pokémon -- omertà
title: omertà
wordcount: 1850
rating: PG
summary: It was the beginning of a downward spiral, and they both knew it.
notes: Secret Santa for akumugan. Beware gratuituous Italian haha. Crystal may be a bit OOC idk /sob.
He could rationalise the whole thing, somehow.
It would be so easy to objectify her, to class her as a mere commodity, nothing but another package to be retrieved and returned only when a price is settled upon.
But he can’t. Not when she glances at him from across the room with a sparkle in her eyes, not when she hides an almost-coquettish smile behind dainty fingers. Not when an indifferent waiter deposits before him a napkin with loose, elegant script running across it.
The fact that he doesn’t even know what she is called helps, somewhat-it makes her another one of the nameless, faceless masses. There’s no need to know the name of your victim-it only leads to useless emotional attachments.
He’s out of his depth, that much is for sure. It’s almost ridiculous-what is he, some stuttering lovestruck high-school boy? The notion is absurd. The golden-eyed chaperone knocking back vodka shots like fruit punch seems to agree.
“Sure you got this covered?” he volunteers nonchalantly, following the other’s line of sight towards the young lady with the midnight-dark hair. Her earrings sparkle like stars, dazzlingly bright against her cobalt locks. “You seem awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me. You’re scared.”
Silver turns upon his companion with a snarl, but there is no spirit in it-the words ring too close to the truth. He’s furious at himself - after all, is he not don Giovanni’s son, heir to the Razzo dynasty? He purses his lips; Gold smirks at him in the insolent manner that makes him think of cats and their cream, and how best to kick them. He knows full well what is going on in his companion’s mind: the great Silver, known and feared as Il Morte Rossa, reduced to a nervous wreck in the face of such a simple undertaking? It can’t be. This is the very man who strode into the homes of traditore and broke their legs for betraying the family. The very man who would not hesitate to pull the trigger on anyone who crossed him. It’s so pathetic, it’s funny.
“I don’t believe it,” Gold snickers almost fondly as he reaches over to ruffle Silver’s hair. “Mio Dio! If only the others could see you now.”
The redhead bristles. “Don’t-” he snaps, “-touch me.”
For a moment, they glare daggers at one another, both already preparing themselves for a fight. Gold breaks eye contact first, averting his gaze and raising his palms in mock submission. It would not pay to anger the future leader of the Razzo family, not when his life and career could be at stake.
“Quite a turnout,” he continues at last, a crafty grin playing along his lips. Silver stares down at the napkin, folding and unfolding it in his hands. “I heard it’s the event of the year.”
“Eyes on the job,” Silver warns coldly, but his words fall on deaf ears. With a chuckle and a hand raised in a mock salute, his colleague departs the bar, doubtless intending to go about wooing the cluster of elegant socialites congregating along the balcony. He watches with dour amusement as Gold saunters up to the flock of young ladies, gesturing expansively with much bowing and flourishing of his lacy cuffs. It is a ridiculous display-it seems almost as though he is trying to save himself from tripping on his own over-polished loafers.
Silver broodingly wonders where Gold got his over-ostentatious tuxedo from. Almost certainly, by the time the evening is over, it would be a limp shadow of its former self-pockmarked with lipstick kisses and crinkled from far too much fooling around in the shadows.
He watches with unseeing eyes as young socialites try to outshine one another, be it with the elaborateness of their dresses - resplendent with every which colour he can possibly imagine - or the sleekness of their Glameows and Persians.
Silver scowls-he has always hated cats.
It is only once his friend is out of sight that Silver remembers the square of fabric clutched within his fingers. Almost reluctantly, he loosens his grip, watching as the crushed linen springs from the confines of his palm.
I know why you are here. Meet me at the balcony, it says. His heart pounds in his temples. He brushes imaginary lint off the shoulders of his suit, and steps out into the night.
*
It would be so easy to whisk her away to a world of murder and intrigue-all he would have to do is pinion her arms, press his chloroform-laced handkerchief to her face, and escort her to the foyer under the pretence of helping her recover from a sudden swooning fit. From then onwards, her father would be putty in the Razzo family’s hands; a useful political pawn. It’s a simple process, one he’s done so many times before.
But yet, he can’t do this.
This realisation strikes him like a thunderbolt, locking him in his place. It would be such a shame, he thinks wistfully, to ruin her evening in such a manner.
Instead of sidling out behind her, ready to immobilise her by pressing his thumb into the nerve cluster at the base of her neck, he steps from the cover of the billowing curtains, coughing as suavely as he can to announce his presence.
