#vongola settimo

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

Vongola Settimo had the weakest Flame of all Vongola Bosses, but his CEDEF Commander was conversely, the strongest. Little is known of the enigmatic Spada, save that he was responsible for CEDEF's assumption of codenames based on herbs and spices, and that never had the CEDEF been more bloody and more brutal than under his leadership. Together, these two men laid down the foundations of what Daniela, the legendary Vongola Ottavo, would build upon to secure Vongola's place as the undisputed sovereign over a tight-knit Alliance of Families.

And yet these men's close-knit partnership broke apart, as the pressure of Iron Prefect Cesare Mori's campaign against the mafia grew. In the end, Spada chose not to rescue his dearest friend when he was imprisoned, awaiting trial, choosing instead to save and crown his goddaughter, Daniela, instead.

A love story with an angry ghost was always doomed to end in tragedy, and yet.

 “You need not wish me well.” His friend kissed his hand, the hand bereft of the Vongola Ring for the first time in more than two decades. “You have already returned love to me, when all I had was hate. For your sake, Fabio, I shall avenge thee, and see your children grow old.”

Simora di Vongola, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1

“Fabio di Vongola, your father is fallen.” Katzbalger’s face was solemn. “I, his consigliere, entrusted with one half of the authority to appoint his successor, choose you in accordance with his wishes, and so discharge my last duty to him.”

Fabio took the lacquered box from the Sixth CEDEF Boss’s hands. “It is true then.”

The round-faced man closed his eyes. “The Vongola’s reach may span the world, but there was no cure to be found for Simora, in this land or any other. He has chosen his end.”

“May he rest—Damn it!” The Rings scattered onto the carpet that was probably as old as they were. “Damn it, damn it all to hell! Father knew that he was weakening, the Alliance knew he was weakening, our enemies knew that he was weakening! It didn’t make him step down even if it caused the Vongola problems, so why the fuck did he decide that now was the time to make things right? What made him think that now was the time to put duty first? Why the fuck would he leave now?”

“Perhaps…” Katzbalger began delicately.

“No, don’t you dare try to give me his excuses, he’s an egotistical fucking bastard, mother’s been praying to every saint in the book, lighting enough candles to burn the church down, she’d have fucking built one with her own bare hands if she’d thought it would give her another hour with her husband, but his pride would rather have him die as Vongola Sixth than diminish with the people who love him!”

Fabio took a deep breath. “Tell me he at least took all those Azzarà dogs with him.”

“Not quite.” Katzbalger moved towards the door, looking pointedly at the grandfather clock that stood against the wall, “He got most of them, but Spada is cleaning up the rest. You ought to bring your father’s body home and complete your Ring, Vongola Settimo.”

Vongola Settimo. Three years later than he expected, but he had the title now. How long would it take before no one called him anything else? Fabio di Vongola. Vongola Settimo. He was no longer the disappointment, only heir because he was his father’s only son. He was the Seventh in a line that had continued unbroken for a century and a half.

“Yeah,” Fabio said, following his Intuition to his ring and sliding it on his finger, “I should. So, about this Spada—he a Rain?”

The soon to be former CEDEF Boss smiled sardonically, “Because he’s washing away the blood spilled? Nah, that’s what we all do, Rain or no. If you want to know more about him, go ask him yourself.”

The smell hit him first.

After a brief, embarrassing interlude in which he picked up the Half-Rings he had scattered on the floor and distributed them to his Guardians, they had driven to the manor where Don Vongola had made his last stand. He had then left them outside while he headed past the perimeter alone.

The smell of roast meat and gunpowder, sour piss and vomit and the stink of shit from fear-loosened bowels ripening in the summer heat, hung like a cloud in the hallway. The CEDEF agent on guard duty had to have been marinating in the stench for hours, that poor soul.

“Settimo.” The young woman saluted crisply, opened the door, and stepped aside.

Fabio acknowledged her with a nod and then headed in.

Well…

On second thought, he wasn’t sure whether he was sorrier for the girl or for himself. What had seeped through the cracks had developed into a foul but generally breathable fog, but the miasma at its source had congealed into an all but physical thing, thick and rich in the stagnant air.

He stepped over a disembodied limb and avoided the tangle of entrails spilling from its owner, shoes sticking to the ground. There to the right, a man and a woman, the man’s head at an unnatural angle, the woman’s body littered with the long, shallow gashes unique to Simora’s boomerang. Behind them, shards of bone and organs stuck to wallpaper that was liberally coated in blood and brain matter. Farther off, his father’s Flame had left a cluster of bodies unrecognizable, their clothes and hair charred and blackened, their skin covered in raised blisters, patches of pale round welts like cobblestones, some smooth, some burst and weeping clear fluid. And there, on the other side of the room, a trio of corpses pressed against a window, as if they had been struck down as they tried futilely tried to escape the room, so warped that they barely passed as human, with flecks of skin and flesh around their throats and great bites taken out of the meat of their torsos.

It was then that he decided to stop cataloguing the carnage; better to let the cleaners sort it out.

Sunlight poured in like molten gold, turning the charnel pit into an oven. His father’s body had been laid out upon a makeshift bier in a liquid pool of it, severe features softened by the gilt. Someone had combed Simora’s hair, damp with sweat, back into its usual neatness, slid his eyes shut, and folded his hands over his chest with his faithful boomerang clasped between them, as if he was a warrior-king of old, grave and grand and solemn in his repose.

What was he in comparison? The last and least, chosen only for lack of other options, the disappointing only son, no hero, no leader, more clerk than king.

“Hail, Vongola Settimo.”

Fabio turned around. The speaker was dressed in a snugly tailored black suit over a waistcoat of tell-tale indigo brocade, swinging a sword-cane with lazy grace. Just his luck, the Mist was a fucking peacock, strong enough to teleport and vain enough to show off. He steeled himself.

“I have you to thank for this mess, I presume?”

The Mist bowed, long, silver-blond hair swinging freely over one shoulder. “Spada, of the CEDEF, at your service.”

