bigbeau
Level 0
Out-Of-Character (OOC) Section
IGN: MRWETHERBx2
Describe your activity on the server: I am active entirely daily, for several hours a day. I am usually on for a minimum of 3 hours, but it's usually ~4-6
Specify your Discord username and if you have a microphone: biggest__bee I have a microphone (I just use my phone) however I struggle with speaking to people in VCs. If it is necessary, then I will have no issue getting over it.
Specify your country of origin and time zone: USA, EST, LMNOPQRSTUV
What are your motivations in applying for the black market dealer role?
I've always been interested in CrimeRP due to its intriguing and antagonistic style. There's nothing better than getting one-up over somebody who tried screwing you over, or coming to a fruitful alliance with a freelancer, or manipulating the situation to get your way. It's a very intellectual venue for roleplay that allows - even encourages - deeper thought put into every action. Anything you do can and will be used against you, any friend you make is a potential enemy, and every enemy can be befriended. There is nothing that you cannot do to get your way, and there is nothing that others will not do to get theirs. This psychological aspect is what I like most of all, the fact that you must have a theory of mind for every potential antagonist, every current ally, and every so-called "neutral" observer. There's a tantalizing chaos to it all that I just can't get enough of.
I want to be a BMD to get closer to the action and provide a segue for my friends' storylines to get further, and to make new friends. I want to be the man on the side, witnessing every prolific group rise and fall whilst dealing them weapons. More than anything, I want to participate in these storylines instead of watching them play out. I want to run a criminal business, I want to have two helpful little BMDA, I want to make things happen, for myself and, most of all, for others.
What sets you apart from other applicants & what can you uniquely provide to the team?
I always hate questions like this, because how am I meant to accurately represent myself? A bad applicant might lie, a good one might be overhumble. I'd like to think I'm not the type to misrepresent myself in either direction, but I can't be sure, so I had a few friends help me out. After mulling it over, we came up with willingness to learn, willingness to cooperate, and agency as potential answers to the first question.
I know that I am not a perfect writer, and I know that nobody can be. We are all learning from one-another, and I am acutely aware of this. In fact, it has even caused me to befriend an in-character enemy, Katsuo D'Amore, on an OOC level, despite us both actively working to ruin each other in-character, and I often hit him up with things I've written.
I also find myself cooperating with others in- and out-of-character in pursuit of a better story. As an example of in-character cooperation, my character is good friends with Marella Doan-Daemmer, and our two characters often cooperate with one-another out of mere kindness because we realize it helps both of us advance in our respective stories. As for out-of-character cooperation, I have many friends I hit up when I have a question regarding the server's history, rules, or GangRP etiquette. The first name that comes to mind is MRWETHERB (thanks fella <3).
What previous experience do you have in working with a team?
I have quite a bit of experience working with a team, thanks in no small part to MRWETHERB, AKA "Mercato" Di Maiori. He approached me when I was fairly new, still on my first (and now shelved) character, Bee Nakamura, and gave me a job. I made fairly good money, and throughout this he and I became pretty good friends on an OOC level too. After a month or so of working for him as Bee, he asked if I'd like to play his brother, Savo. We determined Savo's character together in a few calls, and that's where he asked if I'd like to co-lead his new family, Di Maiori. I said yes almost immediately, because I had been looking for a roleplay scenario befitting of my experiences on past RP forums. This means I became a co-leader about two or three months after joining, and thus I spent about six months in the position so far. It is here where I refined how to present myself to others in a manner that exudes confidence, where I learnt how to properly explain my ideals in-character, and where I made many great friends who looked up to me as a leader - not just in-character, but also out-of-character.
I mentioned roleplay forums, so let me elaborate: I was an active member on a rather small forum for roleplay for approximately two years before losing my account, which is when I began searching for other venues. I was never a proper main character (who even is a main character in a collaborative environment?) but I was fairly active and usually the first of my small group to take initiative when some sort of event happened, or when the daily prompt dropped. In the end, I am glad that I lost my account - if I hadn't, I wouldn't have found SRP. I appreciate how open-world roleplay is in Minecraft.
In real life, I have rather robust experience working as a manger for a group of contractors as well as an advisor to my politically-active father. It is through these experiences I learned how to best orate and direct others to do their proper part, and to properly answer each question.
What suggestions do you have to help better the crime faction?
The first and most important suggestion I have is for a full reform of combat.
We must add the "unwritten rules" of CombatRP to the forums, and just an overall rehaul of CombatRP as a whole. For example, I wish to add a concrete list of actions you may do in any game state (sitting, behind, sitting AND behind, etc.) so that new players no longer need to learn, relearn, and further RELEARN the rules of combat from old players, who themselves had to learn from others, who learnt from others... As an example, if you are behind somebody your attacks automatically hit. This is stated nowhere in the rules, but you will be punished for not following it. Furthermore, I have been told by some players that grabs must ALWAYS be rolled, even if you're behind somebody. From others I have heard that you mustn't always roll for grabs. From some I hear that you can constantly spam /grab when you're not in a chase, and from others, the opposite. We absolutely need a concrete list of combat flow that outlines precisely what somebody can and cannot do in every given state. This will, of course, require a lot of balancing and talking to the community, but it will be worth the effort. Below I have catalogued a list of common combat actions/states that are not explained in the rules - but are followed like gospel by the greater playerbase - just as an example of what I would like to one day see.
My next suggestion is the addition of a new weapon: the Tonfa.
TONFA
PRICE: 85kRANGE: 2 blocks
K.O. (HOW MANY HITS?): 3 hits
- You may enter a defensive stance if you have a Tonfa in each hand, allowing you to block bludgeoning attacks on your turn, wherein you must dedicate an action + a roll to the attempt. You cannot attack while in a defensive stance, and it takes an action to switch between offensive and defensive. In an offensive stance, Tonfa act as a long-range fist, requiring three hits to K.O..
PERMISSIONS REQUIRED? : Minors
How would this work?
Example:
Tyler Brown punched Tom Brown
Tyler Brown rolled 150 out of 150
Tom Brown rolled 149 out of 150
Tom Brown attempts to block the punch
Tom Brown rolled 150 out of 150
Tyler Brown rolled 1 out of 150
Result: Attack blocked, but it took Tom's turn.
Tyler Brown rolled 150 out of 150
Tom Brown rolled 149 out of 150
Tom Brown attempts to block the punch
Tom Brown rolled 150 out of 150
Tyler Brown rolled 1 out of 150
Result: Attack blocked, but it took Tom's turn.
Tonfa are unique in that their primary use is defensive, and are meant to be used as a pair. There is not yet a weapon that is particularly meant to be used in a dual-wielding manner, and I feel that this is a good way to mechanically implement such a weapon, given that they do not provide offensive benefit. This would be the perfect weapon for guards and characters who are adept at martial arts, but not particularly violent. Tonfa would also be entirely legal to own and carry, much like how some characters carry bo staves. In addition, Tonfa cannot be mugged through regular means, which gives the Sai more utility when, for example, attempting to break into a turf. It'd also add more complexity and depth to people's formations when breaking in - who should go first, the guys with weapons or the guys with Sais? If the weapon guys go first, how will they deal with the potential Tonfa-wielding guards?
My last suggestion would be a new criminal business called The Masquerade.
Its purpose would be to drum up street cred for gangs as a whole. This would be characterized by fake street fights to draw the attention of a crowd, unrealistically theatrical "gang wars," all, of course, carried out in a sort of costume with a cool new mask. Fight Club but for the street, carrying out acts of a play for the viewing of all the town, at any random possible time. The main draw would be that all of the actors are true actors, belonging not to any specific gang, but rather to the underworld as a whole. It could become a foster-family troupe for those who want to be involved in GangRP without the out-of-character stress that is maintaining reputation and keeping track of permissions.
As an example of an event, we'd have two groups parading around Karakura in full costume and mask. The one group would be the Kitsune, and the other, the Bakeneko. The Kitsune, of course, would be in foxlike garb and the Bakenko in something fitting a monster cat. They would parade opposite ways around the city, meeting directly in front of plaza, where they would begin to stir trouble. The leader of the Kitsune would spit at the feet of the Bakeneko's leader, and then the two parties would begin to fight in pre-written DetailRP, complete with dramatic dialogue.
What purpose is The Masquerade? Ego and influence, because when you can control the narrative, you control everything.
As an example of an event, we'd have two groups parading around Karakura in full costume and mask. The one group would be the Kitsune, and the other, the Bakeneko. The Kitsune, of course, would be in foxlike garb and the Bakenko in something fitting a monster cat. They would parade opposite ways around the city, meeting directly in front of plaza, where they would begin to stir trouble. The leader of the Kitsune would spit at the feet of the Bakeneko's leader, and then the two parties would begin to fight in pre-written DetailRP, complete with dramatic dialogue.
