo was concerned, Xanxus was the Tenth.

"It’s the best moment for us to go. Reborn is assigned out to the Cavallone and the outside advisor is back in Japan. The Storm will still be around, but the Cloud is out putting the fear of her into the Valetti, we can deal with her later. The Thunder is up in Venezia this month, too."

"That means we still have four of them to hit." Otello frowned, flipping a knife absently. "Will they be on the Ninth or the entrances?"

"Everyone agrees the Mist will stay on the Ninth and the Storm will go for the front line." Squalo folded his arms, leaning a hip on the scarred wood table that filled the middle of the room. "The Rain and the Sun could do either."

"Levi for the front whenever the alarm goes up, then," Carlo murmured, and the entire room chuckled. Carlo approved of his new squad member, but Levi’s enthusiasm had given even him some headaches.

"We’ll come through here," Squalo rapped a knuckle over the main entrance. "Vinci, your squad will come in from the north. Get past as many of the small fry as you can without involving them, they don’t need to know until it’s over."

Vinci flicked a glance at Xanxus, sprawled in his chair and not looking like he was paying any attention at all. Squalo rolled his eyes.

He was treating this as just another assassination, and that meant blueprints and timing and people knowing who was going to be where. Xanxus, as far as he could tell, would prefer to ditch all that and burn through the front door and every wall in his way on a straight line between him and the Ninth. It wasn’t that Squalo actually minded that, and he’d assigned himself to go in with Xanxus so he could watch it happen. Some of the others, even after six months to get used to it, weren’t taking their new boss’ brooding as calmly.

Or maybe it was just that Vinci was the one who’d been promoted to replace Fazio.

"North side. Right." Vinci said, finally, and Squalo snorted.

"Get with it, or I’ll kill you my own damn self! There’s no room for screw ups in this one."

That lit up everyone in the room, spines straightening, eyes brightening. This would, without question, be the ultimate test of their strength. A corner of Squalo’s mouth drew up. They were going to put the best, the realest Vongola in charge. The Vongola who understood strength.

The Vongola who was purest.

Sirens were going, surprise was blown, so was some of the middle of the mansion, the air was hard to breath for the hanging gunpowder, and Squalo was laughing.

This was it, this was how it should be, the unstoppable rush along that one single line toward victory. He ran at Xanxus’ back, spinning aside to cut down the men who tried to flank them, and pure exhilaration filled him, shivering down his spine every time Xanxus fired.

They had figured they would have to go through at least one of the Guardians before they even found the Ninth and the Sun was the one they ran into. Somehow Squalo wasn’t surprised.

"Xanxus!" Rizzo shouted, and Squalo saw the distant focus in Xanxus’ gaze come closer for a moment, lips pulling up off his teeth.

"Fedele! My son, you little piece of shit!"

Xanxus actually laughed at that, and Squalo fell back out of his way.

Rizzo and Xanxus left their guns aside and met with their fists, brutal and fast in the middle of the open hall. They ignored anything happening around them and almost nothing was; Squalo cut down the three defenders who had followed him and Xanxus this far through the twisting maze of hallways. Rizzo was the only one who had come from ahead. Squalo eyed the open door beyond him and smiled, teeth bared. That was one of the entrances to the vaults.

There weren’t even words to Rizzo’s shouting anymore, just raw rage as he drove fists and feet into Xanxus. Xanxus didn’t bother to answer out loud, but the glimpses Squalo got of his snarl, of the frozen hate in his eyes, were harsher than any curses.

Finally, Xanxus kicked Rizzo back toward the open door, drew his gun, and smiled. Squalo’s breath caught at the chill calculation in that look, and he dove for the floor as Xanxus fired, Flame blooming out from the path of it, cracking the walls. The shot smashed Rizzo back through the door and down the stairs, and Squalo dove after him on Xanxus’ heels.

There were more gunmen down in the vaults.

Squalo rolled and came up behind a pillar, poised to dash in to sword range, eye mapping the field. Rizzo was down; a handful of the Varia were running in from the other side of the vaults; the Ninth was to the back; Xanxus was roaring and charging towards him; the old man’s right hand was coming to meet him. The Storm and Sun were accounted for upstairs. That left…

Squalo threw himself aside as another sword cut the stone over his head. He looked up and bared his teeth at the Rain, the one who thought he was a swordsman. "Not bad. But not good enough!" He twisted his arm to draw his sword.

"You’re quick to judge that," Martelli returned, cool, and attacked again.

He was sharp and fast, the cool part of Squalo’s mind observed, and he had some fire. But not enough of it. Squalo drove in again and again, willing to pay with blood for the openings that would lead to victory, matching his still-light frame against the age of Martelli’s joints. The gash across his shoulder matched the one in Martelli’s thigh and they both had to dive apart to avoid the slashing shards of stone where Xanxus’ blast hit one of the pillars.

Martelli’s style was evasive, his sword light; he wouldn’t meet any of Squalo’s cuts straight on enough for the moves like Attacco di Squalo to work. Squalo pressed in on him, watching the line of his sword, working to cage it. Martelli turned the moment and and bound his sword for a breath. Squalo’s grin pulled a bit wider; Martelli wasn’t a true swordsman, but he was good enough to be interesting.

"Why have the Varia betrayed the Vongola?" Martelli asked, dark eyes locked with Squalo’s, pushing at his focus.

"We’ve betrayed nothing," Squalo growled back. "You lot with your pathetic, half-hearted spirits, what do you know about what’s true? How can you see it? We serve the Vongola through him." He shifted his balance and threw Martelli back, exultation leaping higher. There was the opening he wanted, as Martelli’s heel came down short, and he lunged for it, everything focused in the moment, clean and sharp and burning.

For a moment the purity of triumph kept him from feeling the pain.

"What’s true is the Family," Martelli said quietly in his ear, words cutting through the clamor and echo of the other fighting. "And what will best serve the Family is steel that’s tempered. Ruthlessness with compassion. Mercy with determination." His lips peeled back. "If you insist that we also prove the tempered blade is the strongest… I’ll trust Timoteo to do that."

Then Martelli fell and his sword ripped back out of Squalo’s side and he couldn’t completely stifle the sound he made. The cool, fluted stone of a pillar was at his back and he slid down it, staring across the floor at Martelli. He knew the truth of those words about tempering, but Xanxus…

"The best sword needs a will to wield it," he gasped. But it was too late; Martelli had passed out. Looking beyond him Squalo saw the Ninth’s right hand down as well. So it must be the Ninth himself he heard on the other side of the pillar, fighting with Xanxus.

Flame blew another chunk out of the pillar to his left and his mouth curled in a bloody smile; maybe he’d stay where he was for now.

And then the blasts stopped.

Squalo’s vision was going a bit gray at the edges, not that it was easy to tell in the darkness of the vaults. He pressed a hand tight to his side, biting down a harsh gasp, and listened. Had Xanxus won?

But no, Xanxus and the Ninth were both talking. Yelling. Squalo stared into the dark ahead of him, eyes stretched wide as he listened, and suddenly he understood the whole thing, understood why the purity of Xanxus’ rage had that edge of smoldering desperation sometimes. The cold of the stone behind and under him seeped into his bones as he listened.

When he heard shock in Xanxus’ voice and a sound he couldn’t identity, he rolled to the left, ignoring the tearing pain in his side, and saw all the passion and perfect focus he had ever wanted to follow frozen. That was the picture that followed him down into redness and then into blackness. His last, unraveling thought was that it wasn’t right. His death for failing this mission should have come at Xanxus’ hands.

After

Squalo stared up at the ceiling of a hospital room, watching the movement of the dim square of light reflecting off the tile floor and wondering a bit absently whether he was going to live. Having woken up here wasn’t an actual guarantee of life; they might just be saving him as a witness. The Ninth did seem to want justifications before he shot people.

When the Ninth’s right hand arrived alone and locked the door behind him, Squalo wondered some more.

Staffieri looked down at him coldly, and Squalo stared back. Finally the man spoke. "Xanxus is exiled."

Squalo laughed, even though it still hurt like hell; he couldn’t help it. "Ah. So he’s on ice, huh?"

Staffieri’s eyes narrowed. "You were conscious, then. And you didn’t stand by him?"

Squalo bared his teeth at that; they understood nothing. "And get in his way? Fuck no. Besides, without that hell technique, whatever the fuck it was, he’d have won." He took some satisfaction in the way Staffieri’s mouth tightened. He hoped the man was remembering who’d taken him down.

"Xanxus is no longer here," Staffieri continued, shifting stiffly on his feet. "And very few people know what happened that day, certainly none of Vongola’s enemies. It is the Ninth’s wish that this continue. If you will give your oath to obey only the Ninth’s orders, you will be released to take charge of the Varia once more and set it in order."

Squalo turned his eyes up to the blank ceiling again, energy and emotion alike running out of him. "Yeah. Sure I will." What was the point of doing otherwise, with Xanxus frozen in a block of fucking ice, for God’s sake? "The Varia belong to the Vongola."

And if it wasn’t the Vongola he’d wanted, well, what the hell else was he going to do?

Staffieri nodded silently and turned on his heel.

"Hey!" Squalo called, suddenly, and the man looked back over his shoulder. "Is Xanxus still alive, in there?"

Staffieri’s mouth tightened. "Yes."

And he didn’t like it, obviously. Tough. Squalo took a breath. "Is he conscious?"

Staffieri studied him for a long moment before finally answering. "I don’t believe so, no. He is… suspended, as it were."

Squalo closed his eyes. "Okay." As the door clicked open and shut he stared at the back of his eyelids and thought about that. It was about as merciful as being frozen could be; at least Xanxus wouldn’t know he was locked away like that.

A tiny thought stirred in the back of his head, suggesting that, if Xanxus ever got out, he would pick up right where he left off. Squalo shoved the thought in a mental box. He didn’t have much enthusiasm for serving the Ninth, but he didn’t want to die, either. He’d make his oath and mean it.

For as long as the Ninth lasted.

Squalo looked down the roster of the Varia and rolled his eyes. It was time to talk to Bel again about keeping down the fatalities when he played with the supporting members. He swore the little shit did it just to annoy him, because Bel was otherwise one of the most practical of the squad leaders, right up there with Mammon and far more willing to fight. He leaned back, crossing his ankles on the immovably solid desk, and scribbled a note to himself right handed as he flipped the roster back onto the desk and reached for this month’s intelligence summary.

"Boss!" The door flung open so hard the knob scarred the wood paneling and Squalo looked up with a glare.

"I told you not to call me that."

Carlo leaned against the door frame, panting, and gave him back glare for glare. "You do the work, don’t fucking argue now, something happened!"

Squalo made another note, this one mental, to "train" with Carlo some time soon; just because he was the oldest surviving squad leader, and had been in on the Cradle five years ago, didn’t mean Squalo was going to put up with any shit about this. He wasn’t the Varia’s boss; the Varia’s boss was frozen, not dead.

"Goddamn it, Squalo, listen to me! Enrico just killed Massimo!"

Squalo grunted. "Old man’s down to one, now, is he?"

His hand, reaching for the papers, halted in midair as his own words echoed back to him. Just one son left. Just one standing between the Boss’ chair and the only candidate who was also qualified. Except that he wasn’t, of course.

Except that no one but the Ninth and his Guardians, and Squalo himself, knew that. And the Ninth was obviously soft on Xanxus, even after Xanxus tried to kill him, or else why was Xanxus still alive?

He sat back, eyes fixed on Carlo, and spread his hands on the desk. "So. I guess that means Enrico is going to be the next." The next boss, he meant, of course.

The brief curl of Carlo’s lips was fierce and pleased. "Yeah. If he’s going to make it, he’d better stop picking up the girls from other Families, though. That little piece from the Vieri he’s making time with this month would sell him out for a couple of pretty rocks." The sneer that went with the statement looked totally genuine so Squalo figured he didn’t mean the kind of rocks that came in jewelry. That would make things easier; she’d be paid and dead in one shot, if he could get something pure enough through the Bolzoni.

"Well, if she’s that easy to buy off, the Family can probably pay her to leave him alone." He shrugged carelessly. "If anyone can convince him." He leaned back again, crossing his arms behind his head, and grinned at Carlo, showing his teeth. "What do you think? Maybe Lussuria could persuade him; he’s always giving everyone else relationship advice."

Carlo rolled his eyes. "If he can’t, hell, maybe Mammon can try the practical approach."

Yes. That would work. Mammon’s illusion could cover the team and Lussuria never had problems with cleaning up targets and obstacles alike. And once the last son was out of the way…

He and Carlo both smiled, slowly, eyes meeting across the desk of the Varia’s boss.

"…never actually proven, was it?"

"Even if he did kill the favorite, it’s not like the Ninth has room to be picky any more."

Squalo paused around a corner and smiled to himself. A few words dropped here and there, some squad leaders reminiscing over drinks about what an effective leader Xanxus had been, and it was amazing how the whole Family, anxious over the lack of an heir, was talking about the same man.

"Squalo!" Ricci called to him as he walked past them. "Just the man. Listen, about Xanxus…"

"Xanxus is exiled by the Ninth’s order," Squalo said flatly. The flat tone wasn’t hard when he thought about the form of that ‘exile’.

"Yes, but if he weren’t. I mean it’s not like there’s anyone else left, is there? So tell me; would he make a good Boss?"

Squalo looked aside. "I can’t speak for that," he muttered. "He was a good leader to the Varia." He watched the two underbosses out of the corner of his eye and was careful to show no satisfaction at the thoughtful looks on their faces. A man who could lead the Varia, after all, would make easy work of the rest of the Family, wouldn’t he?

"I heard you won’t let anyone call you the Varia’s boss," Gallo put in, leaning against the wall, eyes sharp.

Squalo lifted his head; this he didn’t need to fake or be careful of. "Xanxus is exiled, not dead. He’s our boss."

Ricci and Gallo exchanged a long look and Squalo turned away down the hall again, suppressing the urge to whistle cheerfully. Just a few more like that, and they’d be getting somewhere.

Three weeks later he was called in to talk to the Ninth.

"I understand you’ve been talking to people about Xanxus," the old man said, mild as milk which didn’t fool Squalo for a second.

"People have been talking to me," Squalo corrected, folding his arms. "I’m not going to lie about him, if they ask." He let his mouth twist. "Not any more than we’re all lying already."

The Ninth sat back with a sigh and his right hand gave Squalo a glare that said he’d be happy to shoot Squalo where he stood. Squalo ignored it; it wasn’t Staffieri he had to convince.

"Well," the old man said, "be honest with me, also, then. If Xanxus is released, will he make another attempt?"

It made things easier, Squalo reflected, that the Ninth obviously wanted the answer to be no. "You defeated him," he said, a bit through his teeth but that was only to be expected. "The Varia live and die by our strength, and only the strongest have the right to lead." And this time, that strength wouldn’t be betrayed by a trick, at the end. They’d plan better.

"Mmm." The Ninth folded his hands under his chin, staring at nothing.

"Boss," Staffieri said, quiet but agitated. "You can’t really be thinking…"

"I do not agree with those who say Xanxus is the only choice," the Ninth said, to both of them Squalo thought. "But we are in need of strength to protect the Family, now." He nodded to Squalo. "Thank you. You can go."

Squalo closed the door behind him on Staffieri arguing with the Ninth in a low voice, and smiled. He thought he knew who would win, in the end.

In the end, it would be Xanxus.

When he heard the raised voice, Squalo brushed past the foot soldiers standing, or trying to, in front of the vault door and into that echoing, scarred room. The other squad leaders followed him. "Boss!"

Xanxus was shaking and pale, except for the raw-looking scars over most of his skin, but he was on his feet and had breath to shout. That was all Squalo needed.

Except that the shouting cut off sharply when Xanxus saw him, and Squalo paused, cautious of the tangled shock and rage in Xanxus’ face. "Boss," he said again, offering it like a guide-rope to draw their leader back to himself, back to them.

Back to him.

"Squalo," Xanxus said, finally, voice harsh and rasping.

Squalo didn’t step forward, didn’t support Xanxus, didn’t move as Xanxus staggered toward them. They were the Varia and he was their leader, and the Ninth’s goddamn Guardians could frown all they liked. They’d never understood.

Xanxus raked his eyes over all of them, settling at last on Squalo again, and if the fire in them was wilder than it had been, well, none of them had much vested in sanity. Finally he nodded.

"Let’s go."

Squalo smiled, tight and sharp, hearing the future in those two words. "Yes, Boss."

End

Give One Heart

by Branch

Hibari thinks it’s about time someone told Kyouko and Haru a few things. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Hibari Kyouya, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko

Kyouya stood, arms folded, in the shadowed doorway of the kitchen and watched Kyouko and Haru move around each other in the bright room.

He remembered the point in his past, his old past he supposed he should say, when Kyouko had finally coaxed the truth out of her brother and Sawada; it had been the first time he’d thought the girl might have teeth after all. He remembered the impressive black eye and the hangdog expression that Sasagawa and Sawada had sported, respectively, afterwards; the bruise had faded sooner. He remembered the fierceness in Sawada’s eyes when he’d demanded Kyouya’s word that he would protect the younger Kyouko and Haru, when they came forward; only after that word was given had he, reluctantly, agreed to the whole plan.

Of course, in Kyouya’s opinion, the best way to protect someone was to sharpen their teeth.

He pushed away from the door and stepped into the kitchen.

"Hibari-san!" Haru looked up with a bright smile. "Are you coming to dinner, too, tonight?"

"No," he told her, bluntly, and cast a sharp eye on Kyouko. "You’ve seen things, here, that haven’t been explained. Sasagawa believes he does you a service by keeping you in ignorance. Sawada appears to agree. What do you think?"

Her knife paused, over the vegetables on the board in front of her, and then resumed, slower. "I already know," she said, softly.

Kyouya’s brows rose.

"Not… not everything. But that they’re doing something dangerous." Her eyes were fixed on the sliced roots as she slid them onto a plate and reached for a whole one. "They won’t tell me why, but I’ve seen how they’re training, here." Her lips tightened. "And I remember, now, what happened right after I got here." She finally put the knife down and looked up. "That man was trying to kill me. And Tsuna-kun, too. I don’t know why, but I know that much."

Haru was staring at her. "Don’t know… but… Kyouko-chan, your brother is one of Tsuna-kun’s Guardians, how can you not know?"

Kyouko smiled, a little sad. "Like I said. They haven’t told me why this is happening." And then she snorted softly. "Though it was pretty obvious from the start that it wasn’t sumo wrestling."

Kyouya was glad to know she hadn’t actually bought that particular piece of inanity. It would be a shame if the boss’ wife were an idiot. He leaned a hip against the counter, watching silently to see how much these two girls could do on their own.

Haru sat down, slowly. "Kyouko-chan…" She bit her lip and then took a deep breath. "It’s the mafia. Tsuna-kun was chosen to be the next boss of a big mafia Family. Gokudera and Yamamoto and Sasagawa-san and, um," she glanced at Kyouya, "Hibari-san too were chosen to guard him. To be his own family." She frowned darkly, then, with growing indignation. "I can’t believe they didn’t tell you!"

Kyouko shook her head. "It’s all right, Haru-chan. I…" her eyes fell and one finger traced an arc back and forth on the table, "I knew enough. And I was hoping they would tell me themselves."

"Not for another three or four years," Kyouya remarked, causing a complete halt in the conversation for several breaths.

"Four. Years." Haru’s eyes glinted and she stood up. "That does it. Where are they?"

"You might want to wait on that," Kyouya told her dryly. "Tomorrow they’re going to go out after Vongola’s enemies. Pitiful grazers that they still are, they need every edge. You might not want to distract them until later."

Kyouko was looking up at him, eyes wide and dark. "That’s why you told us?"

He looked down at her silently. "I gave Sawada my word to guard you," he said, finally. "But you should be aware to guard yourselves as well." If the schedule held, they would have to, very soon.

She was silent too for a long moment, opaque thoughts moving behind soft eyes. "All right."

Haru moved to stand behind her, one hand on Kyouko’s shoulder. "We will," she said, stoutly.

He nodded and turned away. He didn’t think for a moment that they could protect themselves if they fell into Millefiore’s hands, but at least this should keep them from rushing to place themselves there out of ignorance. He trusted Sawada would appreciate that benefit. Kyouya imagined he would. Eventually.

A sharp, tiny smile curved his lips as he paced the halls back to his own section.

End

Saints of Palermo

by Branch

The Giglio Nero boss talks to Kyouko and Haru about the other side of the mafia. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Gamma, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Uni

A/N: The woman in this story is Uni’s mother, and for an explanation of why I think they’re actually the same person see here.

Unità leaned back, behind her desk, and gazed out the window.

"Are you going to do it?" Gamma asked, quietly.

"I think I probably am." She crossed her arms. "He made a very good offer."

Gamma frowned. "But what assurance is there that Vongola’s Ninth will honor it? Sawada may be the heir, but he isn’t the boss yet."

Unità hummed thoughtfully. "No, but he is confirmed. At sixteen, Gamma! And if they’re telling the truth, it actually happened even earlier."

"Do you think they’re telling the truth?"

She smiled up at him. "Do you?"

He gave her a disgruntled look for turning it around that way and she laughed. He leaned back against the window sill, one hand shoved in a pocket. After a long moment he said, "Yes. I guess I do." His mouth quirked. "The boys, well they’d agree the sky was green if Sawada said so, but the girls… no. They were telling the truth."

"They were pretty transparent, weren’t they? He was smart to bring them." Her eyes narrowed. "Gamma. Did that seem… strange to you?"

"Mm." He was quiet again, which she took for agreement.

"He seems very protective of them," she murmured, tracing the line of a woodgrain on her desk as if to trace her thought with the same fingertip. "Yet he brought them here, to the heart of an un-allied Family’s territory. So does he trust us that blindly or…" her voice softened, reaching the conclusion, "is it his own power he trusts?"

"After everything they seem to have gone through, I doubt he trusts blindly," Gamma answered, just as soft.

"Hm." Unità’s lips curved. "Yes. Still a bit naive, maybe, but not blind. We’ll take it." Gamma blinked as she straightened, and she smiled at him, wry. "Think of the things behind what they said, Gamma. In another six or seven years it seems that Vongola’s Tenth will be ruthless enough to let himself be killed, gambling for the future of the world, and keep the secret from his own Guardians. I think that Sawada would still ally with us, but he might not offer us such good terms as today’s Sawada." She spread her hands over the smooth surface of her desk and added quietly. "And one thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want us to have to fight the man that’s coming."

Gamma smiled back. "You take good care of your people, boss."

"Speaking of which." Unità reached for her writing paper. "I’ll have two letters to be delivered to them."

"Two? Sawada and… who else?"

"I did mention that those girls were transparent?" She nibbled on the end of her pen. Coffee, yes, that would be… unthreatening. "If we’re to be allies, I’m not letting Vongola stand around with a weakness like that hanging out where anyone can aim at it. And those boys probably won’t even see it until far too late." Her lips crimped in amusement. "Men can be that way."

Gamma opened his mouth only to close it again, a faint flush rising in his face. "Mm."

Unità had to stifle a laugh when she saw who had escorted the girls to meet her and observed the way Gokudera’s eyes followed the dark haired one. She welcomed the girls in and shooed the men out. "This is a discussion between women."

Gamma knew well enough to do as she said, but Gokudera stood his ground. "I have a duty to make sure they’re safe."

"We’re allies now, aren’t we?" she asked.

Gokudera glowered at her, possibly because she couldn’t keep her mouth from curling at the corners.

Gamma sighed faintly and stepped forward, catching Gokudera’s eye. "They will be safe here. We will guard them as though they were our own people. You have my word."

For a long moment Gokudera held Gamma’s gaze, eyes dark with, perhaps, memory. Finally he inclined his head. "I accept your word."

Unità settled in one of the armchairs arranged around a low table as the two men left. "Well, now that the posturing is out of the way," she said, dryly, "come, have a seat."

The dark haired girl, Haru, laughed a little. Unità considered her, and the quieter one, Kyouko, for a moment and leaned back with a sigh.

"I doubt Sawada or his Family will think to tell you before it’s too late, but the two of you have a decision before you. One that needs to be made now." As their eyes widened she folded her hands and asked softly, "Will you stay with them?"

"Of course we will!" Haru answered, sounding shocked.

Unità ran a hand through her hair. She’d been right; they had no idea. "This is not a kind world that I live in, that Sawada has committed himself to. It’s a dangerous and harsh world where people die just for being related to the wrong person, if a feud gets started."

Both the girls flinched at that. They knew that much, then. They still weren’t making the logical connection, though.

"You’ve been fairly safe up until now, because before he came to Sicily few people outside the Vongola took much note of Sawada," she told them as gently as she could. "But they’re noticing now. And you’ve been seen with him. It might already be too late. If you leave now, though, and never see any of them again, you should be safe. If you don’t… you’ll be targets."

Kyouko was frowning. "Why are you saying this?"

"Because you need to choose, and I believe in giving people all the facts." And having said that, she had to add, "In all fairness, there are two sides to this. You’ll be a target because the Vongola boss is very well known in our world, and very well hated by some. But it’s his power he’s hated for, and few people will be willing to cross his protection."

Haru was biting her lip, but Kyouko only looked down at her hands. "I understand," she said, softly.

Unità’s brows rose.

"I saw, when we were in the future. I heard." Kyouko looked up with a faint smile. "Hibari-san believes in giving people all the facts, too. And even before that… I knew." She looked down again. "That isn’t what makes me hesitate. It’s just…" her voice got softer still, "is there anything I can really do for him?"

It looked like Unità had underestimated this one. Which, actually, suggested an answer to Kyouko’s question, and she smiled. "Most likely, yes." She tapped a finger against her lips and decided to start at the beginning. "Bosses’ wives do different things, you know, depending on their own tastes. Some are completely private and have nothing to do with business at all. Some do negotiations in their own right. And some," she tipped her head, "some work behind the scenes. They smile and entertain guests and do the indirect negotiations." Her mouth quirked. "Or, sometimes, just charm the other side into submission." Her voice lowered. "Is that what you want? To help him with his work?"

"I… I do." Kyouko took a quick breath. "I know I’m not like Bianchi-san, but…"

"Well, he has Bianchi to be like Bianchi," Unità murmured. "Not that it wouldn’t be wise for you to learn to shoot strait and hit something hard enough to make a difference. But Sawada seems to have plenty of people with weapons already. Perhaps he could also do with someone to listen quietly and see the less obvious threats." She thought about what Gamma was to her and added, "And someone to listen to him. Even when it’s not directly about work." She tapped a finger thoughtfully on her knee, considering the differences, too. "That someone will be in danger, danger Sawada and his family will put themselves at risk to guard against, and that someone will just have to bear it. Do you have the will to do that?"

Kyouko was quiet for a moment, but when she looked up her eyes were dark with calm, deep as the ocean. "Yes."

Unità smiled. She might pay money to be present when Sawada got to discover all this. "Good."

Haru was wearing a wry smile as she listened to them. "I think you’re stronger than I am, Kyouko-chan. I’d go crazy if I had to do that." She glanced at Unità uncertainly. "I don’t want to leave either, though."

Unità looked her up and down, consideringly, and her lips curled. "I suppose it’s a good thing Kyouko is the one with the older brother, not you, so there’s no one to come pound me when I suggest this. But maybe you would be good at the, ah, other path mafia women tend to pursue."

Haru blinked at her. "Hahi?"

Unità’s smile quirked. "Wives are expected to be above reproach. Unattached women, on the other hand, have greater opportunities and greater dangers. And guns aren’t the only weapons."

Haru’s chin tucked down and some of the wide blankness slid away from her eyes. "You mean seducing people."

"I knew you couldn’t be as silly as you were acting," Unità murmured and Haru blushed. "No, no, it’s a very good act. Keep it. It will be useful." As useful, in its own way, as Kyouko’s soft-voiced sweetness. "It’s a sad truth," she continued dryly, "but the men of my country tend to be complete idiots when a woman coos at them. There’s a great deal of information to be gathered that way."

"And Kyouko-chan can’t do it," Haru finished for her. "But I could."

"Haru-chan!" Kyouko protested, sitting up straight. "I couldn’t ask you to do that!"

Haru’s smile was distinctly tilted. "Kind of the way Ryouhei-san and Tsuna-kun couldn’t ask you to deal with their being in the mafia?"

Kyouko stopped short, mouth open for a moment before she shut it with a click. Her hands twisted together, but finally she murmured, "If… if you’re sure it’s what you want to do."

"I want to think about it. But…" the sparkle in Haru’s eyes almost hid their sharpness, "it sounds fun. And useful," she added, under her breath, expression suddenly mulish.

Unità stifled a chuckle. "You should definitely learn to shoot straight, then. Perhaps you can ask Gokudera to teach you."

Kyouko’s eyes flicked up to hers as Haru blushed and sputtered a bit, and her lips curved in a tiny smile. Yes, Unità had thought both girls had their lines of sight straight, between them. The young men were thoroughly bracketed.

"On that subject," she went on, more seriously, "Haru, you have to stop your silliness about becoming Sawada’s wife."

Haru waved a hand. "It’s only to tease him. I know there’s no chance—"

"That’s not the point." Unità leaned forward, willing her to understand. "You and Kyouko may know it’s a game. Sawada will likely realize soon himself, if he hasn’t already. But outsiders will see it as a weakness in Vongola’s unity, and you can’t ever let that happen. That’s the responsibility that goes with the ability to be useful. Your games can’t be played inside the Family."

"Oh." Haru sobered. "I… I see. Yes."

Unità nodded to herself, satisfied that this gap in her new ally’s defenses was, if not closed, at least closing. "Indeed. I think you’ll both do well."

There was a tap at the door and the housekeeper slipped in with her always-impressive sense of the appropriate moment and a tray of coffee. The tension in the room uncoiled in the delicate clatter of setting out and pouring, and Unità smiled.

"So tell me." She leaned back in her chair, cup cradled between her fingers. "What do you think of Sicily?"

Haru and Kyouko looked at each other and Kyouko nodded.

"It will make a good home," she said.

End

She Danced Across the Mountain

by Branch

As Kyouko and Haru settle into their lives with the mafia, sometimes they need advice. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Gamma, Gokudera Hayato, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Uni

Pairing(s): Haru/Gokudera, Kyouko/Tsuna

"…and never, ever accept red flowers. All right, I think I got all that." Kyouko sat back, one hand rubbing her forehead.

Unità’s lips quirked in sympathy. "You’re doing very well, for someone who’s never even traveled abroad before."

Kyouko’s soft smile was more wry than usual. "And here I thought that, once I was done with the university entrance exams, I wouldn’t be studying any more."

"You’ll likely be studying this for years," Unità warned. "You have a grace and social ease that will serve you very well, but the small customs that let a woman fit in, here, take time to learn."

"I understand," Kyouko murmured, and straightened her back with a determined breath. "So. About this… this kissing thing."

Unità’s lips quirked. "Well, it depends on how well you know the other person …"

Antonio looked up with a brilliant smile as Unità led the girls into his dress shop. "Donna Unità! We haven’t seen you in too long! Are you looking for a new gown, perhaps?"

"Ah, now, you know my workday clothes can’t be that elaborate." Something Antonio was volubly disappointed over at every opportunity, but at least she had some consolation for him today. "Not for myself. I just wanted to introduce my young friends, here." She smiled. "They should know who to go to for the best."

"Indeed, indeed!" Antonio beamed upon his newest victims. Unità hoped both of them were taking notes on his tactics. "Friends of the Family?"

