～·～·～

Cassio emerged from Nyxius. He observed the street's activity as he strode past, acknowledging Dingo with a nod. His focus settled ahead. His hands warmed the insides of his pockets as he breathed against the mask's fabric. Causal in his stride, he was quite aware of the silver Sherlock parked across the road. It made him suspicious of the masculine silhouette appearing beside his car.

Although he hadn't the rapport of how the fresh Olsworth operated, Cassio wouldn't put it past him to be like the father. Brazen in his accusations. Audacious in his tactics.

Nearing the end of the line, Cassio didn't react to the sudden pair of eyes glaring at him—the arrogant little cafone with a loud mouth. It reminded him of the faint rawness in his fingertips like he'd pinched them in scalding hot water.

"Yo! Yo, cunt."

Cassio gave a second of his time when passing. Blond hair poorly shaved at the sides and dark, bloodshot eyes, an oversized singlet—graphically crude—and shorts draped the boy's lanky build. Uncultured tattoos ran the length of an arm, wrapping around his pale neck. Cassio looked away with a slow blink. He'd seen children with colder menace in Italy.

"Yeah, that's right, fucker, keep walking. Better watch your back, or else I'll get the hood on yo fucking ass and it'll be on fucking sight."

Cassio paused. Finally, he slanted his head, acknowledging the urban-tongued boy over his shoulder. The cafone glared, stepping closer to assert dominance, yet not too close to stray from the scrawny muscle behind him.

"The fuck you looking at?" he barked, spitting disgustingly at the ground between them. "You got a problem, cunt?"

The mafioso fully turned around, yet said nothing, offering nothing but a gaze glinting beneath its hood of nonchalance.

Control, son. Never break character.

"You heard me, yeah?" the cafone pressed, however, uncertainty wavered his aggression.

"I heard you," Cassio replied. "The question is—" he stepped closer, tilting his head— "do you hear me?"

Bloodshot eyes stared, misty from confusion—psychologically, it always came first—then doubt, the creeping sensation that crumbled confidence. The longer the silence Cassio stared, the more the cafone's uncertainty knotted up his thick brows until it had him glancing back. Unfortunately for him, his little companion wasn't budging from the safety in the distance. He'd already shuffled further along with the line.

Cassio observed as the realization settled in—a dog realizing he'd barked up the wrong tree. His posture angled backward, feet rooted and eyes darting. He was afraid. Fearful. Which only intensified at the number of eyes fueling cold humiliation.

A quick jut of the dog's head surrendered the tough guy act. And his body language exposed the psychological response to challenged intimidation.

"Y-Yeah, I hear you."

"Good."

Straightening his spine, Cassio relented himself. Although his fingers were twitching hotly within his pockets, he wouldn't give the satisfaction of freeing them. That would tempt something he'd rather not.

"Enjoy your night."

Without another word, the mafioso gave the newfound audience his back and resumed his stride. A pity I can't watch the looks on their faces when they realize they've wasted their night. After all, Nyxius' dress code had standards.

He dipped into the streetlights' shadow, finding the masculine silhouette watching him. It wasn't a concern of his—Olsworth or not.

A slow exhale heated against the mask, letting thoughts walk with him. A mafioso's life was simple. A Don was only as strong as its borgáta, an empire built on nothing short of power; vice versa. Money was power. Reputation was power. Ambition. Loyalty. Control. Alliances. All key fundamentals to a strong threshold.

But appearances were everything.

Cassio never comprehended its meaning when his father was drilling it into his head from a young age. The boy thought; there had to be power in appearing menacing and tough, no? To scare off a predator, one would have to appear big and strong and loud because that was how to seem intimidating, right?

Growing up in the underworld, the mafioso began to realize the message behind the words. Silence was power, intimidation, golden.

Look at me, boy. One look. That'll show who're the weak ones to cut; wise words through an arrogantly puffed cigar.

Cassio subconsciously twitched his nose at the thought. The sidewalk dipped to the road. He gave a quick once-over before crossing. Approaching the silhouette, he expected the Olsworth to react first, however, recognition instantly slacked his guard and had the gaiter mask tugging down.