“Some service.” Fabio knelt by his father’s stiff body, where the ground was clean. “You couldn’t have gotten the Ring off before rigor mortis set in?”

“Why?” Spada asked, all mock scandalized offense, “Is it not meet that Vongola’s Heir should receive his Inheritance from Vongola’s Don’s hand?”

So speaking, he vanished the glass from the windows, letting in a tepid breeze. It did little to improve their surroundings and even less to change the fact that talking with the CEDEF agent was an exercise in forbearance.

Spada was a Mist, Fabio reminded himself, and there was always something wrong with the good ones. His own Ligurio wasn’t much better. He sat back on his heels, prize in hand. “Are you advising me, Outside Advisor?”

“Merely being conscientious.” The scent of orange flower water swirled about them as Spada joined Fabio at his father’s side. “After all, my authority extends only to this—”

He tapped the CEDEF Half-Ring on Fabio’s finger. “—and even then only when you bestow it onto me.”

A reminder. The man had not been confirmed CEDEF Commander yet.

Spada was presumptuous, insolent. But he had earned it with his casual power, exercised with breathtaking mastery, with Katzbalger’s trust, giving him responsibility over the matters of Succession, and with his encyclopaedic knowledge of law and custom, even if it was used to push the lines of acceptable conduct precisely as far as they would go.

Who, in their generation, could hold a candle to that bonfire? His father’s fingers were warmthless and stiff under his own.

Certainty was addicting, Will fed on itself. Don Vongola slid his Ring off and dropped both halves in Spada’s hands.

He had caught the Mist by surprise, and the other man’s disconcertment was supremely gratifying.

“What is this, Fabio di Vongola?” Spada counterattacked, drawling to buy time, “Such impropriety. You have not received the Sin—it is not yet time for me to take this back.”

“The giving of these Rings from one hand to another’s signifies much.” Settimo said, meeting the eyes of what could be the strongest Mist in the world, but for the Arcobaleno, “From me to you—trust. From you to me…”

“…support.” Spada concluded, “Is that what you ask of me, Vongola Settimo?”

Fabio looked down at that little twist of some unknown alloy, passed down through the generations, “With his half alone, my father enacted vendetta that shall soon shake the Underworld, but in me, the blood runs thin. I shall need its mate as well, if I am to hold my own with the sword as well as the pen.”

“If that is what you require,” Spada completed the Sky Ring and held it for Fabio to take, “Then the strength of the CEDEF is yours to command.”

Fabio accepted the offering and rose to his feet.

The sun had moved. The light was fading. It was time. “Well?” He asked, “Who shall carry my father to his final rest?”

It was the question Spada had been waiting for, as expected. The peacock of a Mist stood and struck the ground with his cane.

“Who else, but the defeated dead?” He laughed, as mangled corpses shuddered to life.

“Who else.” Fabio repeated flatly. There was always something wrong with the good Mists, and he had chosen this one of his own free will. Who else indeed. He raised his chin and joined his CEDEF Commander at the front of the ghastly pallbearer’s queue.

 Currently, CEDEF codenames are based on different types of swords, from the german Katzbalger to the Roman Spada. (Yes, Daemon is just going by his surname) Fabio’s guardians, on the other hand, are named after the characters from Machiavelli’s satirical comedy“the Mandrake”.

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[khr-guilded-cage]

Luciana is Cavallone???

Luciana Allegri isn't Giotto's blood, she is Ricardo's

The Vongola Sesto, Simora, had a child by his lover, Phinella Cavallone, he send away to don't make them a target for his heir, Fabio, Vongola Settimo. Carmella Allegri, Hades's mortal lover, is the last descendant of that line before she had Luciana.

Dino revealed her existence after Tsuna's death to Nono

Which make him an enemy of Luciana, a blood traitor, because the blasted man insists that 'they are family' while dragging her by force into the blood and dangerous mafia AGAISNT HER WILL

No matter how he tried to explain, to said that 'Vongola need an heir', Luciana won't hear it, this cousin though her life as a acceptable sacrifice and expects her to don't get revenge on him and Vongola? That he would simple forgive him?

Was he that foolish?

The truth is Vongola didn't cared for her, Ninth would have sealed her powerful flames when he view them as a threat to his sons, like he did to Tsuna.

Vongola would wanted her as family now, because they needed her and she was useful to them

[ao3feed-khr]

Расчищая путь

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2M9irA2

by Strannics

Невио будет первым, кто заявит, что Симора покончил с собой сам. Да, не оставив прощального письма, потому что некому. Да, застрелившись чертовски неаккуратно: не сунув дуло в рот или приставив к виску, а ткнув им себе в лоб, прямо над правым глазом. В конце концов, он ведь давно уже к этому шёл — к пуле в помутившейся голове…

Words: 1547, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Русский

Fandoms: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Fabio | Vongola Settimo, Daniela | Vongola Ottavo

Additional Tags: Minor Original Character(s), some canon divergence

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2M9irA2

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Fabio di Vongola

warning for suicide

It took him a few repetitions to notice. Like a song from a music box, the noises from outside his cell were locked in a seamless loop, the same murmur of conversation repeating on a three-sentence beat. Peering through the bars, he could see the guards cycling through their own series of movements, like figures in a zoetrope, standing up and sitting down only to stand up again.

It couldn’t be. He had taken back the Half-Rings. But it could only be— “Spada?”

“Fabio.” Spada emerged from nothingness, as impeccably dressed as ever, and took a seat on the narrow cot pushed against the wall.

“You know,” Fabio said, trying for teasing and arriving at wistful, “I think this is the first time I have heard you call me by my name.”

“Perhaps.” Spada said, tilting his head back, gaze far away, “What else could I call you, here at the end of all things?”

There was no bite to the words, and yet—Fabio sighed, leaning back onto damp concrete. “I suppose you were right then, when you said that the fight would come to us, one way or another. I can hardly call myself Don Vongola when I failed to see that.”

Spada pursed his lips. It was clear he agreed with Fabio’s own judgement, but they had been friends too long to countenance such sharpness easily. The CEDEF Commander settled by saying, neutrally, “You established a foundation for your heir to build upon. The Vongola will not survive its trials without the resources you have acquired.”