"Oh yes," Unità murmured, laying a hand on Kyouko’s shoulder. "The Vongola Tenth’s young woman, and her best friend." She nodded to the girls, eye crossing Haru’s briefly. "Antonio has a great many customers from our world, so you can relax here."

Haru’s eyes widened a hair, recognizing the implication, and she turned to Antonio with a sparkling smile of her own. "Oh, how wonderful! I was so hoping to find someone who would really know about fashions here!" She clasped her hands, eyes wide and entreating. "Are we dreadfully out of style? Tell me the worst! I can take it!"

Antonio enfolded her hands in his, clearly delighted at finding a kindred spirit. "No, no, you do very well!" He stood back and cast a professional eye over her outfit, and Kyouko’s. "A bit young, perhaps…"

Haru now had a definite gleam in her eye. "So, what would you recommend?"

Unità firmly suppressed her amusement. Haru was already well on her way to a contact that would give her a wide window onto the world she intended to move in.

Kyouko had caught on too, and her shoulder was tense under Unità’s hand. Unità guided her over to a chair while they waited for Antonio and Haru to finish their heart-to-heart. "Would she be any happier waiting at home beside you?" she murmured. "I can tell you already she wouldn’t actually be any safer."

Kyouko sighed silently. "I suppose not."

"She’s a natural," Unità observed, dispassionately. "Let her run and find her place."

Haru’s bright, open laugh wound through the shop like a silk scarf.

"It’s for you, boss." Gamma held out the phone. "The Vongola’s wife."

Unità stretched, behind her desk, redirecting her thoughts from negotiations with the Barassi to the reasons why her sort-of-protégée might be calling her this evening. "All right." She tucked the phone against her shoulder. "Kyouko?"

"Unità-san, what is the… the… acceptable thing to do when the boss of another Family suggests I sleep with him?"

Unità pursed her lips, wondering who had been foolish enough to try that. "What did you do?"

"I pretended I didn’t understand what he was talking about." Kyouko’s voice was tight.

"Perfect! Well, no, perfect would have been pulling out a gun and shooting him." Unità grinned a bit at Gamma’s expression. "Unfortunately we can’t always achieve perfection."

"I wanted to," Kyouko said fiercely.

Unità softened her tone. "I know. But to keep Sawada’s face for him, to keep it the mafia way, you need to let him do that when it’s in public."

Kyouko sighed. "I… don’t think that would have been a good idea either. At least not this evening."

"And that’s why acting like you didn’t understand was perfect. You left no openings at all."

After a long moment Kyouko murmured, "I was a little afraid you’d say that. That means I have to keep on doing it."

"Yes." Unità had nothing to offer that would soften that necessity. She could hear the deep breath Kyouko took, over the line.

"All right. Thank you, Unità-san."

"No problem." Unità smiled wryly as she hung up. "Oh, stop looking like that," she told Gamma. "I’m sure Kyouko wouldn’t actually shoot anyone." After a pause to let this obvious truth sink in she added, "Haru probably takes care of that."

Gamma’s snort at this reminder of the feisty girl his counterpart was so explosively courting made her laugh.

"Have a seat, Haru." Unità waved at the straight chairs in front of her desk as she signed and sealed the letter to the Girasole for Tazaru to carry. "There. Now, what did you want to see me for?"

Haru was fidgety today, as she sat, smoothing her skirt, crossing and recrossing her ankles. "Well." She nibbled her lip, which, Unità observed, she had learned to do in a downright charming way. "I wanted to ask, because I thought you’d know the real answer. If I’m somebody’s… if I’m with somebody, can I still flirt or would that be… unacceptable?"

Unità firmly stifled a chuckle; it was about time those two came to some understanding. "Flirting is still acceptable as long as you don’t mind being thought a fluffy airhead who can’t control herself. As long as you’re careful never to go beyond flirting, your overflowing feminine sex-drive will be a cause for congratulations to Gokudera."

Haru made a horrible face. "I thought so! Honestly, there are times when I just want to—" she broke off and settled back in her chair. "Well."

Unità raised a cautionary finger. "That’s among the lower ranks and at the very top, mind you. The hitmen usually have sharper eyes." They usually had to. "So if you’re working among them, be very careful."^[?]

Haru nodded seriously. "I understand." A bit of her accustomed sparkle returned to her eyes. "With them I usually rely on my brain anyway, and it just seems to amuse them that they get to see what nobody else notices." Contemplatively she added, "Arrogant bastards."

Unità burst out laughing. Kyouko was more to her credit as a mentor, in many ways, but Haru was certainly finding her own feet in their world, even the rough parts.

Kyouko toed off her shoes and curled her feet up under her in the armchair. "Haru hasn’t heard anything, so I wanted to ask you. Some of the other bosses have been looking at me a little oddly, lately."

Unità took a long sip from her coffee cup. "Oddly?"

Kyouko frowned a little, fingers only toying with her own cup. "They don’t pay all that much attention to me. I’m used to that. But now… they’re not talking to me but they are looking at me. Only…" she made a frustrated sound. "Not the usual way. I’m not describing this very well, I’m sorry."

Unità thought for a moment and finally tipped her head and suggested, "Looking at your waist instead of your breasts?"

Kyouko blushed and Unità stifled a chuckle; even having been married for years, Kyouko still seemed so innocent sometimes.

"Well, I suppose that could be—" Kyouko broke off abruptly, eyes widening. She straightened in her seat and stared at Unità. "They… they’re watching for that?"

Unità shrugged. "I wouldn’t be surprised."

"But why?"

"Some of them probably want to know whether they should start grooming a son or a daughter." Unità’s mouth quirked at Kyouko’s wide eyed look. "Vongola is a very powerful Family, after all. There are plenty who would like to have blood ties to you." And more who would prefer that Kyouko never live to deliver, but she thought, by now, Kyouko might be able to reach that conclusion on her own.

"Oh." Kyouko looked down at her coffee, fidgeting with it again.

Unità’s brows rose. "You won’t have to think about marriages for your children for years, you can put the early starters off pretty easily."

"It isn’t that." Kyouko chewed her lip for a moment. "It’s… Tsuna doesn’t want to try for children, yet."

"He doesn’t think you’re too young, does he?" Unità asked, startled. She wouldn’t have thought it, but maybe in Japan…

"Oh, no, it’s not that." Kyouko managed to laugh, though it sounded stiffer than usual. "My mother was younger than I am now, when she had my brother. And Tsuna’s mother had him younger, too. No, it’s… he doesn’t…" she sighed. "He wants to wait until it’s safer."

Unità nearly choked on her coffee. "Safer?" For the wife of the tenth Vongola boss? She rubbed a hand over her forehead. "Boy has his head up his ass again, I see," she grumbled.

"He’s just worried for me," Kyouko defended her husband, instantly. "And I don’t want to push him, when he’s already concerned about the whole Family."

Something would have to be done about that, but clearly today wasn’t the day, and Kyouko wasn’t the person Sawada would have to hear from. Unità sighed. "He’s a good boss," she allowed, and smiled. "Seems to be a good husband, too."

Kyouko smiled softly. "He is." She looked up, suddenly inquiring. "Do you…"

"I don’t have a husband, no," Unità said dryly. She watched Kyouko’s sidelong glance, hesitant and curious, and added, "Nor children. There are," her mouth twisted just a bit at the double meaning of the words, "issues with that, for me."

Kyouko’s eyes were wide and stricken. "Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry."

Unità shook her head, taking herself in hand. "Don’t worry about it." She chuckled. "My people have enough of a handful just dealing with me. And I’ll leave enough to this world of ours, as it is, without adding children." She would leave a legend, in time, she suspected. Or, at least, her own personal installment of the longer legend.

Kyouko’s eyes on her were still curious, and a little thoughtful, but she let the subject lapse with the grace she’d learned so well. "How is your Family doing, lately?"

Unità leaned back and crossed her legs, smiling. Business was easier to talk about, yes. "Very well, especially since that new partnership in Monreale…"

A scuffle outside her sitting room caught Unità’s attention and she went to the door in time to hear Haru’s voice clearly.

"I can walk perfectly well, you know, there’s no need…"

"The boss concerns herself with you. That’s all the reason I need." That was Gamma, and a breath later he turned the corner and she saw them.

Haru was scooped up in Gamma’s arms, being carried and clearly fuming about it. She was also bruised, lip split, dress torn, one of her high heeled sandals missing. Unità’s lips thinned and she pulled her door all the way open. "Bring her in, and call for what we need," she ordered.

Gamma set Haru down carefully on the couch and nodded to Unità, the same grimness she felt turning his eyes hard.

"Haru." Unità crouched down in front of her and caught her hands, hoping to capture her focus, too. "What happened?"

Haru’s eyes were bright and a little glazed. "It was at the bar. At Tommaso’s. Some of the Donnola were there, making a delivery, and you know we’ve been trying to figure out why they’re suddenly so cozy with the Scoiattolo. So I chatted them up." Her mouth twisted and then she winced as it pulled the cut on her lip. "Bad timing I guess. I was just getting somewhere when some other men came in. I didn’t recognize them. They came after the Donnola men and shoved me aside…"

"More than shoved it looks like," Gamma noted, coming back in with a glass of water and another of something Unità was pretty sure was much stronger, trailed by her house doctor, Renato. He handed the smaller glass to Haru while Renato made disapproving sounds and started cleaning her cuts. "Tazaru says it was the Scarafaggio," he added.

Haru swallowed the alcohol in three gulps, gasping a little. "Thanks."

Gamma handed over the water, one corner of his mouth curling up.

"There were six of them," Haru continued. "They… they shot three of the Donnola before the rest of the bar jumped in and they ran." She was breathing deeply, tiny shudders shaking her.

This might be the first time Haru had seen death that close. Unità stroked her hair back. "All right. That’s all I need to know, Haru. Just catch your breath."

Haru nodded, jerky, hands tight around her water glass.

"Haru!" Gokudera was through the door before anyone quite realized he was there, and pushed Renato aside. He stopped short before catching Haru’s shoulders, hands hovering. Finally he settled for taking her arms, gently, where there weren’t any bruises. His voice was hoarse. "What happened?"

"She got caught in the middle of the fight with some Scarafaggio at Tommaso’s tonight," Unità supplied, briefly. "They weren’t careful."

Gokudera’s first expression was relief, but it turned colder and colder as his eyes tallied up Haru’s injuries. He stood. "Thank you for informing me."

Haru caught his hand, eyes wide. "Hayato, don’t be an idiot…!"

The intensity of his eyes didn’t change, but the ice turned hot for a breath as he knelt down in front of her again. "Haru." He leaned in and kissed the uninjured corner of her mouth, very gently. "I’ll be back soon, okay? Don’t worry."

Haru’s eyes were wide and dark, watching him stalk back out the door, and she opened her mouth again.

"Don’t." Unità took Haru’s face and turned the girl to look at her. "You have to let him do this, Haru."

"But…!"

"I know." Unità sat on the couch and gathered Haru close. "I know. But an injury to you is a dishonor to him. He has to avenge it."

As Haru shivered and silent tears soaked into Unità’s shoulder, she wondered if, perhaps, she had misled Kyouko. Maybe she was giving daughters to her world after all.

Unità sat in her study, watching the stars come out through the tall window. She had attended Cavallone’s wedding that day and watched the Vongola allies mingle, watched her family laugh and stand proud, watched Kyouko, with Haru shadowing her, pass through the gathering unnoticed offering a smile here, a word there, charming the argumentative and separating the drunk, leaving all Sawada’s eagle-eyed bodyguards nothing to do.

Watched Reborn watching her. Knowing.

She sighed. She’d thought to have a little longer, but it seemed not. She would just have to hope she had done all she needed to do for the next little while. She told herself that firmly and scrubbed her sleeve across her eyes.

"Boss?" Gamma tapped on her balcony door and held out two cans of beer temptingly. "Want to come take a breath of fresh air for a while?"

She took a breath and pushed herself onto her feet, stepping outside. "What is it, Gamma? I don’t really feel like playing around, tonight."

End

A/N: While in real life, to the best of my knowledge, a hitman generally is part of the lower ranks, in Amano’s world they appear to be a caste of their own, and a middle-high ranking one at that. I have gone with Amano’s worldbuilding in this case.

A Scratched Record

by Branch

Kyouko and Haru meet Uni as she’s introduced to Tsuna, and get a shock. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Gamma, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Uni

Pairing(s): Kyouko/Tsuna

Kyouko pressed a hand to her lips as Tsuna stared at their visitors.

"She’s… dead?" Tsuna repeated, softly.

Gamma’s mouth tighted and he nodded silently. "I hoped it wouldn’t…" he swallowed whatever he had been going to say and drew a slow breath. "Her daughter is the boss of Giglio Nero, now." He opened his hand at the girl standing next to him, watching them all quietly.

Tsuna swallowed himself, looking a little sick. "Is that really… I mean, a child…"

Gamma straightened and repeated, flatly, "She is our boss."

The girl tipped her head, regarding Tsuna, and smiled. "Hello." She stepped forward, light and easy, drawing all eyes to herself. "I’m Uni. I’m very pleased to meet the Vongola boss."

Tsuna’s eyes were dark, but he managed to smile back at her. "Hello, Uni. I’m glad to meet you, too." He sat back and sighed. "If there’s anything we can do for you…" he trailed off, eyes going back to Gamma.

Kyouko swore the girl’s mouth quirked as she slipped to the side, letting the two men focus on each other again.

"We don’t need men, but a Vongola presence at some negotiations coming up would probably be wise," Gamma admitted, gaze checking Uni before settling on Tsuna.

Kyouko kept half an ear on their planning as she stepped forward herself, but only half. The least she could do for Unità’s daughter was offer some comfort while her Guardian was occupied with business. She held out both hands. "Hello, Uni; and welcome. I’m Kyouko. I knew your…" her voice faltered as the girl turned and she met dark, knowing eyes, deeper than any child’s should be. Eyes she recognized. "…mother…?"

Haru slipped up beside them. "Kyouko?"

Uni blinked and then smiled, a flicker of mischief showing through the darkness of her eyes. She held a finger to her lips. Stunned, Kyouko just nodded.

It wasn’t possible. Gamma himself had said Unità was dead.

Uni came and took Kyouko’s hands, looking up at her intently. "It’s all right," she said, softly.

"But how…?"

Haru was frowning now; she turned a little to place herself between their conversation and the men’s. "Kyouko? What’s wrong?" She glanced sharply between the two of them.

Uni smiled at her wryly. "I suppose it would have been smarter for me to be introduced while you weren’t here, but I don’t imagine Kyouko would have kept anything from her right hand anyway."

Haru stared. Kyouko couldn’t blame her. That was, from words to tone to the tilt of the head, what Unità might have said to them.

Abruptly Haru’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes narrowed. "Your necklace," she murmured, as if casually. "Is it your rememberance of your mother?"

The quirk to Uni’s mouth turned a bit sour. "Exactly."

Kyouko looked down at the pendant, puzzled. She’d seen it once or twice before, though Unità usually wore it under her clothes. It was an odd shape, she remembered…

And then her heart nearly stopped as she really looked at it for the first time.

"Exactly," Uni repeated, smile just a little sad, now.

Kyouko drew a slow breath. "That’s a very personal thing, of course," she murmured.

"Thank you." The rueful twist was back in Uni’s lips. "My Family sees the body, so this doesn’t usually occur to them."

Kyouko looked up at Gamma and suddenly frowned. His face was drawn tight and there were shadows under her eyes. She looked down at Uni again, disapproving.

The not-girl sighed. "I know. I do my best to show their hearts that I’m not gone." She touched the orange pacifier briefly. "But for the ones who love me like he does… I would be lost to them just as much if they knew. I believe, I hope, it’s a little simpler for them this way." Wetness gleamed in her eyes for a breath before she blinked and it was gone.

Kyouko bit her lip. She wasn’t at all sure that was really the best way, but it was Uni’s Family and Uni’s choice. She considered the slim girl with the old eyes standing in front of her, and the nearly visible cord of awareness running between Uni and Gamma, and sighed. "I’m sorry." She opened her arms, the way she did for Haru when she got back from doing something she refused to talk about.

Uni looked up, child-wide eyes suddenly unguarded. And then she stepped forward and buried herself in Kyouko’s arms. Kyouko held her tight and gave no sign that she felt the tiny tremors or the faint hitch of Uni’s breath.

Gamma and Tsuna both fell silent a moment to look over at them with open relief. Kyouko smiled back at them, serenely, stroking Uni’s straight, soft hair.

If her smile turned a little sad as the men turned back to Family business, no one was watching but Haru.

End

Management Techniques

by Lys ap Adin

Hibari makes Romario very, very nervous, for a multitude of reasons. This is a Generations sidestory, taking place between “A House Divided” and “They Also Serve.” A certain amount of silliness here, folks.

Character(s): Dino Cavallone, Hibari Kyouya, Kusakabe, Romario

Romario was quite sure that Hibari Kyouya was a perfectly good Cloud Guardian for young master Sawada. All the same, he was starting to wish that the boy would simply drop off a cliff and disappear—not permanently, just for a few months, perhaps, or however long it would take for Romario to get his master’s attention firmly settled on some nice young mafia lady who would be happy to make lots of little Cavallones while the boss went gallivanting around with the Vongola’s Cloud Guardian.

Really, he didn’t think this was too much to ask of the universe.

“It’s unseemly, is what it is,” he told Tetsuya over a beer, as Tetsuya listened and chew on his grass stalk sympathetically. “It’s not that I don’t hold your master in the highest regard, but it’s not really proper for my boss to spend so much time with him.”

It was an outright miracle that no one back home had begun to talk yet. Well, a miracle, and the fact that Romario had an entire team of men working on damage control. With any luck, Hibari would never find out that his fights with Dino had been spun in such a way as for people back home to believe that the boss had been smitten with a delicate Japanese beauty, and that was why he was so happy to jet off to Japan on such a regular basis.

“Hmm,” Tetsuya said, which might have meant anything, had Romario not been well-versed in the language of the second.

“Another beer would help,” he agreed, and signaled for them.

Meanwhile, the boss and Hibari continued to beat each other to a pulp.

On another occasion, Romario said, broodingly, “Not to speak ill of the dead, but this is all the old boss’s fault.”

They were in the countryside this time, for more of Hibari’s training. Romario and Tetsuya were observing; Romario had packed a cooler to aid them in doing so.

Tetsuya popped the caps off another pair of bottles and passed one Romario’s way, with a raised eyebrow to go with it. Romario accepted the bottle and considered the query. “The old boss. Yes.” He lowered his voice, even though they were the only ones around. “This isn’t for common knowledge, you understand.”

Tetsuya tipped his beer back and took a drink, and then nodded; well, he was the trustworthy sort. Seconds had to be, after all.

Romario leaned back on his elbows. “The old boss couldn’t keep it in his pants,” he said, with all the satisfaction of getting to say so out loud, finally. “Chased anything in a skirt, see?” He sipped his beer, savoring the dark bitter taste of it, which was all the better for the schadenfreude that accompanied it. “Got pretty much his due for it, too.” Prophylactics really were a man’s best friend; too bad the old boss hadn’t been a fan.

“Ah,” Tetsuya said, in the tones of a man enlightened.

“Yeah,” Romario agreed, watching the boss drop out of a stand of trees, right on top of Hibari, and the ensuing tussle. “Won’t even look at girls. Treats ’em all like sisters.”

It was no wonder the boss liked fighting so much. All that pent-up sex drive had to go somewhere.

“Hmm,” Tetsuya said, watching the boss and Hibari were chasing each other through the trees and the bushes in a way that made Romario’s stomach hurt with the pastoral homoeroticism of it all.

Romario blinked, considering. “Well, no, I haven’t tried that,” he admitted. “You think I should?”

Tetsuya shrugged at him, and Romario had to admit that he was right. It couldn’t hurt to try.

“No luck,” Romario muttered, slouching over his bowl of sake as Hibari and the boss dodged each other through the moonlight. “Tried half a dozen of the female hitmen on him. Didn’t work.”

Tetsuya leaned over and poured some more sake, sympathetic. He was right, Romario thought, mournfully. It had seemed like such a good idea: if all the dewy-eyed maiden daughters of the mafia Families were failing to attract the boss’s attention, then maybe what the boss needed was a woman more like Hibari.

Romario had paraded half a dozen of them past the boss, all of them cool-eyed and lethal, with smiles that went from sweet to outright feral. There had been redheads and blondes and brunettes, with proportions from the petite to the Amazonian, women with lean frames and small perfect breasts and women who were perfect lush armfuls, and all for nothing. The boss had been perfectly cordial to all of them, and his eyes had never once betrayed a flicker of interest beyond the professional.

“I’m starting to think that he actually might be gay after all,” he said, sulky, and drained his sake again. “How do you think your boss will feel about being a mafia…” Romario searched for the appropriate word, except there was none, not for this. He settled for the closest approximation. “…consort?”

Tetsuya choked on his sake.

Romario sighed. “Yeah. I figured.” Except that was going to be what they were left with, if he didn’t find some way of corralling the boss long enough to get him settled down and producing heirs before he got himself killed.

Tetsuya cleared his throat. “…Reborn?” he suggested.

Romario blinked once, twice, and then a third time. “Reborn,” he said, low and reverent, since it was the answer to his prayers.

Tetsuya poured another round of sake, looking rather relieved as Romario plotted how best to approach the boss’s old tutor for help. Romario couldn’t blame him, since he was right—the mere thought of Hibari’s reaction to the words “mafia consort” was enough to make a strong man tremble.

“I shouldn’t,” Romario said, when Tetsuya fetched up with two flutes of champagne. “Duty, you know.”

Tetsuya pressed the flute of champagne on him anyway, and Romario shrugged. He had a point—this was a celebration, after all.

He watched the boss guide his new bride across the floor—Sofia, of the Leone Family, an altogether satisfactory choice on all fronts, from the powerful alliance that she brought with her to the fact that the boss had liked her quite a bit, once he’d gotten his head down out of the clouds. They made a lovely couple, and all the watchful eyes of the other Families seemed to approve.

Tetsuya made a satisfied sound and leaned against the wall next to Romario, sipping his champagne.

“Can’t blame you,” Romario agreed. Life was a lot easier without having to hare off after the boss and Hibari all the time. Although… “Your boss?” he asked.

Tetsuya just rolled his eyes and directed them across the room, to where Hibari was pointedly ignoring Yamamoto Takeshi, who persisted in talking to him anyway.

“No kidding,” Romario said, after a moment to marvel over the thought. He buried his smile in his champagne flute at Tetsuya’s long-suffering sigh. “Well. Might improve his temper.”

Tetsuya just snorted.

He was probably right, Romario decided—there wasn’t a force under heaven that could do that. Still. “To our bosses and their happiness,” he proposed, and they clinked their glasses together to celebrate a job well done.

– end –

They Also Serve

by Lys ap Adin

Kyouko and Haru deal with Family (and family) politics. This fic was originally written for the first round of khr_undercover and has been revised from the originally-posted version, mostly for the sake of development and expanding a few things. Post-TYL arc, assuming a divergent future; safe for general audiences.

Character(s): Gokudera Hayato, I-pin, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi

Pairing(s): Haru/Gokudera, Kyouko/Tsuna

The first day of her official duty as Sawada Kyouko’s personal bodyguard was nothing like I-Pin had imagined it would be.

There was a lot more crying than she’d expected, for one.

The house majordomo, Sergio, had provided her with a copy of Kyouko-san’s daily schedule, looking all the while like he wasn’t convinced that such secrets should be entrusted to a seventeen-year-old girl. I-Pin had memorized it, even though she’d already known most of the particulars, and presented herself promptly, just as Sawada-san was kissing Kyouko-san goodbye after their breakfast. He smiled at her and thanked her, again, for being willing to serve in this fashion, and then headed in the direction of his study, where Gokudera-san would be waiting to start the day’s business.

Kyouko-san went in the opposite direction, to the private morning room that looked out over the east gardens where she and Haru-san normally had a cup of morning tea together and—I-Pin wasn’t entirely sure what Kyouko-san and Haru-san could spend morning after morning talking about, but she supposed she would find out. I-Pin followed after her, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach at the thought that this was it—she had really, truly been given charge of the safety of the Vongola Tenth’s wife.

“It’s so good to have you here, I-Pin,” Kyouko-san murmured, when they’d come to the little sun-soaked room, and pressed I-Pin’s hand between her own. “You don’t know what it means to me.”

“It’s my honor, Sawada-san,” I-Pin said, embarrassed by how damp her palms were and the way Kyouko-san took no notice of it.

“None of that, now.” Kyouko-san released her hand. “I remember when you used to call me ‘nee-chan’. Don’t be formal with me now. It’ll make me feel old.”

“But—I—” I-Pin stopped when Kyouko-san laughed. “Perhaps in private?” she ventured, for the sake of compromise.

“I suppose that’s only proper.” Kyouko-san turned and gestured at the little tea table and its array of teacups and pastries, already waiting for Kyouko-san and Haru-san. “Will you join me while we wait for Haru?”

“I don’t think that would be proper,” I-Pin said, after a moment’s hesitation.

Kyouko-san’s smile was rueful. “If you insist.” She sat, and poured a cup of tea for herself. “I hope you don’t mind this duty,” she said, as she added a bit of sugar to the cup and stirred it. “It won’t be nearly as exciting as the things the boys get up to, or what Bianchi-san does. The Vongola’s wife tends not to get out very much.”

“Of course I don’t mind!” I-Pin bit her lip, and then rushed on, before her sense of propriety could get the better of her. “I’m so young, and this is my first assignment for the Vongola… It’s such an honor to be given such an important task. I don’t think I—I don’t think I really deserve it.”

“Of course you do,” Kyouko-san told her, brisk. “I wouldn’t have requested you, otherwise, and Gokudera wouldn’t have agreed if he hadn’t thought the same.”

It wasn’t elegant, or professional, to gape. I-Pin gaped at her, nonetheless. “You requested me?”

Kyouko-san smiled at her. “I did. Sometimes it seems like Haru and I are drowning in a sea of testosterone.”

Haru-san let herself in just in time to hear that. “What’s this about testosterone?” she asked, taking the second seat at the table.

Kyouko-san poured a second cup of tea. “I was just explaining why we’re so glad to have I-Pin back.”

“It’s because boys are stupid,” Haru-san said.

Kyouko-san paused in the act of handing her the teacup, and I-Pin stared. “Haru? Is everything—”

“I’m fine,” Haru-san said, but I-Pin thought that she certainly didn’t look fine. Her lips were pinched, and as I-Pin watched, she helped herself to one of the delicate pastries that were heaped on a plate, only to begin tearing it to pieces.

Kyouko-san put the teacup down. “What happened?”

Haru-san shook her head. “It’s nothing. He just proposed again.”

“…ah.” The syllable was full of understanding. “You fought?”

Haru-san drew a breath. “For a while. Like usual.”

Kyouko-san seemed to be studying her. “Normally, you like fighting with him.”

That seemed to be enough to tip the balance of Haru-san’s composure. “Normally he doesn’t all but call me a whore to my face!” she exploded, and then burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, between gasping sobs. “I don’t know why that bothers me—we always say such awful things to each other—we never mean them, except last night it seemed like he did, and—”

“Shh,” Kyouko-san murmured, as she moved her chair around the table and put her arms around Haru-san, while I-Pin watched, mute with astonishment. She’d heard the rumors that Gokudera-san and Haru-san had a stormy sort of relationship, but Lambo-kun had been irritatingly vague on the particulars, and certainly hadn’t said anything that would have made her expect this.

Haru-san leaned against Kyouko-san; after a few more gulping sobs, I-Pin could see her taking hold of herself again. “I’m so sorry,” she said, as Kyouko-san produced a handkerchief. Haru-san accepted it to wipe her eyes, and then stared at the smudges of makeup on the pale cloth. “Damn it.”

“It’s only a handkerchief,” Kyouko-san said. “Don’t—”

Haru-san shook her head. “I’m being a terrible bother.” She straightened her shoulders. “Especially over such a silly fight.”

Kyouko-san, I-Pin noticed, simply pressed her lips together tightly, and said nothing.

Haru shook herself. “Give me just a moment,” she said. “I’ll wash my face, and we can get down to business.”

“Take your time.” Kyouko-san watched her leave the room, drumming her fingers against her knee, as if considering something. Then she rose and went to the side table, and dialed something on the house telephone. When she spoke, it was in a tone that I-Pin was sure she’d never heard Kyouko-san use before. “Tsuna? Yes, I’m sorry for interrupting you, but it’s important. Is Gokudera still with you?” She paused for the answer, and her mouth firmed. “Good. When you’re finished with him, send him to me. I need to speak to him.” She listened. “Thank you.”

She returned the receiver to its cradle, and restored her chair to its proper place. When she’d done that, she favored I-Pin with a wan smile. “I’m so glad you’re here. It would be… difficult to handle this in front of one of the boys.”

“I’m not sure I understand what’s happening,” I-Pin admitted.

“It’s a very long story. Listen for a bit and see whether it comes clear.” Kyouko-san busied herself with filling a plate with a selection of the tea dainties. “If not, then we’ll find a way to muddle through an explanation.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what was so wrong between Haru-san and Gokudera-san that a proposal would cause them to fight, but the sad, set look in Kyouko-san’s eyes made her bite her tongue.

When Haru-san returned, her eyes were puffy, but her expression was composed. “Are those the ones I like?” she asked, when Kyouko-san gave her the little plate.

“I asked for them, just for you.” Kyouko-san’s expression had gone back to the sweet, gentle smile I-Pin was used to seeing.

“You’re wonderful.” Haru-san fell upon the little cakes. “Never let Lucia-san go. The woman’s a saint and a marvel.”

“Isn’t she? Rosetti-san is never going to forgive me for hiring her away from them.” Kyouko-san sipped her tea, with a complacent smile. “How was your shopping yesterday? Find out anything?”

Haru-san looked at I-Pin and then Kyouko-san, and only answered when Kyouko-san tipped her chin in a brief nod. “It was sparse.”

“Tell me anyway,” Kyouko-san said, over the rim of her cup.

“I still haven’t found anyone willing to talk to me. The Modigliani are terribly closemouthed.” Haru-san frowned. “The one man who was willing to give me the time of day wanted to hear about the Vongola’s business.”

Kyouko-san looked troubled. “Mm. I don’t like that.”

“How do you think I feel? Men are supposed to be putty in my hands, not concrete.” Haru-san nibbled on one of the pastries. “Maybe I just need to give it more time. Flirt harder or something, or get closer to someone who’s not a foot soldier.”

Kyouko-san looked even more troubled at that. “Be careful, Haru. If anyone realizes—”

“I’m always careful.” Haru-san tossed her head. “No one’s going to realize anything I don’t want them to.” She punctuated that with one of her chirpy giggles and a smile that I-Pin would have supposed was genuine, if it hadn’t been for the lingering redness of her eyes and the very serious look on Kyouko-san’s face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine, and I still bet you that I’m going to be able to get to the bottom of this before—well, before anyone else does.”

“Mm,” Kyouko-san said, and looked up. Her expression changed, and she laughed. “Why so confused, I-Pin?”

I-Pin felt her cheeks turn hot, and she tried to school her expression. “I’m sorry, Kyouko-san. I was—um. It’s nothing.”

Haru-san’s mouth kicked up at the corners. “You’re wondering what on earth we’re talking about, that’s all.”

I-Pin ducked her head, acknowledging the point.