She doesn’t even turn around.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she says simply, taking a measured sip of champagne from her crystal flute.
His mouth is dry, his throat is sandpaper. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Silver lies; the falsehood slips from his lips with practised ease, his face is expressionless-as always. “I don’t believe we have met before. May I ask your name?”
The young woman turns to face him fully for the first time. Wry amusement dances in her eyes; she seems to be considering his question. “It’s odd that you asked me such a question,” she remarks lightly, gloved fingertips tapping a rhythmic tattoo against the marble balustrade. Then, she catches sight of the expression on his face and smiles.
“Now, there is no need to act, signore. You are of the Razzo famiglia, aren’t you?”
Though her words are phrased as a question, it sounds more like a statement than anything else. Mutely, Silver nods-a short, irritated jerk of his head. “I trust you will come quietly, signora?”
In the face of what could be mortal peril, she only laughs; he cannot help but grudgingly admire her fearlessness, her stoicism. “I like you,” she announces simply, catching him off-guard. “The agents you sent before weren’t as forthright.”
A rustling of satin and taffeta; she smoothes down her skirts, and raises her glass to him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, signore. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Silver bows stiffly, watching as her retreating figure is swallowed by the crowd. It is only once she is gone that he realises he had never gotten her name.
*
His mood is soured by their exchange; he is not used to being played like a fiddle, and once he steps back into the warmth of the hall, Silver realises he is no longer fully in control-as if the entire scheme isn’t enough of a shambles already. He pays no attention to the rest of the party, finding himself irritated and distracted, nearly reducing a business tycoon’s daughter to tears when she tries to chat him up.
It is only once the gala is almost over that he finds Gold trying to engage a flock of heiresses in conversation and failing abysmally-they are more preoccupied with his increasingly brazen drunken behaviour, and certainly won’t take too kindly to an inebriated stranger slurring lewd comments at them. Silver steps smartly into the tiny knot of people, ready to apologise profusely to the ladies; his future consigliere - soon on the way to becoming cannon-fodder, if he doesn’t clean up his act - hiccoughs loudly and seizes the redhead’s neck in an attempt to keep himself upright.
“I’ll tell you a secret about the camorras around here-” he manages, lifting his head to grin inanely at the heir to the Berlitz empire. Silver shakes his head at the disgruntled socialites and makes drinky-drinky motions with his hands as her two bodyguards glower at his friend.
“He all but drowned himself in Absolut earlier. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall over on the way home and be swimming with the fishes,” he explains through gritted teeth as Gold mouths to the Berlitz heiress, call me.
It takes every ounce of his self-restraint not to attempt throttling Gold as they are driven back to headquarters.
*
It is some time before Silver goes to inform his father of his failure to seize the target. Giovanni does not express his displeasure-at least, not with words. “It’s not your fault, son,” he says in his gravelly baritone as he ends his conversation with one of his three caporegimes.
Though his father does not convey his disappointment, Silver is well-aware of the fact that he may have jeopardised their situation. Under normal circumstances, he would have considered this unforgivable; now, he cannot find it in him to despise the raggaza who has bewitched him so. He fumes silently when Giovanni summons one of their best hitwomen, an up-and-rising star known for her unconventional methods.
When Sapphire Birch stalks into the room with the supple grace of a leopard, it only takes a fleeting glance into her eyes for Silver to know that she will succeed where he failed so abysmally.
He can’t have that.
It is thanks to this that he finds himself risking his life for the woman, sending his Honchkrow to her estate to deliver a message, hastily penned an old newspaper advertisement. A Razzo far less sympathetic than me is on her way, the note reads. If I were you, I would make myself scarce.
Thus begins the dangerous game they play-a forbidden affair set into motion by passing glances and whispered conversation amongst the shadows.
They will meet in the grey area of no-man’s land, where no family exerts their influence.
He will attempt to divert and waylay whoever is sent to seize her; she will keep him and his dealings a secret from the puzzled police officers who search for the Razzo prince who is responsible for the mysterious disappearances of several prominent figureheads of society.
They already know that they cannot be-but they won’t be afraid.
*
translations:
il morte rossa -- the red death
traditore -- traitor
mio dio -- my god
signore -- sir
signora -- madam
famiglia -- family
consigliere -- advisor to the mafia family, and sometimes seen as a right-hand man
camorra -- a mafia-type criminal organisation
caporegime -- the captain of a crew of ten to twenty soldiers; capos are appointed by the boss and report straight to him
raggaza -- girl
back to index.
wordcount: 1850
rating: PG
summary: It was the beginning of a downward spiral, and they both knew it.
notes: Secret Santa for akumugan. Beware gratuituous Italian haha. Crystal may be a bit OOC idk /sob.
