And I told ya, I was trouble. And you know that I'm no good.
Will try to get next chapter of 'Omerta' up soon-
Some nice little plot twists here. The second part (about Frank) I've had in my mind for quite a little while now.
No fears; the Don and his bunny rabbit don't divorce/fall out of love/even fight. I'm sorry to spoil the thing for you, and if you want troubled Frerards, this is not the one for you (well apart from the whole Mafia thing well yeah) but it's just because my heart actually breaks whenever something happens in this story because I love my little pairing and characterization so much. I know that sounds really dumb and you're like, well why the fuck do you fucking rape and attack Frank and make him have TB and have an abusive ex if you hate shit happening. Well, I reply coyly, would you like to read a Mafia fic where fuck-all happens?
I thought not.
Also, Luciana isn't a bitch here. Just very smart and witty and shit.
Title from Amy Winehouse.
Currently listening to 'Anyone Can Play Guitar' by Radiohead- sweet Jesus the sheer epicness of this band
Also, beware of the return of the pointless author's notey things just shoved into this chapter at the worst times. The next chapter will be revealed at the bottom of this one. This chapter is really just to meant to be a filler, sorry if it's unbearable.
As always, thanks to the guys who are reading this, much love. *hands over milk and Oreo* Good on ya, mates.
You Know (I'm No Good)
Luciana de la Via did not understand her friends.
She had been in Piazza di Spagna for a day now and the joyous, refreshing feeling of new rebellion was wearing off. Her friends had acted completely out of character when meeting 'the boys', famed in song and story, yesterday. Loud, unladylike and laughing at shit that was plain just un-funny. They had not been stellor, stunning Greek gods as Luciana had imagined them; (thanks to the descriptions given to her by her friends the previous day) they were short, tanned, with curly, sun-sponged hair.Even shorter than Franco; Luciana didn't think that was even possible. The boys had sneered at the girls disrespectively and made snide comments about Rosalia, which, being honest, the Way girl could not refute. She had disjointed herself from all conversations and just shrugged when her girlfriends had questioned her terrible mood. At the sleepover the previous night, taking place at Catarine's house, the girls had shrieked and gossiped about the boys. Luciana had rolled her eyes and chose instead to indulge in Tolstoy's War and Peace.
Now, at eight in the morning, Luciana was the only person awake in the di Goldi household. She sat on the patio, in a black sundress, basking in the fine early sun, a first edition of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven And Other Poems, circa 1845, plopped in her lap. It was her now her uncle's, originally her father's - a scrawl of property of Michael J. Way, 1923 was inside the front cover. She sat in the unsteady spring sunshine, black pumps kicked over the side of the di Goldi's wooden deck. She opened up her book at a dog - eared page and commenced her reading. It wasn't long - halfway through The Bells, in fact - when she heard a voice down below her.
A boy's voice.
"Yo! Hey, ragazza!" Luciana rolled her eyes again and even shivered; she had just been refered to as 'girl'. "Friend of Cat, yeah? I'm Luigi's brother - "
"Be quiet," the Way girl ordered curtly. "Catarine's family are still trying to sleep. You don't have to deafen the whole neighbourhood in order to talk to me."
A young boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, laughed sunnily at this and clambered onto the wooden ledge of the deck. Luciana couldn't help but feel a little irritated at the boy's eagar, over presumptious behaviour as he pulled himself up to sit beside her. He had messy black hair with friendly sky - blue eyes, and his devil - may - care grin was rueful and crooked, and stretched from ear to ear. Not quite as short as his miniscule predessors yesterday, the girl noted, orbs sweeping over his five - six form. He was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers, and he obviously spent a lot of time in the sun, his honeyduke skin tone glistening in the bare daytime. A makeshirt skateboard was tucked under his arm.
"I know you," he remarked, cocking his head to the side as if he couldn't quite tell. Luciana slowly slid her eys from The Bells to the intruder of her peaceful reading. "I saw you yesterday with those retards in central Piazza. You looked all pissed cuz your girlfriends were acting like meatheads." The young girl glared at him. He found her gaze excrutiating and unavoidable, so he rubbed the back of his neck and continued with an air of ever slight unease. "I mean...you weren't...but they were...uh...I figured you weren't into that sorta shit and you looked pretty okay, so I wanted to say hey. But not get involved with those idiots, so..." A shrug. Luciana said nothing and her icy glare did not falter. "So...hi." He held out a hand. "I'm Nathan di Flori. Luigi...his brother. I ain't a dick like him, though." An unsure pause. "You mute or something?"