“It’s as I told you,” Kyouko-san said, after a moment. “The Vongola’s wife isn’t free to move around. There’s not much I can do about that, but I do have to know what’s going on. Tsuna tells me what he can, but…”

Haru-san picked up where Kyouko-san’s voice trailed off. “He has a tendency not to share some things.”

“He doesn’t want to upset me,” Kyouko-san said, tone mild.

“He just doesn’t think it’s any of your business,” Haru-san retorted. To I-Pin’s ears, the exchange sounded practiced, like they’d had it many times. “None of us can afford to be ignorant of what’s going on around us. Especially not Kyouko-chan.”

“So Haru is my eyes and ears.” Kyouko-san looked at Haru-san, expression something that I-Pin couldn’t quite decipher: it looked like affection and regret and worry, all mixed together. “She finds out the things they don’t tell me, and together we piece them into something that I can use to help the Vongola.”

“It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.” Haru-san grinned, cheerful.

“That someone doesn’t have to be you,” Kyouko-san murmured. “We could—”

Haru-san interrupted her. “We’re not having this argument again.” Her voice was almost harsh. “You need me, and no one else can do what I can do for you. No one else is going to have the position I’ve created for myself and no one else is going to have my protection, and besides, I want to do this for you.”

“But when it costs you so much…” Kyouko-san began, and stopped at the fierce look Haru-san gave her.

“Am I or am I not your right hand?” Haru-san demanded. “I knew perfectly well what I was getting into from the beginning.”

Kyouko-san’s mouth quirked. “That was more than I knew,” she said, and sighed. “You’re not just my right hand, you’re my only hand, and I do wish you would have a care for yourself.”

“Don’t worry so much about me. I can take care of myself.” Haru-san’s tone was very nearly brusque, as if she was defying either of them to mention the tears from just a few minutes ago. “Anyway, it’s not going to be just me for that much longer. We’re already off to a good start, yes?”

I-Pin found her position changed abruptly from interested observer to the focus of their scrutiny. After a moment, she understood their twin looks. “Me?” she said, alarmed. “But I—why me?”

“You can get to places that even I can’t,” Haru-san said, blunt. “I’m not a fighter, so the boys don’t take me seriously, and I can’t flirt for information inside the Vongola because Hayato would lose face if I did. You’re Kyouko-san’s bodyguard. You’re practically one of the boys yourself.”

“But—what about Bianchi-san? Or Chrome-san?” I-Pin said, a little desperate. “I mean—they’re much more important and they know their way around—”

“And Chrome belongs to Tsuna,” Kyouko-san said, gently. “And Bianchi-san…”

“Bianchi-neesan is already part of the Vongola system,” Haru-san said. “She’s already focused on her role. We want people who are willing to be more flexible.” She paused; I-Pin thought it must have been deliberate. “And whose interests will follow Kyouko-chan’s.”

I-Pin froze. “I—but—” she said, with the sense memory of kneeling before Sawada-san and the solid metal of his ring beneath her lips flashing through her mind. “I’ve already promised to serve the Tenth. I kissed his ring.”

Haru-san’s smile was tiny. “So did I. And Kyouko-chan, she wears his ring. We both still serve the Vongola. It’s just… in our own way.”

“If you say yes,” Kyouko-san murmured, “and you don’t have to, if you prefer not to—but if you say yes, the things I will ask you to do will be for the sake of helping me help Tsuna. Do you see?”

I-Pin bit her lip till it stung. “I—may I think about it?”

“Of course.” Kyouko-san’s smile was gentle. “Speak to Tsuna, too, if that would help set your mind at ease.”

There was really only one proper response to that; I-Pin bowed. “Thank you, Kyouko-san.”

“Think nothing of it.” Kyouko-san refreshed her tea, and turned back to Haru-san. “So you’re having as much trouble with the Modigliani as everyone else is.”

“A little less, I think.” Haru-san’s smile was sharp. “I was the one who noticed there was something wrong there in the first place.”

“True. Again, Tsuna thanks you for that.” Kyouko-san sipped her tea. “What of the other Families? Anything interesting I should know?”

Haru-san lifted a shoulder, shrugging. “Not really. The Barassi are starting to think about marrying off their younger daughter. It looks like the Orsini and the Leone are both going to try for her hand.” She thought for a moment. “Feretti-san’s mistress may be pregnant, so things are upset there.”

“I imagine so. Poor Maria.” Kyouko-san sipped her tea. “He’s not still threatening to put her aside for the mistress, is he?”

“Why do you think they’re so upset?” Haru-san asked, tone dry.

“Perhaps I’ll have her to tea,” Kyouko-san said. “It’s not much, I suppose, but I do like Maria. She’s so sensible.”

“And goodness knows we could use as much of that as we can find,” Haru-san said, and then snapped her fingers. “Oh yes. Vieri-san is expecting again.”

“Again?” Kyouko-san looked astonished. “She already has five!”

“Well, in another few months, she’ll have six.” Haru-san drained her teacup, and shook her head at Kyouko-san’s abortive move towards the teapot. “Better her than me, that’s all I can say.”

“Maybe this time she’ll have that girl she’s been wanting,” Kyouko-san murmured. She glanced at her watch and started. “My goodness, is that the time already?”

“It is,” Haru-san said, looking at her own watch. “That’s about all the gossip I have for you at the moment, anyway. I’m going into town later to see what my girls have to say. Hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this Modigliani business soon.”

“That would be nice. Tsuna’s worrying over it too much.” Kyouko-san looked up at Haru-san as she stood. “Haru. Do be careful.”

Haru-san’s smile was quick. “I’m always careful, remember?” She smoothed her skirt, laughing at the sound Kyouko-san made, and let herself out.

I-Pin waited for a sign from Kyouko-san; the itinerary she’d memorized suggested that the next thing Kyouko-san would do would be a trip downstairs to speak to Sergio and make sure that the household’s affairs were running smoothly.

Kyouko-san stayed seated instead, and finished her cup of tea, quietly—waiting for Gokudera-san, I-Pin supposed. Presently, she set the teacup down and took up the handkerchief she’d lent to Haru-san, and spread it across her knee. The smudges of Haru-san’s mascara were very dark against the fabric. “It would be a good idea if you could make yourself as inconspicuous as you can,” she said, studying the handkerchief.

“Of course, Kyouko-san.” I-Pin dipped her head and then retreated to the corner, where she could watch the room, and stilled herself.

Not long after that, someone knocked on the door, and Kyouko-san called for them to come in. It was Gokudera-san; he left the door open behind him, until Kyouko-san said, voice very clear and calm, “Close the door, Gokudera.”

I-Pin had a good vantage point for watching his face; Kyouko-san’s tone turned his expression wary. “Is that appropriate, Kyouko-san?”

“Close the door,” Kyouko-san said, again, voice so calm that it sent chills running down I-Pin’s spine. “I’m sure I-Pin will be able to guard our reputations for us.”

Gokudera-san glanced at I-Pin, but shut the door. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes,” Kyouko-san said. “I have some things to say to you.” When Gokudera-san nodded to show that he was listening, she went on. “This is about Haru.”

Gokudera-san’s mouth went flat. “Kyouko-san, with all due respect, I have a lot of things I have to get done today. I don’t think now’s the time to be talking about my personal life.”

“And I disagree with you,” Kyouko-san said, and that was when I-Pin finally placed her tone: it was the same one that rang in Sawada-san’s voice when he was in the grip of his Will. “Has it honestly never occurred to you that perhaps Haru has more to do with her life and for the Vongola than to sit around at home and make your babies?”

“No,” Gokudera-san said, mouth still flat, lines etched at the corners of it. “But maybe it would have if she did more with her time than spending it shopping and gossiping and flirting with other men, since those are services that I didn’t think the Vongola really needed.”

Kyouko-san’s voice didn’t get any louder, but it turned sharper. “Do you think the only way to serve the Vongola is to carry a gun or a box weapon? Or the only life a person can give is the one that the body holds? Does service only matter when it comes to the forms you approve of?”

“Of course not, but I’ll be damned if I can see how frittering your life away does anyone any good at all,” Gokudera-san snapped.

“Is that what you think we’ve been doing?” Kyouko-san asked, and I-Pin had to suppress a shiver at the still expression in her eyes.

She’d always thought Gokudera-san was a smart man; certainly he was smart enough now to say, “Not you, Kyouko-san. You’re the Tenth’s wife. You couldn’t fritter away your life if you wanted to.”

“And yet all I do is spend my time giving parties and standing by Tsuna’s side with a pretty smile,” Kyouko-san said. “How very useless of me.”

Gokudera-san backtracked faster. “You’re the last person I would call useless,” he said, gesturing. “I don’t know how many times I’ve seen you jigger a negotiation in our favor just by saying the right thing and smiling. You’re one of the most respected women in the mafia world.”

“Then tell me this,” Kyouko-san said, slow and deadly calm, “how do you suppose I know what exactly the right thing to say is?”

Gokudera-san blinked. “I assumed the Tenth must tell you things.” He smiled. “And maybe women’s intuition?”

“Then you’re ten kinds of fool, Gokudera Hayato.” Kyouko-san’s voice cut like the fine edge of a knife. “The kinds of things I need to know aren’t found in how many men the Barassi can muster or what kinds of box weapons are in production now. I need to know who’s allied with whom and what they get out it, who’s feuding this week and where their weak spots are, and who holds the balance of power and who doesn’t. I have to know where the right word would help and what the right word is. I have to pay attention to which Families have sons at loose ends, and whose mistress is pregnant this week, and who has a daughter they’ll trade to another Family for trade concessions, and who was insulted at last week’s garden party and won’t speak to the Leone for love or money. There’s no intuition to it. It’s a lot of hard work, and a lot of sifting through hints and rumors and speaking to the right people and cultivating the right contacts. And I ask you, Gokudera, is that the kind of information that you think Tsuna can give me?”

Gokudera-san opened his mouth, and then seemed to think better of it. “…some of it,” he said, finally. “And I know he receives reports about some of the other things.”

“And where do you think those reports come from?”

“I…” Gokudera-san stopped, and stared at her. “Surely not.”

“From me,” Kyouko-san said. “And my information comes from Haru and the network of contacts she’s built up, piece by piece and person by person, for years now. She goes where I can’t and sees the things that I won’t ever see and listens for the things that will never reach my ears.” She stopped, and drew a breath, and said, with slow, careful emphasis, “Tsuna is not the only member of this Family who has a right hand, and without Haru, I couldn’t do the many things I do for Tsuna and the Vongola.”

“Your…” Gokudera-san began, and stopped, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

“My right hand,” Kyouko-san said. “The one who does the things I’m not able to do. The one who puts herself into danger every day when she speaks to the men of other Families and cultivates them for whatever tidbits of knowledge she can coax out of them.” She stopped, perhaps to let that sink in, and then picked up the stained handkerchief that had been sitting, forgotten, on her knee.

The motion caught Gokudera-san’s eyes, and he stared at it. The moment comprehension flickered over his poleaxed expression, Kyouko-san spoke again. “A married woman isn’t free to act, you know. It wouldn’t be honorable. But a woman who isn’t so firmly bound… she can, perhaps, flirt with whomever she likes. If it’s known that she has a man—a protective man, a dangerous man, a man whom very few people would care to cross—perhaps she can even do this with impunity. And if her man is an important person to her Family, then perhaps people might be freer with their attentions than they might otherwise be, because they hope she may be indiscreet in her turn. But she’s never indiscreet, because her loyalty is to her Family and to the man she loves.” Kyouko-san stopped, and drew a breath. “And she’s proud of her service, and how vital it is, even if no one else knows what it is she does, but at the same time, she’s painfully aware of the things that she can’t do because of that service.”

Gokudera-san listened to that, nearly impassive, except for the muscle that flickered at the corner of his jaw. When she had stopped, he stood silently for nearly a minute before asking, voice taut, “And no one thought that this was something that I ought to know?”

“We decided that the fewer people who knew the truth, the easier it would be for Haru to keep people from suspecting what it is she’s doing,” Kyouko-san said.

“Including her own boyfriend.”

I-Pin bit her lip at the heavy bitterness in his voice.

“To protect her, yes.” Kyouko-san lifted her chin, by a fraction. “It was my decision, in the end.”

“To protect her. Of course.” Gokudera-san’s voice was still taut with—bitterness and anger and outrage, I-Pin decided. “And I suppose the only reason you changed your mind was because her cover story is in danger now.”

“Excuse me?”

Gokudera-san gestured, hand cutting through the air, sharp. “Because I told her to stop fooling around on me, or it was over.”

The quick intake of Kyouko-san’s breath was loud. “She didn’t even mention that. Only that you’d proposed again.”

“Yes, again, like an idiot. If I’d just realized that it was my protection she’d wanted, I wouldn’t have bothered.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose that wouldn’t have been as plausible, though, would it?”

Kyouko-san pressed her lips together, firmly, before she finally replied to that. “I know you’re angry, but did you not hear me when I said that she loves you?”

“I heard,” he said, grim. “I also heard how convenient it was for her boyfriend to be me. I assume she chose me because of my position in the Family, and because Hibari wasn’t available.”

“She chose you because she loves you,” Kyouko-san said, and I-Pin wondered how angry she actually was, for it to be seeping into her voice like this. “This wasn’t something we planned, Gokudera. It grew out of our circumstances. And this is why I was reluctant to tell you, because I knew you’d be an insecure ass about it!”

I-Pin flinched, and Gokudera-san went white and clenched his hands at his sides. “We both know I was her second choice,” he said, from behind teeth that were clearly gritted together. “Can you really blame me?”

Kyouko-san curled her fingers together around the handkerchief. “Now you really are being an idiot,” she said, voice soft. “You know better than that. You know that Haru is better than that.”

“I know you only think the best of people,” Gokudera-san retorted. “But if you want to pretend that she didn’t spend all that time mooning after the Tenth, then I don’t think I’m the idiot here.”

I-Pin held her own breath as Kyouko-san took a breath and let it out, and then another, before she finally said, “That was a very long time ago, Gokudera, and we were still children. People do change, you know.”

“And yet you’re married to the Boss, like we all knew you would be. They don’t change that much.”

Kyouko-san closed her eyes. “You’ve obviously made up your mind to think the worst. Is it even worth it to argue with you?”

Gokudera-san’s voice was very even. “What would you have me do, Kyouko-san?”

Kyouko-san opened her eyes again, and looked at him. “I would ask you to bear with it a little longer, until we’ve dealt with the Modigliani. After that, you and Haru can go your separate ways, and she and I will figure out something new. Will you do that for me?”

Gokudera bent his head, but the motion looked stiff. “I live to serve the Vongola.”

“I know you do,” Kyouko-san said, slowly, almost sadly. “Even when we don’t treat you so well as you deserve.” She sighed. “Thank you for your patience, Gokudera.”

“As my lady commands,” he said, mouth twisting around the words. “Will there be anything else?”

“No,” Kyouko-san said, softly. “Not today.”

“Thank you.” He bowed, short and jerky, and spun on his heel to let himself out.

When the door shut behind him, I-Pin released a long breath.

“Damn,” Kyouko-san said, so quietly that I-Pin barely heard her. “Damn it.”

“Kyouko-san?” I-Pin ventured.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” Kyouko-san said, smoothing and folding the crumpled handkerchief. “A rather large one. And for the life of me, I’m not sure how to fix it.” She shook her head. “What a mess.”

“He’ll change his mind, won’t he?” I-Pin asked, hesitant.

Kyouko-san smiled at her, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so.” She stood. “But it’s no use worrying about it just now. There’s work to be done.”

I-Pin fell in at her side, watching and worrying all the while.

It was something of a relief to get out of the Vongola mansion and away from its stifling atmosphere, and to linger at the salon, letting Adele fuss over her hair and insist on a facial—”Haven’t you been sleeping, dear? Your eyes are all bloodshot.”—to deal with the morning’s storm of emotions. There was unfortunately limited amounts of information to be heard in the salon that afternoon, since Haru was nearly the only customer, but that was a relief, too, and Haru relaxed into the simple pleasure of being attended to.

Still, she did pick up a few interesting tidbits; Giovanni Barassi was specifically interested in allying with a Family that would help him recoup some of his losses since the Vongola had curtailed his smuggling operations, which gave the Orsini boys an edge over the Leone son. The Orsini weren’t as fond of the Vongola as they might be, to boot. It was something worth thinking about, at any rate.

Haru picked up a few more scraps of information as she made her afternoon rounds—Antonio at the dress shop mentioned that it had been an unusually long time since Caterina Modigliani had purchased a new dress, and he knew for a fact that she hadn’t been patronizing another shop. Haru believed him; Antonio prided himself on his tenacity and attention to his customers, and was fully capable of interrogating an unfaithful client until he’d discovered the cause of her infidelity. That Caterina Modigliani wasn’t purchasing new dresses seemed odd; the woman was beautiful and knew it, and had a reputation for accentuating her beauty fairly enthusiastically.

Haru tucked that bit away to discuss with Kyouko-chan.

Nothing else in her rounds was particularly fruitful, save for the coffee she stopped to enjoy, because there she met one of the boys who had a connection to the Risso arm dealers. Nino was a nice fellow, and so far one of her best leads regarding the Modigliani, since he seemed to be pretty much head over heels for her. Haru smiled at him and let him buy her another coffee, and flirted delicately with him as he hinted at the same important deal he’d mentioned before. It wasn’t anything she didn’t already know, but it confirmed that whatever it was that the Modigliani were up to, it was proceeding apace.

All told, it wasn’t a bad afternoon’s work. Haru returned to the Vongola estate in something she supposed would pass for good spirits.

“I should have known better,” she announced to the air, when she discovered the message that Kyouko-chan wanted to speak with her waiting for her.

When Haru found her, Kyouko-san was in her study, standing at the window under I-Pin’s watchful eye. “Was there something you needed to tell me?”

Kyouko-chan’s shoulders rose and fell on a sigh, and then she turned to look at Haru. Her expression was drawn. “I’m afraid so.”

Haru took her usual seat and braced herself. “How bad is it?” It couldn’t be anything that affected the Vongola as a whole; things were too peaceful for that, and Kyouko-chan merely looked strained, not terrified or angry.

“It’s—difficult.” Kyouko-chan gathered herself, hands pressing together; that was what she did when she didn’t want to fidget. “I—spoke with Gokudera this morning.”

“You… oh, god.” Haru pinched the bridge of her nose; so it was only a disaster for her personally. Wonderful. “Why?”

“Because I hoped I’d be able to help.” She paused. “Why didn’t you tell me he was talking about ending it?”

Haru sighed and looked up at her. “Because he always says that, if I don’t say it first.”

Kyouko-chan blinked a bit at that, momentarily sidetracked. “You two have a very strange relationship.”

Haru shrugged; she couldn’t deny it. But then, not everyone could be as sweet a pair of lovebirds as Kyouko-chan and Tsuna-kun managed to be. “Normally it works out all right.” That didn’t seem to soothe Kyouko-chan very much. “So… what did you tell him?”

Kyouko-chan gave into the inevitable, fingers twisting around each other, which wasn’t a good sign. “I explained why you do what you do. He… wasn’t pleased, really.” Before Haru could ask what that meant in practical, Hayato-specific terms, Kyouko-chan rushed on. “He seems to think you chose him because of… business-related reasons, and not for his own sake. And that you might still be carrying a torch for Tsuna.”

Haru could only stare at Kyouko-chan for a moment, absorbing that. “You’re not joking, are you?” Kyouko-chan shook her head. Haru pinched the bridge of her nose again, trying to press the incipient headache away. “Oh, no. He’s such an idiot.” And of course he would have taken things entirely the wrong way, because that was just how Hayato’s brain operated, the insecure idiot.

One of these days, she was going to persuade Tsuna-kun that the Vongola didn’t really need Hayato’s family, and then she was going to go out and do her very best Hibari Kyouya impression for several people the world would be better off without. Perhaps it wouldn’t fix what was past, but it would make her feel better.

“There’s… I’m afraid there’s more.” When Haru looked up, Kyouko-chan looked positively miserable. Haru braced herself again, for the worst. “I’m afraid… I didn’t know that you… threaten to end things regularly. I, um, gave him permission to end things after the Modigliani thing is taken care of.”

“You…” Haru groped for words in the face of the enormity of that, because it was one thing for the two of them to scream that this was it, it was over for good, get out when they were arguing, but for the Tenth’s wife to give Hayato permission to end things, when he was in a calmer frame of mind… “Oh my god,” she said, as the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

“I’m so sorry.” Kyouko-chan was wringing her hands so hard that they were probably in danger of being rubbed raw. “I swear I didn’t realize—if I’d only known—”

“How could you have known?” Haru asked, from around the hard lump in her throat. “We have the apartment we do because it’s so far away from the rest of the house and no one will have to hear us yelling.” That didn’t seem to reassure Kyouko-chan, so Haru dredged up a smile from her reserves. “Don’t worry. It’s going to take us forever to crack the Modigliani business open. That’ll give him plenty of time to think things over and come back around to being sensible.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Sure I do,” Haru said, with all the briskness she could muster. “He never stays angry for long.” Usually, anyway. This might be a special case. “Don’t worry. This might even be a good thing. If he knows what I’m doing now, then I can compare notes with him directly, instead of running things through you and Tsuna-kun.”

“Still, I am sorry,” Kyouko-chan said, although she looked a little bit more hopeful around the edges. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you—”

“Hush, don’t say things like that.” Haru gave her a smile. “That’s too dangerous for the Vongola’s wife to be saying.” She stood. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. Now, I have some things to put away…”

“Of course, of course.” Kyouko-chan gave her a worried smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Haru nodded, and saw herself out, and didn’t give vent to her emotions until she was safely behind her own door. “Fuck,” she announced, to the too-still apartment.

And then, because it was pointless to dwell, she went to unpack her packages and put them away.

“You know,” Tsuna remarked once the door was closed behind him, in tones of wonder, “this morning, one of the things I told myself was, ‘At least this is the worst Hayato’s mood can possibly get.'” He hooked his fingers in his tie and unknotted it. “I guess it’s good to know that I can still be taken by surprise.” He hung his coat over the back of a chair and sat on the edge of the bed. “What on earth did you say to him?”

Kyouko turned from watching his progress in her mirror to meet his eyes directly. “I explained what it is that Haru does for me.”

Tsuna’s eyebrows went up. “I see,” he said, pulling his tie off. “Once he’s had a chance to think it through, I suppose he’ll calm down.”

“I wonder,” Kyouko said. “He seems to think he’s been used rather badly.”

Nothing in Tsuna’s expression even hinted that he might be thinking I told you so, and she loved him for it. Instead, he sighed, and said, “I’ll speak to him—”

“Don’t.” When he looked at her, she added, “I think this is something they have to do for themselves.”

“Do you think so?” Tsuna frowned, and stretched to drape his tie over the arm of the chair. “I hate watching them argue with each other.”

“Me too.” Right now, she’d give anything for it to be an ordinary argument. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. He’s—after the Modigliani business is dealt with, we may need to rebuild Haru’s network.”

Tsuna’s fingers stilled on the buttons of his shirt. “Ah,” he said quietly. “That would be unfortunate.” His fingers began moving again. “But I suppose that we’ll do it if we have to.” He shook his head. “Though I really would rather not have to.”

“Same here.” Kyouko watched him undress, and went to him when he held a hand out to her. “I hate to see them so upset,” she said, against his shoulder. “Especially Haru.”

“I don’t know. Right now I’d trade you Hayato for her,” he said, against her hair.

She couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not sure that would be a fair trade.”

“No? Pity.” He lifted a hand to her hair, and she sighed at the warmth of it. “They’re both intelligent adults. They’ll figure it out, surely.”

“Let’s hope so,” Kyouko agreed, as he reached for the lamp and turned it off, and let him draw her into bed. When they’d arranged themselves comfortably, she told him what news Haru had brought her. He made interested sounds at the news of the Barassi’s daughter, and vaguer noises when she mentioned poor Maria Feretti—well, it didn’t make all that much difference to the Vongola whether Paolo Feretti got his children from his wife or his mistress, but Maria was a good person and didn’t deserve the indignity of being put aside after all the years she’d endured her husband’s infidelities. “And Anna Vieri is expecting again,” she finished.

“What, again?” Tsuna asked, sleepy voice rich with amusement. “Don’t they already have enough?”

“I think she just likes children a lot,” Kyouko said, listening to the slow, steady heartbeat under her cheek. “She’s not the only one, you know.”

Tsuna’s chest rose and fell on a sigh, and his arm curled tighter around her. “Things are still unstable,” he said, quietly. “I don’t think—”

“I don’t think it’s ever going to be stable,” Kyouko told him, and then forced herself to take a deep breath. “I just—I’m afraid of waiting too long, Tsuna.”

He sighed again. “I know.”

Kyouko lifted herself up on an elbow to look at the dim outline of his face. “Think about it,” she said, softly. “Maybe, after the Modigliani—”

His fingers against her lips stopped her. “There’ll be time,” he said, softly. “I promise.”

Kyouko let him coax her back down, and sighed. “I worry,” she told him, after a moment.

“Too much, sometimes,” he replied.

But he wasn’t the one who was left at home to worry about him whenever he went to negotiate with the other Families, Kyouko thought, and didn’t say. He wasn’t the one who had to wonder whether she’d be left alone, with nothing to show for the time they’d had together, and he wasn’t the one who’d have to deal with the Family if he died without an heir. “Just think about it,” she said again, finally. “Please?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and Kyouko could tell he was smiling. His lips brushed against her temple. “Go to sleep, love.”

Even if he was humoring her, it was a start. Kyouko sighed again, and nestled against him, and tried to let go of her worries, at least for a little while.

Hayato didn’t show up at dinnertime, and didn’t call to say where he was or whether to keep his meal warm for him or not. Haru found herself waiting for him much longer than was sensible before she finally sat down to her own portion. She covered his serving and put it in the refrigerator when she’d finished, and tried to read for a while, but couldn’t keep track of the words on the page. In the end, she gave that up, disgusted at herself and annoyed at Hayato for being—himself, mostly—and retreated to the bathroom for a long, hot bath.

Soaking in the tub did little to slow her thoughts down, between the issue of the Modigliani—there was something there, something important that she was missing, if only she could put her finger on it—and what to do about Hayato, and what she was going to do if the stubborn, proud fool really had meant it this time when he’d said it was over—

But there was no use fretting over it. If Hayato couldn’t trust her to know the difference between work and her personal life, then this was bound to have happened sooner or later.

A glass of wine did what the bath couldn’t, and slowed her thoughts down enough to be manageable by the time she gave up waiting for Hayato to come in and went to bed.

She’d half-expected to toss and turn all night, but the previous night had been restless enough that she fell asleep almost immediately, and slept soundly until the alarm went off.

Hayato had come in during the night, and was asleep in the living room, scrunched up on the couch with his head at an angle that Haru knew was going to mean a painful crick in the neck. He was scowling even in his sleep, and promised to be an utter monster whenever he woke up.

After a moment of looking at him, Haru went and armed herself with a pot of coffee and a bottle of aspirin. She left them within his reach on her way into the bathroom. It wasn’t much, as far as peace offerings went, but it wasn’t as though she’d managed to slip back into an entirely charitable mood just yet.

When she emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and almost ready for her morning workout, the coffee had done its work. Hayato was hunched over it, glaring at the coffee table as if it had offered him some insult. He didn’t look up when Haru stepped into the living room.

So it was up to her to start things moving? At least that wasn’t anything she wasn’t already used to. “If I’d realized you were planning on sleeping out here, I would have chosen one of those couches that folds out to be a bed.”

“I wish you would have,” Hayato grunted, still not looking up.

“I’ll keep it in mind, next time we redecorate,” Haru told him, as lightly as she dared, and waited to see how that would be taken. Perhaps a night’s sleep would have—

“You can do whatever you like, once I’ve moved out.”

Or perhaps not. “I wish you wouldn’t,” Haru said, once she’d caught her breath from that. “I’ve gotten used to you, you know.”

“I’m sure you have.” Hayato’s mouth was twisted into one of his self-mocking grimaces. “You’re good at that. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Haru said, as calmly as she could manage, given the circumstances and the early hour, “I will slap you.”

He looked up, as if to gauge whether she meant it. “We both know it’s true,” he said. There was fresh anger there, layered over something else—an aching sort of thing, she thought, in the part of her that wasn’t taken up with her own outrage.

“I know no such thing,” she snapped. “I’m married to you in everything but name, you idiot, if you’d just get your head out of your ass long enough to notice it.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I swear I don’t know what it is about letting a man into your life that makes him think that he has a right to the whole thing, but—wait.”

“Isn’t that what—” Hayato began,indignant.

Haru held up a hand to silence him. “Hush. Argue later. Thinking now.” She pressed her folded hands to her lips, thinking furiously. “The problem is, we’ve been thinking of the Modigliani as always having been loyal to us, and we’ve been wondering why on earth that should have changed.” Standing was no good; she launched herself into motion, pacing the length of the living room and back, working through her thoughts out loud as she maneuvered around Hayato’s easy chair and the basket of her magazines and books. “But the Modigliani aren’t what they’ve always been, are they? The current boss, Vincentio. He married into the Family and took the Modigliani name, and his Family—they merged with the Modigliani.”

Hayato seemed willing to suspend the argument for the moment. “Mm. He was one of the Bolzoni,” he said. “The Bolzoni had money, and the Modigliani didn’t, but they had a much older name, and a spare daughter—”

“Caterina, yes. Who isn’t buying dresses any more,” Haru said, reaching the end of the room again and turning; she ignored the confused expression on Hayato’s face. “So Vincentio married into the Modigliani and took their name, and then… then Massimo got himself killed, conveniently enough, which means Vincentio is suddenly the heir by way of his new wife… and then old Enrico Modigliani dies, and Vincentio takes over, and now, a few years later, the Modigliani are no longer quite loyal to the Vongola. How convenient.”

“I suppose it is, but Enrico died of a heart attack, and Massimo’s death was an accident,” Hayato pointed out.

“And if you ask Bianchi-neesan, she can tell you half a dozen ways to cause a heart attack that looks perfectly natural,” Haru said, waving that aside as she stepped around the basket again. “What do we really know about Massimo Modigliani’s death? Anything?”

“I did just say that it was an accident,” Hayato pointed out, but he was beginning to look thoughtful, perhaps in spite of himself. “He drowned while he was sailing. It was sad, but—” He stopped, and went silent while Haru made a few more circuits of the room. “It was peculiar,” he said, presently. “He was supposed to have been an excellent sailor. The Modigliani investigated, of course, but they found that it was an accident.”

“Were they Modigliani investigators, or were they Bolzoni?” Haru asked him.

Hayato frowned, looking past her, into space. “Hm.”

When he didn’t say anything else, Haru murmured, “I think it bears looking into.”

That brought his focus back down to her. “Even if it wasn’t an accident, what do you propose to do about it?” he protested.

“The Modigliani were poor, but tightly-knit. They still are.” Haru stopped. “If we can just find the right fulcrum, we might… might be able to move Caterina Modigliani into action.”

“You do realize that you’re suggesting that we start an internal war in another Family, don’t you?”

Haru looked at him, but his expression was as neutral as his tone. “Only if Caterina-san isn’t as smart as she’s supposed to be,” she said, finally. “If the Vongola could give her proof that the Bolzoni removed her father and her brother, it seems to me that she would be well within her rights to take the control of her Family back from the interloper. And if the Vongola were to help her…” She shrugged and spread her hands. “Our alliance is renewed and solidified. Or maybe the Modigliani get thrown into chaos, the Modigliani and Bolzoni factions spend their resources on each other, and the Vongola can sleep easier at night. Either way, we win.”