"Silvio, mio amico," he greeted, pleased by the man's sudden appearance.

There was no mistaking the roundness of Silvio's belly, yet he hid it well behind a suit—the night's choice, a charcoal gray contrasting to the white dress shirt beneath the dark vest, fitted with a red tie loosened around the neck.

"When did you fly in? I wasn't made aware of your return."

The man had been gone for three weeks on business overseas in Italy. Cassio wasn't expecting him until the next few days.

"All the more for, eh, pleasant surprise, no?" Silvio replied in a thick voice, grinning his pearly white teeth. "Flew in a couple hours ago, like a gàtto in the night."

Cassio felt his mouth lifting into a soft grin. "Preceding the Silver Gàtto name as always."

Silvio's grin chuckled heartily as he stepped forward. They clasped stretched hands, offering a firm handshake in silent, yet strong respect for one another.

Ever since they met, Cassio had considered him a zio. A man who had since matured well into his fifties. Silver streaked his otherwise gel-slicked hair of black curls. Not a lock out of place to a squared chubbiness of his face, peering through charming brown eyes. And like Cassio, Silvio had a gnarly scar, one ripped across the bridge and side of his crooked Roman nose. However the man wore it proudly, even if the shadows had it appearing more crooked than usual.

"Come sei stato? Beh, spero?" Cassio asked, breaking the handshake for his hand to fall freely. | translation: How have you been? Well, I hope? |

Silvio chuckled lowly once more as he petted his golden pocket watch. He always had the vintage item tucked into the vest's breast pocket, dressed for class. One of the many reasons Cassio kept the man as underboss.

"Right as rain, mio amico. Have I been missed?"

"On the contrary," Cassio replied, his grin deepening. "It's been rather peaceful in your absence."

"Oh, ho? Is that why I catch you with, eh, donna, ehi? A pretty one, might I add."

Cassio expressed his amusement in a sharp exhale. I should've known.

Silvio's ability to blend in and charm any room marked him as the Silver Gàtto, always appearing and disappearing without warning, leaving a lasting impression wherever he went. Silver, like his hair with the personality of a gàtto—ate like one, and slept like one whenever the opportunity presented itself. But all gàttos had claws.

"The donna is merely an acquaintance I settled a dispute with."

The Silver Gàtto stroked his pocket watch, humming with a smirk. "Noted."

He must've not recognized the woman was Mari. Works in my favor, Cassio concluded, masking his thoughts with another huff.

Although he would've typically disclosed a dispute's dealings, Silvio had a particular, personal loath for la Marianos. It had festered and grown over the years, like a cancerous tumor. When Cassio was still a caporegime, Silvio lost his two children to vengeance. Kidnapped and killed via a publicized execution; bags over their heads, a bullet each to the head, and bodies left to rot where they laid. La Racanellis might be gruesome in their methods, but children below thirteen were a line Cassio never toed.

The brunette herself wasn't involved—he doubted she even knew—but her mention left a bitter taste in the conversation. Thus, Cassio would do the favor and keep the silence.

"Come. Let's talk more privately," he suggested, flickering his gaze right for the man to catch.

Silvio smiled knowingly. "Of course."

With a strong nod, Cassio dismissed his underboss. The Silver Gàtto turned on his heel, waving ciao while backtracking from whence he came. Parked several cars down, Cassio spotted a familiar man leaning against a black SUV, paired with spotlighted glasses and a book. Typical.

Cassio reacquainted his face with the mask before he rounded his Challenger to the driver's side. He knew he was giving himself away to the silver sherlock. Sure enough, as he opened the door, about to step in, he eyed the shineless Dodge parked meters away. There you are.

Although it sat in absence of the streetlight, blended with the other cars, Cassio needn't light to know Olsworth was watching him—perhaps taking a picture with whatever weak exposure could provide the cop with a distinct feature. Unfortunately for him, the only thing distinctive about the mafioso was his blood-red shirt, and more importantly, his mask. He doubted the camera could visualize his tattoos through the door's shield.

Narrowing his eyes, Cassio found the silhouette on the driver's side. Alright, Olsworth, humor me.