Way glared at him. His mouth opened a fraction. She realized she was being unneccsarily rude and softened. Slightly.
"My friends acted idiotically around the boys yesterday, who, in turn, were utter fools." Nathan's eyes widened - he hadn't expected her to be smart. "I'm not friends with Rosalia - we're simple aqquaitances. I am not usually permitted to roam Piazza di Spagna with my friends and I've never been here previously. It was lacklustre, to be perfectly honest."
The boy blinked.
"You never been to Piazza before?" She shook her head. He raised his eyebrows and placed his skaeboard down. "Aren't you from Rome?"
"Originally I am from Los Angeles, in America," said Luciana, and di Flori's mouth dropped open. "But I live and have lived for several years in Parioli. So yes, I am from Rome. Not natively, but-"
"America?" He gasped as she said she was from Mars. "You're from America?"
Weird, I know, but in Europe when you see an American you're just like
LET ME LOVE YOU
or maybe that's just me okay thanks shut up now Lornaigh
"Well, yes. I'm Italian - American. My parents were and my uncle is from America but the rest of my family from Palermo." She looked at him now, and his eyes were bulging and his mouth was open for flies. A smile was trying to fight it's way onto her lips for an unknown reason.
I am now listening to RHCP'S 'Suck My Kiss' at full volume in my flat and my neighbours must be like 'tha fuck'....
"Los Angeles..." he murmured. He smiled broadly, showing bright white teeth. It was absurdly cute. "Wow, I'm friends with an American girl!"
Now it's Audiobullys and I am just screeching 'WE DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK WHAT THA FUCK' at the top of my lungs hope ya like neighbours!!
"What makes you think we're friends?" The girl asked quietly and the other flushed scarlet as a result of his nervousness. Then a soft pause; she realized she was blaming this boy for the behaviour of yesterday's idiots. "I'm sorry; that was very rude of me. I'm just in a bad mood, I guess. Luciana," she said, offering a hand. "Just call me Lucia."
"Luciana," Nathan repeated, shaking her hand delicately. "Nice name. You seem smart." He snorted. "Way smarter than those other idiots." Luciana expected some inner rage to snap once the boy had insulted her friends, and was surprised when it did not come. He turned to face her fully. "You're from Parioli? Shit. Your folks must be loaded."
Luciana paused. "Loaded? You mean...with amunition?"
Nathan laughed. Not in a nasty way, but in a pleasant way that made the girl smile.
"No, no...I mean your family must be rich. No one from around here is from Parioli." He pulled a thin cigarette from his pocket and offered it to her; she declined politely. "They're my papa's; he freaks the shit at me when I take them, but hey...so, are your parents in the Duce's circle or something?" She had to bite her lip not to laugh. "Or politicians in the Senate? Parioli's where all the hot - shots live."
"No," she answered vaguely. "My family are quite well off, I suppose." She willed herself to change the subject, quickly and without beating around the bush. "What about you? Are you from here?"
"Oh yeah," di Flori replied happily, lighting up. "Yeah, my momma works at Sapienza as a cleaner and my dad's in the escrito. He's a mess hall server." Way paused; she couldn't tell him now her family were the wealthiest in the country. Oh God, and his father works for Mussolini. Gerard would never allow her to hang around this boy ever again. Was she coming across as snobby or rude? "I live just down the street, see?" She followed his finger down a dirty road- path a short distance from where they were currently sitting. "Our apartment's down that way." Then, he blushed. Luciana found herself smiling at the light pink dressing his cheeks. "You must fucking hate this dump, coming from Parioli."
"Of course not," she said. "Los Angeles has more poor parts than rich. Hollywood is small compared to the entire city. The place we lived in before in the US was very poor."
"Really." She looked out to examine Piazza di Spagna. She tried not to apply her uncle's strict mantra on residential areas when scrutinizing it. "I like this place. It has character."
"Yeah, that's all left over from la Grande Guerra," he said sadly, matter - of - factly. The Great War; Lucia was aware they were plunged into a new combat on combat fight right now. Soldiers stood outside her school every day - Gerard gave out blue murder all about the 'cunts in the army corrupting his city' to Franco at night - time...the girl could hear them as they would ascend the stairs together late at night. "All unemployment and shit...no one can get a job. But when the drafting van comes by all the homeless people get in doors. They don't wanna get drafted."