“If what you’re insinuating about Vincentio Bolzoni is correct, which is going to be difficult to prove.” Hayato took a drink of his coffee, the gesture an absent one and his eyes gone unfocused again. “It’s worth looking into, as long as we’re discreet about it.”

Haru smiled, pleased. “Good, good. You have resources that I don’t, so you’ll—what?” she asked, because he was looking at her again, pulled back from his contemplation of the Modigliani’s internal politics.

“I hadn’t realized you spent so much time thinking about Family politics,” he said, slowly.

“It’s more interesting that shopping.” Haru straightened her shoulders. “And a girl has to have something to pass the time.”

Hayato’s smile was ironic. “I suppose she does.”

“Yes, well.” Haru shook herself. “See me standing here, wasting time.” She turned away. “If you find out anything about the Modigliani or the Bolzoni… maybe you can tell me about it at dinner,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

“That’s expecting a lot of me, don’t you think?”

Haru paused, hand resting on the door jamb. “You never know. The Vongola does have one of the best intelligence networks that I know of.”

His sigh sounded frustrated. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

Not at dinner, she noted. But it was, perhaps, a start. “All right. Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t see him again before she left to go work out, and passed the time she spent running by consoling herself that at least she’d managed to avert the argument they’d started to have, and that speaking to each other civilly was something that almost resembled progress.

The good thing about Haru’s new theory was that it had distracted her, at least somewhat, from her problems with Gokudera.

The bad thing was that it presented Kyouko with an entire host of new problems.

“You realize that if you’re right, I’m going to have to find a graceful, subtle way of saying, ‘Excuse me, Caterina-san, but I believe your husband killed your father and your brother,’ don’t you?” she asked, once the implications of Haru’s theory had truly sunk in.

Haru’s answering shrug was breezy and unconcerned. “That’s why you’re the Boss’s wife, not me.” Her smile turned wicked. “And don’t forget, you have to find a way to say, ‘Oh, hey, do you want the Vongola to help you bump your husband off?’ too.”

I-Pin, standing guard in the corner, made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a muffled giggle.

Kyouko sighed. “None of my etiquette lessons ever covered this,” she noted. Not even the ones she’d learned from Unità-san, which had seemed impossibly and improbably extensive at the time.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Haru’s smile was warm and reassuring. “You always do.” Then she shrugged again. “And I could be wrong, of course. Don’t forget that.”

“Mm.” Kyouko rather doubted that; it made the Modigliani’s sudden swerve into sedition much more plausible than it had been before. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

Haru smiled. “Of course we will.” She set her teacup down. “That’s all I have for you this morning. Unless there’s anything else, I have plenty of work to do, whether I’m right or I’m wrong.”

“I won’t keep you from it,” Kyouko said. “Just… one question before you go.” She folded her hands together, hesitating. “How are things with Gokudera?”

Haru looked away. “Up in the air,” she said, briefly. The line of her jaw was set and said more than her words did.

“Ah,” Kyouko said, heart sinking at that news. “Let me know if there’s anything—”

Haru looked back at her; her smile was only a bit strained at the corners. “You know I will.” She stood. “Until later.”

“Until then,” Kyouko told her, and sighed as she went.

“What’s bothering you?” Kyouko asked, when even turning out the lights and pressing close to Tsuna had failed to relax him.

Tsuna’s chest rose and fell under her cheek. “Hayato spoke to me today.”

Sometimes it worked to tease Tsuna, gently, about how seriously he and the boys took their roles. This… this was not one of those times. “What did he say?”

“He wanted to know whether he ought to resign as my right hand.”

Half a dozen reactions flashed through Kyouko’s mind at that, from disbelief to amusement at Gokudera’s tendency towards extreme reactions; they were tempered by the soft, even tone Tsuna had taken. It was, despite their being curled up in bed together, his business voice. Kyouko took a breath. “Why did he ask you a thing like that?” she asked, already suspecting what the response was going to be.

She wasn’t far off. “A boss should have complete faith in his right hand,” Tsuna said, slow and even. “He felt that since there were things I couldn’t tell him, I should find a right hand who would be more reliable.”

Kyouko closed her eyes and forced herself to take a breath, and then another, before she responded to that. “I told him that it was my decision,” she said, finally, when she’d mastered herself again.

“He’s aware of that,” Tsuna said, and although his voice was all business, his hand on her shoulder was gentle. “He suggested that I seek a replacement who you would approve of, too.”

“Oh, hell,” Kyouko said, because that was the only thing to say to that.

Actually, that wasn’t true. “Tsuna, I’m sorry.” Hadn’t that been one of the very first things the Giglio Nero’s Unità had taught her—that one didn’t, couldn’t play games inside one’s Family? “I shouldn’t have insisted on keeping Haru’s business a secret.”

“No,” he agreed, and that was the thing that had taken her the longest to accept—that he could be as ruthless with himself and her as he was with his enemies. “You shouldn’t have. And I shouldn’t have agreed.”

Kyouko let out a breath. “Tell me that you talked him out of it, at least.”

“I did, eventually.” Some of the strain went out of his voice. “It took some doing.”

Knowing Gokudera? Yes, it probably had. “I’m sorry,” she said again, softly. “I’ll speak to him. I owe him an apology, if he’ll have it.”

“He will,” Tsuna said, voice thawing the rest of the way, now that they understood each other. “He’s not unreasonable.”

Kyouko wasn’t quite able to keep herself from snorting at that. “Generally, no.”

Tsuna’s breath huffed against her cheek. “I suppose he does have his moments.”

“From time to time.” Kyouko raised her head to look at him. “Is he going to be okay?”

“…I think so,” he said, mouth set in thoughtful lines, just barely visible in the dimness. “He’s so proud, you know.”

“Yes,” Kyouko said, and rested her cheek against his shoulder again. “I know.”

She would have to do her best not to forget that again.

Even when she’d been memorizing Kyouko-san’s daily routine, I-Pin hadn’t fully grasped how much of Kyouko-san’s time was spent waiting: waiting for Sawada-san to join her for a meal or a conversation, waiting for Haru-san to bring her information, waiting for the replies to letters and invitations and phonecalls, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

The bulk of Kyouko-san’s itinerary was taken up with activities that filled all that waiting space.

“I told you this would be a boring duty,” Kyouko-san said, at the end of I-Pin’s first week, late in the afternoon, as Maria Feretti and her bodyguard strolled out of the garden to the car that was waiting for them.

“Bodyguards like boring,” I-Pin murmured, which made Kyouko-san laugh. “I don’t mind, Kyouko-san.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Kyouko-san murmured, watching Feretti-san—thin, worn Feretti-san, who had cried on Kyouko-san’s shoulder for a good long while—climb into her car. “I think all these things I spend my time doing must seem terribly frivolous, or so I imagine.”

“How so?” I-Pin asked, after a moment’s hesitation.

Kyouko-san looked away from the long, dark car. “Oh,” she said, with a faint smile. “It’s because I’m not doing my real duty as Tsuna’s wife.” When I-Pin stared at her, confused, she added, “Well, I’m only doing half of my job.”

“Half?” I-Pin echoed, ransacking her brain for the things that Kyouko-san ought to be doing that she wasn’t already, when the week had been full of a hundred little duties attended to by Kyouko-san’s personal attention.

Kyouko-san moved along the path, and stooped to examine a rose bush. “Mm. There aren’t any little Vongola heirs running around yet, are there?”

I-Pin’s cheek went warm. “Oh. I suppose there aren’t.”

“No,” Kyouko-san said, fingertips brushing over the plush petals of a full-blown rose. Her smile was rueful. “It makes Tsuna’s advisors rather nervous, or so I hear.”

I-Pin nibbled on her lip. It seemed forward to ask, but Kyouko-san had been the one to open up the topic… “Are there—do you have plans?”

“Not yet. He wants to wait till things are… safer, I suppose.” Kyouko-san shook her head, straightening up. “I’ve told him that ‘safer’ probably means ‘never’, for us, but he doesn’t seem to want to listen to me.” She looked away from I-Pin, surveying the garden. “I think it will have to be soon, though.”

“I—” I-Pin hesitated, searching for something she might say to that. “You were very good to me and to Lambo-kun,” she said, finally. “I think you’ll be a very good mother.”

Kyouko-san’s answering smile was bright, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, I-Pin.” She shook herself, and glanced at her watch. “Ah, it’s getting late. We need to get inside—Gokudera has a meeting with me in a few minutes.”

Ever since the trip to the-future-that-wasn’t, Kyouko had thought that Gokudera’s box weapon was perfectly suited to him. She was reminded of his similarity to Uri again when Gokudera came slinking into her sitting room, eyes wary and fingers flicking a lighter through them nervously. “You wanted to see me, Kyouko-san?”

“I did.” Kyouko gestured at the pair of chairs pulled up to the fireplace. “Will you sit?”

“I’d rather stand,” he said, perfectly polite—yes, she’d rather expected him to be angry with her still. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“Whichever you prefer,” she said, and watched him arrange himself like a soldier going to parade rest, lighter secreted away somewhere. “I owe you an apology,” she began. “I shouldn’t have kept Haru’s duties a secret from you. You should have known about them from the start, and for that I am sorry.”

“That’s not what you said the other day,” he said, after several beats of silence, his expression gone still and unreadable.

“The other day I was angry,” Kyouko said, as frankly as she could manage. “My best friend was hurting, and I was angry on her behalf.” Belatedly, she realized that her fingers were working against each other, nervously, and forced them to be still. “I should not have let myself lose my temper like that.”

“Mm.” Gokudera’s expression remained shuttered. “Did the Boss ask you to do this?”

Kyouko felt her spine drawing straighter of its own volition, pride offended at the very suggestion. “No,” she said. “He told me what the two of you discussed yesterday, but he didn’t ask me to do anything. I’m apologizing because what I did was a mistake and was wrong, and you deserve better.”

If anything, his expression went even more frozen at that; when he finally spoke again, Kyouko recognized it for what it was: frozen anger. “Yes,” he said, each syllable clipped short, the control of this anger a marked and dangerous contrast to his ordinary explosions, “I really think I do.”

I-Pin moved in her corner, restless. Kyouko gestured at her to be still, with a calm she didn’t feel—she always managed to forget how terrifying Gokudera was when he was truly angry. It happened so rarely, and was normally directed outside the Family. It was unnerving to be the focus of it now, when the last time she’d seen him like this, he’d left the Magri Family in smoking ruins for their attempt on Tsuna’s life. “You do,” she agreed. “I made a mistake, Gokudera, and I don’t have any defense except that I was very young then, and inexperienced, and it didn’t occur to me what things would look like from your perspective. I’m sorry.”

“How could you not realize what—” Gokudera stopped himself as his voice began to rise. “How could you not realize what kind of effect it would have?” he repeated. The lighter reappeared, and he flicked it open and closed, fingers restless. “He has to be able to tell me everything. If he doesn’t—”

“I know that now,” Kyouko said, watching him narrowly, but some of the coldness was dissolving into a hotter, simpler anger, something that was less about pride than exasperation. “I was young and stupid, Gokudera. I didn’t understand, then.”

“Why did you even do it in the first place?” he demanded, temper cracking the rest of the way open.

Kyouko suppressed her relief at that; Gokudera in a cold fury was a terrifying, implacable thing. By comparison, his normal temper burned out as fast as a match. “Because you were young, too,” she said, slowly, and watched his eyes flare. “And we—Haru and I—worried that you wouldn’t understand that it was something that she needed to do, for her own self-respect, and that you would ask her to choose.”

She paused, giving him a chance to absorb that, and then continued when he narrowed his eyes, clearly considering it. “And because, back then, there were many people who looked right through me, as if I didn’t matter at all to the Vongola. Having something that no one else knew—let me deal with that graciously. It’s a very hard thing, to feel like the only thing people see when they look at you—if they even look at you—is a useless, silly girl.” There was something else that might be useful here, as embarrassing as it was to bring up. She spread her hands. “Do you know how long it would have been before Tsuna and Niisan told me about all this, if the other Hibari-san hadn’t done it for him?” He shook his head. “Three or four years.”

His eyes widened just a bit. “That seems a bit… excessive.”

“I thought so, too. All the same…” Kyouko shook her head. “I shouldn’t have done something at your expense, just to soothe my own ego.”

“Not my expense. The Vongola’s,” he said, but his eyes had started to go more thoughtful than angry.

“Your expense and the Vongola’s,” she said, determined to firm about that, at least. His mouth quirked a bit at the correction. “I am sorry, Gokudera. It was never that I didn’t trust you.” She glanced away from him, and was careful to keep her voice steady. “There’s no one I would rather trust him with than you. Please believe me when I say that, at least.” She steeled herself and met his eyes again. “And I promise that I will never ask him to keep another secret from you. Ever.”

She hardly dared to breathe as he held her gaze, until he finally dipped his head into a nod. “I would appreciate that,” he murmured, hands stilling on his lighter again. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, Kyouko-san?”

Kyouko searched his expression, fingers twisting together. Was there anything else she could say to him? Perhaps something about Haru? In the end, she decided not. “No,” she said. “I won’t keep you from your duties any longer.”

He nodded, the motion brief, and turned away. “Thank you, Kyouko-san,” he said, at the door, and then went out.

What for? she wondered, and sighed. In a situation like this, who could know? “I just hope that did some good,” she said, out loud, and then shook herself. Either it would or it wouldn’t. “I don’t know about you, I-Pin, but I could really use a cup of tea.”

“That does sound good,” I-Pin murmured, and gestured. “I could call for them to send some up…?”

Kyouko sank into one of the seats. “Do, please,” she murmured. “And tell them to send two cups.”

I-Pin looked uncertain, but she didn’t argue, and Kyouko smiled. That, at least, could be counted among the day’s victories.

Haru carried no weapons: not a gun or a knife, nor a ring or box, but all the same, she was armed and dangerous—or so she’d overheard, once, from one of the Cavallone foot-soldiers, who was warning another when he’d thought she couldn’t hear him. At the time, it’d given her a warm, satisfied feeling to hear, and even now, with all her other difficulties weighing on her mind, it was comforting to know that even when the men of other Families knew she was dangerous, most of them never remembered to be wary of her. It was amazing what a man would tell a girl after a glimpse of leg or a bit of décolletage, especially when they were accompanied by a giggle and a credulous look.

What was even better still was having a better angle to attack the Modigliani with; a little detective work and a little more leg work allowed her to sweep into Kyouko-chan’s morning room and announce, “I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’m so stupid, I can’t even believe myself.”

Kyouko-chan, who was, after all, the very soul of courtesy, merely lifted her eyebrows and held out a cup. “Tea?”

“Thank you.” Haru sat, knowing that she was beaming—well, she’d earned it. “I’m so good at this that I make myself sick.” She reached for one of the tea cakes, and then stopped, looking at the array of place settings, the number of them finally registering. “Are we expecting guests?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Kyouko-chan looked at her, clearly uncertain of how she was going to take whatever it is she was about to say. That, Haru thought, was a pretty good sign of what was to come. “Tsuna and Gokudera will be joining us shortly.”

That pretty much figured. “Oh, god,” Haru said, and left the tea cake alone. “Do we have to—”

“I’m afraid so,” Kyouko-chan murmured. “Tsuna says they have news.” Her hands folded around each other. “Are you and Gokudera—”

“He’s still sleeping on the couch,” Haru told her, blunt, because that was the easiest way to get through it. “I barely ever see him, and he’s not talking much.” She held up a finger before Kyouko-chan could open her mouth. “Don’t apologize. Not again. It is what it is, at this point.” She hadn’t managed to resign herself to that, yet, but that wasn’t the point. Calming Kyouko-chan down was.

“Still…” Kyouko-chan began, and then drew herself up at the tap on the door. “That must be them. Come in!”

It was the first chance Haru had really had to get a good look at Hayato since the morning of her epiphany; as she’d rather expected, it looked like he wasn’t taking care of himself. His cheeks were thinner than they ought to have been, and there were dark circles under his eyes—well, it wasn’t a very comfortable couch for sleeping on.

It would have been nice for him to have noticed her looking, but he was carefully avoiding her gaze. Haru frowned, annoyed, but then she realized that Tsuna-kun had taken the chair on Kyouko-chan’s other hand, which left the only empty seat next to her, and Hayato’s grimace became clear.

“Sit down, Gokudera, don’t loom at us,” Kyouko-chan said, pleasantly enough, when it seemed like he would pace rather than sit. The words were sweet enough, but her voice was firm.

Even so, it looked like he was tempted to argue, until Tsuna-kun caught his eye. “Yes, ma’am,” Hayato said, still frowning, but he took the seat.

Haru stifled her sigh.

Kyouko-chan poured the tea and passed the cups around, and then smiled, as pleasantly as she did whenever she played hostess. “Well, now. Where shall we begin?”

“Hayato,” Tsuna-kun said, his tone somewhere between invitation and command.

“Boss.” Hayato opened his portfolio and cleared his throat. “First, I would like to point out that it is extremely difficult to investigate a death that’s four years old, and even harder when that death occurred in what is currently hostile territory for the Vongola.”

“And we truly appreciate your skill and dedication,” Tsuna-kun murmured, with a faint smile.

Hayato still hadn’t managed to suppress the way a compliment from the Tenth lit him up, Haru noted, and carefully did not smile.

“As I was saying,” Hayato continued. “It was very difficult to investigate Massimo Modigliani’s death, and my expense report will reflect that fact. Nonetheless, we did find some very interesting things.” He tapped his finger against a paper in his portfolio. “The official reports of his death indicated that he drowned while sailing. The autopsy reports that he appears to have been swept overboard during the storm that he was—most unwisely, and rather uncharacteristically—sailing in, that the cause of his death was drowning, and that the contusions his body sustained were all post mortem, as a result of his body being battered by the currents and rocks.”

“Now why do I think you’re going to say that it turns out that it didn’t happen that way?” Haru couldn’t resist asking, which earned her a quick, impatient look.

“Indeed,” Hayato said, at his fussiest and most precise. “As it turns out, upon examination of the body, it seems that the original autopsy was never performed.”

“You examined the body?” Haru demanded, as Tsuna-kun said, “Wait, what do you mean, ‘upon examination of the body’?” Kyouko-chan merely looked pained.

Hayato’s shrug was eloquent. “As I said, the expense report will reflect how challenging this investigation was.” He tapped the papers in his portfolio again. “Upon forensic investigation, we discovered that there was no evidence of water in Massimo Modigliani’s lungs. We also discovered that his skull had sustained a number of fractures, any one of which would have been sufficient to kill him outright. In short, he was dead before he hit the water.” He snapped his portfolio closed.

They were silent, absorbing that, until Haru sniffed, and said, “I told you so.”

“So you did,” Tsuna-kun murmured. He shook his head. “Isn’t this just a mess?”

“What are we going to tell Caterina?” Kyouko-chan added.

“That’s up to wiser heads than mine,” Haru said. She spread her hands. “But I do have a few things that might make the job easier.” Kyouko-chan gestured at her to continue. “Yes, well, like I was telling you before the boys came in, I was going about things all wrong. The current Modigliani is a very deeply divided Family, you see. The Bolzoni never really integrated well with the Modigliani, so approaching them like they were interchangeable made them all clam up.” She smiled. “But if a person happened to be sympathetic to how awful it is to work with those damned Bolzoni, one of the Modigliani men will tell you just about anything you ever wanted to know.”

Hayato made an impatient sound. “Are you going to get to the point any time soon?”

Haru rolled her eyes at him. “No, I thought I’d take all week.” She took a sip of her tea, just to annoy him, and then continued. “The Bolzoni and the Modigliani divide goes straight to the top. It’s a purely political marriage, and it sounds like Caterina dislikes her husband a great deal. If we approach her with Hayato’s evidence and the offer of assistance, I think she would hear us out.” She paused, and added, “What’s more, she’s pregnant, and the doctors say it’s a boy. There’s some worried men among the Modigliani who don’t really trust what Vincentio Bolzoni will do if the pregnancy comes to term.”

“Well,” Tsuna-kun said, after a moment. “That does put a new light on things.”

“It does, yes.” Kyouko-san picked up a tea cake, nibbling on it absentmindedly, clearly thinking through what Haru had reported. “I don’t think we could ask for a better situation, really. Thank you both. That’s splendid work that you’ve done.”

Haru smiled, pleased, fully aware that she probably looked as self-satisfied as Hayato did whenever Tsuna-kun complimented him. Well, no matter. They’d both earned it. “What next, Kyouko-chan?”

“A party, I think. A garden party, just for some of the ladies of the most prominent Families,” Kyouko-chan said, slow and thoughtful. “Something informal and low-pressure. Caterina will need to come, if only to keep the Modigliani from looking any more suspicious than they already do.”

“A week from now,” Tsuna-kun added. “That will give us the time we need to put together a plan that we can offer her.”

“A week… mm, yes, that should work.” Kyouko-chan nodded, decisive. “But there’ll be a lot of work to do between now and then.”

“Ridiculous amounts of work,” Tsuna-kun agreed, with a small grimace. “We’d best get to it.” He gestured at Hayato, and they stood.

Haru rose along with the two of them. “I don’t have anything else,” she said, “so I’ll go see whether I can’t dig anything else up that we might find useful.”

Kyouko-chan’s expression went worried. “Be careful,” she said.

Haru huffed at her. “I’m always careful,” she said, and followed Hayato out into the hall.

Tsuna-kun was right behind her, but then he stopped. “Hayato, hold on for just a moment. I need to check something with Kyouko.”

“Right, Boss,” Hayato said.

Tsuna-kun ducked back into Kyouko-chan’s morning room, which left Haru eyeing Hayato sidelong. Tsuna-kun’s hasty departure reeked of a set-up to her, but since he’d gone to the trouble… “So, nice work with the murder investigation,” she said. “How on earth did you manage to get your hands on his body?”

Hayato had enough of an ego that he was still willing to take a compliment, even from her, because he smiled a little, self-deprecating. “Oh, it’s a long story. There were lots of bribes.”

She had no doubt of that, and smiled. “Yeah? I’d like to hear it.”

That seemed to have been a mistake, although she didn’t know why. “Don’t,” he said, abruptly, smile disappearing.

“Don’t what?” she asked, frowning at him.

He looked up and down the hall, and then said, quietly, “Don’t treat me like I’m one of your marks.”

That would have made her angry—and she was tempted to it—except for fact that there was something that hinted at pain lurking in his eyes. She put the anger aside, for the moment. “I’ve never treated you like one of my marks,” Haru said, instead. “Not once.”

“It sure looks the same from where I’m standing,” Hayato said, voice still hushed.

“Then you should look harder.” Haru drew a breath. “I’m only going to say this once, and it’s up to you whether you listen to me or not, but this is the honest truth. I’ve only ever taken one man seriously in my life, and that’s you. I may flirt with other men, which is my job and something I do well, but I don’t flirt with you. What you see is what you get, as far as I’m concerned, and every time I’ve told you that I love you, I’ve meant it right down to my toes. I would race you to the altar, if I could marry you and still be Kyouko-chan’s right hand, but the fact is that I have to at least look like I’m free to do as I will if I want to keep on doing what she needs me to do. It’s up to you whether you think can compromise with me enough to know that I’m yours in all but the name of it, but I’m willing if you are. And the last thing I’ll say is this: what would you give up, if it meant staying on as Tsuna-kun’s right hand?”

She stopped there and tried to read his expression, but he’d gone still on her, impossible to read no matter how well she knew him. “Anyway. You know where to find me,” she said, and turned away.

She tried not to read too much into the fact that he didn’t come after her, but it was difficult to do, and even more difficult to concentrate on doing her job.

In the end, Kyouko thought, it was almost ridiculously easy to separate Caterina Modigliani from her other guests. “May I have a word with you?” she murmured, as the party began to wind down. “Privately, in a bit?” She gestured discreetly at Caterina’s waist, which was just beginning to thicken visibly. “There are things I’d like to ask you.”

Caterina nodded, regal as a queen—Kyouko privately suspected there was a reason why the woman wore her masses of golden hair swept up as she did—and said that she would be happy to answer any of Kyouko’s questions. When the last of the other guests had departed, she waved a hand at her bodyguard. “Leave us be, Vittore,” she commanded. “We’re going to be discussing things that men should not hear.”

Vittore looked torn between his duty and his obvious terror of what the two of them might end up discussing. Kyouko smiled at him, and indicated I-Pin. “Don’t worry; I-Pin will still be here to look after us.”

He didn’t seem terribly reassured by I-Pin, but her presence seemed to be enough to fulfill the dictates of conscience, and he repaired to the front hall to smoke a cigarette.

“My husband’s man, Vittore,” Caterina said, with a sardonic smile. “As you can see, he’s very careful of his duty.”

“So I gathered,” Kyouko said, and steered Caterina to her private sitting room. “And how is your husband?” she asked, after the tea tray she’d requested arrived and I-Pin had made herself inconspicuous.

Caterina accepted her cup of tea, eyes unreadable over the rim of her cup. “Flourishing like a weed.”

“Mm, I see.” Kyouko studied her, trying to get the measure of her mood, which was difficult. “If you will pardon my saying so, you don’t seem all that fond of him.”

“Not all of us are as lucky in our marriages as others have been.” Caterina set her cup down. “What was it that you wanted to know, Kyouko? Surely there isn’t any biology that your own people couldn’t teach you as well as I could, even if you haven’t managed to conceive yet.” She tipped her head to the side, blue eyes going sharp. “Or does this have to do with the sudden interest the Vongola’s people have been taking in mine?”

Kyouko kept her expression neutral, despite the stab. “The latter.” She also set her tea aside, the time for polite fictions past. “Did you know that your brother was murdered?”

Caterina’s mouth tightened, and her blue eyes went hard and chilly. “I suspected he was, but I had no proof.”

“We do,” Kyouko told her. “We can’t tell you who did it, but it certainly seems like he was murdered, and that murder was covered up. Which does lead one to certain conclusions.”

“Vincentio,” Caterina said, slow and measured as a death knell. “Yes. He has always been ambitious.” She steepled her fingers. “And what interest does the Vongola have in my brother’s death?”

“The Modigliani and the Vongola used to have cordial relations.” Kyouko gestured, sketching out the decline of that relationship. “We would like to see them restored to their former state.”

Caterina’s answering smile was slow and sharp. “I knew he’d overstep himself eventually,” she said, practically crooning the words. “I was only afraid that I wouldn’t be there to see it, or to root him out.” She sat up straighter, expression as serene and distant as a marble saint’s, and just as terrible. “And is the Vongola prepared to help me do so?”

For a moment she hesitated, but it would be far better to have Caterina Modigliani as an ally than an enemy. Kyouko lifted her chin. “We are,” she said, committing the Vongola, for good or ill.

“Very good.” Caterina’s teeth gleamed, white and sharp. “Let’s talk business, then.” Her eyes sharpened. “Or will I need to speak to your husband?”

Kyouko gathered all of her dignity to her. “I speak with Tsuna’s voice in this.”

“I thought you couldn’t be as pretty and helpless as you looked,” Caterina said, with every evidence of satisfaction. “To business, then.”

“Of course.” Kyouko kept her hands pressed together; it would do the Vongola no good at all to betray her own feelings now. “We have forensic evidence regarding your brother’s death that we will gladly make available to you, as well as a select circle of allies, if you wish it.”

Caterina’s mouth pursed. “One wonders how you came about possessing it.” Kyouko began to shake her head, but Caterina held up a finger. “No, I know you won’t say. It’s no matter. Once my Family is my own, I’ll deal with the matter myself. Very well. Evidence. What else can you offer me?”

“Assistance,” Kyouko said. “Depending on how you wish to deal with Vincentio, privately or publicly, we will lend you our strength.” She took a breath. “And we offer protection, given the precarious nature of your position.”

Kyouko suspected that Caterina disliked the reminder, given the way she frowned, but she inclined her head after a moment, acknowledging the point. “Evidence, assistance, protection. Weighty things, all of those. Tell me again: what do the Vongola stand to gain from all this?”

“It’s as I said before,” Kyouko said, carefully. “The Modigliani have been the Vongola’s allies for generations. We would be very pleased to have that relationship restored. Yours is a very old and proud Family, and we prefer to call you friends.”

“Especially since we’re powerful enough now, having merged with the Bolzoni, that we could cause you real problems.” Caterina’s smile was mocking at the edges. “Though I’m sure you’re too proud to say as much.”

“Not at all,” Kyouko said. “But wars between Families are terrible things, and we would regret the losses that subduing your Family would cost us.” That was for the crack about being pretty and helpless. “It would be better for us to resolve this peacefully.”

Paradoxically enough, the insult made Caterina smile. “Just so,” she murmured. “Just so.” She leaned back in her seat, flattening a hand over her stomach. “Mine is a house divided, as you know. We’ll need to remove Vincentio discreetly. It must look like an accident, you understand. After he’s gone…” She shrugged. “I doubt they’ll let me take over as the Family’s head myself, you know, but I’ll raise my son to be a Modigliani.”

Kyouko inclined her head. “I’m sure he will be, through and through.” He could hardly be anything else, with such a fierce woman to raise him.

“Of course he will.” Caterina dusted her hands, briskly. “Now. I mustn’t stay too long, or it will look more suspicious than it already is. Send word through that friend of yours. Tell her that Nico is my most reliable man. Any message she gives him will reach me as quickly as he can manage it.” She stood, and smoothed her skirt. “It’s a dangerous game that girl plays, you know. If the men of this country weren’t so stupid, she’d have been lost a long time ago.”

“It’s a very good thing so many of them can’t see what’s in front of their noses,” Kyouko said, after a dizzying moment of fear.

Caterina’s smile was brief, but something warm glinted in her eyes. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Now, show me out. Try not to look too embarrassed when I start giving you medical advice in Vittore’s hearing.” She paused, and eyed Kyouko. “You have seen a doctor, haven’t you? And had a doctor look him over, too?”

“I’ll be sure to do so at the first opportunity,” Kyouko said, not even trying to fight the blush. It was better to seem naive than to tell the Vongola’s business publicly.

“Do,” Catarina said, as Kyouko escorted her out. “Men can be so ridiculous about their masculinity, but it’s their fault more often than not.”

“I see,” Kyouko said faintly, which launched a long discussion of intimate medical affairs that had her altogether relieved to deliver the woman to her bodyguard and flee to the privacy of her own rooms.

If Kyouko-san had to find tasks to keep herself busy, I-Pin knew, Sawada-san was completely the opposite: he had more things to do in a day than any three men could get through.

And yet, despite her guilt at giving him one more thing to deal with, I-Pin found herself stopping by his office after her shift had ended. Sawada-san was on the telephone with someone—by the sound of it, Squalo-san, since she could hear his side of the conversation too—but he smiled and motioned at her to sit.

I-Pin did, gingerly at and at the very edge of her seat, and pretended that she couldn’t actually tell what Sawada-san and Squalo were arguing about—the Varia’s desire to go and deal with the Mondigliani once and for all, from the sounds of it.

Sawada-san finally, and firmly, said, “No, and that’s final, thank you and have a nice evening.” And then he hung up, leaned his head back and moaned, “What did I do in a past life to deserve the Varia? I ask you.”