He could rationalise the whole thing, somehow.
It would be so easy to objectify her, to class her as a mere commodity, nothing but another package to be retrieved and returned only when a price is settled upon.
But he can’t. Not when she glances at him from across the room with a sparkle in her eyes, not when she hides an almost-coquettish smile behind dainty fingers. Not when an indifferent waiter deposits before him a napkin with loose, elegant script running across it.
The fact that he doesn’t even know what she is called helps, somewhat-it makes her another one of the nameless, faceless masses. There’s no need to know the name of your victim-it only leads to useless emotional attachments.
He’s out of his depth, that much is for sure. It’s almost ridiculous-what is he, some stuttering lovestruck high-school boy? The notion is absurd. The golden-eyed chaperone knocking back vodka shots like fruit punch seems to agree.
“Sure you got this covered?” he volunteers nonchalantly, following the other’s line of sight towards the young lady with the midnight-dark hair. Her earrings sparkle like stars, dazzlingly bright against her cobalt locks. “You seem awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me. You’re scared.”
Silver turns upon his companion with a snarl, but there is no spirit in it-the words ring too close to the truth. He’s furious at himself - after all, is he not don Giovanni’s son, heir to the Razzo dynasty? He purses his lips; Gold smirks at him in the insolent manner that makes him think of cats and their cream, and how best to kick them. He knows full well what is going on in his companion’s mind: the great Silver, known and feared as Il Morte Rossa, reduced to a nervous wreck in the face of such a simple undertaking? It can’t be. This is the very man who strode into the homes of traditore and broke their legs for betraying the family. The very man who would not hesitate to pull the trigger on anyone who crossed him. It’s so pathetic, it’s funny.
“I don’t believe it,” Gold snickers almost fondly as he reaches over to ruffle Silver’s hair. “Mio Dio! If only the others could see you now.”
The redhead bristles. “Don’t-” he snaps, “-touch me.”
For a moment, they glare daggers at one another, both already preparing themselves for a fight. Gold breaks eye contact first, averting his gaze and raising his palms in mock submission. It would not pay to anger the future leader of the Razzo family, not when his life and career could be at stake.
“Quite a turnout,” he continues at last, a crafty grin playing along his lips. Silver stares down at the napkin, folding and unfolding it in his hands. “I heard it’s the event of the year.”
“Eyes on the job,” Silver warns coldly, but his words fall on deaf ears. With a chuckle and a hand raised in a mock salute, his colleague departs the bar, doubtless intending to go about wooing the cluster of elegant socialites congregating along the balcony. He watches with dour amusement as Gold saunters up to the flock of young ladies, gesturing expansively with much bowing and flourishing of his lacy cuffs. It is a ridiculous display-it seems almost as though he is trying to save himself from tripping on his own over-polished loafers.
Silver broodingly wonders where Gold got his over-ostentatious tuxedo from. Almost certainly, by the time the evening is over, it would be a limp shadow of its former self-pockmarked with lipstick kisses and crinkled from far too much fooling around in the shadows.
He watches with unseeing eyes as young socialites try to outshine one another, be it with the elaborateness of their dresses - resplendent with every which colour he can possibly imagine - or the sleekness of their Glameows and Persians.
Silver scowls-he has always hated cats.
It is only once his friend is out of sight that Silver remembers the square of fabric clutched within his fingers. Almost reluctantly, he loosens his grip, watching as the crushed linen springs from the confines of his palm.
I know why you are here. Meet me at the balcony, it says. His heart pounds in his temples. He brushes imaginary lint off the shoulders of his suit, and steps out into the night.
*
It would be so easy to whisk her away to a world of murder and intrigue-all he would have to do is pinion her arms, press his chloroform-laced handkerchief to her face, and escort her to the foyer under the pretence of helping her recover from a sudden swooning fit. From then onwards, her father would be putty in the Razzo family’s hands; a useful political pawn. It’s a simple process, one he’s done so many times before.
But yet, he can’t do this.
This realisation strikes him like a thunderbolt, locking him in his place. It would be such a shame, he thinks wistfully, to ruin her evening in such a manner.
Instead of sidling out behind her, ready to immobilise her by pressing his thumb into the nerve cluster at the base of her neck, he steps from the cover of the billowing curtains, coughing as suavely as he can to announce his presence.