What purpose is The Masquerade? Ego and influence, because when you can control the narrative, you control everything.
Are you familiar with all rules pertaining to weapon profiles, combat, permissions, and player conduct on the server?
Yes.
Are you familiar with that if you leave the black market at any point, the black market lead will have permanent kill permissions on your character?
Yes.
Are you familiar with that if your character(s) is/are killed or permanently arrested twice, you will be removed from the black market?
Yes.
Are you familiar with that you cannot reveal any out-of-character plans or potential additions to the black market to others?
Yes.
In-Character (IC) Section
Full Legal Name: Savo adjusted his glasses, peering through a thick cloud of dust at the masked individual sitting before him. Behind this individual were two others, clad in full ballistic with matching polearms. A glance apiece, then gaze returned frontally to the interviewer, whose hands were wrapped in gloves, which were studded with rivets. Savo took a breath, hands calmly coming to clasp behind the back of his chair. "Savo Di Maiori. It is a proper Italian name, you know."
Criminal Alias: "Sovrano," Savo quipped without a second thought, without a moment's hesitation.
Age & Occupation: Savo allowed himself a slight, ever-so-smug smirk. Seemed to be his resting expression. "Twenty-six years of age, as of whenever my birthday was, which I do not know without my birth certificate on-hand. Though I suppose it is bad form to present such files to individuals of your sort? Ha."
Gender & Marital Status: Whatever humor the man had brought himself on the last question quickly disintegrated, tone deigning not to express any of the sorrow he felt. " "Male. Formerly married, currently divorced." The corners of his lips twitched down momentarily. "Things, ah, did not work out. Lovely lady, she was."
Ethnicity & Race: "Italian, Caucasian," Savo answered, a cloud still hanging around him.
Known Languages: "Father ensured I learnt both my mother tongue, Italian, and Japanese." He put his palms up in mock surrender. "Yes, Japanese. I know."
Former Associations/Occupations: "I suppose I could say my Family back in Italy." Savo nodded once. "Yes, just them, though I hardly even speak to them. And I've no former occupations, unless you count cheap summer jobs under Father."
Highest Level of Education: Savo laughed dryly. "High-school. Never saw much point in pursuing higher education when our line of work is so... simple."
Physical/Mental ailments: N/A
Known Family Members:
Mercato Di Maiori
"Always has been my favorite Brother."
Pietra Di Maiori
"Insufferable cow. Absolute lamp. Despise this Brother, though I once was quite fond."
Ao Di Maiori
"Blessed Sister. She is our purest and most sociable sibling."
Dusem Di Maiori
"A woman as troubled as the Eastern sea. She gave up a lot for us."
Spoon Di Maiori
"I feel as though I've known him my entire life, yet it has not yet been a month."
Samuel Broda-Di Maiori
"Same with him. Bless, bless, bless - three blessings for Samuel."
Describe your character's appearance to the greatest detail: Savo's figure is striking in its put-togetherness: perfectly tailored clothes hug his slender frame, suits and capes tailored to a man both tall and small at once. He is neither muscular nor broad, shoulders hardly bearing greater heft than a lamb, musculature lost even to the folds of a well-made dress shirt. His expression is always remarkably flat - whether that be through training or mere genetics one could not say - and his brows rarely raise in surprise or questioning. There are often glasses perched upon his nose, the simple sort meant to be worn without flare or virtue: the glasses of a secretary or an accountant, framed in black plastic, cheap yet clean. His hands rest neatly at his back, simultaneously giving the air of an erudite and a man who need not take his own notes. He has neat black locks, trimmed to perfection and without even a single split or gray hair.
Describe your character's appearance to the greatest detail: Savo is a man of control, both in demeanor and action. He rarely allows his expression to shift out of neutrality, rarely shifts from a monotone, and rarely expresses strong body language, but when he does he makes an act out of it. He is clinical by necessity and a showman by choice: if ever he is granted the opportunity to play a role other than that of the withdrawn negotiator, he does so with gusto. His want for control often causes him to spiral if he does not have full understanding and influence over a situation, manifesting in a constant, frustrated tapping of his foot or the impatient rolling of his shirt's hem.
Describe your character's backstory to the greatest detail:
Sicily, 2000
It was 0058, a time normally quiet and free of spectacle, the greatest disturbance being the occasional critter or vagrant rustling through garbage scraps. Certainly, all families seemed at rest, the busiest sounds being bakers setting up for tomorrow's opening, secretaries handling calls in hushed tones, or accountants mindlessly scribbling income reports. Excepting, of course, the immediate family of Sovrano Di Maiori. His brothers were sprinting to find any open shop so that they might buy water, his sisters were comforting his wife in heavy labor, and his son, who would one day be called Mercato, was tended to by some unimportant, and now dead, uncle.
The family hadn't expected such heavy labor — hadn't expected twins. It was 0138, and the twins that would one day be named Savo and Vero were finally born. They were identical: each had the same face, eyes, nose, reactions; it was something as of yet unseen in the family, for none were believed to hold the genes for twins. Belief doesn't matter: Sovrano believed the two were blessings from the Lord.
Sicily, 2007
Savo, or rather, the boy who would become Savo, knew nothing. He understood that perfectly well — how could one know anything? He could read and write, but of course, he could. Everybody can. He thought of himself as average, and to be average is a sin in the eyes of this seven-year-old. To be average, Savo thought, would mean one could never become. To become, in his mind, was to be of use to Father. He saw how Mercato was treated; the jobs, the praise, the intrigue. He cursed his twin as readily as Superego bruised Id: not a day passed that he did not envy his twin's perceived stupidity, his ease of engaging as though he were greater and not lesser. Delusion, Savo realized, was the simplest way to elevate oneself in one's own eyes, though at the cost of the image cast to others.
He was, of course, too young to read into it any further beyond 'he is stupid, so he thinks he is smart.' Sovrano recognized Savo's independence from his Brother as a blessing, as a helpful divergence willed by the Lord Almighty for easier use. How often is one given an actor and a realist from the same womb, at the same time? How often, he asked himself, does a man of stature have a child so unwilling to act as a greater?
It was with this in mind that Sovrano set the twins to train under two separate men: Tommy above Savo, Alfredo above Vero. Savo knew not what Vero was made to do, nor did he have any interest, for his sole purpose, at least at that time, was to learn from Tommy. He had an answer for every question, a tale for every moral, and he even allowed Savo to, for a short period each day, research whatever it was he wanted. His days were set in a pleasant structure for several years: reading, foreign languages, mathematics, biology, then a free period. Interspaced throughout were diversions that Tommy “two-times” (a name he was given because he said everything twice) saw as worthwhile, such as explanations of the Greater Family's history or lectures on the proper cadence to hold when speaking to a group. "Put your proper shoes on, proper shoes on," Tommy stuttered, buttoning a waistcoat. "We are going on a walk."
Savo nodded vigorously, then meandered off to procure socks and shoes. "What's the occasion?"
"Contractions."
"What is the occasion?" Savo corrected.
It was uncommon for Tommy to take Savo out on proper outings. The most he had gotten in the past was a ten-minute walk to drop a note off to a strange man. "Figure you would do well with a proper overview - proper overview, kid." The man led the boy out of the house, down an unbusy road.
"Him," Tommy pointed to a middle-aged man with a stained white shirt. "Small Jim, un Uomo D'Onore. Tell me what that means - what that means, kid."
"He was made," Savo uttered in practiced staccato.
"Who chose him? Who did he swear on? What will happen if he acts against your father?"
"Father, a Saint, death."
"Now, what happens if he is hurt? Whose fault is that?"
"His...?" Savo paused.
"Yours. Mine. Your Father's. A man's mistake is not his own when surrounded by Brothers."
The two came up on a confectionery dealing in all manner of sweets, be it proper taffy or sugar bombs. It held an awning in front of its meager door, extending perhaps two or three feet into the walk, covering hardly enough space to fit two men shoulder-to-shoulder in width. The awning itself was made of a scarred and sun-bleached canvas that looked as though it had originally been striped red and yellow. The door was made of relatively new glass, and appeared to have been cleaned recently. The confectionery itself was properly maintained, if a bit old.
The pair entered the shop, and Tommy immediately beset the cashier. After a clipped, tense conversation, the cashier held out an envelope. Tommy expressed empty gratitude, then pulled Savo out of the door. The entire interaction, by Savo's estimation, lasted only fifty or sixty seconds, yet they 'won.' Tommy passed the note to Savo. "They are Associates, and that is our due."
Associates, as Savo understood them, merely paid Father for the right to exist. Such as the Family presented them, however, were paying for loyal “protection” from mishaps. Quite nearly any small store was an Associate, at least the ones Savo was allowed to frequent, such as the confectionery and bakery. There, he was treated as a sacred lamb. He did not like that. Truthfully, Savo did not like the idea of an 'Associate' at all, though he would be lying if he claimed to care enough to invoke change.