“If this is a bad time, Sawada-san—”

He looked at her and smiled, good humor restoring itself. “It’s not. It’s just that Squalo has a way about him, that’s all.” He folded his hands under his chin and looked at her. “What can I do for you, I-Pin?”

She suppressed the urge to squirm under the full weight of his attention, and tried not to look at the heavy ring on his finger. “I… Kyouko-san said I should talk to you…”

“Ah,” he said, and nodded, “then it must be something important.”

I-Pin swallowed, and wondered about that. “I—maybe?” she said, fidgeting in spite of herself. “She asked me… to do the same kind of work that Haru-san does for her.”

“And you’re not certain whether you should,” Sawada-san guessed. She nodded, grateful that he understood without her having to fumble through an explanation. “Would you like to?”

“I—yes, I think so,” I-Pin said, hardly daring to raise her voice above a whisper. “But I’ve already—you—” She gestured, helplessly.

“Mm, I see.” Sawada-san unfolded his hands, and looked at his ring. When he looked back at her, his eyes were gentle, and infinitely kind. “Would it help if you thought of it as transferring your service to a slightly different branch? It all comes back to the same place in the end, you see.”

“You don’t mind?” I-Pin asked, careful.

He smiled. “Of course I don’t mind. I’d be glad, actually, if she had another person who she could rely on. You would be doing me a favor if you accepted her offer.”

The rush of relief was sudden enough that I-Pin sagged into the chair, sinking into the deep cushions. “Oh,” she murmured, “oh, I’m glad. I wanted to say yes, but—”

“But, like all of us, you have an overdeveloped sense of duty.” Sawada-san chuckled. “Say yes, with my blessings, I-Pin.”

She smiled back, in relief, and in the easing of that burden, she saw the answer to the question that had been puzzling her since the first day of her duty: Kyouko-san had changed to match herself to Sawada-san, or perhaps he’d become a bit like Kyouko-san, because they both held their people in the same way. “Thank you, Sawada-san.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and paused, almost like he was hesitating to ask something. “I-Pin…”

“Yes, sir?”

“If I may… you see Kyouko… more than anyone else,” Sawada-san began. “Even me, or Haru-chan. Do you think… does she seem happy, to you?”

I-Pin froze, eyes wide at the enormity of the question. “Is she…? I—I’m not sure I’m the right person to answer that.”

“I’m only asking for your opinion,” he said, swiftly, color rising in his face. “You don’t have to—in fact, let’s just pretend that I never even asked.”

I-Pin worried at her lower lip. “I think she is, mostly,” she said, very soft and very fast, before her courage could desert her, because if she was going to serve Kyouko-san, there was no better place to start than with this. “But I think there’s something that she wants very badly, even though she tries not to let on about it.” When he motioned at her to go on, she plunged ahead, determined to say it even though her face felt like it was on fire. “I think—she wants to start a family. Soon.”

It looked very much like Sawada-san was blushing as hard as she was. “I—ah. Suppose this is what I get for asking, isn’t it?” And he looked so sheepish about it that I-Pin couldn’t quite help the faint gasp of hysterical, embarrassed laughter that escaped her. “She’s mentioned—that—a few times, but—she wants it badly?”

I-Pin thought about the look in Kyouko-san’s eyes whenever Haru-san delivered an update regarding Vieri-san, and the way she and Feretti-san had leaned on each other that afternoon, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, softly. “Very badly. But she’s trying to be patient, and to wait for you to be willing, too.”

Sawada-san took a deep breath, and blew it out. “I see. I’ll—yes, I see.” He shook his head, looking like his mind was very far away, far enough away that he’d forgotten about I-Pin altogether.

“Was there anything else you wanted to know?” she asked, softly, to recall him back to the present.

The distant expression vanished from his eyes. “If there is, I’m afraid to ask,” he said, hastily.

“Then, if you’ll excuse me…” When he nodded, I-Pin stood.

She was nearly to the door when he said, “Thank you, I-Pin.”

I-Pin turned and smiled at him, a little shy still, even after that conversation. “You’re welcome, Sawada-san,” she said, and let her self out.

The day they buried Vincentio Modigliani was sunny and beautiful, and was the occasion of I-Pin’s first public foray as Kyouko-san’s personal bodyguard. As a consequence, she was so taut with nerves that the day etched itself into her memory. She carried the snatches of it that had engraved themselves into her memory to the end of her days: from the lines of long dark cars that disgorged member after member of the most prominent Families at the church to the priest’s sonorous words that extolled Vincentio Modigliani’s many virtues. The faces of the crowd were particularly interesting at that point. The Vongola were politely attentive, the Cavallone rather amused, the Barassi were clearly bored, and Caterina Modigliani simply endured it, face held stiffly correct.

It would have been farcical, had it not been so deadly earnest.

After the funeral, the other Families stood back and made way for Sawada-san and Kyouko-san, when they made their way to where Caterina-san stood to pay their respects, pale and remote as a queen. “Our sympathies for your loss,” Sawada-san said, voice pitched to carry.

Caterina-san’s voice carried just as clearly over the murmur of the other Families. “Thank you for that.”

Then it was Kyouko-san’s turn, just as she and Haru-san had discussed over their morning tea. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you,” she added, reaching for Caterina-san’s hand and gripping it. “You have our complete support.”

It may have pretended to be purely sympathetic, but as I-Pin watched the crowd for threats, she saw that the other Families understood quite clearly: the Vongola were placing their weight behind Caterina Modigliani, and didn’t care who knew it.

“I will be sure to do so,” Caterina-san said. “Again, I thank you for your kindness to me.”

“We’re nothing without kindness,” Sawada-san pronounced.

It should have sounded silly, against the backdrop of so many Families, most of whom were clearly already scheming ways to turn this Vongola-Modigliani alliance to their own ends. Somehow—I-Pin suspected it was because it was Sawada Tsunayoshi who had said it—it didn’t.

“Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do,” Kyouko-san said again, and kissed Caterina-san’s cheeks.

“I shall be sure to,” Caterina-san murmured.

Sawada-san and Kyouko-san withdrew, giving way to the Vieri, and were intercepted by Dino Cavallone. “Tsuna,” he said, with a smile that Sawada-san returned, and then turned to Kyouko-san. “And Kyouko-chan. You’re as radiant as ever.”

“Flatterer,” Kyouko-san murmured, with a smile and downcast eyes.

“Perish the thought.” Dino-san pressed a hand to his heart, as if wounded, and then turned more serious. “Sofia wasn’t feeling well this morning, but she said to tell you that it’s been too long, and I’m to invite you to dinner sometime soon.”

“That sounds lovely,” Kyouko-san said. “She’s right. It’s been forever.”

“Yes, and a funeral is no time for socializing,” Dino-san said, as if all the Families around them weren’t conducting business as they spoke. “It’s such a shame, what happened to Vincentio. Food allergies—who would have thought it?” He shook his head sadly, though his eyes were sharp, looking at Sawada-san. “The Modigliani have no manner of luck at all.”

“They say bad things come in threes,” Sawada-san murmured, casually.

Dino-san’s mouth ticked up at the corners. “So they do. Let’s hope that holds true, hm?” He turned a more genuine smile on Kyouko-san. “I’ll have Sofia call you. Pick out a good time for dinner, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Kyouko-san promised him. He smiled and moved on, only to be replaced by Paolo and Maria Feretti, who were full of polite greetings and hushed murmurs about the deceased.

After the Feretti it was the Giglio Nero; after the Giglio Nero, it was Girasole, and the afternoon wore on like that. Sawada-san and Kyouko-san made polite small talk with everyone, reaffirming their alliances and considering the offers of new alliances, all couched in polite small talk. Elsewhere in the crowd, Haru-san did the same. It was exhausting just to watch. I-Pin was drained by the time it was finally over, and wondered how anyone could still be smiling and unruffled at the end of it. Somehow Kyouko-san and Haru-san managed it, and didn’t even sigh until they were safely ensconced in the Vongola limousine.

“That’s that,” Haru-san said, as it purred into motion.

“And thank goodness,” Kyouko-san agreed, with a heavy sigh.

Neither of them were looking at Gokudera-san, who was looking—rather pointedly—out the window. I-Pin’s heart sank, and she hoped (against hope, she suspected), that the two of them were only referring to the funeral.

Given how quiet the rest of the ride home was, she doubted it.

“That was exhausting,” Kyouko declared, when they’d finally dismissed Gokudera and I-Pin and reached the sanctuary of their own rooms. She sat at her vanity, and took the earrings out of her ears. “Funerals are such barbaric customs.” Or perhaps the barbaric part was knowing that the crowd of mourners gathered around Vincentio Modigliani’s coffin were there mostly to make sure the man was dead, and that she had played a significant role in bringing about his demise.

“I keep thinking that one of these days, they’ll get easier, at least when they’re for an enemy,” Tsuna agreed. “But they never do.”

Kyouko began wiping away her makeup as he began to shed his clothes. “That’s a pity,” she said. Then she reconsidered it, and shook her head at herself. “Or perhaps it’s not.”

“It’s hard to decide,” he said, and came to stand behind her.

Kyouko sighed as he set his hands on her shoulders and began to knead the tension out of them. “Oh, that’s nice,” she murmured. “Don’t ever stop.”

His reflection smiled down at her. “If you like.” His thumbs circled at the base of her neck, slow and warm and strong. “You’re all knotted up.”

“Mm. Wearing my hair up does that.” Although that wasn’t all of it; part of it was the memory of Caterina Modigliani standing in her black dress at her husband’s graveside, absolutely untouched by the fuss around her.

“Does it?” He began teasing the hairpins out of her hair, letting it tumble down from its chignon. “Is that better?”

Kyouko sighed and leaned her head back, against his stomach. “Much. Thank you.” And his fingers carding through it felt even better. She made a contented sound, eyes half-shut, as she drank in the strength and the gentleness of him. Perhaps not all marriages were lucky, as Caterina had said, but hers was, and knowing as much only made her savor it more.

She felt Tsuna take a breath, like he was preparing to say something. “So,” he murmured, and she opened her eyes to look at his reflection. He looked as shy as he had the night he’d asked her to marry him. “There was something you asked me to think about, after this mess with the Modigliani ended.”

“And…?” she asked, as her pulse quickened, in spite of herself. It was foolish to get her hopes up, but…

“And yes,” he said, quietly, watching her. “You’re right. It’s only ever going to be one thing after another. I’d like it not to be, but it’s foolish to wait any longer than we already have.”

“Tsuna,” she breathed, and reached for his hand, pressing it to her cheek in lieu of the things she didn’t know how to say.

He smiled again, shy, the color running high in his cheeks. “Come to bed?” he murmured.

Kyouko smiled up at him. “Yes,” she said, softly, and rose to press herself into his arms. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, and lifted herself onto her toes to kiss him.

“Come to bed,” he said again, against her mouth, and she was only too happy to comply.

It took a long, hot bath to get the feel of the Modigliani funeral in all its odious glory off her skin, and she lingered in the bathtub until the water began to cool. When Haru finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped up in her robe and still squeezing the water from her hair, she found Hayato sitting on the couch.

From the looks of things, he’d been there for a while; he’d undone his tie and opened his collar, and was working through a glass of wine. Haru froze and stared at him, trying to figure out what all those clues meant.

“I was starting to wonder whether you’d fallen asleep in there,” he said, after they’d stared at each other for a moment.

“That happened once,” Haru protested, and wrapped the towel around her head to keep the water from trickling down her neck.

His mouth kicked up at the corner. “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen again.”

This seemed like a promising start; the wine had probably been a good idea. “That’s what you think,” she grumbled, and claimed his easy chair for her own seat. She steeled herself, and asked, “Are you here because we’ve put the Modigliani thing to bed?”

“Yes,” Hayato said, after a pause.

Haru sighed and closed her eyes. So it had come to this after all. “Can we put off fighting till tomorrow?” she said, tired. “It’s been a hell of a day, you know.”

“I know. I’m not here to fight.” When Haru looked at him, he was looking determined. “You made a big speech to me a while ago. I’ve been thinking about it. One of the things I’ve been thinking is that I deserve a chance to reply. Fair?”

Haru swallowed. “Okay, that’s fair,” she agreed. She arranged her robe and her hands, and looked at him. “I’m listening.”

“Thanks.” Hayato looked down at his laced fingers. “When we first met, you went head over heels for Tsuna. For the longest time, all you talked about was the things you were going to do when you became his wife, and how you were going to be the best mafia wife ever, and so on. And then you stopped all of a sudden, and I figured it was because you’d finally realized that as far as he was concerned, Kyouko was the only woman in the world. And I figured… that sucked for you. Sucks for anyone that happens to.”

Haru started to speak, to explain, but he shook his head. “Just let me get through this first, okay? Please?”

“Go ahead,” she said, quietly, and saved up her explanations for later.

Hayato cleared his throat. “So the way I figured it, when you and I got together… I was your second choice. And, you know, when Tsuna’s your first choice, well, being second place doesn’t actually look that bad, usually. Usually. It’s just…” He stopped, and shook his head. “You know how I get, sometimes. Paranoid about… things.”

That was, the clinical portion of Haru’s mind noted, putting it rather mildly, but she said nothing and let him continue uninterrupted. “And every time I asked you to marry me, and you said no, and I couldn’t figure out why… I just got more paranoid. Especially when it seemed like some days I couldn’t go five steps down the road without someone telling me about seeing you chatting up yet another guy.”

Biting her lip wasn’t enough; she had to say something, whether he was finished or not. “I’m sorry,” Haru said. “We should have told you.”

Hayato’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, well, I’m not going to argue, but… I don’t know. Maybe if I’d known what you were doing from the first, it would have been okay, and maybe I wouldn’t have been able to take you seriously.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re right. You are damn good at what you do. This thing with the Modigliani… we might have eventually noticed something was up, but you got there early, and I’m betting that was a big part of what kept things from going completely pear-shaped.”

It was unexpectedly sweet to hear him say as much. Haru had to swallow hard before she could get any words out. “Thank you.”

He smiled, brief and rueful. “Yeah, well. Credit where credit is due.”

Haru glanced away, eyes traveling over the titles on his bookcase. “No, really. You’re the one with the legitimate intelligence operation. I pretty much make it up as I go along. It works, but…” She shrugged. “It’s not particularly elegant.”

Hayato snorted. “Elegance is overrated.”

“That’s what you say now,” she murmured, and looked back at him. He seemed to have finished his reply, at any rate. Haru leaned forward a bit, lacing her fingers together and looking at him, hoping he could see how serious she was. “You weren’t ever a second choice. Yes, I had a school-girl crush on Tsuna-kun, for a while, but it didn’t last much past meeting Kyouko-chan for the first time. You’d have to have been completely oblivious to miss the way they looked at each other.” She smiled, remembering. “But it was so easy to tease Tsuna that I kept on playing that game for a while, until Unità-san told us that it was time to put those silly games aside and be serious.” She laughed, softly, at the look on his face. “You didn’t know about that? Hayato, Kyouko-chan is good at what she does, but it was something she had to learn, just like Tsuna-kun had to learn to be the Tenth.”

“Oh,” Hayato said, still looking—and sounding—stunned. “Oh. I—you never said anything.”

Haru shrugged. “You never seemed all that interested in the things we girls got up to,” she told him, which was the truth and then some—and Hayato was one of the better specimens of his breed.

“Which was, clearly, a big damn mistake.” Hayato raked a hand through his hair, and sighed. “Can’t really start something like this over from scratch, can we?”

Haru couldn’t stop her heart from skipping a beat, and probably wouldn’t have tried even if it had been possible. “There’s a little too much water under the bridge,” she agreed, after a moment. He frowned, until she went on. “We might be able to work on fixing the things that are broken, though.”

Hayato let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we could do that.” He looked as relieved as she felt.

That was good. Haru wished she could leave it there. “And what I do as Kyouko-chan’s right hand… you can handle that?”

Hayato looked away, and was quiet. Haru let him be, waiting him out. “I think so. If… as long as you remember to come home at the end of the day.”

“Idiot,” Haru said, wry and affectionate. Honestly. She was going to have to stand by what she’d said—boys managed to be incredibly stupid sometimes. “I’ve never once forgotten who comes first.”

That got him, as she’d suspected it would; she saw him swallow, hard. “First, huh?” Hayato glanced at her, almost shyly. “Really?”

Haru sighed and went to him, and wound her arms around him. “Yes, first. Really,” she murmured, firmly.

“I guess that’s okay, then,” he said, and pulled her closer.

Haru closed her eyes at the wash of relief. “Thank goodness for that,” she said, and pressed against him. When she trusted herself to speak, she added, “I’ve missed you, you great insecure idiot.”

“Is it too late for me to change my mind?” he murmured, as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Yep. You’re stuck now,” she told him, and smiled when he laughed softly.

Yeah, maybe they were going to be okay after all.

“…and that’s all I have this morning,” Haru-san chirped, and helped herself to another teacake.

It certainly seemed like plenty to I-Pin, but both Kyouko-san and Haru-san seemed pleased with the flotsam and jetsam of gossip that had floated out of the aftermath of Vincentio Modigliani’s funeral.

Or perhaps they were just pleased about other things, and it was spilling into their work, she decided, looking at the way they were smiling—with their eyes and not just their mouths. Not that she was going to complain, if that was the case.

“Wonderful,” Kyouko-san murmured. “The work never stops, does it?”She dusted off her hands. “But if that’s all—”

This seemed to be as good a time to speak as any. “Excuse me, Kyouko-san?” I-Pin said, softly. “I have something, if you don’t mind?”

The two of them turned identical surprised smiles on her. Kyouko-san was the first to recover, of course. “By all means,” she said, gesturing at her to go ahead.

I-Pin had thought about this moment long and hard, trying to puzzle out what would be appropriate and agonizing over what she should do. Now that the moment was here, it felt only natural to go to Kyouko-san and go to one knee. As Kyouko-san’s breath caught, she took Kyouko-san’s hand between hers. “You asked me to serve you,” she said, touching her forehead to the back of it. “I would be honored, Kyouko-san.”

“Oh,” Kyouko-san said, voice quiet and full, and laid a hand on her hair. “Thank you, I-Pin. I’m very grateful.”

I-Pin looked up and smiled when Kyouko-san drew her up from her knees. “It’s my privilege,” she murmured.

Kyouko-san’s answering smile was bright. “I’m glad to hear it.” She inclined her head. “We have a lot of things to talk about.”

Haru-san poured her a cup of tea and Kyouko-san prepared a plate of dainty pastries for her as I-Pin brought a third chair to the table, and slipped into the place they had prepared for her. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the tea and the plate, and looked at Kyouko-san. “I’m ready to begin if you are.”

Kyouko-san nodded, still smiling. “Let’s,” she said, and they did.

the end

Vigor

by Lys ap Adin

Dino is only trying to help. Really. An omake to “They Also Serve“. Silliness, general audiences

Character(s): Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi

Pairing(s): Kyouko/Tsuna

Kyouko was bent over a letter to her mother when Tsuna knocked on the doorframe on the way into her study. “Kyouko,” he said, slowly, taking the seat next to her desk, “do you have a moment?”

“Mm, just a moment,” she said, and finished the sentence she was writing. She put the pen down and looked up, and blinked at the expression on his face, which was suffused with embarrassment and exasperation both. “What’s wrong?”

He set a bottle on the desk; it was dark brown glass and unlabeled. “This,” he said, slowly, “is a tonic. Dino-san sent it to me.”

Kyouko picked the bottle up and uncapped it, and wrinkled her nose at its pungent aroma. “What kind of tonic?” she asked, capping it again.

“According to the letter? The kind that a man takes to improve his, ah, vigor.”

To improve his… vigor? Kyouko looked at the bottle again, and then at Tsuna, but it wasn’t until I-Pin squeaked that she understood the implication. “His vigor,” she repeated, face burning.

“Yes.” Tsuna passed a hand over his face. “If you don’t mind, could you kindly let Caterina Modigliani know that my vigor is not in need of improving?”

“Right away,” Kyouko said, hastily, putting the letter to her mother aside.

“Thank you,” Tsuna said, and stood. “Every time I think that I’ve heard it all…” he said, and shook his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to give Dino-san a call.”

“Of course,” Kyouko murmured.

She waited till he was decently out of the room before looking at I-Pin; when their eyes met, they burst into helpless laughter.

“Poor Tsuna,” Kyouko said, when she’d caught her breath again. “Oh, poor Tsuna.” She wiped her eyes and reached for a fresh sheet of stationery, and tried to figure out a graceful way of telling Caterina that really, things were fine, and there was no reason for anyone to be concerned about Tsuna’s, ah, vigor.

– end –

What to Expect When You’re Expecting

by Lys ap Adin

Nothing that the Vongola Family does is ever actually simple. Nothing. For cliche_bingo, prompt: “Pregnancy.” Fluffy schmoopy fluff with deeper Family politics underneath, general audiences

Character(s): I-pin, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi

Pairing(s): Kyouko/Tsuna

The one thing—some days, the only thing—everyone could agree to was that Shamal wasn’t the sort of person a pregnant woman should ever have to deal with. Kyouko thought that was just as well, because Hisakawa-sensei was a pleasant woman with a reassuringly competent manner and a professional history that had been vetted three times over (once by Cavallone’s people, who had been the ones to recommend and vouch for her; a second time by the Vongola’s people, who had agreed that she was legitimate; and the third and final time by Gokudera, who had finally, grudgingly, said that Hisakawa-sensei might be competent enough to be allowed to supervise the gestation and birth of the Tenth’s firstborn).

Kyouko supposed that she might have known that even the matter of having Vongola babies couldn’t be simple.

“And that’s that,” Hisakawa-sensei said, undoing the blood pressure cuff and turning away to make a notation in the charts she was keeping.

Kyouko rolled her sleeve back down. “Well?”

Hisakawa-sensei’s smile was warm, reassuring. “Thirty weeks and still a textbook case. All of my patients should give me so little trouble.”

Kyouko couldn’t help smiling back; she did like Hisakawa-sensei. “At least something in my life is allowed to be straightforward.”

“I can imagine it must be a relief,” Hisakawa-sensei agreed, and closed her chart. She stood and inclined her head. “With your permission, I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” Kyouko murmured, and watched her go—she’d be off to Tsuna now, to make her daily report.

Nothing was ever particularly simple for the Vongola. But then, she’d known as much for years.

Kyouko twitched at her clothes one last time, settling them into place, and smiled at I-Pin. “Well, shall we?” she asked. “Haru must be waiting.”

I-Pin could admit that it was completely necessary and appropriate that they had increased Kyouko-san’s security detail. She could name five Families who might be pleased to see the Vongola’s wife fail to carry a pregnancy to term, and that was without even trying. Of course it was necessary to increase the number of bodyguards who accompanied Kyouko-san whenever she went out. To do otherwise invited disaster.

All the same, that didn’t mean I-Pin had to like it.

Fedele was a good man, and her dislike of him was completely unworthy, she reminded herself. Still, she couldn’t help it; this was her territory that he was intruding upon, and Kyouko-san was her Boss.

“All clear,” André’s voice murmured into her earpiece, and I-Pin nodded. Fedele went ahead, leading Kyouko-san and Haru into the shop, while I-Pin brought up the rear.

At least they’d left her with nominal authority over Kyouko-san’s security. That was something to hold to.

Antonio swept forward to greet them, effusive over how Kyouko-san was glowing and practically rubbing his hands together with his glee at getting to try out his latest designs on her. Kyouko-san and Haru-san laughed with him as they drifted deeper into the shop, already falling into easy chatter with him, while I-Pin and Fedele kept watch over them.

Fedele looked exasperated, just faintly, around the eyes, like he couldn’t quite believe that a veteran Vongola foot soldier had been assigned to stand in this shop, surrounded by bolts of cloth and the frippery of women’s gossip.

I-Pin turned her eyes away from him. He might have been necessary, even vital, but he didn’t understand anything, and she wasn’t obligated to like him.

Just a few more weeks, she reminded herself. Just a few more weeks of this and things would—well, they wouldn’t go back to normal, but they would change again.

All the same, she was going to look into assembling a proper security team for Kyouko-san, one that would understand the work that the Vongola’s wife did.

Kyouko-san didn’t deserve anything less than the absolute best.

“You know, I bet we could make a killing if we put some money down on whether it’s going to be a boy or a girl,” Haru said, once they were ensconced in the car and Antonio’s discreet questions were behind them.

Kyouko-chan chuckled. “I suppose we could,” she agreed, with the secret little smile she’d taken to wearing these past few months. “But I doubt we really need the money that badly.”

“The money’s only a way to keep score.” Haru studied her. “Is it true that you really don’t know which it’s going to be?”

Kyouko-chan laid a hand over the curve of her stomach. “Yes.” The smile turned into an outright grin. “I admit, confounding all the people who ask is one of my great joys in life right now.”

“You really do have an evil sense of humor,” Haru told her. It was all the more so for coming from such an unexpected quarter.

“I know.” Kyouko-chan turned her eyes to the window. “So. Which do the odds favor?”

“A son.” Haru couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “Because the Vongola are such manly men, you know.”

“Tsuna is very macho, yes,” Kyouko-chan agreed, with a straight face. “Quite vigorous, even.” That earned a squeak from I-Pin’s corner, rather like a stifled giggle.

Tsuna-kun was never going to hear the end of that one, poor guy. “Yes, well, the consensus seems to be that the Vongola’s firstborn wouldn’t dare be a girl. Long tradition and all that.”

“Tradition, yes.” Kyouko-chan’s expression went distant. “A boy would be easiest, all told. And then a second boy, and perhaps the third might be a girl…”

An heir and a spare, yes, and then a sister who might be used to cement an alliance with another Family—that was the preferred configuration for these things.

“Whatever it ends up being, it will be a Vongola,” Haru told her, quietly. “And it will be yours, and Tsuna-kun’s, and that’s what really matters. The rest of it can go to hell.”

Kyouko-chan looked away from the window, the uncertainty melting away from the line of her mouth. “Yes,” she said, after a moment, and some of her steel showed itself in a brief glint of her eyes. “You’re right. The rest of it can go to hell.”

Haru settled back in her seat, satisfied.

Privately, she was hoping for a girl. Wouldn’t that just put a spoke in the other Families’ wheels? She’d have to put some money down on it, discreetly. If it came out in her favor, it’d make a good christening gift.

Kyouko was drowsing by the time Tsuna came in, and had to rouse herself from a doze when he slid into bed next to her in order to collect her kiss. “Mm. I was starting to think that you boys were going to talk all night long.”

“Getting too old for that,” Tsuna said, settling against her back.

Kyouko laughed and leaned back against his chest, and sighed, contentedly, as his arm curved around her and held her close. “Is that the diplomatic way of saying that you ran out of wine?”

His laugh tickled her throat. “Maybe.”

“I thought it might be.” It wouldn’t have anything to do with the way Tsuna was wrapping himself around her, of course, or the way his palm had flattened itself against the rounding curve of her stomach. Well, not officially, anyway. There were appearances to keep up.

But that was okay. She was fluent in the things he left unspoken.

“Takeshi says that it’s not fair that Hayato gets first dibs on being a godfather,” Tsuna told her, after a moment.

“Does he, now?” Kyouko could imagine him saying so, half-joking, in order to get Gokudera’s temper up, and half-serious underneath the laughter. “We’ll have to have another, then, so he won’t feel left out.”

“That might set a dangerous precedent, you know.” Tsuna sounded amused. “Before you know it, they’ll all want godchildren.”

“It’s the accessory every fashionable Guardian is sporting this season,” Kyouko said, arch.

Tsuna’s body shook with laughter. “What a mental image,” he said, against her shoulder. “Can you imagine the look on Hibari’s face?”

Kyouko could, all too well, and giggled. “Oh, dear.”

“Somewhere,” he said, gravely, “Hibari has the urge to bite me to death, and he doesn’t even know why.”

Kyouko laughed until she was breathless and the baby was kicking restlessly against all the jostling. “Oh, now I really think we should.”

“I’m willing if you are,” Tsuna said, low.

Kyouko’s laughter stilled in her throat at the offer, which went against all the advice they’d been given about careful family planning and siblings who could only ever be rivals for one coveted position. “I am,” she said, softly, because if Tsuna was willing to try to change that part of mafia life, so was she. She settled her hand over his, and he snuggled her closer. Then the baby kicked again, sharply, and broke the mood. “I reserve the right to change my mind after this one is born, though.”

Even as Tsuna laughed and agreed that it was her prerogative to do so, Kyouko was fairly certain that she wouldn’t.

– end –

The Queen and All Her Men

by Branch

A series of linked shorts that follows Lys ap Adin’s "What to Expect When You’re Expecting". Kyouko and Tsuna’s first child is a daughter. She’s soon followed by a lot of brothers, and the mafia world may be in for a big surprise—provided the Vongola themselves survive the experience. Drama with Humor and Domesticity, I-3

Character(s): Eleventh gen, Gokudera Hayato, Guardians, Hibari Kyouya, Lambo, Miura Haru, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sasagawa Ryouhei, Sawada Daisuke, Sawada Haruka, Sawada Kazuya, Sawada Mamoru, Sawada Mari, Sawada Shin, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Xanxus, Yamamoto Takeshi

First Step

Kyouko still thought Sicilians had strange ideas about their ceremonies, but at least she could understand this part of the christening perfectly well—the part where Vongola and their allies, and a few who weren’t either, gathered to chat and politic on the lawn, all come to see her firstborn. She smoothed the white folds of her daughter’s long gown and smiled up at Haru, who had brought her a cup of tea.

"Both of you holding up?" Haru murmured, bending down to check her new goddaughter.

"As well as can be, so far," Kyouko said. "I’m thankful she’s slept through most of this."

Haru laughed. "She’s probably saving up for later."

"Oh, don’t suggest things to her," Kyouko almost moaned. Mari had only just started sleeping through most nights.

"After today’s excitement, she’ll probably sleep well, even after a nap," Caterina Modigliani said, drifting over. "It seems your difficulties are all ironed out, with this; with the bearing, at least." Her eyes ran casually over the guests. "They’re all changing their plans now, sorting through their sons in hopes one will be the true Eleventh boss of the Vongola."

"And you aren’t? Donna Caterina?" Kyouko murmured, a steel edge under the softness of her voice.

Caterina laughed. "My son already has a Family waiting for him."

True enough. "Their plans will have to fit reality." Kyouko settled Mari in her arm. "My child is a Vongola."

"Indeed," Caterina murmured, approval glinting in her eyes. "How could she be otherwise?"

Kyouko nodded and looked out over the guests herself, cradling her daughter and heir.

Sugar and Spice

"Uncle Onii-san!"

Tsuna and Ryouhei both blinked and Kyouko laughed softly. "Well, that is what both of us call him," she murmured. "Uncle Ryouhei," she pronounced for Mari, who cocked her head.

"Uncle Ryouhei," she repeated carefully and looked up at her mother’s face with a small copy of Tsuna’s thoughtful expression that made Kyouko smile and stroke back her daughter’s hair. "Okay." She wriggled to be let down and, when Kyouko set her on her feet, made her way across the room to take a hold of her godfather’s sleeve, examining him. "Uncle Gokudera?" She looked back at her mother for confirmation, and missed the helpless softening of Gokudera’s face.

"Yes, I think that’s right," Kyouko agreed with an impish smile. "That’s your Uncle Gokudera."

"She’s going to have the entire Family wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?" Yamamoto murmured, laughter running under his voice.

Mari looked at him and declared, more confidently, "Uncle Yamamoto."