"Drafted? What does that mean?"
"Put in the army," he whispered. "By force. Like my pop." He stopped and looked to the girl. "What about your parents? What do they work as?"
The Way girl found her mouth dry. She never told anyone about her parents' untimely death in America seven years ago. Nor the consequent adoption of her grandfather into his dark mansion. She had never understood Papa di Via; she knew he had a wife at one stage (because they had zio Gerardo and her father, Michael - you can't have children if you're not married, it doesn't work that way) but there were always girls at his house. Blond, tall, thin girls who were American and never Italian. They had big, bulging eyes and there was something unnatural about their stiff, hard bodies. And their clothes...Luciana hardly ever showed anything above her shins, but these girls...they were wearing their underwear, it seemed. Papa di Via was always hugging the women in front of her, but she heard shouting and glass breaking from his room sometimes. She never quite understood - were they in the Brigata? Were they the Romano's?
But her parents. That was a whole other topic. Her throat decided to close up whenever she tried to talk about Michael and Alicia.
"My parents were killed when I was a child," she murmured. Suddenly, she felt inexplicable, fiery, red rage bubbling within her core, directed toward her uncle, toward the Don. Alicia had died fighting for him (well, died fighting for the Brigata, but in line of duty for him technically) and he had personally fiered the shot into Michael Way's head. Her anger subsided considerably when she realized that that was her uncle's job. He'd be a shitty Don of he didn't take his brother (a registered snitch; the LAPD had validated his report on the Way family in September of thirty three, just shortly before Gerard met his second husband) out. It was simple logic in the Cosa Nostra. If your cat Fluffy rats on the Famiglia, the cat's gotta go.
What even, Lornaigh. What even.
"They died in America."
"Oh." Another faint flush of rose. It reminded Lucia of Franco. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be nosey..."
"It's fine," she said quickly, firmly. She hated sympathy. Hated it. It felt fake, forced and futile. Meaningless mutters of 'sorry' would never bring her parents back (or Momma di Via, whom she knew Gerard prayed for every night, and she had been told about briefly that she was the grandmother who had gone to Heaven when both her uncle and her father were both children) no matter how many times people said the damn word. "Don't apologize, please. It's fine, really."
"NATHAN!" A woman's voice suddenly yelled from the shadows of the dark alley Nathan had motioned toward moments ago. The boy sighed and wore a world - weary grin. "PRIMA COLAZIONE!"
"Breakfast," he muttered, slipping down from the ledge. She handed him his sakeboard. "Gotta be going. But I'll see you around...right?"
"Right," she said, smiling. "Of course. It was lovely meeting you."
Again the boy blushed.
"Lucia." He nodded. "See ya."
She nodded, smiled and waved as he bounded from the di Goldi house and ran off to the direction of the voice. A part of her felt dissapointed when he left. It felt good to have a friend who didn't babble endlessly about boys and dresses and ooh how does my hair look today.
Don't be an idiot, she told herself harshly. You met him for ten minutes. He barely knows your name.
Then that same voice rushed to her with a suitable, breathless question.
Why didn't you tell him your second name?
Luciana de la Via could not answer.
One week later
Way manor, Roma
(aw naw Lornaigh I thought it would be in the fucking Danish Museum of Dog Shit
okay seriously am I high today or what)
Consigliere Adam Devin Genovese - Rucetta was fucked. That was the only suitable adjective he could come up with at thie point in time.
He knew he had let the Don down; he knew that, for Chrissake. He knew Way had sought the advise of the underboss, of his two capogiermi and of the gang in general concerning Adam's future in the di Via syndicate. He was the worst councellor the Family had ever experienced. He had lied and cheated the Don of the Famiglia. He had disrespcted Don de la Via's family and proved that he was not up to scratch to which qualities a consigliere in the most honoured Mafia family in the world should possess. He was a liar, a snitch, a traitor, a rat. That was just what Gerard had said to his face. He heard Way had called him 'the worst goddamn sonuvabitch cunt fucker piece - a -shit I've fuckin met since James molfucking Romano' when talking to an associate last week. That one had hurt. Even the men were unsympathetic and cold to the councellor. Their view was that Gerard would be ridding of Rucetta soon enough (after the interrogation, most likely) and then they wouldn't have to deal with someone who ratted on Don de la Via's husband to the leader of the goddamn country.