"Kid," Tommy snapped his fingers. "Quit staring off, staring off."
"Sorry, sir."
Tommy stopped walking, pulling Savo to a stop. "You have a thousand in that envelope, thousand in that envelope. Look around. You are a child; it would be nothing for someone to kill you." Tommy squeezed Savo's shoulder. "Even I could, right now. Understand? You did not choose this life, but the life chose you. You need to look out for yourself, look out for yourself." Savo nodded once. The two returned home.
—
Tommy neither asked nor allowed Savo to do his regular testing when they arrived, instead ushering the boy immediately to Father's office. Off to the side, there was a stiff couch with red cushions, opposite an oaken bookshelf, which stood with many well-worn volumes on a variety of academic subjects. In the center, of course, was Father, seated at his desk. The man held a heavy frame, his broad shoulders overcome only by the padding of his dress coat. Ornamenting his left hand were an array of rings of styled rings, all plated with either gold or silver, while his right had only a classical wedding band adhering to it.
Tommy and Father exchanged nods, then Tommy simply left.
"Salutations, Father," Savo dipped his head, then went to sit down in front of the desk, sliding the envelope across. "Why did you have Tommy take me out
today? For what purpose am I brought here?"
Father smiled warmly, setting aside the envelope and putting his full focus on his son. "For context, dear [REDACTED]. Put more aptly, as a bit of ceremony! Consider yourself done with the books and the numbers and the hypotheticals. Your formal education is complete, and now you will act as an assistant to Salvatore, a Capodecina. Think of it as shadowing, though with the allowance of speaking up, should you have anything of worth to say."
Savo began an irritating tap-tap-tap on the desk's surface, a habit born of suppressed anxiety.
Father continued, "[REDACTED], you will be leaving." He slid a small batch of files 'cross the countertop, and with that, Savo's heart began pounding. "This is Salvatore's mission, and by proxy, yours. I expect you to have it memorized by tomorrow; it holds all the information you need. I gave Salvatore extensive details regarding what he will do in Savona, so I expect you to listen intently. Ah, and one more thing..." Father produced a small blade from a drawer, tapered to a point and unhilted, its thin handle a mere two inches for the blade's three. An alley-job, as those in the Family called it. Father handed it to Savo, handle-first.
A nervous excitement reverberated from the handle of the knife to Savo's core, and he couldn't suppress a grin. To be gifted such a pretty little blade, merely for existing! But then, he realized, does that not imply he may have to use it? The thought soured his expression immediately.
"I'll-"
"Contractions."
"I will have to use it, will I not? Will I? Will I?" A worried treble pervaded through Savo's voice.
"What? Question: What purpose would a pan serve if not to cook? Answer: none. I hope you do not have to use it, but you will eventually. It is best to be prepared when the day comes."
Savo nodded, then stuck it between his belt and pants. It was nearly too short. "Sorry, Father. I'll- I will keep it close." He suppressed a frown. Why must Father move so fast? Why, Savo thought, must he be sent off? He had grown rather fond of his books and numbers. Admittedly, he hadn't learned much in the past year compared to those before, but even so, he was still learning!
"What are you waiting for? Go off, be off, scamper off — you need to read, then to pack. I will send Salvatore to your room sometime in the next... whenever, to speak with you regarding the objective of your little trip. Ah, and spend some time with your Mother. Maybe the last time for a while."
With this, Savo meandered out, then across the hall. He must have been wearing his worry across his sleeve, because Tommy grew a deep frown as Savo passed by. Alas, Savo could not force himself to make conversation, nor to ask for guidance. He was certain he'd shed tears if he tried speaking in earnest, and so he beelined straight for his room, where he began reading the file over.
It was only a few pages, and the plan itself was left vague in many areas to allow for divergence. The skinny of it, as Savo concluded, was for Salvatore to collect intel on the 'Ndrangheta syndicate presence in Savona, assess whether they were a threat to Cosa Nostra, and if they were, do away with them. Savo's role was to observe and accomplish small tasks for the benefit of the investigation. To Savo's ear, this seemed to mean he was expected to fetch coffee and pastry.
Savo did not want to leave. He wished to continue learning under Tommy, to spend time with Father, to endlessly dawdle in the comfort of his home. Advancement, to him, meant furthering his formal education until it was doubtless that he wouldn't bring the Family down.
Of course, a child is subject to his Father's whims. He and Salvatore spoke, then, after a bit of celebration several days later, shoved off to Savona.
Savona, July 2013
The group consisted of Salvatore, Savo, and ten Soldiers, and they arrived in Savona in staggered fashion. The Capodecina and his shadow shared a small house, and each Soldier numbered two per house available. They seemed remarkably cheap, floorboards creaking loudly and easily, water damage around sinks, in some cases warped floorboards... which is not to mention their location, each of the six houses in poor areas up to an hour's walk away from each other. It was here that Savo settled into a routine with Salvatore.
Salvatore was not a particularly friendly man, though he was kind enough. Savo noted that he was often left the slightly better steak, the less-burnt potato, and nigh-always was the first to season what was made. Despite this, Salvatore was gruff, speaking in a low, irritated tone most times, and, to Savo's delight, always had some menial task for the boy to do, or some obvious lesson regarding mundane situations.
Once, the man went on a long-winded tangent about the importance of 'remaining conscious and aware' throughout the day, merely because the boy had splashed some water out of his cup after being startled. Savo did not remember what was said, nor did he have any particular takeaway about the message itself, though he did leave feeling rather confused and, to a lesser extent, irritated that he had just wasted twenty minutes of his life listening to a thirty-year-old man speak as though he were eighty.
That was not the only malignant undertone biting away at Savo. He was often left out of situations, sequestered off to the side as though he were more a liability than an asset, as though he were a chore to keep around. He was inclined to agree with this idea, though that did not mean he enjoyed doing nothing. Only on rare occasions was he even allowed to listen in on what was being discussed, what information was gathered that day, what was to be done next. Salvatore did not even allow him to meander around town, citing safety concerns.
Savona, July 2014
Savo was tasked with retrieving another espresso for Salvatore. That is when he first saw the girl.
She was young, perhaps a year older than Savo, seated at a table and nibbling quietly at a confection, with flaxen hair that sat in a neat ponytail above her shoulders. She was, to Savo's eye, a few centimeters taller than himself, though, it was a hard thing to gauge when she was sitting several meters away, mildly slouched.
He quickly moved on to the counter. Order, cash, espresso, then he was off; the boy did not spare her a second thought. The next day, Salvatore sent him for another espresso. The man was developing an addiction, Savo dryly thought, though he did as he was told and shoved off to the cafe to order the same strong, obscene-tasting shot.
The girl was there again, this time with a book.
Savo began to notice her there just about every day, either a book in hand or a pastry, but never both at once, always in the same corner seat. Perhaps she began recognizing him, too, for Savo, on more than one occasion, saw, just out of the corner of his eye, the girl peeking over her book, or looking past her scone. He never could tell what her gaze was indicative of. Some days, she was curious. Others, suspicious. Yet even others, merely bored.
But she looked often enough that Savo always checked to see if she was there before ordering Salvatore's espresso, internally justifying it by telling himself she might be a threat, a daughter of whichever 'drina operated out of Savona, tasked with keeping tabs on specifically him, when he went to retrieve specifically the same espresso day-to-day. What use was there in this? Verily, he found none. Even so, Savo found it awfully odd how the girl was so consistent and always glanced at him. Yet, he thought, does he not do the same?
This continued for a year, neither striking up conversation, nor taking more than one day off at a time, nor changing in routine. Savo hardly learnt from Salvatore in this time, though he did get awfully good at walking a short distance once or twice per day, and even better at the basic arithmetic the man imposed upon him in the form of accounting. What a skill, Salvatore must have thought; what a proper, illustrious skill. Surely this is all that this boy, whom I was tasked to teach, needs to learn.
Savona, August 15th, 2015, approximately 11 A.M
A day burned into Savo's memory.
Whilst procuring Salvatore's daily dose, and, thereby glancing at the girl, he noticed something different. She was staring. What a sin, Savo criticized, what a sin it was to break their routine with something so blatant! They were both to at least pretend to be inconspicuous for the sake of remaining unchanged! And why, now that she was staring, would Savo not be able to take comfort in it! It was ruined. The routine was broken beyond repair.
"You are here every day," the girl said, freezing Savo on his way out. Now she was speaking! And in such a proper, articulated cadence, which, Savo entertained, was not entirely unlike his own.
"As are you," came his seconds-delayed response. Something about the way she stared at him was throwing him off.
"And you always order an espresso, but you never drink it in-store." She smirked; she was reveling in throwing Savo into discourse, in calling him out.