"She has a good start on it," Gokudera observed, as Yamamoto’s smile turned sweet. Kyouko was careful to keep her smugness off her own face.

The brightness of the moment was interrupted a bit when the door opened on Xanxus. "Sawada," he said, peremptorily, "I need a decision about the Leone. Now."

Tsuna sighed, pulling himself back into into his job, and was just standing when Mari walked over to Xanxus, looked up at him, and nodded firmly. "Uncle Xanxus." She smiled, pleased.

There was a breath of absolute silence while Xanxus stared down at her with the most floored expression Kyouko had ever seen on a human face.

It was broken by Yamamoto collapsing into a chair, laughing too hard to stand.

Kyouko came and picked her daughter up and smiled serenely at Xanxus. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "I think you’re right again, Mari. This is your Uncle Xanxus." She met his eyes, unbending, and he was the one who looked away.

Her daughter would lead the Vongola one day, with both her father’s strength and her mother’s.

"So what I don’t get," Mari crossed her arms, stubbornly, "is why it’s isn’t obvious that our way is better! I mean, didn’t Uncle Dino make his Family rich again, and the second strongest in the alliance, by taking care of the civilians in his territory? Why is this so hard to get? You and Father say we can’t change people’s minds for them, but I don’t see why not."

Uncle Gokudera gave her a long look over his glasses and sat back from the stack of books and journals of mafia history they’d been going over. "Well, what if we did? What if we went to war with the Furetto and, when we won, told them ‘you have to stop the drugs and protection schemes in your own territory’?"

Mari felt a strong urge to pout. "I guess they wouldn’t want to. But they should!"

Uncle Gokudera shrugged. "And we could probably make them do it. But only by taking over their territory ourselves." He gave her a crooked smile. "And if we come in, having killed the Family in charge, how do you think the civilians would look at us?"

"Better than the old one?" But it was a grumble, because she knew it wouldn’t work that way. She slouched down in her chair. "Why do people have to be so dumb?"

"Because they don’t know any better, yet." Uncle Gokudera got up and came around the table to kneel down by her chair and rest his hands on her shoulders. "You’re going to be the Eleventh, Mari-san. I know it’s hard, but you have to have patience. We can’t make things better by force; that isn’t the way that lasts."

She wanted the better to last. That was what she was here for. She straightened up and looked her godfather in the eye. "Show me how we do it, then."

He smiled and tapped the stack of books. "We’re getting there."

Mari sighed. Yes, she’d thought that might be the answer.

High Energy States

Yamamoto slipped in the side door and closed it quietly behind him. Ryouhei laughed to see the small form draped over Yamamoto’s shoulder.

"What did he get into this time?"

Yamamoto’s mouth quirked up. "He wanted to help cook. I’m pretty sure he was hoping for a share of the pastries, but he was a little late in the day for that so he wound up helping Ettore with dinner instead."

"Helping, huh?" Ryouhei grinned; they’d all learned, as soon as Daisuke started walking, that the boy’s helpful streak was only matched by his no-brakes enthusiasm. Ryouhei approved; it was clearly Kyouko’s side of the family coming through. "He wear himself out, then?"

Yamamoto looked a bit rueful. "Well, he wound up snitching enough of the grilled tuna and then enough of the marzipan left over from Kyouko-san’s tea that he got a little sick. So Ettore gave him a little wine to settle his stomach, and, well…" He shrugged the shoulder that didn’t have a small boy slung over it.

"Kyouko’s going to kill you, you know," Ryouhei pointed out, laughing.

Now Yamamoto chuckled. "A few times, probably. But it’s just how Daisuke is; it’s no use trying to stop him from being himself." He carried his godson off to bed and Ryouhei smiled after them. It was a good thing his nephew had Yamamoto to look out for him.

Otherwise, none of them might survive the kid growing up.

Daisuke eyed the study door. He was pretty sure this was where his sister was hiding. Haruka was better at actually picking well hidden spots, even though he was the youngest, but Nee-san usually won hide-and-seek games anyway because she picked spots no one else dared to go.

Daisuke took a deep breath and eased the door open, peeking around it. "Um."

The man inside looked up, eyes dark and kind of scary.

"Um." Daisuke edged a little further in. "We’re playing hide-and-seek."

"I noticed," the study’s owner said flatly.

She was here, then. Daisuke nodded and stepped all the way inside, and Mari stood up from behind the desk, looking indignant. "Uncle Xanxus! You gave it away!"

He just looked at her and she sighed and turned to Daisuke. "Did you find Haruka?"

"Yep!" He was pretty proud of that, too, since Haruka had hidden in the bottom of a library bookcase. He and Mari were both already too big to hide there and it was hard to remember to check the spots he couldn’t use.

Mari shrugged. "Okay, then. Next round is outside!"

She trotted out the door and, as he turned to follow, Uncle Xanxus called his name. Daisuke paused, looking back. "Yes?" They were all polite, even when Uncle Xanxus was scary, because Father said so. Though Uncle Gokudera didn’t seem to mind that very well.

Uncle Xanxus’ eyes were still dark, resting on him. "Do you ever wish you’d been born first?"

Daisuke blinked. "No." Nee-san had to study even harder than he and Haruka did, after all.

"Never wanted to be the heir?"

"Oh, that." Daisuke thought, because Uncle Xanxus really did seem curious. "I don’t think so. Father says we’ll all be doing Vongola stuff together, so no one gets left out. And Mari likes to be bossy, so she’ll probably be good at being Boss."

He wasn’t sure why that made Uncle Xanxus snort, but it made him look a little less scary. "Go on," he said, and Daisuke did.

Mari always had lots of fun ideas. He’d like helping, he thought.

Between the Lines

Haruka sat curled up in a corner chair of the study, watching his father work, watching him go through stacks of paper, watching Uncle Gokudera come in and mention other Families and talk for a while and go out again. Finally he stirred. "Father?"

His father looked up and smiled; he almost always had time for questions. "Yes?"

"I can understand why not Daisuke; he’d be really bored doing this. But why is Mari heir and not me? Other Families don’t have girl heirs."

"The Giglio Nero do," Father pointed out. "And Caterina is the head of the Modigliani."

"Even Donna Caterina has a son coming after her," Haruka objected.

"True enough." Father sat back in his chair with a sigh. "It’s been tradition, in the mafia, to choose the eldest boy to be heir, unless there aren’t any boys. But I think there are a lot of mafia traditions that should change." He smiled, only it was a very different smile this time, and Haruka didn’t think it was a happy one. "It’s also a tradition that all the possible heirs of a Family complete to see who survives. I don’t like the idea of all of you feeling like you have to fight each other. I’d like you to feel like a real family, like you can help each other, instead."

"Oh." Haruka considered this. "So Vongola is going to be different." That was satisfying.

"I hope so," his father said, quietly.

Haruka nodded. "All right. How am I supposed to help Mari and Daisuke and Mamoru, then?"

"Mari will need people she can trust, that she can talk to. People she knows will listen and tell her honestly what they think." Father’s smile was happier again. "I think you’ll be good at that."

Haruka thought so too. "And Daisuke? And Mamoru?"

Father laughed. "I think Daisuke just needs to be reminded to slow down sometimes. And Mamoru needs his big brother’s protection for now."

"I can do that." Haruka smiled back at Father.

"Yes. I think all of you will do a very fine job."

Haruka tucked those words away to hold on to the next time he had to deal with boys from other Families, and came over to the desk to see what Father was writing.

Tsuna thought that Ryouhei was more bright-eyed about visiting the Etnaland park than any of the kids. Certainly more enthused than his godson.

"That was an extreme waterslide!"

"Sure, Uncle Ryouhei."

"Let’s go see the lions!"

"Okay, Uncle Ryouhei."

"Are you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s get some food, and then the dinosaur park!"

Haruka rolled his eyes a little but trailed along willingly enough when Ryouhei slung an arm around his shoulder. "Whatever you say, Uncle Ryouhei."

Fortunately, Mari intervened before Ryouhei cajoled Haruka into a sundae. "Oh, hey, look Haruka, they have your favorite soda," she said, sounding perfectly innocent and casual as she leaned on Ryouhei’s arm. Their uncle instantly changed the order to include soda instead.

"She’s definitely her mother’s daughter," he murmured to Kyouko, who was stifling giggles, or possibly horror, in his shoulder. "Let’s sit down for a little and let everyone catch up before we go on," he added, louder.

Gokudera herded everyone over to a table and Haruka and Mari settled down to comparing the merits of the water slide versus the crocodile rapids while Ryouhei beamed over them both.

"Onii-san should have children of his own," Kyouko murmured, as they collected their own bottles of water.

"Well, I believe Hana-san thinks a little the way I used to. Perhaps I should talk to her." The approving smile Kyouko gave him still made him want to blush after all this time.

"…and maybe we’ll have time for the waterslide again!" Ryouhei was saying to the kids when Chrome and Yamamoto came into view with Mamoru and Shin. Haruka leaned his chin on his hand and grinned with a lot of wry affection, for a ten-year-old.

"Sure, Uncle Ryouhei. That’d be fun."

Tsuna thought Haruka was definitely Kyouko’s child, too. At least he couldn’t imagine where else the boy had gotten his patience from.

Leavening

You might think, Haru reflected, that Daisuke would be the explorer of Kyouko’s children, but somehow it was Mamoru who managed to show up in every nook and corner of the mansion sooner or later. This morning it was her breakfast table, which had meant Hayato’s kiss goodbye had been more restrained than usual, but she supposed she couldn’t hold that against the boy. He was a very sweet kid.

"Aunt Haru? Why aren’t you and Uncle Gokudera married?"

Haru tried not to choke on her coffee. "That’s… that’s kind of a long story," she managed. Mamoru, she reminded herself, was also very good at asking the hard questions.

Mamoru just nodded and kept looking at her, waiting, clearly quite willing to listen to a long story. Haru looked back, helplessly. "I’m not sure you’re old enough to hear it."

Mamoru looked up at her, eyes wide and direct. "I bet I am. If that means it’s something we have to not talk about outside the Family, I’m good at that."

Haru had to admit that was true. And besides…

She sighed and set down her cup. "Actually, I’m hoping we can be married sometime kind of soon. We haven’t been able to because of my work," she said, carefully, "and I’m hoping I’ll be able to hand down that part of my job soon." Possibly to Mari’s friend, Fiorela, who seemed to have inherited Dino’s charm and Sofia’s grace, thank goodness.

Mamoru frowned. "That’s awful," he said, firmly. "You must have been really sad." He got up and came around the table to hug her and Haru had to blink away sudden tears. Mamoru really was a sweet kid.

"Nee-san says she won’t marry anyone just because of her job, and she gets really upset about it. Kind of the other way around, I guess. But I bet she’ll change that, too, so people don’t have to get married or not if they don’t want to. Or do." He took a moment to double check his own logic and nodded, satisfied, and smiled up at Haru. "We’ll change it."

She smiled back and ruffled his hair. "If anyone can, I’d bet on Mari and you guys."

Mamoru peeked into Uncle Hibari’s practice room and shook his head. Mari was training again.

Personally, he thought his sister was just a little crazy. Uncle Gokudera said all sisters were crazy, and when Mari was training with Uncle Hibari she looked it. She got all narrow-eyed and super determined, and when she had her Flame burning… well, he wouldn’t have wanted to take her on.

He supposed that was a good thing, overall.

"How’s she doing?" Father whispered over his shoulder.

Mamoru grinned. "Like Mari."

"So are the two of you going to join us?" Uncle Hibari called without even looking around.

"If you think we should," Father called back easily.

"Mm." Uncle Hibari sounded cool and thoughtful even when he was slamming his students into the walls. "Yes, it’s about time she had more practice facing another Sky Flame." He beckoned and Mari hauled herself up again, eyes glinting. "Your cub has teeth, Sawada. I suppose she’ll do."

Mamoru stifled a laugh at the way that made Mari light up.

Uncle Hibari strolled over to stand next to Mamoru as Mari and their father squared off. Mamoru eyed his godfather with just a shade of caution. "Did you, um, really want to work out with me?"

Uncle Hibari was silent for a while, but Mamoru was used to that; sometimes you had to wait for Uncle Hibari to decide whether he was using his words today or not.

"There is more than one kind of strength," he said at last, eyes on Mari as her longer knife met Father’s glove. "I get more entertainment from hers, but you have teeth of your own."

Something in Mamoru settled a little at that. It was good to know the strongest of Father’s Guardians thought he was strong too.

Even if he did sometimes think that Uncle Hibari was kind of strange.

Trip the Light

"Shin! Shin, you little creep, when I find you I’m going to wring your neck!"

Mari stormed on down the hall, and a door creaked slowly open. Two heads peeked out.

"Is the coast clear?" Shin whispered, looking up at his godfather.

"I think so," Uncle Lambo whispered back.

Shin leaned against the wall, wide-eyed. "Wow she’s mad!"

Uncle Lambo smiled down at him and ruffled his hair. "Girls are like that sometimes, especially about boys they’re dating."

"But she doesn’t really want him," Shin said plaintively. "I mean, she always complains about how many boys from the other Families she has to see at parties."

"Mm, well that’s kind of another girl thing. Even if she complains about them, she probably wants to decide for herself when they get to know about that."

"Oh. So I guess I shouldn’t have told him she thinks he has bad breath, huh?"

Uncle Lambo grinned. "Probably not."

"Dating seems really complicated," Shin complained. "I don’t know if I want to do it."

"You have plenty of time to make up your mind." Uncle Lambo held out a hand. "For now how about we go into town and visit the docks until Mari calms down?"

Shin perked up. "Sure!"

He liked having the youngest godfather.

Haruka was the one who saw it first, the strangers’ hands reaching for guns, and shouted. Their bodyguards turned to tackle the kids down, but Daisuke got to Mari first, pushing her back into the cafe. That was good. It meant Shin had a clear path to the men who were interrupting their family lunch.

Who were threatening his family.

In the tangled whirl of rushing toward them he could feel the air on his bared teeth. He didn’t reach for his box. The weapons he needed were in the hands of the three men facing them and he aimed for the one in front, hand striking aside the muzzle and holding, knee coming up to crack a wrist across it, foot slamming into the softness of a stomach. He turned the gun and pressed it under the man’s chin.

And then it was over.

"Shin," Uncle Yamamoto called, gently, from where he stood over the other two. "It’s okay. You can let go now, the men have them covered."

Shin’s eyes narrowed and his hands didn’t move. "He tried to shoot my sister." The man under him tried and failed to swallow against the pressure of the gun.

And then slim, strong hands settled on his shoulders. "I’m all right, Shin," Mari said, cool and sure. "And we need to know who sent them. Let the men take them."

Shin sighed, but Mari was probably already pissed off that she hadn’t gotten to fight, and she didn’t like backtalk even when she was in a good mood. "All right, then." Pinned under both their glares, the man didn’t even twitch when Shin stepped back and their bodyguards moved in. Shin didn’t look away until both the survivors had been hustled off, though.

"Hate it when people do that," he grumbled.

Mari wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hugging him for a breath. "I know you do." She smiled at him sidelong. "Don’t worry. People will always try to mess with Vongola, but they’ll always fail."

Because of us was the unspoken trailer and Shin grinned back at her and relaxed under Daisuke’s cheerful clap on his shoulder. "Yeah."

The Queen’s Bishop

"…and I hate scrambled eggs!" Mari stomped away from the table in a teary huff, followed by their mother, and all the boys stopped trying to hide in their chairs. Kazuya reminded himself to mark the calendar; forewarning next time would be good.

"Girl stuff," Daisuke declared, shaking his head.

"You know, I’ve been meaning to ask about that," Haruka put in, thoughtfully, looking over at Kazuya.

Kazuya raised both brows. "…why ask me?"

"Well, you’ve got Aunt Chrome," Mamoru pointed out. "Has she mentioned anything?"

"Once or twice." Kazuya ate another bite of toast. "She’d tell you too, if you asked."

Mamoru turned red. "Um. Well."

"Stop being annoying because you can," Haruka told Kazuya, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Did Aunt Chrome say anything about what helps?"

"Chocolate, apparently." Kazuya nibbled his fork, thinking. "And she said it isn’t just temper. She said sometimes it hurts. It sounded kind of like having a sprain for a week, only in your stomach."

Eyes widened all around the table.

"Chocolate," Daisuke said, firmly.

"Ice pack?" Haruka hazarded.

Kazuya shook his head "Hot water bottle," he corrected. "I asked. And someone to be nice to her."

The two oldest looked at Mamoru and Shin. Mamoru sighed. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

Kazuya decided not to add that Uncle Mukuro had said it happened because the girl’s body was pissed off that it hadn’t gotten a baby that month. For one thing he was almost positive Daisuke or Shin would say just the wrong thing at the wrong time, trying to be helpful, if they heard that. For another, Uncle Mukuro had kind of flickered, right after he said it, so he thought maybe Aunt Chrome disagreed, and she was the woman after all.

Kazuya believed in paying attention to your experts.

It was a game, that’s the way Kazuya looked at it. Mari punched him in the shoulder when he said that, and insisted she wasn’t anyone’s game piece, not even his, but that wasn’t it at all. He watched for the spaces, when people moved, so that he could stand in them. That way he could get all the way across the board before anyone even realized he was moving. It was exactly the way his sister talked about her hand-to-hand training with Uncle Hibari, after all, he’d have thought she’d understand better.

His godfather understood perfectly well, but maybe that was why Uncle Mukuro seemed to make a lot of people nervous.

"Ah, and here’s the youngest, eh?" A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, as he leaned against the buffet table and he looked up to see the head of the Orsini Family giving him a rather hungry smile. "All alone? Not very nice of your family, to leave you out of things."

Kazuya wondered for a moment whether he’d actually heard correctly, but then he remembered Uncle Mukuro’s casual words about looking through another’s eyes. He supposed it might look that way from the outside.

The Orsini were not allies.

"It’s all right," he said, looking away toward where Daisuke was loading up plates for their mother and Aunt Haru. Mamoru was trying to convince him to pass one over before he dropped both. Haruka and Shin were following their sister as she followed their father through the gathering. "It’s all right," he repeated softly. "I’m interested in different things than most of them are."

It was perfectly true, and he smiled just a little as the Orsini’s eyes brightened and narrowed, hearing the lie it implied. The smile too would be mistaken.

Standing in the spaces.

It was all a game, and the thing most people didn’t understand about games was that, win or lose, they had a price. For the sake of his family, of his brothers, of his sister who would lead their Family, he would pay the price of winning this one.

Next Step

Tsuna leaned back in his lawn chair and watched the brilliant streaks of color as his children played tag over the lawn with their Dying Will Flames. Even Mari had abandoned her fresh adult dignity to shriek with laughter as she dove to evade Kazuya. Sometimes Tsuna wondered just what—or perhaps how—Mukuro had taught his youngest, because despite being only fourteen Kazuya had control as fine as Mari or Haruka.

"Looks like you did it, boss," Gokudera commented, leaning on the back of his chair.

"Did what?"

Gokudera smiled down at him. "None of those six will try to fight each other for your position."

Tsuna chuckled as Shin skidded across the grass, trying to avoid Daisuke, and splashed into the ornamental pond with a squawk. Daisuke paused to laugh and was tagged by Mamoru. "And I’m grateful for it." Quietly he added, "Especially Haruka."

"He matches her strength, yes, but he doesn’t have Mari-san’s passion, and he knows it," Gokudera answered, just as quiet. "Don’t worry, boss."

"Too late," Tsuna murmured, wry. He had to admit, Mari had inherited his own passion, the thing that could drive both of them past their limits over and over. He wasn’t sure that was anything he’d have wished on his child, but it was a fact.

"They have each other," Gokudera told him gently. "And she hasn’t even chosen her Guardians yet. At this rate, she’ll kind of have two sets."

Tsuna’s mouth twitched at that. "Mafia beware."

When the children returned to the table, out of breath, they wanted to know what was so funny.

End

Exigencies of Service

by Branch

Takes place some time early in "The Queen and All Her Men". Tsuna has to be convinced that his children need to learn early how to fight. Fortunately, Kyouko is more pragmatic. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Hibari Kyouya, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi

Pairing(s): Kyouko/Tsuna

"Stop acting like an herbivore, Sawada."

Tsuna glared at Hibari across his desk. "One of the reasons I took this job was to change enough of our world that children don’t have to fight!"

"Well you aren’t there yet," Hibari pointed out brutally, "and if you want your children to live, they need to know how to fight. Now."

Kyouko sighed to herself and crossed her ankles, waiting for them to get it out of their systems. Once they were reduced to glaring at each other silently, she rose and gently pushed Hibari back from the desk and into a chair. "That’s enough, both of you." Ignoring Hibari’s raised brows, she came around to lay her hands on Tsuna’s shoulders. "Tsuna," she said softly, "you mustn’t be selfish about this."

"Selfish?" he whispered, eyes wide.

"I know you want to protect us all. To make a place for us to live where we don’t have to worry about these things. But you can’t do that alone." She smiled sadly. "Keeping the ones you love in ignorance didn’t work very well last time, did it?"

He turned red and his eyes slid away from hers.

"I know you want that safe, wonderful place for your family to live and for yourself to come back to and rest," she whispered, and then tightened her hands and shook him once, firmly. "But you can’t make that place without us, and if we’re to help, we have to know!"

After a long, taut moment, he sighed, tension easing out of his shoulders under her hands. "Almost did it again, didn’t I?" He smiled up at her, rueful and sweet. "I’m sorry."

She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Don’t worry." Just a bit impishly she pointed out, "I’m here to remind you when you start to do something foolish. It’s my job."

Standing he gathered her close and murmured into her hair, "I don’t deserve you. Thank you." With a long breath he let her go and looked over at Hibari, who was watching them with a cool look, legs crossed, hands folded on his knee.

"If you’re quite done with inappropriate displays?" he asked, dryly. "Living in this country has corrupted you, Sawada."

Tsuna laughed. "This isn’t Namimori, and it isn’t against school rules."

Hibari sniffed, though his eyes glinted at the banter. "Well?"

"All right." Tsuna held up a hand. "They’ll be taught." His mouth quirked wryly. "The ones who don’t run screaming will even be taught by you."

"I suppose that will do." Hibari stood, straightening his cuffs fastidiously. On his way out he paused to look back at Kyouko and give her a slow nod.

Kyouko just smiled.

End

Festivity

by Lys ap Adin

A person can learn all sorts of useful, interesting things by eavesdropping. Takes place early on in The Queen and All Her Men. Warnings for unabashed adorable fluff involving toddlers, and the general Hibari outlook on life.

Character(s): Hibari Kyouya, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Mari, Yamamoto Takeshi

Pairing(s): Hibari/Yamamoto

Kyouya supposed that it was all well and good that Sawada’s cub had survived another year. Given the general atmosphere in which she’d done it, he even supposed that he could understand commemorating the accomplishment. What no one had been able to explain (to his satisfaction, at any rate) was why doing so involved filling the south garden with every squalling mafioso brat from one to ten years old, and why he was required to attend.

“Mari likes her Uncle Hibari,” Sawada Kyouko had said, firmly, and there was something in her smile that suggested teeth. “She wants you there. Don’t worry, all you actually need to do is be present. We won’t force you to have fun, I promise.”

Kyouya had found the novelty of seeing Sawada’s woman showing her fangs like that amusing. It was his duty, he felt, to reward such efforts, so he had agreed to attend, albeit grudgingly.

Her word had been good, though, and he had been allowed to retain his dignity and sit in the shade beneath the terrace in peace, save for the handful of times Mari had bustled over to him, full of a four-year-old’s newfound authority. Once had been to inquire after his comfort, and another had been to bring him a plate of cake, carried carefully in her own pudgy hands. He’d been forced to eat a bite under her command, but after that, she’d let him alone in order to terrorize the rest of her guests.

Kyouya supposed life could have been worse, and closed his eyes—not that he had any intentions of actually sleeping, since it was much too loud for that—to keep anyone else from disturbing him.

He should have known better.

“My goodness, will you look at that?”

The voice—female, older, probably one of the other Families’ matrons—sounded like it was right in his ear.

“Isn’t that just a sight to warm your heart?” asked a second voice, also older and female.

That meant they weren’t discussing him. Kyouya slitted his eyes open and tipped his head further back to look—ah, yes. They were above him, two of them leaning against the terrace railing, looking out at the garden.

“It’s a sight to warm something,” the first one agreed—she was from the Valetti, he thought.

Her companion giggled, a sound that was distinctly at odds with her stout figure and her grey hair. “Absolutely. That one is positively delicious. I could eat him up with a spoon.”

They definitely didn’t mean him, then. It seemed entirely likely that they hadn’t even noticed him. Kyouya raised an eyebrow, and wondered what the Orsini boss would say about hearing his wife saying such things.

“I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed,” Valetti murmured, fanning herself with a bit of paper.

Kyouya opened his eyes a bit wider, to see who they might be discussing. The only one in easy sight was Yamamoto, who currently had small children dangling from every extremity, and was laughing even harder than they were.

That made sense, he supposed, and closed his eyes again, the better to listen.

“Is he attached?” Orsini asked, slow and thoughtful.

“That one is… hm, the Vongola’s Rain, so no, he’s not, as far as I know.” Valetti’s voice turned sly. “Why, were you considering him?”

“And if I was?” Orsini asked, arch. “There’s no harm in a bit of fun. And don’t you think he’d be… fun?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Valetti agreed, practically purring the words. “Younger lovers always are.” Then her tone turned practical. “But it’s not sensible to get mixed up in another Family’s Guardians.”

Kyouya muffled a snort.

“Pity,” Orsini said, regretfully. “Actually, I was thinking of something else. Hélène is about the right age to catch a boy’s eye, you know. If that one’s not attached yet…”

“Mmm,” Valetti said, the sound a thoughtful one. “Mmm, yes, I see what you mean. It would be a good in, no less.”

“Exactly. And he seems like a good enough man. He might even make a decent father, if his showing here is any indication. And surely he must be looking for a wife by now.”

Valetti hummed. “Mm, you would think. Well. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to look into. Makes me rather wish I had a spare niece at the moment. Pity.”

“Indeed,” Orsini said, sounding altogether too smug about it. “I think I—my goodness, what do you suppose he’s coming this way for?”

Valetti giggled. “Maybe he knows we’re talking about him?”

Kyouya snorted and opened his eyes to see Yamamoto ambling over as the women on the terrace fluttered. He tilted his head back again so that he could watch them, and waited until Yamamoto had hailed him to smile, so that when the two women finally looked down, he was showing all his teeth.

They disappeared in a flurry of red faces and squeaking, which was as satisfying as scattering herd animals ever was, and left him in peace as Yamamoto dropped himself onto the grass next to Kyouya’s chair with a gusty sigh. “You know, I’m glad we’re Tsuna’s Guardians,” he announced. “Mari’s a holy terror, and I don’t even wanna think about what she’s going to be like when she gets older.”

Kyouya just snorted at him, letting him know that he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“No, I’m serious.” Yamamoto grinned up at him. “Can you imagine how she’s going to boss her boyfriends around?”

That was a topic too close to what the idiot women had just been prattling about, so Kyouya grunted at him, noncommittal.

Yamamoto peered up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Watch out for the Orsini,” Kyouya said, short and precise. “They have a niece they’d like to see you married to.”

“What, again?” Yamamoto groaned. “Damn it.”

Kyouya looked down at him, curiosity piqued. “Is it that regular an occurrence?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” Yamamoto’s smile was wry. “Most of ’em seem to think they’ll get closer to Tsuna that way.” His eyes went darker. “I would have thought they’d learned better by now.”

“Mm. You should pick one, then. From inside the Family.”

Yamamoto blinked up at him, slow and herbivorous. “Why would I want to do that?”

Kyouya’s chair was comfortable enough that he settled for simply kicking Yamamoto rather than interrupting Mari’s party with a fight. “To keep the other Families from siccing their daughters and nieces on you. And so you can have your own brats to play with.”

“But I don’t want that,” Yamamoto said, with a faint smile. “Would’ve done it a few years ago, if I had.”

Kyouya snorted, but he supposed that was true enough—they’d all had plenty of chances to join the headlong rush into marriage and domesticity. “You like the brats,” he pointed out.

Yamamoto’s shrug was probably grinding grass stains into the back of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to care. “The kids are fun,” he said, admitting it easily enough. “But this way I can give ’em back at the end of the day.” His eyes went darker again. “And they probably wouldn’t mind it as much if Uncle Yamamoto doesn’t make it home, one of these days. It’d be different for Yamamoto-tousan.”

“Sheep,” Kyouya told him. “Don’t be stupid.” He aimed another kick at Yamamoto’s ribs.

Yamamoto caught his foot before it could connect, hand curling around his ankle and holding it, grip solid. “Baa,” he drawled, with a grin and sharp eyes. “I’ve already got just about everything I want,” he added, looking up at Kyouya, a considering sort of look on his face. “Not everything, though.”

Then his fingers slid up the inside of Kyouya’s slacks.

Kyouya blinked as Yamamoto’s thumb stroked over the bare skin just above his sock. “You can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I?” Yamamoto asked, voice pitched low, just for him, thumb still moving slowly, dragging something hot down Kyouya’s spine to curl in the pit of his stomach.

Kyouya thought it over. “Make sure you are,” he said, and watched Yamamoto’s smile stretch wider at the note in his voice.

“Oh, I’m serious,” Yamamoto said, fingers creeping higher. “Plenty serious. I play for keeps.”

Kyouya regarded him, and then nodded, short and sharp. “All right, then,” he said, and then kicked free of Yamamoto’s hand. “Mari’s looking for you,” he announced, at the surprise in Yamamoto’s eyes. “We’ll finish this later.”

Yamamoto grinned up at him. “Sounds good to me,” he said, and rolled to his feet.

Kyouya watched him divert Mari’s determined march in their direction by swinging her up onto his shoulders as she shrieked joyfully, considering, and then nodded to himself, stretching out in his chair again and leaning back.

He caught just a glimpse of Sawada Kyouko’s satisfied smile above the terrace railing before it vanished in a swirl of bright hair.

Kyouya growled, but had to admit, on second thought, that it was better her than the Orsini harridan. Still. If Yamamoto had known she was there, Kyouya was going to do more than just kick him.

That promise made to himself, Kyouya settled back in his chair and watched the rough-and-tumble happening among the brats, contemplating the possibilities before him.

It was turning out to be a satisfactory sort of day after all, he decided, all things considered. And the evening promised to be even better.

– end –

Relative Values

by Lys ap Adin

Takes place somewhere towards the middle of The Queen and All Her Men. Tsuna and Kyouko have a favor to ask. Fluff, general audiences

Character(s): Chrome Dokurou, Rokudou Mukuro, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Tsunayoshi

Pairing(s): Kyouko/Tsuna

Rokudou Mukuro came and went as freely as a Cloud—rather more freely than perhaps anyone other than Tsuna and Kyouko was really comfortable with, all things considered. The word of the Vongola was unbreakable, though, and Tsuna had given it to the Vendicare to secure Mukuro’s parole, so Mukuro came and went as he pleased, save for the occasions when Tsuna’s business required his presence.

Such as this one.

It was always interesting to watch Mukuro and Chrome when they were together in the same space, Kyouko mused. They gravitated towards each other, and shared a handful of mannerisms—the tilt of the head, a trick of posture, the way a gesture followed a thought—that gave them an uncanny resemblance to each other. One had to wonder how much of that was deliberate, and how much of it was unconscious, and who was the original and who was the copy.