Oh. He had hoped, for a moment, that this was a rescue, but he had personally laid down the law regarding the keeping of omerta, and it would have been hypocritical for him to demand an exception.

“I see.” He needed to focus on the important things. “They took the Ring when they came to the house, they knew what it was for, we have a leak. You’ll also need to take Daniela to my sister Claudia in the Vestals, she has my Will in her keeping—I trust that you have no objections to Flavio as my successor?”

Icy water trickling down his spine. Spada was shaking his head, full of sympathy. “Daniela was arrested the same time as you, and Flavio was tricked into giving himself up for her, not that Mori let her free.”

No. The world spun, the floor of his cell came rushing to meet him—cold hands caught him.

"I have failed then, both as a Don and as a father." He said into the orange flower water scented shoulder of his consigliere.

"Flavio shines gold with honour," Spada said, not quite disagreeing, "He can capture hearts, but is unsuited to scheming."

"But?" Fabio clung to the hope in the upturned lilt at the end of Spada's words.

"But, Daniela blazes as a bonfire." Spada said, "Her Will is unmatched, her courage undaunted, her Flame without peer. Your daughter, Fabio, has the heart and stomach of a king. I would offer the Rings to her."

"She is young." Fabio whispered, "A girl, besides. The Vongola will not bow to her."

"She has the Will to hold it." Spada drew away so that their eyes met keeping his hands on Fabio's shoulders. "Trust in her, and in me who trusts in her. I have witnessed the rise and fall of many heroes, and in Daniela I see strength and conviction which would shame Ricardo. Make a new will here, Settimo, and your daughter will see your dream of the cosa nostra united under Vongola's banner through."

At that, his Intuition, silent in helplessness, pinged. He focused on the incongruity in Spada's declaration. "You would compare Daniela to secondo, not primo?"

Spada smiled, nostalgic laughter in his eyes. "She is as Ricardo, Fabio. The one who rallies the family once their predecessor's failures overtake it. You are like Giotto.”

“The one who failed?”

His friend’s gaze softened. “The dreamer who gave me hope. Giotto was like a shooting star, a spot of brilliance burning out and fading fast, and like him, your work was not half-done when your will faltered. And though for the sake of those works I have turned from you, they sprung from you nonetheless, and I cherish the memories of our fellowship, the joy of which I shall use to hone my grief into vigilance. This I swear.”

Fabio swallowed, his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. That flash of sapphire, years ago, when they had bared their hearts to each other. “I would rather that you just lived—looked up Katzbalger’s old retirement plans, maybe.”

“You need not wish me well.” His friend kissed his hand, the hand bereft of the Vongola Ring for the first time in more than two decades. “You have already returned love to me, when all I had was hate. For your sake, Fabio, I shall avenge thee, and see your children grow old.”

Flavio would be safe too then, under the dark wings of his godfather.

“You speak as if I am already dead.”

“You will be.” The man who had been his External Consultant said at least had the decency to look him in the eyes as he said it, as steady and inexorable as the age-old beat of a marching drum. “You have failed, and have been defeated, Don Vongola. It is time to do as the Romans do, and fall on your sword—or would you give the government their very own puppet, or else allow their kangaroo courts the humiliation of the Vongola name?”

“I cursed my father for putting pride before life and love.” Fabio said.

“You would give your life for love and freedom.” Said the one who had once been one mind with him. “Worry not for your kin. Sostrata has taken your mother to safety in England, and your wife has will return to her father’s house to politic for Daniela there, once your last affairs are arranged. Flavio is being kept in the same gaol as this, and the tumult over your death will give Timoteo the opportunity to extract him. I shall retrieve Daniela myself.”

That was all he still cared about taken care of. Fabio did not relish the thought of life in prison, or giving the government the satisfaction of his execution. But—he had one question left.

“Is my death the price you demand for your service, Daemon Spade?”

His friend froze. Then he started chuckling, vibrant colour seeping into his eyes and hair—pale hair and steel-blue eyes, of course, Daemon would have delighted in getting one over his old rival.

“One might understand it thusly.” Daemon said, drawing himself up to his full height—clearly, the first impression he had given Fabio had been no act, the man was an utter peacock. “Bind me with your lifeblood and last breath, Vongola Settimo, and your daughter shall command the deathless bogeyman of the underworld.”

In his hand he held a straight razor, its edge so sharp as to cut without pain.

Fabio took it. “That’s a bit small for a sword, isn’t it?” He said drily.

Still. Wrist or neck?

He lifted the blade up, Intuition guiding each movement, then drew it swiftly forwards and down.

The last thing he saw was his friend’s face, leaning in.

“O Fabio,” Daemon Spade promised, “Forgive me this, and I shall make you a pyre worthy of any emperor.”

Cool lips touched Fabio’s, sealing them with a kiss, and he knew no more.

Remember what I said about weird Roman traditions? Daemon is leaning particularly strongly into them because of the whole glorious death and redemption through suicide thing he has going on here. Claudia, Fabio’s younger sister in the Vestals, has custody of his will as would have been the case in ancient Rome.

It is also, according to Wikipedia, custom for the closest relative to seal the passing of spirit from the body with a last kiss, in accordance with a belief that equated the soul with the breath. I think I implied that Daemon was committing literal vampirism with the kiss, drawing out all of Fabio’s lifeforce and power and taking Fabio into him.

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, Policemen, 1

The watery light of Ligurio’s lantern was just bright enough for Fabio to avoid the unidentifiable chunks of gore strewn across his path, a sight that was as familiar as it was gruesome. Spada had put together a similar display on their first meeting, after all, and this time, past midnight in the coolness of winter, he was spared the stench of corpses ripening in the hot afternoon sun.

Nevertheless, his friend’s latest masterpiece was worse than his first.

The dead men, or what was left of them, were wearing the uniforms of the police, and it was their own offices that had become their mausoleum.