"You always order a scone, but never when you have your book with you," Savo sneered in return. "Moreover, it is always a strawberry cream cheese scone, excepting when they are sold out, in which case you simply order a coffee."
She was not left stunned as Savo was hoping, but rather, delighted. She broadened her smile and beckoned Savo over, patting a chair. Savo believed himself to have two options: ignore her, thereby shattering any hope at rebuilding their routine, or humor her, thereby shattering any hope at rebuilding their routine. Seeing it was a lose-lose situation, he decided to humor her. There was no point in being uncivil when he had nothing else to do besides staff Salvatore.
"What's your name?"
"Savo," he replied, though indeed, it was a lie.
"How proper! A boy named Savo who lives in Savona... I am Francesca."
"How proper."
The two spoke, for a time, of the day they had been having. They both lied, of course, as is expected by the socially aware. Then, they spoke more deeply of the little routine they had designed, of how each had nigh-never not noticed the other, how consistent they each were in their respective activities. It left Savo feeling rather uneasy, realizing that others could be as acute as he, and could be five times as blunt about it. The girl spouted off a matter of things that Savo had not even caught himself doing: the way he always glanced to the left as he entered and exited, the manner in which he held his head higher when speaking to the barista, among countless other small habits.
It was disgusting, Savo thought between conversation, that he was so easily read. He figured himself appearing average, though he had not a single characteristic, according to the girl's acute observation, that was not unique in some way. A tuft of his hair stuck up at his hair whorl. He stepped with a particular favor to his left leg. His hands were always clasped behind his back, and his fingers would twiddle when he ordered. How humiliating, how terribly humiliating!
Yet, despite his irritation with Francesca for breaking their routine, despite his utter disdain for his habits, he found himself intrigued with her observation, her snark, and, though he would not yet admit it to himself, her. The two began a new, nervous routine, speaking for one or several minutes daily before Savo returned to Salvatore. Some days, it was a clipped, "morning," and others, they went on to talk for ten minutes. Regardless, it left Savo thoughtful, and, begrudgingly, smiling. On one of these occasions, Salvatore took notice.
"Why are you late? And you're grinning like a bat every time you come back. I haven't had a proper, timely espresso in a month. What are you doing?"
"What do you-"
"I’m not playing games with you," Salvatore interrupted. "Just tell me. You wasting money on some kind of treat?"
"I was speaking to a girl at the cafe I get your espresso from," he truthed, though begrudgingly. This was, to Savo's mind, none of Salvatore's business. What matter was it to him if he was smiling? And did he slip into withdrawals if his daily caffeine shot was a few minutes late?
"Oh." Salvatore calmed down immediately, satisfied that Savo was not indulging in dough. "Ah, shit. I don't care what you do, but if you want to talk to her, do it after bringing my espresso back. Guess it's healthy to have some sort of diversion, anyhow." The man paused, downing his espresso. "I'll have a Soldier look into her a bit. I suppose you gave her a fake name, yes? And what was her name?"
"I told her I was named Savo, and her name is, apparently, Francesca. I have not told her anything nearly personal."
"Right. Alright. Write out a quick description of her and slip it to Sofia next time you pass her by."
"For what purpose?"
"Precaution. If she happened to be daughter of a known killer, wouldn't you rather know before becoming buddy-buddy?" Despite initially imagining her as an enemy, Savo realized he had not even considered the possibility since they began speaking. To him, the Francesca that he looked forward to conversing with every day was not the same as the girl who had curiously watched him, and whom he had curiously watched. Suppose it to himself, she could very well be a daughter of some boss, heiress to a clan, sister to a killer.
Savo nodded, and Salvatore exchanged his gratitude, then Savo meandered off to write up a page on Francesca. He included the boring details such as estimated height, weight, hair color... But also her consistency at the cafe, her observant mannerisms, and the little details he picked up over that year of watching her. Not signed, but sealed and thence delivered, to Soldier Sofia. Specifically, he, with the practiced grace of a boy who had been doing such activities daily for a year, slipped it into her pocket as they passed each other in a crowd, something Salvatore, in his infinite — and justified — paranoia, required to prevent being spotted obviously passing notes.
And time passed. Days, to weeks, to a month. Savo was permitted by Salvatore to return to the cafe after he delivered the espresso, and even, on occasion, as a reward for timely accounting, was given a few euros. It was enough, as Savo soon learnt, to purchase two scones and a coffee. His days consisted of jogging to the cafe, jogging back to his and Salvatore's house, then, again, to the cafe, where he purchased a scone each for Francesca and himself, and a coffee. Of course, he could not afford the treats without Salvatore's generosity, and Salvatore was not generous unless Savo was quick with his accounting, and so, daily, after he and Francesca had spoken for anywhere from one to three hours, he worked at jotting, erasing, rejotting, and adding.
He was in such a frenzy trying to complete the allotted work and earn the pocket change that he hardly noticed that the Greater Famiglia was granting their operation an even greater budget, and, on top of that, that Salvatore was utilizing the whole of it, with debt on the side. Each Soldier, of course, had their pay, but then there were odd little deductions under random names. "Rabbit expense." "Luxury tax." "Worker's compensation." These entries, as Savo knew, were cover names used instead of bluntly outing "bombs" and "illegal firearms" so as not to leave a paper trail for investigators.
But the entries were multiplying. Ten entries for rabbit expense. Fifteen for luxury tax. In the year past, there would only be several entries for each false name, though now it seemed as though all the work he put in was deducting thirty instances of supposed "workers' compensation" from debit. Were they planning a genuine attack? Or were these all bribes and protections?
Savo had not the desire to read into it; his day was better spent speaking to his new friend. Savo supposed that was the best word for her, though the realization irritated him to no end. A proper friend, but under guise of a false name, in the context of an investigation into Savona's underworld. He found it distasteful. Any, he thought, would find it distasteful.
Then, after a month and some change, Sofia snuck into his house late at night to speak to Salvatore. Savo heard them speaking quietly for a time, then heard Salvatore laugh. It was a raspy, unpleasant laugh. The laugh of a fat man, of a smoker and of a man quickly aged.
Savona, September 18th, 2015 – 10 p.m.
"The girl-" Sofia began, her high-pitched voice nearly crescendoing into a laugh, "is a Zunino. A Zunino!"
"What?" Savo stared, though it was a question of shock rather than confusion, perhaps even dismay; perhaps, further, excitement. The Zunino were a clan operating out of Savona. They were righteous men, men befitting valor; men, one might hazard to say, destined for greatness. Up-and-coming though they were, they were an ambitious sort, with a strong character and an even stronger leadership. One of the fathers, Giacomo Zunino, was unofficially revered as the top of leadership. "What?" he repeated.
"And," Sofia continued, "granddaughter to Giacomo Zunino." It was too dark to see her face, though it was obvious from the woman's voice that she was positively beaming. Savo could neither smile nor frown, nor could he even think.
"But why would someone so important spend all day in such a public venue? A cafe?"
"That's another fun bit — the owner-barrista is an associate of theirs. I watched for several days, and when she decides to get a scone, she never pays for it. She even took payment from him and levied it upon her father."
"But then, no, but then-" Savo cut himself off. "What," he restarted, "does that mean for me? Am I to cease contact?" Savo silently thanked the Lord that the lights were off and that Sofia could not see that he wore an expression befitting a kicked dog.
Francesca was a girl living in Savona. She was observant and playful, with shining blonde hair. To Savo's eye, she was even quite pretty. To Savo's soul, she was his best and only friend, and, perhaps, even his romantic interest, yet this was only a conclusion he would later come to. To Savo's mind, she was at least as intelligent as he, and this was considering that he regarded himself as at least as intelligent as Father. To Savo's ear, she sang beautiful arias. To Savo's hand, she was soft.
To Savo's teacher, though, she was unnecessary. Savo's eyes poured so that he did not see. Savo's soul was seared so that he would not feel. Savo's mind was quieted so that he would not think. Savo's ears were deafened so that he would not hear her scream. To Savo's hand, she was soft.
Savona, September 18th, 2015, 8 p.m. – Two hours earlier
"Silence, child. You are [REDACTED] Di Maiori. How will you deny us this — how will your father react?" Salvatore spat at Savo's feet, not deigning to meet his measly gaze. "You complain and complain about doing nothing, yet refuse to utilize the trust you've built when the Family needs it most?"
Savo could not think, nor refute, nor rebuke. He had nothing in him but flame, and that flame was so tempered just to retain face. He steeled himself, then found his limbs growing weak and weary. He could not bring himself to strike Salvatore. Only, he nodded in singular.
