[fic] [khr] The Don's Shadow
hi. i've been away ♥
i'm sorry, but i haven't been up to date on what's been going on. and after my next post, i might not post again for a while. it's been difficult to stay online, there's too much to do. if anyone needs me though, feel free to poke me via a PM or LJ. if i can be around, i will be.
***
once upon a time, i broached an idea to izkariote about dino from the future wearing his old outfit. um, yeah, this sort of builds on that. also, this fic was written for khursten, who requested dino/romario a loooong time ago.
sorry bb, it's no casablanca, it's nothing explicit and I CAN'T LAY OFF THE ANGST, but HI. IT'S FOR YOUUU :D
ps: this song. i love it. although the lyrics don't quite apply to the scenario (they're bound to apply somewhere. dino/gokudera for example? *NUDGES AGGY*) the melody is just the right kind of despondent i need.
I'm amused that people think of running a mafia family as similar to running a business. It's not. Maybe it's the black suits that give that impression.
Running a mafia family is looking after several interests, legal or otherwise, simultaneously. Naturally, this means you're outside normal business process. Naturally, you are above anything that could bring normal businesses down.
Paper trails all end somewhere. And that "somewhere" is never at the mafia don's doorstep. The name of the mafia don is one whispered in the dark, cried aloud in the middle of a wide open field outside of town that doubles as a graveyard for those who dare to cross him. It's spoken only in soundproof rooms, and only in reverence and fear. It never reaches the newspapers, and if it does, it's usually the name of a petty turf boss who calls himself a "don": a fall guy handpicked for his face and his loyalty.
The true mafia don is someone who doesn't exist. He is the leader of all the things that don't exist; the unseen that makes everything else move.
The mafia don knows everything about shadows. We wear nice suits, but we're not afraid to get them bloody. We smile and speak in calm voices while we say we're going to murder your children if you don't do as we say.
He doesn't have to show his face. In some cases, he has no face. I've often had to introduce myself as the "shadow" of Dino Cavallone, for a number of reasons. Sometimes, I simply have a more intimidating face, and one is called for in certain transactions. Sometimes, Dino Cavallone has more important things to attend to.
During his early years as head of the Cavallone family, it was a well-known fact that the head of the family was a boy barely out of his teens - he played on this mystique, by seldom showing himself to anyone except other mafia heads. It suited him: he could go round as he wished, just another rich boy having fun, flaunting his wealth. The mafia don is not spoken of in daylight, and back then, he could walk around without needing to behave like someone to be feared.
It was all right: he was a boy, still on the way to getting used to power.
But the boy had blood on his hands.
He was a boy whom the shadows loved. But the more we tried to protect him, the worse it became.
It wasn't always the blood of the guilty; that came with the territory. He would allow no one to take on his responsibilities. More and more, he pushed himself to suit his position, to become the leader he was expected to be.
Over the years, how many innocents has he ordered kidnapped and tortured?
How many family and friendly ties has he broken to ensure the safety of his own people above all else?
How many times have I seen that killing look on his face?
Now he is no longer a boy barely out of his teens. He is a man, a mafia don, and the clothes left behind by his father fit him now, and the life bringing light into his eyes has faded.
His face, which doesn't exist for the rest of the world, has changed.
I know, because I've been with him all this time.
One morning he woke up unable to recognize himself in the mirror. And the many days after that, he labored to live with the stranger who looked like him, but bore too much guilt to belong to the same boy who had walked carefree in broad daylight.
For a time I thought the Millefiore had succeeded in killing the child that he was, and only the man remained to watch over the rest of us. For the longest time, day in and day out, I saw him sitting in his chair leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of his face as if in prayer, listening grimly to reports from all over about markets crashing, cities burning, heads of state waging war upon each other or dying in a variety of "mysterious causes."
He speaks, and the shadows scramble to do his bidding. A snap of his fingers, and people fall to their knees. He would never let the family crumble, no matter how many losses it takes, or sacrifices it makes - he would never break.
One day there was word of children appearing out of thin air in the middle of the Millefiore battle plans, causing havoc within the ranks. And I found him looking in the mirror again. Intently this time, searching for something.
"They won't recognize me," he said. "I've changed, haven't I?"
I didn't answer.
"Maybe there's a way to soften the blow." An empty smile, perfected with many years of practice. "I still have that old jacket from before."
He didn't need to say anything else. I bowed and excused myself. The outfitters on our payroll had his measurements. He's grown taller, a bit broader about the shoulders, since the last time he wore that favorite jacket... but there were not many other adjustments to be made besides that.
When the clothes came back, and he put them on, I saw something I had apparently failed to see, in this closeness: he was the same boy as the one we loved a lifetime ago. Only thinner, more worn, and more stretched out.
"Almost like the good old days," he said softly to the empty smile in the mirror.
He glanced over at me with a question: Is this good enough?
I reached up and brushed a few more locks out of place, gently, made sure that his hair covered most of his eyes.
No one knows the shadows better than a mafia don.