“Your consigliere has crossed a line.” Ligurio said quietly, the Mist Flames in his lantern twisting and turning, casting shadows like writhing vines onto the walls.

Fabio closed his eyes.

“Yes.” Don Vongola agreed, “Yes, he has.”

His Guardian followed him onwards without him needing to ask, instead of leaving him to meet Spada alone, as was their custom, and for that, Fabio was thankful. They headed deeper through blood-stained halls, an occasional effort from Ligurio creating shortcuts through the walls, until they reached the dark heart of the station.

Years upon years of violence and cruelty had left their mark in the cells, the memory of suffering sinking into the very ground, and Spada, vicious and brutally brilliant, had stirred the past up in his tableau of vengeance. The victims here were still half alive, each trapped reliving the fates of whichever unfortunate souls had been brought in by the police and beaten and broken by them.

Overseeing things like a demon meting out justice to the damned in hell, Spada leaned casually against one wall, his overcoat hung over one arm.

He smiled as Fabio came into sight.

"Settimo!" He greeted, "What say you about my handiwork? Is it sufficient to make my point? More could be done, but it seemed wise to me to leave some room for future escalation."

"Spada." Fabio said, taking comfort in the glow of Ligurio's lantern. "Do you know what you have done?"

Spada frowned. "I would have thought it obvious. If Mori wishes for war, then war he shall have. This is but a taste of what awaits him and his dogs."

He gestured to the moaning men at his feet. "In addition, I have left these alive so that they may draw suspicion with the inexplicability of their survival, to divide their ranks further, and naturally, once their minds are worn down, I will insert my Flames into them, so that we may always see what they see and know what they know."

"You have openly attacked policemen." Don Vongola said, "And you have done so with Flames. How do you expect all this to end, External Consultant?"

Spada's eyes narrowed. "A protracted battle. We will force Mori to spend so much blood and treasure that he beggars himself and his masters give up on us, or else risk collapsing themselves. And if they persist, then we may as well move north. I have run the calculations. We can afford it."

Fabio’s thoughts stuttered to a halt as his mind refused to comprehend what Spada had said. Surely this was some horrendous dream? It could not be real, his friend, no matter how unorthodox his opinions, would never escalate to such reckless insanity.

“We do not need to afford it,” Fabio tried to understand Spada’s line of reasoning, tried to see just what had made his friend come to such a decision, “We are safe, Spada! Mori’s a blunt instrument, and he is no Sicilian. We’ll feed him his pound of flesh, and he’ll think he’s won his battle, and then we’ll be left alone, as we always are in the end.”

Spada shook his head sharply, the play of Mist-made lantern light over his face turning it into a skull. “Showing your belly or hiding from this fight won’t make you win it, Settimo. The only way to be safe is to make the threat stop, anything else simply delays the confrontation, and to do so without clear intent is to surrender the initiative to the enemy.”

Those words came almost as a relief. This was something he knew how to address.

“That’s why I have you preparing contingencies and fall-back points—it might be a more drawn-out affair in that case, but it would end the same way. We’d have let him see a few shadows, given him the confrontation he wants, and then he’d have left under the impression that his work was done. But now, not only have you rendered a major provocation in the form of a lethal attack on their own, you’ve done so in a manner without a mundane explanation—what do you think will happen then?”

“Lest you have forgotten, Spada, inexplicable occurrences are violations of Omerta.” Ligurio added snidely from beside them. His Mist Guardian had kept a hold on his lantern instead of hanging it up on a hook, so it dangled from his crossed arms, the swinging motion shifting shadows in such a fashion that it only added to the unreality of the situation.

“Only if they lead to further investigation.” Spada sneered back, “Anyone who can lead back to us will be dead before they even begin to do so. All I have done is demonstrate the futility of bearing down upon cosa nostra with simple-minded force, and the extent of the enemy’s ignorance, though I have no hope that their small minds hold the wisdom to see that this is a fight they cannot win.”

An inarticulate sound of frustration slipped past Fabio’s lips. “But you are picking fights and making enemies. Mori won’t even know to target us unless we show ourselves to him, let alone be a threat to us without you making it so—”

He was interrupted by laughter. Bitter, contemptuous laughter.

“You are incurable optimists, the both of you.” Spada’s tone fell short of mocking, laden down by the dark currents of disappointed faith, deep passion, “Or at least you, Fabio, fall prey to this sin. Ligurio’s flaw is simply that he cannot endure a worldview that allows for true crises. Do you think that threats come but from within, and not from without? That the Family must be the intended victim for it to fall prey to the politics of power? In such a storm, there is no such thing as safe harbour; one either rules the storm or one is rolled under. The north will not be stopped until it is made to stop, and if I must bring the full strength of the Vongola to bear to break its will, then I shall, and you shall do so with me, and without hesitation, for to do otherwise would be weak and you have sworn to me that we shall abide no weakness!”

Comprehension struck him like a blow to the head, leaving his ears ringing; like a bucket of cold water over the head, soaking him to the bone with icy fear. “There are laws which even we must obey, Spada! Chief of them all Omerta and barely second to it the commandment against worlds mixing!” Fabio had cast aside composure, Spada was his friend even if he had gone mad and he would not allow him to be lost to the depths of the Vindice’s prison, “If we reach, with Flame, into the world above, then it will not be our peers who police us, but the Vindice coming with their chains to drag you forever into the darkness without any hope of recourse. They cannot be negotiated with. I will not allow it.”

“You would bow to their authority, out of fear, Don Vongola?” From Spada’s lips, Fabio’s title sounded like an accusation.

“I dislike picking unnecessary fights.” Fabio said flatly. “Go home, External Consultant. Ligurio and I will clean up here.”

“CEDEF’s Commander answers not to thee in this.” Spada purred, eyes locking with Fabio’s in challenge.

Fabio sighed. “But I’m asking. Please, Spada.”

A long moment. Then.

“As you wish, Don Vongola.”

Spada vanished.

Fabio looked to Ligurio, who raised his lantern. The pale indigo light revealed no shadows out of place. Spada was gone. Fabio let his eyes slip shut for a count of three.