Giacomo Zunino's daughter pleaded to a deaf audience, her sole witness a boy whose ears rang with blood and guilt, guilt that would fester and corrupt, transmute and transform, and finally, after years, quiet enough to ignore. The sixteen-year-old boy had just carried out his first hit. He hugged Giacomo's daughter as crimson pooled around them, both collapsed, and the girl did hold him, whimpering and pleading, though once again, Savo did not let himself hear her.
Sicily, October 11th, 2016 – 9 p.m.
There was a lively celebration at Father Di Maiori's main house: crimson balloons strung about, ribbons of red teasing the open air, and an array of drinks. Savo and his Brothers, Mercato and Vero, were attending, likewise were Tommy, Salvatore, several of the most notable Soldiers from Savo's operation in Savona, and then a handful of presumed soldiers Savo did not recognize. He would later learn that these men and women were Soldiers from Vero's mission in Verona.
"People!" Father called, tapping a spoon against a glass to beckon silence. "We are here today to celebrate our brilliant victories in the cities of Savona and Verona! We come to thank Salvatore for leading, Sofia for obtaining important information, and [REDACTED] for destabilizing the Zunino clan. Without their combined effort, we would have surely failed." Father went on to address Vero's mission, though Savo tuned out.
"For the effort of both of my brilliant sons, we reward them with gray names. No longer shall they be [REDACTED] and [REDACTED], but Savo and Vero, after their success in bringing the clans of either city to a sit-down with the Family. May the Father bless them, may the Son forgive them, and may the Spirit forever inhabit them. Amen."
Amen, they all said. A cruel joke at his expense, Savo was forced to present as his faux-name at all times. The name he had chosen for Francesca — the name for Francesca. Francesca's own Savo.
For all his effort, he had not an inkling how the situation came to resolve itself, nor why Francesca was meant to die. All he knew was that, at seventeen years old, he knew the knife longer than the girl, and Father longer than Savona.
Sicily, October 11th, 2016 – 11 p.m.
The crowd had left, and the wine had all been poured, and his housekeeper was left to clean. The brothers, all three, stood before Father’s desk, clad in corresponding official wear.
“You have all made me proud, you know,” Father began, walking around his mahogany-placed desk to directly address his sons. “You have each been successful in your provided duties, greatly expanding the Family’s reign in our mother home.
Indeed, the Family will prosper from this.” He stood first before Mercato, in level eye contact, to grip and tighten Mercato’s tie. Then, he recurred, doing the same to Vero, then to Savo.
“But!” Father paused, closing the circle around back to his seat, producing a thick file from a drawer. “You are not finished. In fact, hardly at all.” He smiled, Mercato mirroring his familiar, sly, perhaps saccharine grin. It was difficult, Savo always thought, to decipher quite what the smile meant. It was also difficult, in their likeness, to discern the smile between Mercato and Father’s features.
“Your new assignment, as it always will be from hereon, is foreign expansion,” he went on. “Japan, though small, and the city of Karakura, even smaller than that of Savona or Verona, is the key to the Family’s absolute power.” Father opened the folder, reaching the top page to Mercato as he passed it along. “You will begin by June of the next year, and you two,” he pointed to the twins, “will follow every command of Mercato. Just as you have before. Indeed, you will three be prosperous and powerful, and may God guide your success. Amen.”
And the three said amen.
It was 0058, a time normally quiet and free of spectacle, the greatest disturbance being the occasional critter or vagrant rustling through garbage scraps. Certainly, all families seemed at rest, the busiest sounds being bakers setting up for tomorrow's opening, secretaries handling calls in hushed tones, or accountants mindlessly scribbling income reports. Excepting, of course, the immediate family of Sovrano Di Maiori. His brothers were sprinting to find any open shop so that they might buy water, his sisters were comforting his wife in heavy labor, and his son, who would one day be called Mercato, was tended to by some unimportant, and now dead, uncle.
The family hadn't expected such heavy labor — hadn't expected twins. It was 0138, and the twins that would one day be named Savo and Vero were finally born. They were identical: each had the same face, eyes, nose, reactions; it was something as of yet unseen in the family, for none were believed to hold the genes for twins. Belief doesn't matter: Sovrano believed the two were blessings from the Lord.
Sicily, 2007
Savo, or rather, the boy who would become Savo, knew nothing. He understood that perfectly well — how could one know anything? He could read and write, but of course, he could. Everybody can. He thought of himself as average, and to be average is a sin in the eyes of this seven-year-old. To be average, Savo thought, would mean one could never become. To become, in his mind, was to be of use to Father. He saw how Mercato was treated; the jobs, the praise, the intrigue. He cursed his twin as readily as Superego bruised Id: not a day passed that he did not envy his twin's perceived stupidity, his ease of engaging as though he were greater and not lesser. Delusion, Savo realized, was the simplest way to elevate oneself in one's own eyes, though at the cost of the image cast to others.
He was, of course, too young to read into it any further beyond 'he is stupid, so he thinks he is smart.' Sovrano recognized Savo's independence from his Brother as a blessing, as a helpful divergence willed by the Lord Almighty for easier use. How often is one given an actor and a realist from the same womb, at the same time? How often, he asked himself, does a man of stature have a child so unwilling to act as a greater?
It was with this in mind that Sovrano set the twins to train under two separate men: Tommy above Savo, Alfredo above Vero. Savo knew not what Vero was made to do, nor did he have any interest, for his sole purpose, at least at that time, was to learn from Tommy. He had an answer for every question, a tale for every moral, and he even allowed Savo to, for a short period each day, research whatever it was he wanted. His days were set in a pleasant structure for several years: reading, foreign languages, mathematics, biology, then a free period. Interspaced throughout were diversions that Tommy “two-times” (a name he was given because he said everything twice) saw as worthwhile, such as explanations of the Greater Family's history or lectures on the proper cadence to hold when speaking to a group. "Put your proper shoes on, proper shoes on," Tommy stuttered, buttoning a waistcoat. "We are going on a walk."
Savo nodded vigorously, then meandered off to procure socks and shoes. "What's the occasion?"
"Contractions."
"What is the occasion?" Savo corrected.
It was uncommon for Tommy to take Savo out on proper outings. The most he had gotten in the past was a ten-minute walk to drop a note off to a strange man. "Figure you would do well with a proper overview - proper overview, kid." The man led the boy out of the house, down an unbusy road.
"Him," Tommy pointed to a middle-aged man with a stained white shirt. "Small Jim, un Uomo D'Onore. Tell me what that means - what that means, kid."
"He was made," Savo uttered in practiced staccato.
"Who chose him? Who did he swear on? What will happen if he acts against your father?"
"Father, a Saint, death."
"Now, what happens if he is hurt? Whose fault is that?"
"His...?" Savo paused.
"Yours. Mine. Your Father's. A man's mistake is not his own when surrounded by Brothers."
The two came up on a confectionery dealing in all manner of sweets, be it proper taffy or sugar bombs. It held an awning in front of its meager door, extending perhaps two or three feet into the walk, covering hardly enough space to fit two men shoulder-to-shoulder in width. The awning itself was made of a scarred and sun-bleached canvas that looked as though it had originally been striped red and yellow. The door was made of relatively new glass, and appeared to have been cleaned recently. The confectionery itself was properly maintained, if a bit old.
The pair entered the shop, and Tommy immediately beset the cashier. After a clipped, tense conversation, the cashier held out an envelope. Tommy expressed empty gratitude, then pulled Savo out of the door. The entire interaction, by Savo's estimation, lasted only fifty or sixty seconds, yet they 'won.' Tommy passed the note to Savo. "They are Associates, and that is our due."
Associates, as Savo understood them, merely paid Father for the right to exist. Such as the Family presented them, however, were paying for loyal “protection” from mishaps. Quite nearly any small store was an Associate, at least the ones Savo was allowed to frequent, such as the confectionery and bakery. There, he was treated as a sacred lamb. He did not like that. Truthfully, Savo did not like the idea of an 'Associate' at all, though he would be lying if he claimed to care enough to invoke change.
"Kid," Tommy snapped his fingers. "Quit staring off, staring off."
"Sorry, sir."
Tommy stopped walking, pulling Savo to a stop. "You have a thousand in that envelope, thousand in that envelope. Look around. You are a child; it would be nothing for someone to kill you." Tommy squeezed Savo's shoulder. "Even I could, right now. Understand? You did not choose this life, but the life chose you. You need to look out for yourself, look out for yourself." Savo nodded once. The two returned home.
—
Tommy neither asked nor allowed Savo to do his regular testing when they arrived, instead ushering the boy immediately to Father's office. Off to the side, there was a stiff couch with red cushions, opposite an oaken bookshelf, which stood with many well-worn volumes on a variety of academic subjects. In the center, of course, was Father, seated at his desk. The man held a heavy frame, his broad shoulders overcome only by the padding of his dress coat. Ornamenting his left hand were an array of rings of styled rings, all plated with either gold or silver, while his right had only a classical wedding band adhering to it.