As if being possibly killed wasn't enough, Adam was suffering from quite a bout of lovesickness. It would be sweet if the other on the receiving end of the adoration was not his boss's husband.
Rucetta wasn't quite sure when this secret love for Frank Way had initiated; the fictional affair had started off innocently enough when Adam had been appointed personal councellor to the most infamous Don of the last three hundred years, Gerard Arthur Way. He had been sent a letter whilst living in NYC in the summer of thirty five requesting that he become consigliere to Don de la Via. He had actually been consigliere to the Genovese family at the time, (his mother had been Donna) the most prestigious of the Five New York Families, but he had given it up at the drop of a fedora when asked to provide council for the di Via family. He was already very good friends with Gerard; he packed up his shit, married his fiance, and moved to Italy quicker than you could say la Cosa Nostra.
Back then, his life was the shit. Oh, those were the fucking days. Rucetta lived in a luxurious penthouse apartment with his husband, Jonathan (fifteen years his junior) and worked tirelessly for Don de la Via. He was aware he would never be able to fill the shoes of Robert Bryar (currently residing in Chicago, USA; he exchanged letters with Gerard twice monthly) but goddammit, he had been such a kickass consgliere back in the day. Gerard had loved him, his husband had loved him, the men had loved him - Adam Rucetta was famed the world over for his torture techniques.
So, as consigliere, Adam had unlimited time to surround and protect Frank. At first he just thought it was simple, basic lust; the kid was fucking stunning, everyone knew that, male or female, gay or straight. But now...Adam had become obsessed with the boy. He dreamed of him, he longed to be with him, he was so friendly to Frank he was sure he would arrose suspicion. He imagined pinning the twenty nine year old down, stripping him to his bare, soft, milky skin, tying him up and watch those hazelnut eyes widen and dilate, his lips quiver and tremble. He had taken to brothels to try out his sexual imagery on some unlucky protitute; who was it who said that it's only a matter of time before fantasy becomes reality?
The thing that frustrated Adam to no fucking end was that Frank was completely sexually oblivious apart from his husband. It was like the kid turned fucking asexual when he wasn't with Gerard, which seemed like fuck - never.
Frank went goddamn everywhere with the Don. Or, if he wasn't with Gerard, he was in their bedroom, locked up and out of sight, studying or reading or resting or something. Adam would wake up and proceed down the stairs of the mansion and see Frank at the table, and he'd be talking to the Don. Laughing with him, hugging him, his head resting on his shoulder. Sitting in his lap, playing with his rings, (the ettiquette went that no one, fucking no one, was allowed to wear the Ring except the Don; Frank had worn it several times) tucking his nose into the fire - engine red locks of Adam's boss. The consigliere was in pain whenever he saw the boy with Way, hearing those soft, affectionate pet names (Adam couldn't look at a rabbit without hearing Frank's hiccup giggle) watching the Don's sharp, electric green irises sweep over the shorter man's form, assuring of his safety.
Rucetta had snitched on Frank's rape (both of which, had dually occured in LA, first in February in 1934, and then in January of the following year) in hope that it would not be able to trace the report and Frank would assume Gerard had betrayed him. They'd start fighting all the time, and once that got going, the plan would just fall into place. Gerard had such a temper it was surprising he hadn't had a mountain of husbands prior to Frank. He knew of Evan, and had met the solicitor once or twice, but that cunt was also argumentative- Frank was weak and not nearly as headstrong as the Don. Gerard would kill himself out of shame for hurting the boy and then bam, Rucetta moves in.
But he had forgotten one thing; you don't bite the hand that feeds ya, man. Especially when that hand is missing a finger, has several golden sparkling rings, and belongs to Gerard Way.
Goddamn, it had only been about two weeks after Rucetta had informed the highest officer to Il Duce about Frank's rape when Gerard had called him into his office. After that, he had been ostrasized by the boss and received such icy, frozen glares from Way he would feel physically cold. Gerard had told Frank about the snitching and now the boy had not looked the concellor in the eye for a week. Molko, who Adam always knew Gerard liked, was acting consigliere. He got to protect Frank now, which Adam found weird. Molko was what, like five seven, barely heavier than Frank. Also, that man was gayer than life itself. Rucetta was open and proud, but Jesus, that guy took liking guys to a whole new level.