Modify the memories of the survivors. Place them properly. Arrange the scene. Burn the evidence down. Six hours to morning.

He opened his eyes. “Time to get to work.”

next

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, An Estraneo Traitor, 5, 1

warnings for gore, body horror, and torture of both the physical and psychological variety

Sostrata, his Rain, was there with him when the message came. The runner was dressed in trousers, a shirt, and a vest, the messy flop of hair beneath a newsboy cap lending a sense of youth to the ensemble.

“Settimo.”

Fabio checked the time on the clock on the wall of the restaurant’s private room, then favoured his guest with a coldly empty smile. “Well?” He asked as he stood, “Shall we see whether a single sentence of what you have said to me today was true?”

Swallowed by his shadow, Claudio Estraneo flinched, futilely attempting to suppress his urge to disappear into the furniture until Sostrata, unimpressed, seized the other man forcibly by the shoulder and dragged him upright, helpfully sticking Estraneo’s glasses in the man’s shirt pocket.

The agent formerly known as Cinquedea held the door open for them, and after his Rain had passed by her, frogmarching the Estraneo Don before him, she let the door swing shut and slipped behind them to bring up the end of their procession.

Fabio marvelled, not for the first time, at the difference between his counterpart and his counterpart’s subordinates. Had it been Spada behind him, he would have already been regaled with every shameful secret their guest would never have wanted them to know in between luridly violent threats just to keep Estraneo on his toes. Moreover, the CEDEF Commander would never have contented himself with the practiced, habitual manners displayed by the other agents, instead leaving Fabio with the consistent impression that even when bowing as propriety demanded or offering kisses as pledges of devotion, Spada had been playing some private game with the customs of their society. And that feeling had not abated as they had grown closer. Instead, his friend had simply invited him to take part in his sport.

It had been more fun than he had expected, although Fabio had picked up some of Spada’s more vicious quirks—and even that had proven useful, as evidenced by the trembling figure of a traitorous ally being forced into a car in front of them.

Spada was waiting at the gates of the university, and his face was dark with wrath. Behind him, hidden from onlookers by a giant shimmering soap bubble of illusion, stone-faced CEDEF operatives shuttled boxes of evidence onto the driveway, inventoried and photographed their contents, and sorted them into piles to either be commandeered or destroyed on the spot with Storm Flames.

“Remind me again, Sostrata,” Fabio said casually, “Didn’t Don Estraneo swear, on his mother’s grave even, that his nephew’s work with the government was solidly within the bounds of conventional medicine, and that his focus was solely on seeking a cure for tuberculosis?”

“Yes, Settimo.”

“And does this look like the work of someone trying to invent tuberculosis medicine?”

“No, Settimo.”

“What is this, then?”

“The most extreme breach of Omerta since the term was coined.” Spada answered, his raging Will manifesting itself in an all but tangible aura of madness and horror, the shadows of nightmares cast by moonlight turning his pale face and fair hair into a skull. “A famiglia prostituting itself to government dogs, disgracing its history, selling secrets that were not its to sell.”

Restrained by Sostrata, Estraneo went paper white.

“Don Vongola,” Spada snarled, “This goes beyond petty political posturing. Even were it a time of peace, revealing Flames and building—nay, designing—weapons for the military would be an act of treason against the cosa nostra itself, and this now is a time of war the likes of which the world has never seen—you will not let this stand. The one who acted has been condemned to the brazen bull for his treachery, but what of the mind behind him? What of the collaborators which supported him? What of the den of thieves which produced him? What is your will, Don Vongola?”

He could burn Estraneo to ashes here and now, with the Flame Guns at his hip and the Ring on his hand, but. It did not seem to be enough, somehow, not for the magnitude of this crime—of this sin.

At that moment, their prisoner, clearly aware that he was doomed either way, broke out of Sostrata’s grasp to make a break it in an explosion of indigo flames—

—Fabio had pulled the trigger four times.

Both arms, both legs, returned to the elements by the harmony of the Sky, just as the air rippled—an attack by Spada, barely a hair slower than his own. The head and torso of Claudio Estraneo thumped onto the ground. For a moment, Fabio thought that Spada’s attack had done nothing, but then Estraneo started screaming, and something moved in the man’s belly.

“Rats.” Spada offered a word of explanation, somewhat settled by fighting alongside Fabio. “It will be slow.”

“And painful?” Fabio—Don Vongola had come to a decision. “I will be calling for a general assembly immediately, and I intend to make an example of Estraneo. Until then, keep it nonlethal.”

Spada bowed, modifying whatever state he had imposed on Estraneo with a flick of his fingers, all without taking his eyes off Fabio’s.

“We’ll make a show of it.” Don Vongola continued, “But that’s no reason to be sloppy. Send CEDEF agents to keep tabs on all Estraneo members. I’ll have the Families vote to destroy the famiglia before we act, and their job is to keep the Estraneo from going to ground until then.”

“Already arranged, Settimo.”

He didn’t start, because with his Intuition bright in his mind, Flame high in his heart, he could not help but be aware of everything and everyone around him, but his conscious mind had forgotten the last member of the party that had set off from the restaurant.

“Excellent work, Sage.” Spada nodded at the CEDEF agent that had accompanied them—so that was Cinquedea’s new name.

“Of course, sir.” Sage replied, then frowned at the moaning remains of the Estraneo Don. “I’ll get a tarp for the car.”

“I’ll go with you.” Sostrata added immediately, clearly eager to put some distance between himself and the sight of a quadruple amputee with his insides being slowly devoured by illusionary rats.

“Go.” Fabio gave his permission. He paused, riding the crest of his Wrath, and added, “Bring the body of our guest’s nephew. We’ll see that they get to stay together until the end.”

With their subordinates gone, they were left alone (but for their barely conscious victim).

“You are gathering the Families under your banner, I see.” Spada said, once they were out of earshot.

"Divided, we will fall." Fabio said flatly, “And if we are to act as one, then I will only allow the Vongola to lead us all."

Spada hummed appreciatively. “A clever plan.”