After all, she’d seen too much to assume that the influence only ran in one direction, where the two of them were concerned.

“Well, what is it?” Mukuro asked, when Tsuna had joined them and Kyouko had distributed coffee to the three of them, and taken up her own cup of tea. He glanced at Kyouko before asking, as if her presence was some kind of cue, and then added, “I assume this isn’t about Spain.”

“No,” Tsuna said, with a faint smile. “Should it be about Spain?” That was where they’d called Mukuro home from, where he’d been pursuing some end of his own.

Tsuna held Mukuro’s eyes, and Mukuro was the one who shrugged. “It has nothing to do with the Vongola,” he said, and selected one of the flaky little tarts that Kyouko had noticed he liked.

“Then no, it isn’t about Spain,” Tsuna said, and took a sip of his coffee.

Despite the fact that Tsuna was as much responsible for this as she was, he had insisted that it was her news to share, so Kyouko cleared her throat. “I’m expecting,” she said, which garnered a murmured, “Congratulations,” from Chrome, and a, “What, again?” from Mukuro.

“Mukuro-sama,” Chrome said, gently reproving. “That wasn’t very polite.” She did not, Kyouko noted, make the mistake of confusing ‘polite’ with ‘nice’.

“I suppose it’s not. Congratulations to both of you,” Mukuro said, eyes dark. “And may you not live to see the whole lot of them fighting each other to be your heir.”

From Mukuro, that was practically a blessing. “Thank you,” Kyouko said, smiling. He just snorted.

Chrome was still watching them, waiting—probably with a good idea of what was to come. Mukuro surely had the same idea, but he rarely showed what he was thinking, while Chrome sometimes did.

“We’d like you to stand as godparents to the child,” Tsuna said, and that completed the circle that they’d begun with Gokudera and Mari.

The two of them had to have seen it coming; the pattern hadn’t exactly been subtle. All of Tsuna’s other Guardians had taken on this duty in addition to their other responsibilities, from Gokudera down to Lambo. Chrome reacted as Tsuna and Kyouko had agreed that she probably would, by tipping her head and murmuring, “I would be honored.”

Mukuro just looked at them both and said, flatly, “Have you lost your minds?”

“No, of course not,” Tsuna said, smiling. “Are you willing to do it?”

Kyouko raised her tea to her lips, to conceal the fact that she was holding her breath.

“Have you forgotten who I am?” Mukuro demanded, and Kyouko sighed into her cup. He wasn’t unwilling, then—just suffering an attack of his peculiar brand of scruples.

“Of course I haven’t,” Tsuna told him, still with his smile, but there was a touch of his Will in his eyes. “You’re my Mist.”

“And our Family,” Kyouko murmured, in case Mukuro had forgotten that she was party to the decision, too. “Really, I can’t think of any better way to mark the fact than to have you as a godparent.” She set her tea down, and added, “Of course, if you say no, I suppose we can ask Xanxus instead.”

Even Tsuna choked on that one.

“Use your head, Sawada,” Mukuro said, after a moment. “Think of how this will look.”

“It will look as though I am gathering one of my people to me and keeping him there,” Tsuna said, firmly. “If you do not wish to do this, then all you have to do is say so. But if your only reasons for saying no are what you fear the other Families will think, that’s not your problem. It’s mine, and I don’t care about them.” His Will echoed in his voice and his eyes, low and sure and smooth.

Mukuro was no more immune to that than any of Tsuna’s other Guardians, though Kyouko was sure that he’d be loath to admit it. He stared at Tsuna until, finally, he inclined his head, and said, sour, “It’s your neck.”

“Yes, it is,” Kyouko said, smiling. “More coffee?”

He grunted at her, but held out his cup after a moment, and that was that. Kyouko refilled it, smiling, and wondered what this new duty was likely to make of him.

– end –

The Overarching Sky

by Branch

Mari chooses her Guardians, which runs into occasional trouble with both family and Family foibles. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Eleventh gen, Fedele Rizzo, Fiorela Cavallone, Lucia Dokurou, Mario Rizzo, Reborn, Sasagawa Rei, Sawada Mamoru, Sawada Mari, Sawada Tsunayoshi

"You wanted to see me, Father?" Mari closed the door of the study behind her, noted her father’s expression, both affectionate and harried, and looked around for a baby in a suit. Sure enough, Reborn was in one of the armchairs with a tiny cup of coffee. "Reborn, welcome back."

"Mari, you’re twenty-six already. It’s about time you were officially confirmed as the Vongola heir," he answered with typical briskness. "It’s time you started choosing your Guardians."

Mari put her hands on her hips, brows raised. "What do you mean, started?"

Her father chuckled. "I thought you might have a few ideas already."

"You can’t choose your brothers for all of them," Reborn cautioned.

"Of course not. Haruka and Shin both have the Sky attribute, same as me. No, we’ve already discussed this. Well, mostly." She hurried along. "Daisuke and Kazuya, and Rei, from the family."

Father tipped his head to the side and asked, softly, "Not Mamoru?"

Mari nibbled her lip. "Well. That’s the mostly part."

"Finish that, then," Reborn told her. "And we can talk about the rest."

"I already know the rest," Mari muttered. "Mostly." Before they could ask about that part, too, though, she slipped out and took a good breath and headed for her brother’s room.

"Mamoru?" Mari stood in the doorway, looking more hesitant than his big sister usually did, and Mamoru waved her in.

"What’s up, Mari?"

"Well. It’s, um. See, Reborn just got back and he and Father think it’s time to make things official, and they want me to name my Guardians, and…"

Mamoru smiled and held up a hand, cutting off the single-breath explanation.

"Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to choose Mario instead of me."

"Mm." Mari nibbled on her lip and he got up to go and hug her.

"Nee-san, stop being silly," he said into her hair. "Mario will be a good Lightning Guardian for you, and it’s not like it makes me any less your brother, does it?"

"Of course not! I just…"

"You just want to make everyone happy. Kind of like Father."

She looked up with a smile, if still a small one. "I am his heir, after all."

"I will be happy supporting you the same way Haruka and Shin do," he said, firmly.

"I know you will," she admitted. "I just don’t want you to be hurt by what other people say about this. I mean, with Daisuke as my Sun Guardian and Kazuya as my Mist. Haruka and Shin, well, people will understand that. But here you are, the odd man out."

Mamoru shrugged. "So maybe that will be useful some time." He grinned. "I bet Kazuya can tell us if it is."

She finally laughed. "I wonder sometimes if it was really a good idea, making Uncle Mukuro his godfather."

"At least he’s as well trained as it’s possible to be," Mamoru said, practically. He tucked a strand of his sister’s bright hair back. "Now stop worrying. Mario couldn’t be more loyal to you, and you and I know I’m always here when you need me. That’s all we need."

"My extra good sense, yes." She hugged him. "Thanks, Mamoru."

"Not as though you don’t have plenty of family among your Guardians, what with two brothers and a cousin." And they’d all known, since the day Rei had coolly broken the arm of one of Mari’s suitors who got a little too pressing, who Mari’s Rain Guardian would be. The incident itself hadn’t ruffled Rei in the least, but the weeks of Uncle Ryouhei’s loud pride in his daughter had almost embarrassed her to death before Mari had spoken to Aunt Hana, who made him stop. The girls had made a mutual protection pact in the best mafia tradition.

"I don’t need one of the Vongola rings to take care of my sister," Mamoru finished, firmly.

Mari hugged him again, squeezing him nearly breathless this time, and grinned up at him. "Thanks, little brother."

He laughed at the family joke; he’d grown taller than her four years ago. "Go on, then. Ask Mario. Oh, wait! Let me get my camera first."

When Mari knocked on Mario’s door, she was hoping to get her friend in person, but luck didn’t seem to be with her that much today. It was his father who answered, and she’d always had the feeling that Fedele was conflicted over both her and her father. And that was before Uncle Gokudera had told her enough Vongola history for her to figure out why, before she’d known there had ever been a different heir to become the Vongola Tenth or that he’d been killed while the man who would have been his right hand had lived. The man whose son she had come to call on to serve a new heir.

Well, no one had ever said her job would be easy.

"Fedele," she said, courteous and firm. "I’d like to speak with Mario."

His eyes flicked between her and Mamoru and his mouth tightened for a moment. "Come in."

They waited in the sitting room, Mari in one of the armchairs and Mamoru standing at her shoulder. Her mouth quirked at his silent insistence that she was the Eleventh and would be respected as such. Mario saw it, too, when he came clattering down the stairs, but, being Mario, misread it a bit.

"Mari, hey, what’s…" he trailed off, "up?" His eyes were shadowed for just a moment, resting on Mamoru, but he pulled himself together and straightened. "Was there something you needed to tell me?"

Mari shook her head at him. "Of course there is, you idiot, but not that." She couldn’t help smiling a little at the confusion that relaxed his spine. "You always jump to conclusions. So?" She stood and held out a hand, grinning. "You with me or what?"

The caution in his face thawed into the Mario she knew, and he grinned back at her, brilliant, catching her hand. "About damn time!"

They both jumped at the click and flash of Mamoru’s camera, and Mario growled at him. Mamoru just laughed. "Oh, come on. That was adorable."

"I am not adorable," Mario declared, firmly. "I’m way too old to be adorable."

Mari elbowed Mamoru before he could tease Mario any more, and Mario drew himself up, reminded that this was, theoretically, a formal occasion. "I will be honored to serve the Eleventh."

Mari squeezed his hand, sealing the deal. "I’ll be pleased to have you as my Lightning Guardian."

Mamoru, tucking the camera away, clapped a hand on Mario’s shoulder. "Take good care of my sister."

"Well, hey." Mario ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. "That’ll take both of us, won’t it?"

"Probably," Mamoru agreed, trenchantly, and caught a slightly more serious elbow for that one.

They might have stood there grinning at each other like idiots for a lot longer if Fedele hadn’t spoken from the stairs where he’d been watching. "The confirmation is coming up, then?"

Mari turned to him. She always gave Fedele her full attention, feeling like she was waiting for something—for some kind of sign from him. "Father and Reborn both feel that would be wise."

He looked at his son for a long moment, eyes dark. "Don’t fail her," he finally said, quietly, and turned to go back up the stairs. The stifled pain in every line of his body pulled Mari forward a step; screw waiting, she couldn’t just leave it at that.

"Fedele!" When he paused at the sharpness of her voice, Mari crossed the room to him and looked up into his eyes. Fierce and soft she told him, "It wasn’t your fault."

"It was my responsibility." His usually stern expression was even remoter than usual.

"I don’t deny that," Mari said quietly, and his eyes flickered, maybe startled. "But it wasn’t your fault. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t strong enough to protect him all by yourself. None of us can do that! That’s why we have each other." Her hand cut across at her brother, at her new Guardian, Fedele’s son. She looked around at the dim room, the small room, of a small house, far from the Vongola mansion and knowledge came together in her heart. "And I don’t care what other people might have said. I know you didn’t betray your boss." When he started to look away, face twisting, she stepped closer, not letting him. "You did not betray him. I know." Softly she added, "And he knew, too."

He blinked at her, shadows broken by startlement, and finally smiled just a little. "Blood of Vongola." He took a breath and let it out. "The Vongola will pass into good hands."

She supposed that was a start and when he turned away again she didn’t try to call him back. Though she did make a definite mental note to speak to Father about this, because they couldn’t just leave one of their people in such a state.

Mario was staring, when she turned around. "Mari."

She blushed just a little. "Um. Yeah?"

He crossed the room and knelt down for a breath, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand. When he looked up, he was smiling. "He’s right."

She tugged him up, blushing. "Well. Glad you think so, considering."

Rei was a lot easier.

Mari strolled with her young cousin to the other end of the terrace where their mothers were having tea. "Have you heard?" she asked.

"That you’re choosing?" Rei glanced at Mari under her lashes. "Yes."

Mari smiled. "Will you be my Rain Guardian?"

Receiving all of Rei’s focused attention was a little like being hit by a bus and Mari was glad she’d had years to get used to it. "Of course I will, Mari-san."

Mari touched Rei’s hand. "Thank you." She didn’t even think of chuckling at the faint color that crossed Rei’s cheeks.

She started to ask the rest of it and paused. Of all her Guardians-to-be, Rei—dedicated, serious, responsible Rei—would surely be the best suited to be her right hand, when she took the Family. But something held her back; it just didn’t feel quite right.

Well, it wasn’t like she didn’t have plenty of time to work out that choice. She’d mentioned it in passing to Reborn and gotten an inscrutable baby-smirk in answer that made her roll her eyes. At least he wasn’t pressing her to choose right away, though.

"So, how’s Uncle Ryouhei doing?" she asked instead. "He’s been away for months."

"Loudly," Rei said dourly. "Like he’s always doing. He called Mother last night and I could hear him in the next room."

This time, Mari laughed.

"Mari, Kazuya! To what do we owe the pleasure?" Uncle Dino paused on his way through the halls to ruffle her hair and smile at Kazuya.

"Hey, Uncle Dino. I just stopped by to talk to Fiorela."

His eyes sharpened and moved from her to Kazuya. "I see. I wondered if that would be coming soon. Well, Fiorela is up in her room. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you."

"We’ve only been friends since we were three years old, I should hope so!" Mari laughed, wondering whether all the parents had Guardian Radar this week.

"Well, why else would I be with you, to visit her?" Kazuya murmured as they continued up the stairs. "Uncle Dino hasn’t been the Cavallone boss this long without learning politics."

"I suppose it would be unreasonable if I said I don’t want my friends to be politics," Mari sighed.

"Not unreasonable." Kazuya bumped her shoulder sympathetically. "Just not very likely."

Mari snorted a little. "Yeah, that. Hey, Fiorela!" she added, throwing open her friend’s door.

"Mari, perfect timing! Which of these looks more demure?" Fiorela spun around, holding two dresses up. Mari eyed the hem of one and neckline of the other.

"Neither, really." She leaned a hip on the dresser. "Who are you after?"

Fiorela’s eyes gleamed. "The Rosetti. Geno, the second son."

Mari grinned. It was always nice to see someone enjoying her work. "Getting the inside scoop before negotiations next week, huh? Hmmmm." She examined the dresses again. "You’re right, you probably need a bigger hammer to get through to him. Maybe the green? The frilly sleeves should look all girlish."

"I think you’re right." Fiorela shrugged off her dressing gown and started wriggling into the clinging, green dress. "So, you here for business? Or is Kazuya just your bodyguard of the day?"

Kazuya, who was looking out the window, mouth quirked as he ignored Fiorela’s half-naked squirming, said, "A little of both."

Mari spared a moment to be thankful they both found needling each other amusing. Having her Storm and her Mist constantly fighting for real wouldn’t have been fun.

Though she’d heard some stories about Uncle Gokudera and Uncle Yamamoto, from the early days.

"They want to confirm me as the Eleventh," she told Fiorela, quietly.

Her friend paused in the middle of running fingers through the dark, curly hair she’d gotten from her mother, and met Mari’s eyes in the mirror. "So it’s time to make it official, hm?" She turned to face Mari, straight and proud, games set aside.

"Will you be the next Vongola Storm Guardian?" Mari asked, simply.

"I will."

Their eyes held for a moment and Mari found the absolute dedication in Fiorela’s comforting. "Thank you," she said, softly.

And then the moment was past and she grinned and waved at Kazuya. "In that case, meet your new consultant."

Fiorela curled her lip. "Oh, please."

"You need to work with someone who spends more time considering things," Kazuya said firmly. "You’re very good, but sometimes you get carried away."

"I’m supposed to!" Fiorela protested.

"The Storm is supposed to be your strength, not your excuse," Kazuya told her dryly.

Fiorela glared at him for a breath before looking at Mari. "Are you sure he’s really only eighteen and didn’t get switched out for a forty year old at birth?"

"Afraid so." Mari grinned, wryly.

Fiorela heaved a sigh. "Okay, fine. So what does my consultant have to say about Geno?"

"That he won’t believe in the possibility of an alliance marriage, not with you. String him along with the suggestion that you have your brother’s ear, instead, and use the flirting as a simple distraction."

Mari sat back and watched them plotting, and wondered if all her Guardians would be like this, if the fit and connections between them would all snap into place so firmly. It was almost enough to make her believe in the mysticism surrounding the Rings.

"So it’s the Cloud she’s unsure of?" Reborn asked, ankles crossed on the chair seat in front of him.

"It isn’t too surprising, is it?" Tsuna smiled. "I think the relationship between a boss and the Cloud Guardian is probably the hardest to even describe. At least she’s recognized who she wants."

"So? Is Lucia willing or not?"

Tsuna leaned back, looking out the window thoughtfully. "I think she is. I even think she’ll be a very good Cloud. But exactly because of that, her loyalty to Mari won’t be quite like what Mari sees from the others. I think she’s having a hard time recognizing it."

Reborn sniffed. "Her intuition should tell her, by now."

"Hm." Tsuna knew his daughter hadn’t exactly had an easy childhood, but she also hadn’t been forced to grow with quite such drastic speed as he had. Her gifts weren’t always consistent yet. "Maybe I’ll write Chrome and invite her to bring Lucia to visit," he murmured. "By now both of the girls are probably thinking about this. Maybe Mari’s intuition just needs an opportunity."

The corners of Reborn’s mouth curled up. "Maybe I’ll stay and see, then."

Kazuya looked up from his quiet conversation with Aunt Chrome as Mari and Lucia swept into the room, both shower-damp and stumbling a little but looking extremely pleased with themselves.

"That was fun," Mari declared, easing down into a chair.

"Not bad at all," Lucia agreed, showing her teeth as she folded up cross-legged by the low table. She stretched her arms over her head, eyes glinting.

Lucia was the only person besides Mari herself and Uncle Yamamoto who actually enjoyed training with Uncle Hibari. Kazuya figured she must have gotten the taste for fighting from her father, since Aunt Chrome seemed like a regular, sensible person that way. Fortunately, Lucia didn’t have her father’s loud brashness, even once she relaxed enough around someone to drop the most reserved of her manners.

Or maybe that should be ‘unfortunately’ since then, at least, Mari would have been sure of Lucia by now.

Mari glanced around. "Is Father still busy with the Pozzo Nero thing?"

"Mm," Haruka agreed, looking up from his book. "I’m afraid so. You’d think they’d just give up already, but no. It’s the Orsini they’re trying to ally with this time."

"You should take care of them for good," Lucia stated. Not really an unexpected sentiment, given her family, Kazuya reflected; Uncle Mukuro could be extremely direct, in some ways, and all his people picked it up.

Mari shook her head. "That would only set the other Families off worse, given they haven’t attacked us directly."

"They have attacked directly, just not with guns." Lucia gave Mari a challenging look that Mari returned with a cheerful smile.

"A good point, I suppose." Kazuya watched Mari veer off from the argument and sighed. Sometimes he really thought what these two needed was to have a good fight.

Sure enough, Lucia stiffened just a little. "You know I hate it when you do that," she muttered.

Kazuya was just getting ready to say something, to distract them, when Mari paused and looked at Lucia, eyes suddenly direct and piercing. "It doesn’t mean that I don’t trust you," she said, abruptly.

Lucia lifted her head and stared at Mari.

"That’s what you thought, isn’t it?" Mari asked, softly. "Because you’re only really polite with people until you trust them."

"Well, that’s the way you smile at people you’re fooling, isn’t it?" Lucia asked, a little harsh. "You think I don’t recognize it?"

"I…" Mari hesitated. "I didn’t want to fight with you."

Lucia stared at her blankly. "Why not?"

Mari’s mouth twitched at that, and she finally broke down laughing. "I’m sorry," she managed, waving a hand. "You’re right."

Lucia looked satisfied for a moment and then frowned and poked Mari with her toe. "Why didn’t you want to fight?"

Mari took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. "Ah. Well." She looked down at her hands, clasping them tightly for a moment, and finally said, low, "Because I’m hoping you’ll agree to be my Cloud Guardian."

Lucia was silent for a moment. Finally she snorted. "And you thought not fighting with me was the way to get me to say yes?"

"All right, I admit it, I wasn’t thinking!"

"You know," Haruka drawled, "I’m glad it’s you who has to deal with this, Mari. I don’t think I’d like having to juggle all the Guardians and their," he paused as Lucia caught his eye, brows raised, and finished, "quirks."

Lucia snorted softly. "Well." She eyed Mari. "You could certainly use someone to keep you from getting too fluffy."

"Fluffy?" Mari asked, eyes glinting.

"Soft, even," Lucia added, with a provoking smile.

"There is nothing soft about taking the time to do things right, to make changes that will stick instead of just flailing around with brute force." Mari’s voice was intense.

"There’s no point in being afraid to use the force you have," Lucia shot back. "Especially if it’s the right tool for the job."

Mari leaned forward. "Some jobs. Not all. We have to judge when it’s really the best option and not just the easiest."

Lucia matched her stare for stare. "But if it is the best option, then we have to use it."

"Done."

They held each other’s eyes locked for another long moment and finally Lucia leaned back and gave Mari a judicious look. "All right. That was more like it." Her sharp grin flashed. "I’ll do it."

Mari lit up and Kazuya couldn’t help a laugh. He’d been right; they just needed a good fight. Considering Uncle Hibari, he couldn’t be surprised.

There wasn’t any particular ceremony, and Mari was grateful for that. She was nervous enough already, just knowing that all of the top members of the Family were here as witnesses. If all went well, she would be presented again to their allies, but by then she’d at least know for sure that everything was all right.

She could feel Uncle Xanxus’ eyes on her back.

"In years past, these rings were kept hidden most of the time," her father said, laying his hands on the two boxes on the table in front of him. "Now they are the first and final defense of our Family. The seven of you will not hold them constantly until I retire. But today your right to them will be confirmed."

Mari appreciated his trust in them, in her, but she knew that this could also be the day her right to the Sky Ring was proven false.

Father opened the boxes and drew out two ring-halves, fitting them together. Mari’s nerves fought with her sense of the absurd, that the rings had been broken apart this morning, only to be fitted together again as a gesture.

Well, not exactly a gesture, she had to admit, eyes flicking to Irie. It was also proof that both the Boss and the outside advisor agreed where to bestow them.

"Sasagawa Rei," he said quietly, and held out the Rain ring. Rei stepped forward to take it and only the Guardians, old generation and new, were close enough to see her fingers shaking just a little. Uncle Ryouhei shifted on his feet and Uncle Yamamoto elbowed him and winked at Rei. Her back straightened, eyes narrowing with disapproval of the byplay on a solemn occasion and she slid the ring onto her finger with steady hands.

"Fiorela Cavallone," Father called next, face straight but eyes twinkling.

Mari held on to that, reminding herself to breathe nice and slow, as the Guardians she had chosen, who had chosen her, came one after another to take the rings.

"Sawada Mari."

She took one last breath and walked forward to take the ring from her father’s hand. Their eyes met and he nodded just a little, confident and encouraging. She nodded back and slid the ring onto her hand.

Heavenly lighting failed to instantly strike her, which seemed like a good sign.

She turned to her Guardians and held out her hand. They closed around her, reaching out, and her eyes widened as the rings lit with a rainbow of Flame. She hadn’t channeled her Will into her own and, from the startled eyes looking back at her, she didn’t think anyone else had, either. But the rings burned on their hands, bright and wild.

"The Vongola Rings accept Sawada Mari as the eleventh boss of Vongola," her father declared behind her, and a murmur of approval ran through the room. She barely noticed it, though, as she looked at the faces around her, their unwavering focus on her, and felt understanding singing through her. This, right now, these people were her Family. She would fight to protect them with everything in her and they would always be beside her.

Beside her…

It really was almost a flash of light, the sudden rightness of the thought that came to her. She turned to look at her three brothers, standing to the side with Mother. Haruka looked satisfied and Shin was nearly laughing. Mamoru just watched her, eyes steady.

"Mamoru." She held out her hand to him. "Stand beside me."

He met her gaze and stepped away from the others, coming slowly to her side. He looked around at her Guardians, head cocked. Mario looked enlightened and Fiorela was grinning. Daisuke nodded, pleased, and Kazuya followed after a considering moment. Rei looked back and forth between Mari and Mamoru a few times and added her own firm nod, and Lucia’s mouth was curled in a sardonic smile. Mamoru took a slow breath and nodded back to them and slid down to one knee before Mari. His lips touched her ring and he smiled up at her. "Always, boss."

Mari almost shivered, feeling the last thing she’d been missing click into place as her right hand rose to stand at her shoulder. She lifted her head and looked at her father, finally calm and sure in the certainty that this was right.

His gaze was steady. "The rings choose well for the Vongola."

Mari and her people turned together to face the rest of the Family, and Reborn, perched in a windowsill at the back of the room, met her eyes and smiled.

End

Appendix – the Vongola Eleventh Generation

by Branch

This is an appendix listing things like birth order, Flame alignment and godparents. It contains spoilers for the above stories.

Character(s): Eleventh gen

Tsuna and Kyouko’s children

Mari: Born when Tsuna and Kyouko are in their mid-twenties. Godparents: Gokudera, Haru, Uni. Alignment: Sky.

Daisuke: Born about a year later. Godparents: Yamamoto, Dino, I-pin. Alignment: Sun.

Haruka: Born about two years later. Godparents: Ryouhei, Basil, Lal. Alignment: Sky.

Mamoru: Born about two years later. Godparents: Hibari, Gamma, Bianchi. Alignment: Lightning.

Shin: Born about a year later. Godparents: Lambo, Fuuta, Hana. Alignment: Sky.

Kazuya: Born about two years later. Godparents: Mukuro, Chrome, Irie. Alignment: Mist.

Author’s Note: The godparents are, in some cases, unlikely to actually be much able to function as proper Catholic godparents, but since both Tsuna and Kyouko seem likely to adopt Catholicism for purely business purposes while living in Sicily I have assumed that many of the godparents are chosen to fulfill the more secular function of an older mentor.

Mari’s Guardians

Sun: Daisuke.

Mist: Kazuya.

Lightning: Mario, son of Fedele, grandson of Michele, the Ninth’s Sun Guardian. Mario is a few years older than Mari.

Rain: Rei, daughter of Ryouhei and Hana. She’s about Kazuya’s age.

Storm: Fiorela, daughter of Dino and Sofia. She’s about the same age as Mari.

Cloud: Lucia, daughter of Chrome and Ken. She’s a few years older than Mari.

Over, Under or Around

by Branch

Mari decides that something has to be done to make Fedele comfortable in the Family again. Drama, I-2

Character(s): Fedele Rizzo, Sawada Mari, Sawada Tsunayoshi

The study was quiet; Mother hadn’t come in yet and Mari had sent Mamoru out with Uncle Gokudera to talk to the Cometti. In fact, the study was a little too quiet. Mari dropped the latest report on the Leone and gave up trying to concentrate. "Father, we have to do something about Fedele."

Her father looked up from his chair across the room, smile wry and unsurprised. "For that to work, he has to be willing for something to be done." At Mari’s frown he sighed and leaned back. "Do you know how hard it was to get him to accept a place as one of your mother’s bodyguards? And nothing I said stopped him from stepping down after—" He broke off, mouth tightening. "Well, there were some… remarks made."

Mari remembered her moment of insight and crossed her arms. "Are there really people in this Family who still think he betrayed Federico?" she asked, low.

"Fedele lived when Federico didn’t."

"Because he was left for dead! I’ve read those reports!" Mari glared. "What, couldn’t the people who doubt just ask Uncle Xanxus about it directly? It’s not like he wouldn’t tell them the truth."

Father burst out laughing, and Mari waited impatiently for him to get a grip again. "Mari," he said, finally, "you have a bit of a unique relationship with Xanxus, you know."

"Yes, I’ve read those reports, too. I know he used to be kind of crazy. But you managed him just fine, and he’s not running around blowing people away at random any more, is he?"

Father sighed. "No, he isn’t. But Mari," he met her eyes, suddenly serious, "have you ever thought that might be part of the problem, for Fedele? The man who killed his boss is still a part of this Family."

Mari felt a bit like she’d run into a wall. "Oh." She bit her lip. "And he can’t challenge Xanxus, can he? Because you don’t want that happening inside the Family." All right, this was a drawback to her father’s policy she hadn’t foreseen.

"That’s why I’ve tried to let him find his own distance," he admitted.

Mari stared down at her crossed arms, thinking. Fedele was loyal to the Vongola, she had absolutely no doubt of that. But maybe, and this was the new thought, maybe he didn’t feel much like the Vongola were loyal back to him. What, short of letting him try to kill Xanxus which could only end badly, would make him feel a proper, valued part of the Family?

What did she do for anyone who was part of her Family?

Finally she looked up. "I think," she said, slowly, "that I want to try something different."

Fedele looked a bit surprised when he answered the door to find Mari standing there. "Mario left earlier; did you miss him?"

"Oh no, he’s up at the mansion now." Mari breezed in and made for the kitchen. "No, I wanted to visit you today." She’d been here often enough to know where the cups were and swiftly set out coffee and a tray for the pastries she’d brought along, fruits of a long conference with her mother’s pastry chef.

Her mother usually used tea for this purpose, but Mari had grown up with coffee and so had her target, after all.

"You’re never up at the mansion, so you miss Lucia’s baking," she informed her host and victim, light and social. "Mother’s cook Lucia, that is, my Lucia burns water. Mother’s Lucia said you might like the ones with honey." She pointed those out helpfully as she set the plate and two cups of coffee on the table and seated herself with a cheerful smile.

Fedele opened his mouth, closed it again, and gave her a long look. "I see." He pulled out the chair across from hers and sat, taking up his cup for a sip. "Sometimes a single person’s company only emphasizes solitude," he murmured.

Fedele had been chosen as a prospective boss’ right hand, after all, and had well over twice her lifetime’s experience to boot, Mari reflected ruefully. He wasn’t going to be an easy job. That was all right, though; they could start with small steps, like coffee. "The quality of the company has to be taken into account, doesn’t it?" she sallied back. Of all people, Fedele should know that the heir trailed the weight of position and Family wherever she went, alone or not.

"You won’t do yourself any favors by this, Mari," he said, almost gently. "Or me, for that matter."

"The idiots who have their heads up their asses will be suspicious of you whether I’m here or not." Mari took a bite of an almond cookie to start the eating off. "And if they prove it in my hearing it’s no trouble at all for me to yank their heads out, I assure you."

His mouth twitched at that, and Mari hid a tiny smile in her coffee. Small steps.

"Father is probably a bit hampered by feeling guilty for being the one who bound Xanxus properly into the Family," she pointed out. "But I’m not. And I inherited all of his stubbornness, just ask any of my Uncles and Aunts."

Fedele made a faintly exasperated sound. "I never really doubted that." He absently picked up a pastry.

"Good!" Mari leaned her chin in her hand and smiled brightly. "So, are Tuesdays good for you?"

He paused, perhaps becoming aware of his mouthful of pastry, and eyed her for a long moment. "I suspect," he said, swallowing, "that it won’t matter in the end whether it is or not."

"Oh, no," Mari protested. "If another day is better I’m sure I can change my schedule."

"Yes, that’s what I meant," he said dryly.

She returned his gaze, letting the brightness slip away for a moment, quiet but immovable. "It isn’t right. This is your Family. You have never failed us. If we’ve failed you, then something must be done."

He twitched back in his chair at that, rueful amusement wiped away to show the shadows plainly again. Mari didn’t look aside and at last he bent his head over his cup. "Blood of Vongola," he murmured. "I’d forgotten, a little." He took a slow breath and finally said, "Actually, Tuesdays would be fine."