He climbed in and settled into the soft leather molding to his frame. His finger held the ignition button, bringing the car into its rumbling wake. Its hum vibrated through the interior like a hellcat's purr, and the car did what it was made for. Challenge.

He revved in slow, powerful releases of horsepower and sound alike, taunting its successor. It gained awareness, but there was only one set Cassio wanted. In the side mirror, the SUV pulled out and around. Silvio most likely told Big Tommy to drive the other way while the boss handled business.

Letting the engine's rev echo one last time, Cassio pulled off the curb. The silver Dodge's lights snapped on. Instead of turning at the corner, Cassio drove straight ahead, slowly, granting Olsworth to do the same. The two Dodges stared each other down, tires rolling slowly, gravel crunching in drawled-out echoes beneath engines clashing in horsepower.

The silver Dodge flashed its muted lights, pooling the area in goody-two-shoes colors. How ironic it made his favorite color. His car slowed to a stop in the middle of the street. He rolled down his window. Olsworth did the same, and they stared at each other.

Up close, the Olsworth's stubble had grown since last photographed, shadowing the sharpness of his locked jaw. It emphasized the dimple in his chin. Steel-colored eyes stared at the mafioso, hardened in hatred. Red and blue tinted his otherwise faintly tanned skin where curly brown hair waved against his forehead.

"Nice car you have there, Wolf," the silver sherlock started with a decently pitched voice, filled with mockery. "It's a shame it'll end up swapped for a prison cell."

"Careful with the hypocrisy, detective," Cassio warned, mirroring the taunt.

"Hypocrisy isn't my problem. It's the dead woman's blood on your hands."

Mm, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all.

"You'll have to be more specific than that."

"You should know who I'm talking about. Unless there're others?" Olsworth challenged, bracing his forearm on the door panel. "What does a wolf do for fun these days, besides spiking America's crime rates?"

"You're the Sherlock," Cassio taunted again, leaning closer. "Figure it out."

"Hard to do when you're killing off all my leads."

"A pretty pity that must be."

Olsworth leaned closer, cocking a dark brow. "That a 'fess?"

Cassio couldn't help the etching grin. "Mm, I don't know." His hand found the gear knob, fingers curled around it and palm steady. "Is it?"

Olsworth suddenly narrowed his steely eyes. "Lose the mask, Racanelli."

Cassio tsked. "What did I say about that hypocrisy, Olsworth?"

The reply caught the cop off guard. His face scrunched in confusion, the creases shadowing against the law's flaunting light show. Good. Cassio shifted gears and accelerated. The supercharged whine screamed in the haloed darkness, thundering rumbles in its wake. Its successor fell into the rearview, and with all the traffic collected during the conversation, the silver Sherlock had no choice but to drive in the opposite direction.

Cassio looked in the rearview for a second. I wonder if that was enough of a taunt.

~ 𐀔 ~

A quietness listened to the soft thud of leather on marble. The wind adrift to the flower scent it carried to a maskless nose. An hour away from the city alleviated the pollution in the air, by a distinct margin. Neighbors were acres away, and fence lines were the thick density of trees, making Brookville a worthy settlement for la Racanellis.

Stepping through the dark oak door, the estate's smooth cream walls drank in the glowing wall sconces. A tropical waft of cleaning product richened the air. Tan floorboards melted against his shoes as Cassio strode away from open space welcoming him, veering right. Around the corner, a staircase curved against all three walls protruding the estate's facade. It centered around a black marble statue—something Cassio never liked. But he never got rid of it since his grandfather locked horns on the idea like a fucking goat.

As the oldest living Racanelli, Cassio held nothing but the utmost respect for the seventy-two-year-old man. He'd rather endure another three months worth of beatings than upset Alessio—even if he had a screw loose.

Placid thuds carried him up the curl yet his gaze weighed down, thinking about something in particular.

Footsteps joined him. The mafioso acknowledged the person coming down. Ginevra. Cazzo. She must've thought the same thing as she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened in shock, yet the horror surfacing beneath made their last interaction a grimace on his thoughts. It was no surprise she'd been avoiding him, Cassio could practically hear her heart pounding in the silence.