Tommy and Father exchanged nods, then Tommy simply left.
"Salutations, Father," Savo dipped his head, then went to sit down in front of the desk, sliding the envelope across. "Why did you have Tommy take me out
today? For what purpose am I brought here?"
Father smiled warmly, setting aside the envelope and putting his full focus on his son. "For context, dear [REDACTED]. Put more aptly, as a bit of ceremony! Consider yourself done with the books and the numbers and the hypotheticals. Your formal education is complete, and now you will act as an assistant to Salvatore, a Capodecina. Think of it as shadowing, though with the allowance of speaking up, should you have anything of worth to say."
Savo began an irritating tap-tap-tap on the desk's surface, a habit born of suppressed anxiety.
Father continued, "[REDACTED], you will be leaving." He slid a small batch of files 'cross the countertop, and with that, Savo's heart began pounding. "This is Salvatore's mission, and by proxy, yours. I expect you to have it memorized by tomorrow; it holds all the information you need. I gave Salvatore extensive details regarding what he will do in Savona, so I expect you to listen intently. Ah, and one more thing..." Father produced a small blade from a drawer, tapered to a point and unhilted, its thin handle a mere two inches for the blade's three. An alley-job, as those in the Family called it. Father handed it to Savo, handle-first.
A nervous excitement reverberated from the handle of the knife to Savo's core, and he couldn't suppress a grin. To be gifted such a pretty little blade, merely for existing! But then, he realized, does that not imply he may have to use it? The thought soured his expression immediately.
"I'll-"
"Contractions."
"I will have to use it, will I not? Will I? Will I?" A worried treble pervaded through Savo's voice.
"What? Question: What purpose would a pan serve if not to cook? Answer: none. I hope you do not have to use it, but you will eventually. It is best to be prepared when the day comes."
Savo nodded, then stuck it between his belt and pants. It was nearly too short. "Sorry, Father. I'll- I will keep it close." He suppressed a frown. Why must Father move so fast? Why, Savo thought, must he be sent off? He had grown rather fond of his books and numbers. Admittedly, he hadn't learned much in the past year compared to those before, but even so, he was still learning!
"What are you waiting for? Go off, be off, scamper off — you need to read, then to pack. I will send Salvatore to your room sometime in the next... whenever, to speak with you regarding the objective of your little trip. Ah, and spend some time with your Mother. Maybe the last time for a while."
With this, Savo meandered out, then across the hall. He must have been wearing his worry across his sleeve, because Tommy grew a deep frown as Savo passed by. Alas, Savo could not force himself to make conversation, nor to ask for guidance. He was certain he'd shed tears if he tried speaking in earnest, and so he beelined straight for his room, where he began reading the file over.
It was only a few pages, and the plan itself was left vague in many areas to allow for divergence. The skinny of it, as Savo concluded, was for Salvatore to collect intel on the 'Ndrangheta syndicate presence in Savona, assess whether they were a threat to Cosa Nostra, and if they were, do away with them. Savo's role was to observe and accomplish small tasks for the benefit of the investigation. To Savo's ear, this seemed to mean he was expected to fetch coffee and pastry.
Savo did not want to leave. He wished to continue learning under Tommy, to spend time with Father, to endlessly dawdle in the comfort of his home. Advancement, to him, meant furthering his formal education until it was doubtless that he wouldn't bring the Family down.
Of course, a child is subject to his Father's whims. He and Salvatore spoke, then, after a bit of celebration several days later, shoved off to Savona.
Savona, July 2013
The group consisted of Salvatore, Savo, and ten Soldiers, and they arrived in Savona in staggered fashion. The Capodecina and his shadow shared a small house, and each Soldier numbered two per house available. They seemed remarkably cheap, floorboards creaking loudly and easily, water damage around sinks, in some cases warped floorboards... which is not to mention their location, each of the six houses in poor areas up to an hour's walk away from each other. It was here that Savo settled into a routine with Salvatore.
Salvatore was not a particularly friendly man, though he was kind enough. Savo noted that he was often left the slightly better steak, the less-burnt potato, and nigh-always was the first to season what was made. Despite this, Salvatore was gruff, speaking in a low, irritated tone most times, and, to Savo's delight, always had some menial task for the boy to do, or some obvious lesson regarding mundane situations.
Once, the man went on a long-winded tangent about the importance of 'remaining conscious and aware' throughout the day, merely because the boy had splashed some water out of his cup after being startled. Savo did not remember what was said, nor did he have any particular takeaway about the message itself, though he did leave feeling rather confused and, to a lesser extent, irritated that he had just wasted twenty minutes of his life listening to a thirty-year-old man speak as though he were eighty.
That was not the only malignant undertone biting away at Savo. He was often left out of situations, sequestered off to the side as though he were more a liability than an asset, as though he were a chore to keep around. He was inclined to agree with this idea, though that did not mean he enjoyed doing nothing. Only on rare occasions was he even allowed to listen in on what was being discussed, what information was gathered that day, what was to be done next. Salvatore did not even allow him to meander around town, citing safety concerns.
Savona, July 2014
Savo was tasked with retrieving another espresso for Salvatore. That is when he first saw the girl.
She was young, perhaps a year older than Savo, seated at a table and nibbling quietly at a confection, with flaxen hair that sat in a neat ponytail above her shoulders. She was, to Savo's eye, a few centimeters taller than himself, though, it was a hard thing to gauge when she was sitting several meters away, mildly slouched.
He quickly moved on to the counter. Order, cash, espresso, then he was off; the boy did not spare her a second thought. The next day, Salvatore sent him for another espresso. The man was developing an addiction, Savo dryly thought, though he did as he was told and shoved off to the cafe to order the same strong, obscene-tasting shot.
The girl was there again, this time with a book.
Savo began to notice her there just about every day, either a book in hand or a pastry, but never both at once, always in the same corner seat. Perhaps she began recognizing him, too, for Savo, on more than one occasion, saw, just out of the corner of his eye, the girl peeking over her book, or looking past her scone. He never could tell what her gaze was indicative of. Some days, she was curious. Others, suspicious. Yet even others, merely bored.
But she looked often enough that Savo always checked to see if she was there before ordering Salvatore's espresso, internally justifying it by telling himself she might be a threat, a daughter of whichever 'drina operated out of Savona, tasked with keeping tabs on specifically him, when he went to retrieve specifically the same espresso day-to-day. What use was there in this? Verily, he found none. Even so, Savo found it awfully odd how the girl was so consistent and always glanced at him. Yet, he thought, does he not do the same?
This continued for a year, neither striking up conversation, nor taking more than one day off at a time, nor changing in routine. Savo hardly learnt from Salvatore in this time, though he did get awfully good at walking a short distance once or twice per day, and even better at the basic arithmetic the man imposed upon him in the form of accounting. What a skill, Salvatore must have thought; what a proper, illustrious skill. Surely this is all that this boy, whom I was tasked to teach, needs to learn.
Savona, August 15th, 2015, approximately 11 A.M
A day burned into Savo's memory.
Whilst procuring Salvatore's daily dose, and, thereby glancing at the girl, he noticed something different. She was staring. What a sin, Savo criticized, what a sin it was to break their routine with something so blatant! They were both to at least pretend to be inconspicuous for the sake of remaining unchanged! And why, now that she was staring, would Savo not be able to take comfort in it! It was ruined. The routine was broken beyond repair.
"You are here every day," the girl said, freezing Savo on his way out. Now she was speaking! And in such a proper, articulated cadence, which, Savo entertained, was not entirely unlike his own.
"As are you," came his seconds-delayed response. Something about the way she stared at him was throwing him off.
"And you always order an espresso, but you never drink it in-store." She smirked; she was reveling in throwing Savo into discourse, in calling him out.
"You always order a scone, but never when you have your book with you," Savo sneered in return. "Moreover, it is always a strawberry cream cheese scone, excepting when they are sold out, in which case you simply order a coffee."
She was not left stunned as Savo was hoping, but rather, delighted. She broadened her smile and beckoned Savo over, patting a chair. Savo believed himself to have two options: ignore her, thereby shattering any hope at rebuilding their routine, or humor her, thereby shattering any hope at rebuilding their routine. Seeing it was a lose-lose situation, he decided to humor her. There was no point in being uncivil when he had nothing else to do besides staff Salvatore.
"What's your name?"
"Savo," he replied, though indeed, it was a lie.
"How proper! A boy named Savo who lives in Savona... I am Francesca."
"How proper."
The two spoke, for a time, of the day they had been having. They both lied, of course, as is expected by the socially aware. Then, they spoke more deeply of the little routine they had designed, of how each had nigh-never not noticed the other, how consistent they each were in their respective activities. It left Savo feeling rather uneasy, realizing that others could be as acute as he, and could be five times as blunt about it. The girl spouted off a matter of things that Savo had not even caught himself doing: the way he always glanced to the left as he entered and exited, the manner in which he held his head higher when speaking to the barista, among countless other small habits.