She doesn’t even turn around.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she says simply, taking a measured sip of champagne from her crystal flute.
His mouth is dry, his throat is sandpaper. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Silver lies; the falsehood slips from his lips with practised ease, his face is expressionless-as always. “I don’t believe we have met before. May I ask your name?”
The young woman turns to face him fully for the first time. Wry amusement dances in her eyes; she seems to be considering his question. “It’s odd that you asked me such a question,” she remarks lightly, gloved fingertips tapping a rhythmic tattoo against the marble balustrade. Then, she catches sight of the expression on his face and smiles.
“Now, there is no need to act, signore. You are of the Razzo famiglia, aren’t you?”
Though her words are phrased as a question, it sounds more like a statement than anything else. Mutely, Silver nods-a short, irritated jerk of his head. “I trust you will come quietly, signora?”
In the face of what could be mortal peril, she only laughs; he cannot help but grudgingly admire her fearlessness, her stoicism. “I like you,” she announces simply, catching him off-guard. “The agents you sent before weren’t as forthright.”
A rustling of satin and taffeta; she smoothes down her skirts, and raises her glass to him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, signore. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Silver bows stiffly, watching as her retreating figure is swallowed by the crowd. It is only once she is gone that he realises he had never gotten her name.
*
His mood is soured by their exchange; he is not used to being played like a fiddle, and once he steps back into the warmth of the hall, Silver realises he is no longer fully in control-as if the entire scheme isn’t enough of a shambles already. He pays no attention to the rest of the party, finding himself irritated and distracted, nearly reducing a business tycoon’s daughter to tears when she tries to chat him up.
It is only once the gala is almost over that he finds Gold trying to engage a flock of heiresses in conversation and failing abysmally-they are more preoccupied with his increasingly brazen drunken behaviour, and certainly won’t take too kindly to an inebriated stranger slurring lewd comments at them. Silver steps smartly into the tiny knot of people, ready to apologise profusely to the ladies; his future consigliere - soon on the way to becoming cannon-fodder, if he doesn’t clean up his act - hiccoughs loudly and seizes the redhead’s neck in an attempt to keep himself upright.
“I’ll tell you a secret about the camorras around here-” he manages, lifting his head to grin inanely at the heir to the Berlitz empire. Silver shakes his head at the disgruntled socialites and makes drinky-drinky motions with his hands as her two bodyguards glower at his friend.
“He all but drowned himself in Absolut earlier. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall over on the way home and be swimming with the fishes,” he explains through gritted teeth as Gold mouths to the Berlitz heiress, call me.
It takes every ounce of his self-restraint not to attempt throttling Gold as they are driven back to headquarters.
*
It is some time before Silver goes to inform his father of his failure to seize the target. Giovanni does not express his displeasure-at least, not with words. “It’s not your fault, son,” he says in his gravelly baritone as he ends his conversation with one of his three caporegimes.
Though his father does not convey his disappointment, Silver is well-aware of the fact that he may have jeopardised their situation. Under normal circumstances, he would have considered this unforgivable; now, he cannot find it in him to despise the raggaza who has bewitched him so. He fumes silently when Giovanni summons one of their best hitwomen, an up-and-rising star known for her unconventional methods.
When Sapphire Birch stalks into the room with the supple grace of a leopard, it only takes a fleeting glance into her eyes for Silver to know that she will succeed where he failed so abysmally.
He can’t have that.
It is thanks to this that he finds himself risking his life for the woman, sending his Honchkrow to her estate to deliver a message, hastily penned an old newspaper advertisement. A Razzo far less sympathetic than me is on her way, the note reads. If I were you, I would make myself scarce.
Thus begins the dangerous game they play-a forbidden affair set into motion by passing glances and whispered conversation amongst the shadows.
They will meet in the grey area of no-man’s land, where no family exerts their influence.
He will attempt to divert and waylay whoever is sent to seize her; she will keep him and his dealings a secret from the puzzled police officers who search for the Razzo prince who is responsible for the mysterious disappearances of several prominent figureheads of society.
They already know that they cannot be-but they won’t be afraid.
*
translations:
il morte rossa -- the red death
traditore -- traitor
mio dio -- my god
signore -- sir
signora -- madam
famiglia -- family
consigliere -- advisor to the mafia family, and sometimes seen as a right-hand man
camorra -- a mafia-type criminal organisation
caporegime -- the captain of a crew of ten to twenty soldiers; capos are appointed by the boss and report straight to him
raggaza -- girl
back to index.