"Good," Mari said softly.

Step by small step.

End

Two Birds

by Branch

Mari has to deal with choosing a husband and an outside advisor. The one actually solves the other. Drama with Romance, I-3

Character(s): Eleventh gen, Fedele Rizzo, Gokudera Hayato, Irie Shouichi, Sasagawa Kyouko, Sawada Mamoru, Sawada Mari, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Stefano Cavallone, Xanxus

Mari shifted her bag of pastries to her other hand and rapped on the door. When Fedele opened it she stomped inside, declaring, "Men!"

"I noticed," he said dryly.

"It’s like they think you can have brains or breasts, but not both." Mari made for the kitchen and and rummaged for coffee cups with unnecessary force.

"They’re already out."

"Oh." She took a deep breath and let it out. "Right."

Fedele shook his head, looking a little amused, and pulled out a chair for her. "Sit down and I’ll get things."

Mari sat and glowered broodingly at her coffee while he laid the pastries out and brought them to the table.

"I can’t imagine your own people are being that foolish, so I take it one of the other Families has annoyed you?" he asked, sitting down.

"Not just one! All of them!"

"Even the Cavallone? And the Giglio Nero?" Fedele raised his brows over his cup.

"All right, not Uni, but Uncle Dino is in on it too, this time," Mari growled. "They all want me to get married. Uncle Dino actually told me I should think about it!" Which had felt all the more like a betrayal because Uncle Dino was the one boss who hadn’t been throwing his sons at her head all her life. She’d thought he had better sense. If Stefano hasn’t distracted his father from the discussion, Mari might have done something drastic.

"Can you really blame them? The Tenth has made no secret that he wants to retire soon, and there’s no one to come after you."

"Daisuke has a kid already, and Shin probably will too, any day now." Mari bit into a cookie as though she could bite off all the arguments the same way. "There’s plenty of Vongola blood to go around."

"And you know as well as I do that the Vongola prefer to keep the Boss’ descent direct, to preserve the strongest Flame if nothing else." Fedele set his cup down and looked at her steadily. "What’s the real problem, Mari?"

Mari leaned her chin in her hand and smiled at him wryly. "It’s too bad you aren’t about thirty years younger, you know." She grinned at the expression on his face and took a more delicate bite of cookie. "I don’t suppose I really have any objection to marrying. Mother and Father certainly make it look nice. The problem is that all my prospects are from other mafia Families, and I swear every one of them has been raised to believe that he can take over the Vongola by marrying me."

"Ah." Fedele poured a little more coffee for both of them. "And the allied Families? There are no possibilities among them?"

Mari traced a finger over the smooth wood of the table. "This is probably going to sound petulant." She smiled wryly and his elaborately unsurprised expression. "I’ve dated most of them at one time or another, except the ones who were too busy acting like extra brothers and trying to sneak frogs into my sock drawer, and none of them feel… right. Perhaps it’s foolish of me to hold out for romance, but…"

"But it’s what you grew up with," he finished for her, gently. "The Tenth was very fortunate in love. I imagine few bosses can really say that."

"What a tactful way to tell me to give it up," she murmured, and waved a hand at his sterner look. "I know my duty, Fedele. And I’ll do it. But it is what I grew up with. Even Uncle Gokudera and Aunt Haru. Even Uncle Yamamoto and Uncle Hibari, for God’s sake!"

"Well, if you look at it that way, I suppose you could expand your search, if the young men are insufficient," he mused. "Children would be a bit more difficult, but still…"

Mari nearly spit a mouthful of coffee across the room and barely managed to choke it down so she could laugh herself breathless. "Oh, imagine people’s faces!" She wiped her eyes and sat back. "Ah, I needed that."

"You looked like it," he agreed, smiling faintly. "Try not to worry too much about it. Sooner or later it will solve itself."

"Or some new problem will come along to distract me at least." Mari chose another pastry, chuckling.

"Mari, can I have a moment?"

Mari looked up from handing her coat to the housekeeper, surprised to see the sturdy, serious man waiting in the entry hall. "Irie-san! Of course." She waved Mamoru to follow and nodded to Rei. "Tell Father I’ll be in in just a moment to report about the Catania holdings."

Rei brushed her jacket smooth over her shoulder holster and nodded soberly. "Yes, Mari."

Mari spared her cousin and Rain’s earnestness a smile as she led Mamoru and Irie to one of the hall parlors. "What’s up, Irie-san?" she asked, pulling up a chair to the room’s low table, aware of Mamoru leaning by one of the windows.

"I wanted to speak with you." Irie seated himself more deliberately, the way he did everything that wasn’t an emergency. "I’m considering retiring when Tsuna does."

Mari sat back, startled, this being the first she’d heard of any such idea. "Then CEDEF…"

"I’ll stay as long as I’m needed," Irie assured her. "I just thought… well, if you have any idea who you might want as your outside advisor after me…"

"Then I could be thinking about it." Mari smiled wryly. "I see."

"It isn’t that I’m not happy, serving the Vongola," Irie said quietly.

"But Father is special to you." Mari firmly stomped on a flicker of inadequacy; this was hardly the first time she’d had to deal with standing in the shadow of the Tenth. "No, I do understand." But who on earth could she call on to serve as the leader of CEDEF, to be her advisor?

Irie smiled a little, apparently seeing the question written in the air above her head. "There’s no urgency, if you can’t think of anyone yet."

"I can’t, offhand," Mari admitted. "Someone who’s inside and outside at the same—" She broke off, thoughts arrested. "Hm."

"A thought after all?" Irie’s brows rose.

"Hm." Mari stood and paced the room twice. Finally she turned back toward Irie, hands clasped behind her. "Irie-san, advise me," she ordered, intent. "What characteristics do you think are most needed in the outside advisor?"

Irie sat back, eyes sharp. "I would say… detachment," he said after a moment.

Mari crooked her fingers at him, beckoning. "Say more."

"The leader of CEDEF must be able to know everything that goes on in the Family, be prepared at any moment to step in if he’s called on or there’s an emergency, and yet never do so unless he is called or a true emergency exists." Irie’s mouth quirked. "It isn’t always easy."

"Detachment," Mari repeated slowly. "Yes." She smiled slowly. "Perhaps I do have a thought for this. I’ll just have to convince him it’s a good idea. That will be the hard part." She paused, considering. "One of the hard parts. The first hard part, anyway."

Irie laughed. "Somehow, I doubt that will stop you."

"Of course not." Mari smiled at him brightly. And sometimes her father’s shadow, and her mother’s too, supported instead of stifling.

Irie excused himself and Mari started back to make her delayed report, Mamoru at her shoulder.

"You’re thinking of Fedele Rizzo, aren’t you?" he asked, quietly.

"Like I said, there will be hard parts."

He snorted. "My sister, the master of understatement."

She stopped and looked up at him, serious. "It feels right, Mamoru. Right for Vongola and right for him. He advises me well already, and we owe him both respect and peace."

"This might not give him either." Mamoru’s eyes were dark. "Nor give them to you."

"Perhaps. But this is what I owe him." Her shoulders straightened with the inner certainty that was still fairly rare for her. "And this is what he owes me, as the Vongola."

One breath and Mamoru smiled. "Yes, Boss."

Mari smiled back. "Good! Let’s go report to Father, then. And after…" she narrowed her eyes at the future, "…after, I think I’ll want to talk to Kazuya about strategy."

Fedele stared at her, coffee halfway to his lips. "You can’t possibly be serious."

Mari hadn’t really needed Kazyua to tell her that this would be the first response. "I’m quite serious." She folded her hands on the table between them, gaze level. Fedele set his cup down with a clack.

"Mari, just for starters, I’m too old! You’d have to choose another advisor in the middle of your tenure, and that isn’t something you want to do."

Reluctance she understood, but this she wouldn’t put up with. "It’s my business to decide what I do and don’t want to do," she rapped out. "Your business is to advise me on the consequences, but that is all."

He sat back sharply and Mari let her tone soften. "If I have to choose someone new later on, then I will. Right now I think you are the best choice, and that’s all that matters."

"Not quite all." His voice was calmer, quieter, but still stubborn.

"If you truly do not wish to serve the Vongola this way, then say so and I won’t speak of it again. But," Mari leveled a finger at him, "you had better have more of a reason that ‘it will cause talk’."

"It will cause talk," he muttered, but he hadn’t refused yet and that was progress. Mari gathered her cards and laid them out.

"You are older, and that means you have perspective that my Family so far doesn’t. You’ve seen how the Family operates both as a foot soldier and as the right hand of the heir. And," she finished quietly, "none of the other positions your loyalty and service should have earned you will make you happy."

"My service failed," he said harshly, eyes shadowed in the low afternoon light through the kitchen windows.

"It did not," Mari told him flatly. "You were defeated. Your boss was killed. But your service did not fail. Not then and not since." The way he flinched from her words didn’t make her any happier, but she refused to leave them unsaid. "You have not left us. In face of all the idiot tongues wagging about how you must have been in conspiracy with Xanxus to live through the attack, you stayed. You kept faith with us. You served. Tell me who better I could possibly name as my outside advisor?" She reached across the table and touched his arm. "Who else has better earned the right to both guide and stand free of the Vongola?"

He ran a hand over his face, eyes squeezed shut. "God you sound like Federico, when he got into one of his Vongola moods."

"Blood tells, I suppose," she murmured, mouth quirked.

He looked up at her, and she was satisfied to see the tight lines around his eyes easing just a little. "I won’t say anything else idiotic, then, like ‘are you really sure’."

Mari laughed. "Good. Much more of that and I’d have had to get a little annoyed."

He looked down at his hands and fetched in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It’s a hell of a job, sometimes. But I’ll do it for you."

Mari took a nice deep breath of her own. "Thank you."

Catching her father alone took a lot more ingenuity. In the end, she and Mamoru picked the least contentious meeting that month and hoped to cage some time at the end of it.

That meant, of course, sitting through the meeting instead of walking out the instant one of the Colli under-bosses smiled fatuously at her and called her "our young Eleventh" with his hand on the Colli son’s shoulder. Mari had never gone out with Pino herself but Fiorela had, and her report had not inclined Mari to him. Even if he hadn’t been making the most ridiculous cow’s eyes at her.

"You’re not actually considering him, are you?" Uncle Gokudera asked, after the Colli left, looking dubious.

"God no!" Mari shuddered. "At this rate, I may never marry at all. I’ll go into a convent as soon as Daisuke’s boy is old enough."

"I take it you had another reason for being so forbearing, then?" her father murmured. Mari ignored the twitching at the corners of his mouth and leaned back, folding her hands on her knee.

"I do." Mamoru drifted over to stand at her shoulder, making his support evident. "Irie-san has said he would like to retire when you do, so I’ve been thinking who I might want as my own outside advisor."

"Ah." Father straightened. "Have you found someone?"

"Fedele Rizzo."

Father and Uncle Gokudera both blinked at her for a moment. "He’s older than we are," Uncle Gokudera pointed out.

"All the more experience in my service, then." Mari felt a little the way she did facing Uncle Hibari on the practice floor, poised and waiting, taut with not knowing what would come but knowing she could respond to whatever it was. That, more than anything, told her she was choosing rightly in this.

"Mari," Father said quietly, "are you sure you aren’t letting sympathy color a business judgment?"

"Yes, I am." She lifted her chin. "I wouldn’t call it sympathy, though. Call it compassion."

Father’s mouth quirked. "And I an hardly object to that, hm?"

"Of course you can object." She shrugged. "But why would you?"

"Because you will already be facing tensions enough as a woman in charge of the Vongola Family, and taking someone there are still rumors about as your outside advisor will only add to that."

Mari looked at her father for a long moment and finally recognized what was lurking under the sharpness of his eyes: worry. "Are you sure you aren’t letting your concern for me color a business judgment?" she asked softly.

Father opened his mouth and closed it again with a sigh. "Perhaps," he allowed. And then he tilted his head and looked at her curiously. "Have you actually spoken to Fedele about this?"

"Of course I have. He agrees."

Father and Uncle Gokudera looked at each other, brows raised. "Well," Father said at last. "If you’ve convinced the sun to rise in the west already, I don’t see where it’s my business to stop you now."

"Which just leaves the rest of the Family," Uncle Gokudera murmured.

"I’ll deal with it," Mari said firmly. "My Family and I."

"Hm." Father gazed out the window for a long moment and finally nodded. "All right. I approve this. But only," he held up a finger, "if you can bring enough of the Vongola to agree to be sure it doesn’t cause waves that will weaken us."

Mari stood, shoulders straight. "Of course."

She had considered doing it her mother’s way, by smiling and chatting lightly to people who knew the people whose minds she wanted to change.

Then she had considered doing it her father’s way, by speaking directly, quietly, earnestly to the underbosses, the hitmen, the allied bosses.

In the end, though, she decided to do it her way.

She did wait for the next garden party, at least, instead of doing it in the next alliance meeting. And perhaps she did take a small hand with the invitation list, and make sure that the Grecav, the Iveco, Carlo Stanguellini, and Bruno Ansaldo were all there. And may be she did ask Fiorela to leak just the tiniest rumor, beforehand, that she was considering Fedele for her advisor. There was no sense in not using all the tools available to her.

The hardest part, actually, was making sure Uncle Xanxus would be there. Fortunately, he approved of her in somewhat the same way Uncle Hibari did, and was stalking the edges of the gathering in his shirtsleeves with a glass of something a lot stronger than the punch in hand. Mari kept half an eye on him as she listened to the Iveco boss hold forth on the need for absolutely trustworthy advisors, especially for young women, and kept a white-knuckled grip on her temper while she waited for Stanguellini to join them. Ansaldo was already shadowing Xanxus with a faint, stubborn frown on his face, and the Grecav were just one terrace down, close enough to hear everything.

"…and we must all be able to have absolute confidence in someone with the power of the Vongola’s outside advisor," Iveco lectured, and Mari womanfully refrained from baring her teeth at him. Ah, here was Stanguellini at last.

"I’m sure the Eleventh will make the best possible choice," he said to Iveco firmly, coming up beside her, and she’d have appreciated the support more if he hadn’t turned that earnest and respectful face to her and added, "We know that you’ll take the feelings of the Family into account, ma’am."

Mari’s tactical sense, trained year after year by Hibari and Lal and Xanxus, by living with one eye always on the shadows for the glint of a weapon, tingled in her fingertips; this was it. She frowned thoughtfully. "I hear what you’re saying," she said, rather more carryingly than she normally would. "So you’re still concerned by the possibility that Fedele Rizzo colluded with Xanxus in Federico’s death?" Those nearest quieted for a moment and glanced over at their little group.

"Well, there were never any witnesses, ma’am," Stanguellini murmured. "And he did survive…"

Mari tapped her lips with a finger. "Well, you know, that’s not exactly true. That there weren’t any witnesses, I mean." While the two men blinked at her she turned and leaned over the stone rail, waving a hand. "Uncle Xanxus!"

He looked up at her from across most of the gathering, mouth in a sardonic twist. "Yeah?"

"Were you and Fedele working together, when you killed Federico?"

Dead silence fell over the party and everyone turned to stare. Mari continued to look brightly inquiring, though she could see her father, from the corner of his eye, putting a hand over his face.

Xanxus snorted explosively. "Fuck no. What kind of idiot thinks I need help killing anyone I damn well go after?" He glared at Iveco and Stanguellini, who turned a little pale.

Mari waved a casual hand. "No, no, I think people just wondered because Fedele lived."

A corner of Xanxus mouth curled up in a sneer. "What, I should have taken time to finish off the small fry when he was down? He wasn’t my target." A stir rippled through the gathering, remembering that Xanxus led the Varia, their pride and their long record of perfect success.

"Yes, I thought so myself." Mari nodded agreeably, and turned back to Iveco. "So there you have it, from the one person who has to know for sure, right?" She smiled at him and then down at the Grecav. "I’m sure that takes care of any doubts." She turned her smile on Stanguellini and then Ansaldo, letting it turn harder.

Stanguellini swallowed. "Yes, ma’am."

She turned back to Iveco, who still seemed to be speechless. "And I hear you’re opening up some interests in Catanzaro! Tell me, how is that going?"

"Ah. It’s… it’s going well. Yes." The man looked at her like he’d never seen her before and maybe, Mari thought as she chatted about business, maybe he hadn’t really.

It looked like that had probably changed, though.

"That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, when I said you should gain the Family’s support," her father said dryly, leaning back in an armchair.

"If you wanted to set limits on my methods, you should have said." Mari crossed her legs and took another sip of her wine. "There are no more doubts about Fedele’s loyalty running around, are there?"

"No, I think you broke the kneecaps of every last one."

Mari nodded, satisfied. "Good."

Father looked helplessly at Mother, who shrugged, smiling faintly. "Mari grew up in this world," she pointed out. "And you can’t fault the care she takes of her people."

Shin looked up from his perch in the window seat where he was reading a letter from his latest girlfriend in the last sunlight. "It’s Mari, Dad, what did you expect? She’s like that."

"Not sure that was a compliment, but thanks all the same," Mari told her brother, who grinned at her.

"Mari?" Mamoru looked in the door, and Mari was instantly suspicious of the bland look on his face. "You have a visitor."

Fedele stepped in after him and Mari brightened. "Oh, good, I wanted to tell you—"

"That you asked Xanxus to confirm my ‘innocence’, which he did in the most insulting manner possible in front of half the Vongola alliance?" Fedele crossed his arms. "Yes, I’ve heard. From nearly everyone who spoke to me in the past three days."

Mari winced. "Hell. I wanted to get to you first, before the rumors got around."

"You’d have needed a teleporter."

Mari sighed. "Yes, I suppose so." She set her wine aside and looked up at him, seriously. "It was something that should have been done decades ago, and wasn’t. I understand why you never wanted to, but it let the rumors of your complicity get entrenched, and I figured I needed the biggest hammer I could lay hands on to shift them permanently."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "That was certainly a very big hammer," he allowed.

"I am sorry I didn’t think to warn you," she said penitently. "I should have."

"What, and give me a chance to talk you out of it?" he murmured. "Perish the thought."

She smiled. "To give you time to prepare yourself. Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have talked me out of it."

A snort of laughter escaped and Fedele leaned on one of the sturdy, wing back chairs, running a hand through his hair. "You really do remind me of him."

"Will that be a problem?" she asked, quietly.

He sighed and smiled down at her wryly. "Not the way you mean it. I imagine it will be other kinds of problems, but we’ll deal with that as we have to."

She downright glowed at him until Mamoru ruffled her hair. "You deserved that," he declared.

"Which is why you brought him up here, yes, I know." She smacked his hand away. "I don’t know why I ever thought giving you more chances to say ‘I told you so’ was good idea."

"I’m very glad you’ve agreed to support Mari," Father interjected, speaking to Fedele but giving the two of them the ‘now, children’ look that never seemed to wear out even when some of them had kids of their own.

"Yes," Fedele answered quietly. "I think I am too."

"Well, at least the allied Families have stopped running on about getting me married off. That’s something." Mari nibbled a cookie and sighed.

Stefano Cavallone looked up from the corner where he’d been having a lively discussion with his sister about whether he needed to break the hands of Storero’s second son for trying to put them up Fiorela’s dress. "Shouldn’t you sound happier about that?" he asked curiously.

Mari bit down more sharply, scattering crumbs over her desk and the papers that covered it. "There’s always something," she growled.

"Now Mari." Fedele crossed an ankle over his knee looking ridiculously at ease. "You knew you’d have to give up my kitchen when you convinced me to serve as your advisor."

Mari made a grumpy sound into her coffee cup. Mario had avoided today’s meeting too, the rat; she supposed it did take some practice to get used to having business meetings with your dad but if she could do it surely he could.

"At least your mother’s Lucia still made pastries for us," Fedele pointed out, so blandly Mari knew she was being teased.

"Wait, so, Mari’s upset that you’re not having this meeting in the Rizzo kitchen?" Stefano asked his sister.

"It’s just nice to get away from the House now and then," Mari answered for herself, and Fiorela smiled wryly.

"Come on, Stef, you’ve seen Dad sneaking out of our place to go spar with Hibari. I figure it’s pretty much the same thing."

Stefano cocked his head at Mari. "What’s keeping you from it, then?"

Mari took another sip and sighed. "It wouldn’t be good if rumor got around that the Eleventh relies too much on the opinion of her outside advisor. I’ve just been to a good deal of trouble to squash one set of rumors, I’d prefer if we could avoid another right away."

Stefano leaned his elbow on the back of his sister’s chair and smiled at her gently. "Okay. But is there any reason you can’t visit a friend more often than that?"

Mari opened her mouth and closed it again. "…oh."

Fiorela gave her brother an approving look. "You’re not as dumb as you look, you know."

"Runs in the Family," he said innocently and dodged her (mostly) play-punch, laughing.

"Deliver your message and get out of here," Fiorela told him, settling back in her chair with a sisterly glower.

Still grinning, Stefano turned to Mari. "Dad says to tell the Vongola Tenth that the Cizeta are giving the Valetti the cold shoulder lately, and he thinks it means the Valetti interests on the west coast are failing."

Mari nodded briskly, drawn back to business. "I’ll tell him. That matches with some moves the Orsini have been making lately."

Stefano nodded in turn. "I’ll tell him."

Mari leaned back in her chair as Fiorela saw, or chased, her brother out, nibbling thoughtfully on a pastry. "I’m kind of surprised the Orsini aren’t cutting their alliance with the Valetti, though," she mused. "They’re such rampant opportunists. I wonder if the Valetti are letting the west coast interests go entirely. Fedele, have you heard any thing about this?"

"Hm." Fedele turned back from watching Stefano go. "Nothing yet. If they are, they’re keeping it quiet."

"As they would. Fiorela." Mari leaned her elbows on her desk, ignoring the crumbs still scattered over it. "I want you to look into this."

Business swept them along and Mari forgot to ask what Fedele had found so interesting about Stefano’s departure.

Fedele detached himself from Irie’s side and drifted across the room to fetch up discreetly by Mari. She had to admire how smilingly unobtrusive he managed to be. Federico had chosen well, and she thought she had too. The Family was definitely coming around to her way of thinking, as they watched him, and the other Families… well, if any of them harbored doubts or plots she was sure Kazuya could entertain himself with them.

"You’ve spent a lot of time talking to Stefano Cavallone this evening," Fedele murmured, and then she had to be annoyed at how apparently oblivious even the best advisor could be. Men!

She was going to have that made up into a flashcard she could just carry around with her.

"He’s the only one here it’s safe to talk to." She hid her snarl behind her wineglass. "Our allies might have backed off a little, but everyone else is still aiming their sons at me like the latest in guided missiles. Thank God Uncle Dino always had more sense than that."

"Hm." He looked at her sidelong and then out over the room where the careful steps of mafia manners were being danced. "You don’t think your attention might be mistaken for something else?"

"Not by now." Relaxing a little in the safety of that assurance, Mari smiled over at the table where Stefano was talking with Lanz Furetto, nodding and smiling just as though he’d never called Lanz crawling vermin in his life. "Stefano’s practically been family since we were little, and the other Families know Vongola and Cavallone have recent blood ties. He’s one of the only men of our world I’ve managed to actually be friends with." When she turned back Fedele was looking at her oddly and she asked, "What?"

He opened his mouth and closed it again. At last he said in the mild tone of voice that meant he thought she was missing something obvious, "A friendship seems like a better basis for a marriage than missiles, don’t you think?"

It took every year of experience and every bit of her mother’s teaching Mari had ever had to keep from choking on her mouthful of wine. She stared at the far wall and breathed carefully until she could manage to swallow. Then she looked at Fedele and hissed, "Stefano?!"

Fedele took a measured sip. "Unless I’m very mistaken," he said softly, "Stefano Cavallone likes you very much and has for some time. You can ask Mamoru if you think I’m imagining it," he added, as Mari just stared at him. "I would bet he’s seen it too."

Mari stared for another moment, trying to fit her friend Stefano into the mental space of "suitor" and completely failing.

"You seem to like him too," her clearly insane advisor murmured.

"I like him fine, but that’s… that’s…" Mari didn’t feel she had quite the right words for how that was different from everything that courting seemed to involve. Fedele just lifted his brows and flicked his eyes in Stefano’s direction.

Stefano had shaken off Lanz and was strolling back towards them. "Holding up all right?" he asked under his breath, setting one of the two plates in his hands down beside her. It held, she noticed, mostacciolli cookies, her favorite out of those set out tonight.

"Yes," she murmured, distracted. "I’m fine."

He tipped his head at the angle that meant "Are you sure?" and when had she learned that? Years ago. She gave him back the tiny, provisional, "Yes, for now" nod and he settled himself firmly at her elbow, nudging the cookies closer.

She was positive Fedele was trying not to laugh.

Stefano was one of her oldest friends.

Stefano had played with her when she was little.

"Mari?"

Stefano had been her escort to her second public event, after the absolute disaster of the first one, and had helped her sneak extra sweets.

"Nee-san?"

Stefano had listened to her complaining about the boys from other Families, and sympathized, and never once suggested a date or a kiss or any such thing.

"Mari?" Haruka tapped on her forehead. "Knock, knock; anyone home?"

Mari started and looked around the room at her family. "Huh? What is it?"

"That was kind of our question," Haruka observed wryly. "What are you thinking about so hard?"

Mari hesitated for a long moment and finally sighed. Her brothers were going to find out sooner or later anyway, and thank goodness none of them were teenagers any more was all she could say. She looked over at Mamoru, sprawled on a couch with a book and asked, "Okay. Do you really think Stefano likes me?"

Mamoru propped himself up on an elbow, brightening. "Hey, you noticed!"

Mari gave him a long look. "I guess that’s a yes." She ran a distracted hand over her hair, tugging strands loose from her clip. "Fedele mentioned it."

"Sounds like you really did choose a good advisor," Haruka murmured, leaning against the wall beside her window seat.

"But he’s never said anything about it!" Mari protested.

Later she would remember the thoughtful look Kazuya gave her and the quiet way he slipped out of the room.

"Well, yeah, he’s not stupid," Shin put in. "He’s seen what you do with the guys who do mention it." He mimed dropping an object from a height and made crashing sounds.

"Very eloquent," Haruka said, chuckling. "Also accurate."

"Well they’re all such a pain in the ass about it," Mari muttered. Haruka held up his hands.

"No arguments from us Nee-san. Just, you have to figure, Stefano noticed how much you don’t like dealing with that, and respected your wishes."

"I guess so," Mari said quietly, winding her arms around her knees.

Her brothers looked at each other. "So how are the holdings in Napoli doing?" Haruka asked Mamoru. "You just visited, right?"

Mari smiled a little as they turned the conversation to other things, business and teasing Shin about his latest girlfriend and whether they should get a puppy for Daisuke’s son’s birthday. Her brothers could be as annoying as any siblings, but they were always there for her.

She had cause to remember that thought two hours later, after their parents had joined them, when Stefano appeared in the doorway, out of breath.

"Mari?"

"Stef." Talking about someone could not actually summon them up, therefore… "Is Fiorela all right?"

"Huh? Yes, of course she is." He took a hesitant step in. "I… I came to see you."

"You…" Mari caught Mamoru giving Kazuya a thumbs up and glared at her brothers. "You," she said in a very different tone.

"It was just a matter of the right timing, Nee-san," Kazyua told her calmly. "Now is the right time."

Mari firmly ignored Shin’s mutter of about time and give Stefano a helpless shrug. What could you do about siblings, killing them all being out of the question? Stefano grinned.

"Well. I think we already got pretty far, all these years, without making it official. I guess we should do this properly, now." He glanced at her father.

"Oh no," Mari groaned, instantly besieged by memories of idiots who tried to court her parents instead of her, "no, we shouldn’t."

"I don’t think we’re thinking of the same properly." Stefano pulled his shoulders back and took a deep breath. "Let’s try this." He came to her and she stared, eyes widening, as he knelt down at her feet and took her hand. "Sawada Mari, I love you," he said, soberly, looking up at her. "And it would be my honor to support the eleventh Boss of the Vongola. Will you marry me? Or at least," he added, a little less certainly, when she kept staring at him, "think about it?"

Mari laughed, breathless, and closed her fingers on his. "Yeah. Yeah, I’ll think about it." From the way he relaxed, she figured he’d probably heard what she really meant. Stefano usually did.

He looked back over at her parents, a little wary again. "You, ah, do approve, right?"

Mari’s parents broke out laughing, which Mari felt rather detracted from the mood of the moment. "Yes, we do," her mother told them, finally. "As long as you make her happy," her father added.

"I’ll do my very best, sir," Stefano said, very serious, and Mari rolled her eyes and pulled him up to actually sit beside her.

"He already makes me happy," she told her family sternly, "or I wouldn’t have said yes." Stefano had pretty much always made her happier when he was around.

Maybe her advisor wasn’t completely crazy after all.

Uncle Dino was looking so smug Mari was starting to seriously consider asking Uncle Hibari to visit, just to wipe that expression off him. Fortunately for her soon-to-be father-in-law, Uncle Hibari’s people didn’t know where he was this month.

"I hope your next advice to me is less earth-shaking," she murmured to Fedele, watching the allies and associates milling around, some still looking shocked, many having progressed to indignant, and none of them looking especially congratulatory.

"When I’m working for you? I don’t see how it could be."

"Pessimist."

"I would have said optimist."

Mari grinned, eyes still on the guests.

"You two deserve each other," Mamoru told them, shaking his head. "Ah. Here’s your real escort." He stepped back to let Stefano take the place at Mari’s side. Fedele nodded to Stefano and stepped back as well.

"I don’t think I’ve ever been congratulated so sourly," Stefano informed her under his breath, eyes laughing.

"Yes, well, they all think you got the big prize." Mari cast a dry look over the crowd.

"Which of course I did." Stefano lifted her hand and kissed it. "Just not the way they’re thinking."

"I am too old to be blushing," she muttered, blushing anyway.

"So is it true, what Mamoru said, that Fedele Rizzo was the one who started you thinking of me?"

Mari smiled ruefully. "I chose him for his wisdom and experience. I got that all right."

"I’ll have to remember to do something very nice for him, then," Stefano murmured.

Mari looked back at her advisor, at the straightness of his shoulders as he moved through the crowd, remembering the withdrawn man she’d first set out to drag back into life and honor. "I hope we have already."

Stefano smiled at her, pleased and proud. "You’ll be the best Boss."

Mari lifted her chin as she looked out over the gathering, hand closing tight around his. "Damn right." She would be, because she had her Family behind her, and her friend beside her, and a man of such loyalty that even despair couldn’t shake it watching over them. Throughout the room, disgruntled expressions melted to blankness under the weight of her eyes. "We’re the Vongola.

"This is our world."

End

Ink Burns

Fanfiction by Branch

Generations: All In One

The Family You Choose

Two Hands Make A Pair

An Offer You Can’t Refuse

Blood Will Tell

War of Aggression

Before

After

Give One Heart

Saints of Palermo

She Danced Across the Mountain

A Scratched Record

Management Techniques

They Also Serve

Vigor

What to Expect When You’re Expecting

The Queen and All Her Men

First Step

Sugar and Spice

High Energy States

Between the Lines

Leavening

Trip the Light

The Queen’s Bishop

Next Step

Exigencies of Service

Festivity

Relative Values

The Overarching Sky

Appendix – the Vongola Eleventh Generation

Tsuna and Kyouko’s children

Mari’s Guardians

Over, Under or Around

Two Birds