He paused at the middle section, where the wall beside him displayed the front yard through a pristine gleam of large windows.

"Buonasera, Ginevra," he offered with a nod despite it being sometime past ten. | translation: Good evening |

The servant quickly bowed her head. "B-Buonasera, signore Racanelli."

She kept her head bowed stiffly as she stammered down the stairs. Clumsy thuds made her anxiety painfully obvious. About to whisk by, Cassio lifted his hand, halting the servant. She immediately stepped back, rigid and quiet. Her nerves were no fucking better than the brunette's. Tsk.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I-I've been very busy, signore. F-Forgive me if it—"

"I will not forgive you when the fault is mine," he interjected, silencing the stutters.

"Uh—" Ginevra's eyes lifted, confusion twitching her slender brows together. "Signore?"

Cassio swallowed down the sudden marble wedging in his throat. A familiar heat crept against his neck, reminding him of the grimacing memory. It wasn't often he found himself in an uncomfortable situation, and when he did, a bullet to the chest would be easier to address, not acknowledgment of his fault. Regardless, it had to be done.

Cassio worked his molars against the marble, controlling his tone. "I would like to apologize to you, signora. The regard I spoke to you the other night is inexcusable. I value your work for la famìglia. You play an important role in keeping the Racanelli estate strong, so, for that, I am sorry."

Ginevra's dark eyes widened. Her lips moved but made no sound. Cassio observed her body language, pleased that she was at ease as her shoulders lifted, posture relaxing to a hesitant but gentle smile.

"Do you have any other concerns?" he offered before the silence grew awkward.

"Uh—n-no, signore." She bowed her head once again. "Thank you, signore."

"Of course." Cassio nodded and stepped to the side. "Enjoy the rest of your night, assuming you're finished."

"Signore, wait—"

Ginevra stopped the mafioso before he even lifted his foot. He cocked a brow in question as she advanced with a reaching hand.

"May I?" she asked hesitantly, gesturing to his hand tucked into his pocket.

The marble returned. Cassio ignored it and slowly nodded. He freed his left one, letting Ginevra's hands grab it. Her skin was cool, settling into his warmth, driving an unpleasant shudder down his spine. He hated being touched, avoided it, however, it wasn't a matter of comfortability when it came to a borgáta's tradition.

Tenderly, the servant bowed down, eyes closing as she planted a kiss on the back of his hand. Soft, the brushing warmth lasting only a second before she pulled back. She offered a gentle smile, squeezing his hand earnestly.

"La perdono, Don Racanelli. Hai il mio rispetto, la mia lealtà e il mio riconoscimento, grazie." | translation: I forgive you, Don Racanelli. You have my respect, my loyalty and my recognition, thank you |

Cassio nodded strongly. "Grazie, signora."

Reclaiming his hand, Cassio left it free as they parted ways—him gesturing her departure first. He resumed the stairs, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. It had a sigh expelling from his chest.

Many lips had kissed his hands over the years of throning la Racanelli borgáta's chair. It granted one's respect and deference—a sign stemming from Italy, mimicking the religious tradition of those kissing the hands of popes, kings, and noblemen. By the borgáta's standards, Cassio learned it was redirected as the acknowledgment of addressing the man as Don, especially by other mobsters or people unrelated to him.

When he was recognized as Don after Aurelio, his famìglia, Made Men, associates, and loyalists kissed his hand. Those moments alone were as empowering as it was painful.

The majority of la borgáta's traditions tied into the practices of a church, something that always humored him with its irony. Even the title, Don; an Italian name to address a priest, and he recalled Aurelio preaching the title's power, always telling Cassio what it truly meant to be known as The Boss, The Godfather, The Don.

"Those bastards think we are the villains, but we're addressed the same as the Pope himself! The same submission between a mafioso boss and a cafone representative of the almighty God on earth!" exclaimed his crackling voice. "You 'er that, my boy? When you take this chair, you'll be more respected than any cafone who claims righteousness. The Racanellis will forever be powerful."

The boy would've silently nodded his head in scenarios like it. Out of sight. Out of mind. But, years later, as the man walked through the empty halls, he gave the dead man nothing but a look of boredom. You always were a power-hungry fuck, weren't you?