“Thank you.” Fabio shrugged, “Now to lighter things—Cilantro told me why you overhauled CEDEF’s names— ‘no comments from the spice cabinet’, indeed—your pride will be the death of you some day, Spada, especially now that it has already become the death of your dignity (and the Vongola’s). But why Sage for Cinquedea? I get that Gladius can sometimes be an acquired taste, like cilantro, but the reasoning for her name escapes me.”

“His.” Spada corrected, “Sage affected masculine stylings for a mission and found the experience euphorically informative, discovering his desire to be a man in perpetuity, and keeping in mind your usual points of consideration, I decided to facilitate his dreams. Choosing a masculine name for him was no trouble, and he has consequently become the most devoted—as his initiative proves. Your methodology regarding bonds and connections produces impressive results, Fabio.”

“I see.” Fabio frowned, “Strange. Timoteo also chose a man’s name and mode of dress—and yet she has never rejected womanhood.”

“There are parallels, yes.” Spada shrugged, “But Sage has spoken with her regarding the matter and informs me that while there are similarities in their experiences, their situations are not the same. Still, it’s a useful condition. The agreeability of their circumstances is tied to the reach of Vongola’s power, and bound with something as intimate as identity, their loyalty will not waver.”

“Somehow I suspect that you have misunderstood my strategies completely, my friend.”

While he had decided to make the Vongola appealing in comparison to competitors, Fabio had not imagined that it would be done this way—and yet Mists were capable of making tangible alterations to themselves with their Flames, which clearly gave them another perspective on indecency, and from what he had heard of Berlin in Germany and some of the more particular establishments of the night, Spada’s subordinate wasn’t a unique case, even if Fabio himself found the situation odd. And yet Spada was correct. The fact that Vongola was offering a degree of freedom and affirmation not found elsewhere would cement Sage’s loyalty.

“I doubt it. That I have done such a thing is only because I have learned its doing from you, Fabio, as you have learned strength from me.” Spada’s attention turned to the returning men, “Sostrata, get in to the car and help Sage lay down the tarp on the middle seat. Sage, sit the corpse there, set Estraneo the elder in its lap, wrap the tarp around both of them to secure them, then let Sostrata hold them steady.”

Sage obeyed, though with tightly pursed lips. Sostrata was more reluctant, but a jerk of the Settimo’s head had his Guardian bowing to the External Consultant’s authority.

Beside Sostrata, Claudio Estraneo was forced to gaze into the melted face of the charred corpse of the nephew whose blackened arms held him in a hellish embrace, some sort of Mist Construct depriving him of even the ability to scream.

Spada looked at his work with satisfaction, then dismissed Sage to coordinate surveillance efforts while he himself slid into the car in Sage’s place. As a finishing touch, he replaced Estraneo’s glasses, just to make sure his victim would have clear sight of his nephew’s death mask.

He smirked at Fabio, as if to say, look how creative I am.

The Fabio of even an hour ago would have balked, but here and now, his Will blazing behind his eyes and upon his brow, Don Vongola only nodded in approval. Here was the fate which awaited all who betrayed the Vongola; to turn from the Family was to turn to hell.

It was the right thing to do. Spada’s smirk turned into a true smile.

But Sostrata wore a grim frown.

This is the high point of the Fabio/Spada relationship, tbh, the point where Fabio has internalized some of Daemon’s viciousness while Daemon has learned that there’s more to power than just having the biggest stick and the greatest willingness to use it.

Fabio’s Guardians and the CEDEF agents, however, are realizing that their bosses are going too far. In particular, Sage, formerly Cinquedea, will be tapped by Daniela to eliminate Spada for being an unmanageable war-hawk after the Allied Victory, and then succeed Spada as CEDEF Eighth.

The Alliance, at this point, is more of a loosely knit coalition of the big Families agreeing not to step on each other’s toes too much than the well-organized, well-coordinated hierarchy of Families with Vongola at the top as the ultimate arbiter. Fabio started the process, but Daniela was the one who used the fires of war to establish the Vongola as the unquestioned leader of the underworld.

I’ll leave it up to you to decide if Estraneo recognized his ancestor.

next

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, A Christening Gift, 4, 5, 1

“You know,” Fabio tut-tutted, “There are plenty of occasions for leaving corpses in the harbour and impersonating the revenant ghost of Daemon Spade, but my daughter’s christening is not one of them.”

“I would claim the contrary.” Spada stretched, catlike, all lithe muscle under lovingly tailored dark wool, though Fabio couldn’t fathom when he found the time to exercise when they were both swamped by the unending work of consolidating Vongola resources as international tensions rose. “Did I not swear to you, Don Vongola, that I would not see your children fall to weakness? What would be more fitting a gift for the youngest of your blood than a show of strength ere she grows into her own?”

“Besides, I did give you a set of toys.” He added as an afterthought.

“Spealing of which, where did you find a set of authentic seventeenth century dolls with their original costumes? Daniela thanks you for both presents, but I don’t.”

Fabio laughed at Spada’s expression, “Why the long face? I’m entitled to my griping when you make so much more work for me—these poor dockworkers deserve some compensation for having to put up with your dramatics.”

“You shouldn’t take such a conciliatory stance.” The other man frowned, “You are Don Vongola, and I am the External Consultant. We answer to no one, especially not to petty labourers for executing a traitor.”

A deep furrow lay upon his companion’s brow, pressed deep by the weight of their woes, and Fabio longed to smooth it away. He shook his head instead. “That may be so, but this is a new century, and a new age. Tradition runs strong in Sicily, but the Vongola must affirm them if they are to hold in the face of an influx of new ideas. It costs us nothing to thank our people for keeping to omertà, which binds us all, nor to remind them that we are all proud Sicilians, no matter our station.”

“Omertà.” Spada said contemplatively. “You do not refer to the secrecy of Flame, but to the law that justice comes only at the hands of the wronged, that it is not to those on high that one might look to for redress, for they are selfish and care only for their own gain. Yes. As a Sky, Don Vongola, your power lies in connection, thus you have seen what I have overlooked. I defer to your judgement in this.”