Now, tonight, at the Way manor, there was a small gathering of Mafia bosses. Around twenty or thirty heavily jewelled, suited and botted men were smoking, drinking and chatting amiably among themselves in the huge foyer of the mansion. Rucetta was standing next to Molko at the entrace of the main hall, greeting bosses. Normally friendly and full of energy, Molko was now cold and severe. The Don, and therefore Frank, were nowhere to be seen yet.
"Brian," Adam said from the corner of his mouth, shaking Gio Sigalli's hand and smiling warmly. Gerard had probably told him too - Rucetta received an insolated glare. "Brian, man, you gotta stop with the silent treatment. It's killing me." He shrugged lightly. "You guys are doing a great job at it. I geddit, I feel like shit now."
"Really now?" Molko asked quietly, not meeting Rucetta's eye. He sipped at a glass of gin. Adam had asked for a bourbon with ice a half hour ago but had gotten nothing. "As shit as Frank feels?"
"Aw, c'mon, Molko," the taller man replied, frustrated. "I didn't think you'd be the one to play the fucking guilt card, now."
"Normally I don't," the captain answered him, hazel eyes steadily focused on another underboss that had just come in. Brian smiled, mumured 'pleasure' in Italian and shook his hand. "You're right, Adam, normally I don't. But, then again, I normally deal with your petty, shitty problems. You fucked a hooker and now Johnny's on your ass. Or you gambled away last month's salary and now you can't fucking buy a bottle of milk. Or you're hungover to fuck and I have to lie to the boss and say you're sick." Brian shook his head. "But not this time, Rucetta. I can take whores and extreme Vegas spending and lying to Gerard about you being an alcoholic - not that he believes me, of course - but snitching on Frankie to get in Mussolini's good books?" A pause. Molko finally turned to Adam and met his gaze. "That's fucking low."
"It was a mistake, okay? I made a fucking mistake. So fucking sue me. What, you telling me this buncha murdering cunts are fucking flawless-"
"Calm down, you fuck," Brian hissed, hand resting lightly on his Magnum, shoved in his belt. "People'll fucking think Gerard has an anger - management class drop - out as a consigliere. Jesus Christ."
"Don't you fucking tell me what to do, you fag, just because Gerard fucking likes you better-"
"HOW DARE YOU- you fucking bitch-" Molko snatched a breath, bright pink. "Just leave me the fuck alone. You asked me for my opinion on the subject, and I gave you it. And you're pretty fucking thick, you know that? Fucking gay guy calling me a fag."
Rucetta growled and caught Brian full in the face, his fist carrying out a sick, thick crunch against the captain's nose. Blood spurted from his nostril and he groaned loudly. The entire posse assembled in the main foyer let out a uniamous gasp and looked to the bleeding capogierme, the shaking consigliere. Adam felt a pang of attention and drew his gun from his belt, aiming at Brian's spinal chord, cripple him like the former consigliere of the Family.
He placed his finger on the trigger and pulled eight times. Scarlet poured from the other and splashed to the black tiled floor, the liquid thick and fluid. Rucetta felt his head spinning from the four fifths of vodka he'd had before the event, his vision swimming before him so that Brian and his injuries became nothing but a messy red blur. How did it come to this? Oh God, everyone was just staring at the consigliere pumping the capogierme full of lead, just watching Rucetta keep clicking the gun.
"CONSIGLIERE RUCETTA!" Gerard screeched suddenly. Adam gasped, and, stupidly, dropped his gun. It landed in Molko's growing pool of blood. The Don was standing at the foot of the stairs, his Colt drawn, his holster heavy with weapons. His voice was quivering with anger and rage. Maybe because Adam ruined his carpet, maybe because he's in love with Frank, maybe because he basically just killed the best capogierme. Way growled and cocked his trigger, stalking towards his councillor. Soon enough he was right up to Adam, nose to nose. Forty other members of the Cosa could only watch on in terrified anticipation. "What the FUCK do you think you're doing?!"
Adam saw him up close, his flourescent green eye, his tanned complexion, the little stitched sewing up his eyelid. The Don scowled and called out something in Italian; two men scuttled on the scene and began to dub the bleeding of the capogierme. Gerard pulled Adam up by the collar and did his very attractive trick of pulling a pen from his pocket and plunging it into Adam's eardrum.
He threw his consigliere to the ground and looked around.
"Robert!" He called, and Rucetta heard - with the little hearing he had - something rolling on the floor in the background. "Come, if you would, please."
THE RETURN OF CONSIGLIERE ROBERT TO THE MAFIA STORY FUCK YES