It was disgusting, Savo thought between conversation, that he was so easily read. He figured himself appearing average, though he had not a single characteristic, according to the girl's acute observation, that was not unique in some way. A tuft of his hair stuck up at his hair whorl. He stepped with a particular favor to his left leg. His hands were always clasped behind his back, and his fingers would twiddle when he ordered. How humiliating, how terribly humiliating!
Yet, despite his irritation with Francesca for breaking their routine, despite his utter disdain for his habits, he found himself intrigued with her observation, her snark, and, though he would not yet admit it to himself, her. The two began a new, nervous routine, speaking for one or several minutes daily before Savo returned to Salvatore. Some days, it was a clipped, "morning," and others, they went on to talk for ten minutes. Regardless, it left Savo thoughtful, and, begrudgingly, smiling. On one of these occasions, Salvatore took notice.
"Why are you late? And you're grinning like a bat every time you come back. I haven't had a proper, timely espresso in a month. What are you doing?"
"What do you-"
"I’m not playing games with you," Salvatore interrupted. "Just tell me. You wasting money on some kind of treat?"
"I was speaking to a girl at the cafe I get your espresso from," he truthed, though begrudgingly. This was, to Savo's mind, none of Salvatore's business. What matter was it to him if he was smiling? And did he slip into withdrawals if his daily caffeine shot was a few minutes late?
"Oh." Salvatore calmed down immediately, satisfied that Savo was not indulging in dough. "Ah, shit. I don't care what you do, but if you want to talk to her, do it after bringing my espresso back. Guess it's healthy to have some sort of diversion, anyhow." The man paused, downing his espresso. "I'll have a Soldier look into her a bit. I suppose you gave her a fake name, yes? And what was her name?"
"I told her I was named Savo, and her name is, apparently, Francesca. I have not told her anything nearly personal."
"Right. Alright. Write out a quick description of her and slip it to Sofia next time you pass her by."
"For what purpose?"
"Precaution. If she happened to be daughter of a known killer, wouldn't you rather know before becoming buddy-buddy?" Despite initially imagining her as an enemy, Savo realized he had not even considered the possibility since they began speaking. To him, the Francesca that he looked forward to conversing with every day was not the same as the girl who had curiously watched him, and whom he had curiously watched. Suppose it to himself, she could very well be a daughter of some boss, heiress to a clan, sister to a killer.
Savo nodded, and Salvatore exchanged his gratitude, then Savo meandered off to write up a page on Francesca. He included the boring details such as estimated height, weight, hair color... But also her consistency at the cafe, her observant mannerisms, and the little details he picked up over that year of watching her. Not signed, but sealed and thence delivered, to Soldier Sofia. Specifically, he, with the practiced grace of a boy who had been doing such activities daily for a year, slipped it into her pocket as they passed each other in a crowd, something Salvatore, in his infinite — and justified — paranoia, required to prevent being spotted obviously passing notes.
And time passed. Days, to weeks, to a month. Savo was permitted by Salvatore to return to the cafe after he delivered the espresso, and even, on occasion, as a reward for timely accounting, was given a few euros. It was enough, as Savo soon learnt, to purchase two scones and a coffee. His days consisted of jogging to the cafe, jogging back to his and Salvatore's house, then, again, to the cafe, where he purchased a scone each for Francesca and himself, and a coffee. Of course, he could not afford the treats without Salvatore's generosity, and Salvatore was not generous unless Savo was quick with his accounting, and so, daily, after he and Francesca had spoken for anywhere from one to three hours, he worked at jotting, erasing, rejotting, and adding.
He was in such a frenzy trying to complete the allotted work and earn the pocket change that he hardly noticed that the Greater Famiglia was granting their operation an even greater budget, and, on top of that, that Salvatore was utilizing the whole of it, with debt on the side. Each Soldier, of course, had their pay, but then there were odd little deductions under random names. "Rabbit expense." "Luxury tax." "Worker's compensation." These entries, as Savo knew, were cover names used instead of bluntly outing "bombs" and "illegal firearms" so as not to leave a paper trail for investigators.
But the entries were multiplying. Ten entries for rabbit expense. Fifteen for luxury tax. In the year past, there would only be several entries for each false name, though now it seemed as though all the work he put in was deducting thirty instances of supposed "workers' compensation" from debit. Were they planning a genuine attack? Or were these all bribes and protections?
Savo had not the desire to read into it; his day was better spent speaking to his new friend. Savo supposed that was the best word for her, though the realization irritated him to no end. A proper friend, but under guise of a false name, in the context of an investigation into Savona's underworld. He found it distasteful. Any, he thought, would find it distasteful.
Then, after a month and some change, Sofia snuck into his house late at night to speak to Salvatore. Savo heard them speaking quietly for a time, then heard Salvatore laugh. It was a raspy, unpleasant laugh. The laugh of a fat man, of a smoker and of a man quickly aged.
Savona, September 18th, 2015 – 10 p.m.
"The girl-" Sofia began, her high-pitched voice nearly crescendoing into a laugh, "is a Zunino. A Zunino!"
"What?" Savo stared, though it was a question of shock rather than confusion, perhaps even dismay; perhaps, further, excitement. The Zunino were a clan operating out of Savona. They were righteous men, men befitting valor; men, one might hazard to say, destined for greatness. Up-and-coming though they were, they were an ambitious sort, with a strong character and an even stronger leadership. One of the fathers, Giacomo Zunino, was unofficially revered as the top of leadership. "What?" he repeated.
"And," Sofia continued, "granddaughter to Giacomo Zunino." It was too dark to see her face, though it was obvious from the woman's voice that she was positively beaming. Savo could neither smile nor frown, nor could he even think.
"But why would someone so important spend all day in such a public venue? A cafe?"
"That's another fun bit — the owner-barrista is an associate of theirs. I watched for several days, and when she decides to get a scone, she never pays for it. She even took payment from him and levied it upon her father."
"But then, no, but then-" Savo cut himself off. "What," he restarted, "does that mean for me? Am I to cease contact?" Savo silently thanked the Lord that the lights were off and that Sofia could not see that he wore an expression befitting a kicked dog.
Francesca was a girl living in Savona. She was observant and playful, with shining blonde hair. To Savo's eye, she was even quite pretty. To Savo's soul, she was his best and only friend, and, perhaps, even his romantic interest, yet this was only a conclusion he would later come to. To Savo's mind, she was at least as intelligent as he, and this was considering that he regarded himself as at least as intelligent as Father. To Savo's ear, she sang beautiful arias. To Savo's hand, she was soft.
To Savo's teacher, though, she was unnecessary. Savo's eyes poured so that he did not see. Savo's soul was seared so that he would not feel. Savo's mind was quieted so that he would not think. Savo's ears were deafened so that he would not hear her scream. To Savo's hand, she was soft.
Savona, September 18th, 2015, 8 p.m. – Two hours earlier
"Silence, child. You are [REDACTED] Di Maiori. How will you deny us this — how will your father react?" Salvatore spat at Savo's feet, not deigning to meet his measly gaze. "You complain and complain about doing nothing, yet refuse to utilize the trust you've built when the Family needs it most?"
Savo could not think, nor refute, nor rebuke. He had nothing in him but flame, and that flame was so tempered just to retain face. He steeled himself, then found his limbs growing weak and weary. He could not bring himself to strike Salvatore. Only, he nodded in singular.
Giacomo Zunino's daughter pleaded to a deaf audience, her sole witness a boy whose ears rang with blood and guilt, guilt that would fester and corrupt, transmute and transform, and finally, after years, quiet enough to ignore. The sixteen-year-old boy had just carried out his first hit. He hugged Giacomo's daughter as crimson pooled around them, both collapsed, and the girl did hold him, whimpering and pleading, though once again, Savo did not let himself hear her.
Sicily, October 11th, 2016 – 9 p.m.
There was a lively celebration at Father Di Maiori's main house: crimson balloons strung about, ribbons of red teasing the open air, and an array of drinks. Savo and his Brothers, Mercato and Vero, were attending, likewise were Tommy, Salvatore, several of the most notable Soldiers from Savo's operation in Savona, and then a handful of presumed soldiers Savo did not recognize. He would later learn that these men and women were Soldiers from Vero's mission in Verona.
"People!" Father called, tapping a spoon against a glass to beckon silence. "We are here today to celebrate our brilliant victories in the cities of Savona and Verona! We come to thank Salvatore for leading, Sofia for obtaining important information, and [REDACTED] for destabilizing the Zunino clan. Without their combined effort, we would have surely failed." Father went on to address Vero's mission, though Savo tuned out.