Cassio imagined what would happen next. Aurelio would've pulled the cigar from his lips, letting the plump things twist in a teeth-baring sneer. Ugly brown eyes would've rippled with the anger scowling indents between his thick black brows. Clean cut jaw, chiseled nose. His age only emphasized the cruelty through each taut wrinkle on his rugged face.

It was no wonder the mirror dared to claim Cassio was the spitting image of Aurelio. Without Nigel's scar, he really was the face of a dead man's fucking legacy. Who the fuck says I'm not already?

He clenched his jaw. A flush of hostility burned with his pulse, provoking the ghosting aroma of smoky tobacco. It flared through his nostrils, sizzling against his flesh; discipline for speaking out of turn—one of Aurelio's many. The memories took a cheap shot at his nonchalance, ripping a frustrated growl through gritted teeth.

His fingers twitched hotly within the compressed fabric. The free hand clawed into a ball, and suddenly he wanted to reopen the scars. Cazzo. Cassio grabbed the tags from his chest. Its clammer snuffled into his palm.

R. F. E. L. A. A. E. D. S. R. E. L. A. T
C. R. E. L. A. L. E. B. A. A. D. T. A. R. E. L. S

The letters imprinted finger and mind alike—rearranging, reshuffling. Cassio took a minute to pause, sighing exasperation to the ground. A little longer; a voice told him. He would be inclined to believe it if he knew it wasn't a delusion disguised as reality's fist to the jaw. I have no chance now. His grip tightened in protest, but ultimately. . . weakened. Surrendered. An internal pain winced his vision into darkness. Suppose it was always meant to be like this.

He was born in the underworld, groomed for cold-blooded violence. It ran through his veins, branded his name. He couldn't change that. He had his chance, and still, the Four Horsemen came; shadows against the window, roars against the walls.

Things might've been different if the boy had just looked outside. Look outside. That's all you had to do. Instead, the cafone brushed it off. He said nothing, thinking it was nothing. Ignorance wasn't the bliss people claimed. It killed. Viciously.

Cassio surrendered the tags, tucking them away. They dropped against his chest, thudding faint with his resuming stride. Reese never survived the brutality of what followed. Reese was the deadweight Cassio carried like a body around his shoulders. The more he heard it, the heavier it felt.

I reap what I sow. And you have no idea what I'm referring to.

A chirp abruptly cried out. Cassio lowered his head, huffing out a curving grin. "Why are you roaming the halls, eh, Tortellini? Did no one let you in?"

Suppose, I should invest in a cat flap on my door.

The gàtto's fluffy tail curled around his calf as Tortellini weaved between them. Dilated copper eyes looked up at him expectantly, freeing a muted, fanged mewl.

"Mm? Cat got your tongue?" Cassio teased before he reached down. Wrapping his arm beneath the gàtto's body, his hand palmed the fluffy white chest, hoisting Tortellini against his side. A pigeon purr accepted the manhandle, strong through Cassio's hand.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He traded his outdoor hellcat for the indoor one.

Tortellini purred in contentment, happy on his 'perch' as Cassio strode further until he reached the desired door. Twisting the golden knob, the mafioso entered the softly lit room—the room adjacent to the Don's office. Tan floorboards and cream walls followed through. Bookcases stretched across the left wall beside him, opposite to the windows, wide in length, mirrors in reflection.

Cassio found the Silver Gàtto—in all his pride and glory—asleep, on one of three sofas framing the black glass coffee table; the same velvety tufted sofas as the phthalo green study, only ivory. The coffee table's tray of alcohol had been disturbed, with an empty glass slouched in the underboss's hand.

The scene before Cassio elicited a wicked grin as he felt Tortellini spot the napping man; head cocking, tail thumping. Another reason Silvio was given his nickname; the poor bastard was allergic to them.

And the orange demon knew that.

—

I quite enjoyed writing this. We love us some lore.

Lemme know what y'all thought, pretty please ♡

Ciao ciao (๑^ ∀ ^๑)ﾉ゛

~Sonya~