There the man went again. His CEDEF Commander, being yet more stereotypically a Mist than Ligurio, was unreasonably attached to the image he projected, and retreated into melodramatics the moment he felt his composure was threatened. Fabio would have felt offended by the lack of trust, had he not seen the extent to which Spada concealed himself in the face of others. He, at least, knew that the Mist was not the thirty-year-old he claimed to be.

“Well,” Fabio adjusted his monocle, “I’ll admit, it’s a bit more complicated in practice than in theory. How you do things matters. Mess up, and instead of making a show of benevolence, an apology becomes a sign of weakness, so you aren’t wrong, exactly, to want to play it safe.”

“While you would rather risk it?”

At Spada’s raised eyebrow, Fabio smirked and cracked his knuckles. “I am a venture capitalist. Just follow my lead. We’re going to buy these men a few rounds of drinks, and then you, my hapless second, will be getting drunk.”

“You are a ridiculous man, Don Vongola.” Spada straightened from his slump and scrubbed a hand over his face, all pretence of needing Fabio’s support to stumble along gone with the drunken blush on his cheeks, now that they were out of sight of the pub, “I don’t see why you needed to bring my love life into it.”

They had first repossessed the corpse and sent it off to be dumped in front of the church steps, after which they had engaged in multiple rounds of socializing under Fabio’s lead, to Spada’s chagrin, only disentangling themselves after the stars had come out.

“Was I right, though?” Fabio asked, as they rounded a corner, falling into step with one another, “Have you already given your heart to another?” His attention was already on his companion, so he caught Spada’s aborted gesture towards his watch pocket, as well as the grief in the tight line of his mouth.

“I have—had—have.” Spada said, his eyes set far away. “She is dead now.”

“What was her name?”

“El—her name is not important.” The other man turned on Fabio, his gaze hollow and dark in the dim gloaming. “What must be remembered is that I failed, and she paid the price for my weakness—for Vongola’s weakness. It is in her name and for her memory that I have sworn never again to abide a feeble hand or hesitant heart in the Vongola.”

“She must have been a noble soul indeed, for you to love her so deeply.” He meant it.

On an impulse—perhaps the alcohol had affected him more deeply than he thought—Fabio clasped his counterpart’s gloved hand in his own, Intuition screaming that they were walking along the edge of a precipice—but his next words came naturally, easily, inevitably. “Never again, I promise you. Between the two of us, we will make the Vongola strong enough to protect those we love.”

“I hear you.” Spada replied, a fond twist to his lips, “Did I not offer oath already, Vongola Settimo? With this Ring,” He tapped the ring where it sat on Fabio’s right hand, “Passed from me to you, given in support? It has been four years thence, and I have had no cause to regret it. Your Flame may be weak, but your resolve is strong, and a general needs not take the field when he has a champion such as I. I have witnessed the Vongola flourish under your lead, I say to you, you are worthy of the name.”

I am. It was something Fabio had always known, and yet he never believed those words so deeply as when he heard Spada utter them.

“Then this I say to you, my sword.” Spada’s hand was steady beneath his own. “You were wrong when you said that we answer to no one. Though together we do not answer to any higher power, we are accountable to each other. I trust you, because you trust me. And together we are all the stronger for it.”

Was that—? For a moment, Fabio thought that he glimpsed a flash of sapphire, but Spada’s hair was as light as always, albeit mussed from the evening of drinking, and his eyes were steely blue-grey.

“Together we are all the stronger for it.” His sword repeated, and finally, they let go of each other’s hands.

Night had fallen. But darkness was their dominion. They walked, fearless, into it.

Daemon: Indeed, I am impersonating Daemon Spade (don’t date my gifts too closely, they most certainly weren’t the toy soldiers and dolls Elena and I were planning to give out own children)

Or, Fabio is unknowingly poking at all of Daemon Spade’s Giotto-related neuroses to the point that he lost control of his appearance even as Spada is soothing all of Fabio’s insecurities from having weak Flames.

next

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, A Double Dealer, 3, 4, 5, 1

“Bank records.” Gladius announced grimly, from where he had discovered a hidden compartment behind a false lamp.

Timoteo hummed and peered over the CEDEF agent’s shoulder. “Looks like Fiscella got a taste of his own medicine, double-crossing little shiro. Cheer up, boss, he might have sold us out, but he got left hanging afterwards—whoever bought him off didn’t pay him, so he was running himself into debt and trying to hide it.”

“Still bad news for us.” Gladius looked to Timoteo for confirmation. She nodded absentmindedly, flicking through the records. He continued, “If he’s dead and there’s no money, then the trail’s run cold. We can’t backtrack all the way to the source.”

That was just typical. Fabio sighed, “No use bemoaning the fact. Keep looking, but in the meantime, we’ll spread rumours both ways—one, breaking omerta doesn’t pay, the Northerners won’t keep their word to Sicilians; second, if you betray the Vongola, we’ll take your money and your life, no matter how well you hide them both.”

“An old classmate of mine has a fiancé who’s a banker. I’ll take Ligurio to London and we can have the money moving around in a week.” Timoteo looked disturbingly anticipatory of the opportunity to commit financial devilry.

“Good, you do that, and make it obvious.” Fabio reviewed his schedule, “Gladius, I’m meeting with Aiello in a week. Should I be questioning his loyalties?”

“Not him, but we’re watching his lawyer.” Gladius shrugged, “And he’s sleeping with one of his maids, and she’s got extended family throughout the region, so.”

“Their security has more holes in it than a net.” Fabio summarized.

“Got it in one, Settimo—”

“—Yes!” Timoteo hissed in triumph, driving Gladius a step back.

“For an Englishwoman, you really are lacking in ladylike comportment.” Fabio commented drily.

His Sun waved him off, “Not the current sort, no, and you should be thankful. Look, I knew that Fiscella’s too much of a coward to sell us out without some sort of assurance, so I checked his spendings for the last couple of quarters and he came into some cash around four months ago. Didn’t put it into the accounts, but he might have paid some of his regular expenses with them, seeing as there aren’t any withdrawals corresponding to payments for his bodyguards in the following months, but they did keep guarding his body.”