And no one knows a mafia don better than his own shadow.
i'm sorry, but i haven't been up to date on what's been going on. and after my next post, i might not post again for a while. it's been difficult to stay online, there's too much to do. if anyone needs me though, feel free to poke me via a PM or LJ. if i can be around, i will be.
***
once upon a time, i broached an idea to izkariote about dino from the future wearing his old outfit. um, yeah, this sort of builds on that. also, this fic was written for khursten, who requested dino/romario a loooong time ago.
sorry bb, it's no casablanca, it's nothing explicit and I CAN'T LAY OFF THE ANGST, but HI. IT'S FOR YOUUU :D
ps: this song. i love it. although the lyrics don't quite apply to the scenario (they're bound to apply somewhere. dino/gokudera for example? *NUDGES AGGY*) the melody is just the right kind of despondent i need.
I'm amused that people think of running a mafia family as similar to running a business. It's not. Maybe it's the black suits that give that impression.
Running a mafia family is looking after several interests, legal or otherwise, simultaneously. Naturally, this means you're outside normal business process. Naturally, you are above anything that could bring normal businesses down.
Paper trails all end somewhere. And that "somewhere" is never at the mafia don's doorstep. The name of the mafia don is one whispered in the dark, cried aloud in the middle of a wide open field outside of town that doubles as a graveyard for those who dare to cross him. It's spoken only in soundproof rooms, and only in reverence and fear. It never reaches the newspapers, and if it does, it's usually the name of a petty turf boss who calls himself a "don": a fall guy handpicked for his face and his loyalty.
The true mafia don is someone who doesn't exist. He is the leader of all the things that don't exist; the unseen that makes everything else move.
The mafia don knows everything about shadows. We wear nice suits, but we're not afraid to get them bloody. We smile and speak in calm voices while we say we're going to murder your children if you don't do as we say.
He doesn't have to show his face. In some cases, he has no face. I've often had to introduce myself as the "shadow" of Dino Cavallone, for a number of reasons. Sometimes, I simply have a more intimidating face, and one is called for in certain transactions. Sometimes, Dino Cavallone has more important things to attend to.
During his early years as head of the Cavallone family, it was a well-known fact that the head of the family was a boy barely out of his teens - he played on this mystique, by seldom showing himself to anyone except other mafia heads. It suited him: he could go round as he wished, just another rich boy having fun, flaunting his wealth. The mafia don is not spoken of in daylight, and back then, he could walk around without needing to behave like someone to be feared.
It was all right: he was a boy, still on the way to getting used to power.
But the boy had blood on his hands.
He was a boy whom the shadows loved. But the more we tried to protect him, the worse it became.
It wasn't always the blood of the guilty; that came with the territory. He would allow no one to take on his responsibilities. More and more, he pushed himself to suit his position, to become the leader he was expected to be.
Over the years, how many innocents has he ordered kidnapped and tortured?
How many family and friendly ties has he broken to ensure the safety of his own people above all else?
How many times have I seen that killing look on his face?
Now he is no longer a boy barely out of his teens. He is a man, a mafia don, and the clothes left behind by his father fit him now, and the life bringing light into his eyes has faded.
His face, which doesn't exist for the rest of the world, has changed.
I know, because I've been with him all this time.
One morning he woke up unable to recognize himself in the mirror. And the many days after that, he labored to live with the stranger who looked like him, but bore too much guilt to belong to the same boy who had walked carefree in broad daylight.
For a time I thought the Millefiore had succeeded in killing the child that he was, and only the man remained to watch over the rest of us. For the longest time, day in and day out, I saw him sitting in his chair leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of his face as if in prayer, listening grimly to reports from all over about markets crashing, cities burning, heads of state waging war upon each other or dying in a variety of "mysterious causes."
He speaks, and the shadows scramble to do his bidding. A snap of his fingers, and people fall to their knees. He would never let the family crumble, no matter how many losses it takes, or sacrifices it makes - he would never break.
One day there was word of children appearing out of thin air in the middle of the Millefiore battle plans, causing havoc within the ranks. And I found him looking in the mirror again. Intently this time, searching for something.
"They won't recognize me," he said. "I've changed, haven't I?"
I didn't answer.
"Maybe there's a way to soften the blow." An empty smile, perfected with many years of practice. "I still have that old jacket from before."
He didn't need to say anything else. I bowed and excused myself. The outfitters on our payroll had his measurements. He's grown taller, a bit broader about the shoulders, since the last time he wore that favorite jacket... but there were not many other adjustments to be made besides that.
When the clothes came back, and he put them on, I saw something I had apparently failed to see, in this closeness: he was the same boy as the one we loved a lifetime ago. Only thinner, more worn, and more stretched out.
"Almost like the good old days," he said softly to the empty smile in the mirror.
He glanced over at me with a question: Is this good enough?
I reached up and brushed a few more locks out of place, gently, made sure that his hair covered most of his eyes.
No one knows the shadows better than a mafia don.
And no one knows a mafia don better than his own shadow.