"For the effort of both of my brilliant sons, we reward them with gray names. No longer shall they be [REDACTED] and [REDACTED], but Savo and Vero, after their success in bringing the clans of either city to a sit-down with the Family. May the Father bless them, may the Son forgive them, and may the Spirit forever inhabit them. Amen."
Amen, they all said. A cruel joke at his expense, Savo was forced to present as his faux-name at all times. The name he had chosen for Francesca — the name for Francesca. Francesca's own Savo.
For all his effort, he had not an inkling how the situation came to resolve itself, nor why Francesca was meant to die. All he knew was that, at seventeen years old, he knew the knife longer than the girl, and Father longer than Savona.
Sicily, October 11th, 2016 – 11 p.m.
The crowd had left, and the wine had all been poured, and his housekeeper was left to clean. The brothers, all three, stood before Father’s desk, clad in corresponding official wear.
“You have all made me proud, you know,” Father began, walking around his mahogany-placed desk to directly address his sons. “You have each been successful in your provided duties, greatly expanding the Family’s reign in our mother home.
Indeed, the Family will prosper from this.” He stood first before Mercato, in level eye contact, to grip and tighten Mercato’s tie. Then, he recurred, doing the same to Vero, then to Savo.
“But!” Father paused, closing the circle around back to his seat, producing a thick file from a drawer. “You are not finished. In fact, hardly at all.” He smiled, Mercato mirroring his familiar, sly, perhaps saccharine grin. It was difficult, Savo always thought, to decipher quite what the smile meant. It was also difficult, in their likeness, to discern the smile between Mercato and Father’s features.
“Your new assignment, as it always will be from hereon, is foreign expansion,” he went on. “Japan, though small, and the city of Karakura, even smaller than that of Savona or Verona, is the key to the Family’s absolute power.” Father opened the folder, reaching the top page to Mercato as he passed it along. “You will begin by June of the next year, and you two,” he pointed to the twins, “will follow every command of Mercato. Just as you have before. Indeed, you will three be prosperous and powerful, and may God guide your success. Amen.”
And the three said amen.
Describe an interaction that your character may have as a black market dealer:
Two men stood atop the lighthouse, engulfed in its panoramic view of the sea. High tide lapped tentatively at the shore; the waves were uncertain. The taller of the two men, clad in a suit of fine Silk and masked in a kingly, golden-colored ballistic, stood with his back to land. Through the metal of the mask, he could barely pick up a latent smell of salt from those uncertain tides. The shorter of the two, suited in a cheap suit, wearing a welding mask, stood with his back to the sea. Through the fogged visor of his mask, he could not see the stars, and instead busied himself with the wavering leaves.
"Sovrano?" Said the shorter, never daring to look at the man.
"Indeed," came a metallic response. "What is it you seek?" Sovrano turned. "Ah, welding-mask. I assume, then, that you wish for something proper? Perhaps I can interest you in a gas mask? I'd offer a ballistic, but alas, you never became verified..."
"No, no. I called regarding information that I heard you had on, ah, Mercato Di Maiori? Or, really, anything on any Di Maiori..."
Sovrano's breath came to a standstill, hands coming out from their clasp, only to re-enter moments later. A few more bouts of trepidation, only then coming to rest at a pocket. He fished an apple out and tossed it dryly off the lighthouse. It flew for a measly second, then came to a grating halt, then, after, a pathetic hop, upon reaching the ground. A man stationed at the lighthouse's base saw it and began to climb the stairs.
"What, pray tell, makes you think I have such information?"
Three men stood atop the lighthouse.
"Uh-" the welding-mask sputtered after hearing the third. "A... friend. A friend of mine tipped me off."
Four men stood atop the lighthouse.
"Oh?" Sovrano stepped forward, 'til the cold of his mask seeped into the welding-mask's neck. "What sort of friend? And for what purpose?"
Sovrano’s attenuation pressured the shorter mask, his shaking hands making his own fear evident. The welding-mask shifted his weight, boots scraping against salt-stained stone. The sea wind whispered through their gap like an ear listening intently. He tried to swallow, failed, then “I don’t – he’s not important,” the welding-mask said. “Just said you’d… know things. About the Di Maiori. About Mercato.”
Sovrano tilted his head slightly, rather considering the subject of the sentence over the request. The gold of his mask caught the faint lighthouse light and returned it in a dull, patient gleam.“People say many things,” he replied. “Most are spoken by those who wish to remain breathing.” From below, the stairwell grated.
Five men stood atop the lighthouse.
The welding-mask’s shoulders tightened. “I didn’t bring anyone here.”
“I did not accuse you,” Sovrano calmed. “Only observed.”
Indeed, a final presence was, at this point, expected. And so it happened. Another from below reached the final step and stopped just short of making the platform. Six men stood atop the lighthouse.
“Well,” he said softly, “now we are properly attended.”
The welding-mask finally looked between them. “I just want information. That’s it. I can pay.”
Sovrano exuded a sigh, then a laugh, though it was engineered more than breathed. He stepped away from the welding-mask at last, returning his attention to the sea, a sun cresting now over the horizon and glowing his golden mask.
“Information is never what is being purchased,” Sovrano said. “Only permission to survive what follows it.”
The man from the stairs spoke for the first time.
“You deal in names,” he said. Not a question.
Sovrano nodded once, almost politely. “More than that. And you have arrived with one that should not be spoken so casually at a lighthouse.” Silence followed his unmoving, sharp and golden features. “Let this be the only lesson you receive today,” he said calmly, almost solemnly, facing the sea again. “Mercato does not require curiosity. He requires consequence.” With a shove, the cheaped mask vanished atop the lighthouse, his crash akin to another wave against the shore. And so, five men stood atop the lighthouse.
"Sovrano?" Said the shorter, never daring to look at the man.
"Indeed," came a metallic response. "What is it you seek?" Sovrano turned. "Ah, welding-mask. I assume, then, that you wish for something proper? Perhaps I can interest you in a gas mask? I'd offer a ballistic, but alas, you never became verified..."
"No, no. I called regarding information that I heard you had on, ah, Mercato Di Maiori? Or, really, anything on any Di Maiori..."
Sovrano's breath came to a standstill, hands coming out from their clasp, only to re-enter moments later. A few more bouts of trepidation, only then coming to rest at a pocket. He fished an apple out and tossed it dryly off the lighthouse. It flew for a measly second, then came to a grating halt, then, after, a pathetic hop, upon reaching the ground. A man stationed at the lighthouse's base saw it and began to climb the stairs.
"What, pray tell, makes you think I have such information?"
Three men stood atop the lighthouse.
"Uh-" the welding-mask sputtered after hearing the third. "A... friend. A friend of mine tipped me off."
Four men stood atop the lighthouse.
"Oh?" Sovrano stepped forward, 'til the cold of his mask seeped into the welding-mask's neck. "What sort of friend? And for what purpose?"
Sovrano’s attenuation pressured the shorter mask, his shaking hands making his own fear evident. The welding-mask shifted his weight, boots scraping against salt-stained stone. The sea wind whispered through their gap like an ear listening intently. He tried to swallow, failed, then “I don’t – he’s not important,” the welding-mask said. “Just said you’d… know things. About the Di Maiori. About Mercato.”
Sovrano tilted his head slightly, rather considering the subject of the sentence over the request. The gold of his mask caught the faint lighthouse light and returned it in a dull, patient gleam.“People say many things,” he replied. “Most are spoken by those who wish to remain breathing.” From below, the stairwell grated.
Five men stood atop the lighthouse.
The welding-mask’s shoulders tightened. “I didn’t bring anyone here.”
“I did not accuse you,” Sovrano calmed. “Only observed.”
Indeed, a final presence was, at this point, expected. And so it happened. Another from below reached the final step and stopped just short of making the platform. Six men stood atop the lighthouse.
“Well,” he said softly, “now we are properly attended.”
The welding-mask finally looked between them. “I just want information. That’s it. I can pay.”
Sovrano exuded a sigh, then a laugh, though it was engineered more than breathed. He stepped away from the welding-mask at last, returning his attention to the sea, a sun cresting now over the horizon and glowing his golden mask.
“Information is never what is being purchased,” Sovrano said. “Only permission to survive what follows it.”
The man from the stairs spoke for the first time.
“You deal in names,” he said. Not a question.
Sovrano nodded once, almost politely. “More than that. And you have arrived with one that should not be spoken so casually at a lighthouse.” Silence followed his unmoving, sharp and golden features. “Let this be the only lesson you receive today,” he said calmly, almost solemnly, facing the sea again. “Mercato does not require curiosity. He requires consequence.” With a shove, the cheaped mask vanished atop the lighthouse, his crash akin to another wave against the shore. And so, five men stood atop the lighthouse.
Describe any other additional information that is notable in considering your character for the role of a black market dealer: My mum says I'm her little genius, so, yeah.