Gladius snickered. Fabio decided that it was best not to think about why.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Enter.” Fabio ordered. His two companions hastily pasted serious expressions befitting of their stations onto their faces.

“Don Vongola.” It was the junior agent who had been guarding his father’s body. She had recently become Cinquedea, if he wasn’t mistaken. “The Boss is finished with his interrogation.”

Fabio sighed. “You two, finish up with the search. I’ll head downstairs and see what Spada’s found out (and what he’s doing with the corpse).”

He walked in on his CEDEF Commander braiding a rope out of his victim’s intestines under the light of a single naked lightbulb, which was so distressingly gruesome that it had become a parody of itself. Fabio breathed deeply through his nose. Orange flower water, mingling sickeningly with blood and viscera. He suspected that Spada was trying to provoke him, for some reason or another, and he would appreciate it if his conversations with his padre were less interesting.

“Good thing that we aren’t repossessing the house.” He offered drily instead. “The stains would be impossible to get out. I’m thinking that we let it fall into the Carbone famiglia’s hands as a warning.”

“Remind them that the Vongola’s reach is wider than they can imagine.” Spada said approvingly. “Truly, when it comes to such cruel and complex manoeuvrings, you are beyond compare, Settimo.”

Fabio raised an eyebrow, “Enough with the flattery, Spada. What did you get from Fiscella?”

“Dates.” Spada said sourly, jerking hard on his hangman’s knot, “Times, names. Though only a few. The inklings of a conspiracy—he had smarter allies, but he himself was too much a fool to be entrusted with the details.”

“What about what you saw through his eyes?”

“I can only see what he remembers.” Spada said darkly, “And he’s a man of fanciful inclinations.”

A man of fanciful inclinations! And this was coming from a man hanging a traitor with his own guts!

Fabio laughed, “To think that I would hear such an accusation from you, of all people, my dear pot! Surely you are not condemning another kettle for disdaining the philistine life!”

“I,” Spada replied with all the affronted dignity of a wet cat, “Am a dramatist, with justification—what is an illusionist if not a playwright? But this fool fancies himself a romantic.”

He hummed encouragingly and hoisted the slighter man up so that he could reach the ceiling with his gruesome noose. This close, he could smell Spada’s orange flower water perfume, overpowering the stench of blood and gore.

“The taste of his memories is painfully saccharine and utterly pitiful. Did you know that he thinks of his children’s love to soothe his guilty conscience? What foolishness is that! One who has taken justice into his own hands should learn to see his will through and sleep the sleep of the righteous. It is pitiful that he scrabbles at profit and tries to wash away his shame. I assured him of his damnation as he breathed his last breath.”

Spada tapped his shoulders. Fabio let him down.

“Well, speaking of children, I’m about to welcome my firstborn.”

“My congratulations.”

Fabio nudged him. “Think, my dear consigliere, why am I telling you this, beyond fishing for compliments?”

“My mind fails me at this juncture.” Spada doffed his cap, indifferent to the bloodstains.

Not being a Mist revelling in his terrifying reputation, let alone able to cheat when it came to laundry, Fabio wiped his hands on a handkerchief before putting them on his waist. “As you see, a certain position needs to be filled with regards to their future, and you have more than distinguished yourself as trustworthy.”

He waited.

Understanding finally dawned on the ridiculous man’s face.

“Me?” Spada raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You want me as your firstborn’s godfather? I see that Timoteo at least is alive and healthy. What, were all your Guardians struck simultaneously by a fatal allergy to responsibility? If so, find new ones.”

“They are plenty responsible, thank you very much.” Fabio shot back, “The problem is that they’re too responsible.”

“Ah.” Spada murmured in understanding, “Their lives for yours. You would outlive them.”

“While you are a slippery bastard whose job is to outlive me and keep the Vongola alive.” Fabio agreed. “I’d like to be sure that my kids will be taken care of if something happens to me.”

“Plural?”

“What?” Fabio gestured to Ovidio Fiscella’s corpse. “How many people can I trust? Donna Giglio Nero has already turned me down, and I don’t trust my brother-in-law not to covet my son’s birthright.”

“That does not fill me with confidence.” Spada said drily, “What would make Donna Giglio Nero refuse to reaffirm her ties with the Vongola?”

“The same reason why my other sister will not take any daughters I might have into the Vestals.” Fabio sighed. “Their fates lie elsewhere.”

“All of them?” Spada looked into the darkness that pressed in about them, “Then a storm is coming.”

“And the Vongola must be strong to weather it.” But a time of strife was also a time of opportunity, and they were as like to rise as to fall.

A brush of lips over his hand; touch without temperature. Spada had bowed to kiss his ring.

“Settimo.” His consigliere murmured. “Yes, I shall take care of your children in your stead.”

Meet Timoteo the First: She's an englishwoman, a forensic accountant before they ever existed , and will be enough of a formative impact on young Daniela for Daniela to name her son after her father's Sun Guardian. She often dresses illegally in trousers, and has heteroerotic tension with Gladius, one of her CEDEF counterparts. No one knows how wide her social network has grown since the time she was in finishing school, but she's clearly enabled a few of her classmates to become black widows.

Also, pay attention to Cinquedea. You don't get a proper codename if you're only a low-level grunt.

In addition, a bit of worldbuilding. In this world, the Vestal Virgins have ties to the Trinisette in general and Sepira in particular, and their worship of the Vesta and the sacred Flame is very much bound together with the Dying Will Flames. The Giglio Nero split off from them a few centuries ago, but the Vestal Virgins proper serve as a convenient place to stick unmarried, Flame Active daughters, and also as a politically neutral arbiter, as they once did in ancient Rome. The combined influence of a preserved pagan cult that had gone underground since the public extinguishing of the Sacred Flame and the general catholicness of Italy in general and Sicily in particular results is at least partially to blame for the weirdness of Mafia Culture.