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Fandom: Resident Evil (RE9 Requiem)
Characters: Victor Gideon
Rating: Explicit
The final stage. At last.
Dr. Victor Gideon felt a powerful jolt of excitement as the world spun around him and diminished in scope. Exultation thrummed in the fibers of his tight muscles, rolling across his body, transmitting from cell to cell until it engulfed his entire frame in an invisible cloakâa carapace he sensed forming beneath his skin.
He had long learned to remain composed and focused during his experiments, even at the cusp of revelation. At the same time, he was not infallibleâsometimes his vaunted sangfroid betrayed him, and, frankly, this was exactly the case: he could hardly contain himself, witnessing science, his only lover, bare itself completely, in ways both intimate and dangerous. The passion of knowing, the desire to pry open flaps of the human body to corroborate his evidence, dovetail it with his academic pursuits, and come up with a theory that could potentially transform the vision of the procedures they conducted here at Umbrella had been wired into his brain. In truth, his ambitions did not end there, they went far beyond that, but before he could put the plan into action, he needed to ensure the results were satisfactory.
Gideonâs gloved hand hovered over the tools arrayed on the Mayo stand beside him. His fingers brushed across each instrument in turn, as if to reassure himself that everything was in place, orderly and sterilized. The cooling sensation of lifeless steel glided across his palm and sneaked into the sleeve of his lab coatâsurprisingly, that ghost of a feeling was enough to cause a smirk.
Medicine had enticed the man since childhood, and he was delighted to profess that his curiosity hadnât waned a tad since then. He might have been cagey in his reports apprising his superiorsâcircumspection always paid offâbut he firmly believed in the veracity of his findings, and did all in his power to prove his conjectures. He lacked hubris; he was driven by the genuine urge to discover.
But the end was nearing. He was very, very close. After all painstaking preparations and excruciatingly complex experiments, Dr. Victor Gideon had a brilliant stroke of genius and could finally perform the sacrosanct act, relish the art of medicine, and skirt the tiring moments of obligatory surgical legerdemain devoid of any creativity. Alas, even science, the definition of out-of-the-box thinking, often centered on repetitive protocols, endless spiels, dismaying setbacks, and inordinately disproportionate obstacles that required his immediateâand undividedâattention. Although the man was diligent enough to conduct thorough research and register even the slightest changes, he happened to be vexed by unexpected impediments. Averse to haste, he nonetheless had to steady his hand more than once: elation was bigger than him, and it threatened to spill.
Now, however, all his worries were assuaged. Not even random and purely stochastic factors could derail his plans, and oh, were his plans grand!.. They were elaborate, with every point specified, though not yet substantiated by sufficient empirical evidence. Once his finalâgroundbreaking!âexperiment was complete, he could embellish the speculation with proven data, hijack all discussions, and turn himself into a superior being, quite literally so. He didnât care much about his position within the corporation, but if Umbrella decided to appoint him to a higher post, he would be grateful, too, as it would let him make a difference and perfect the methods used in labs. All he needed was a scrap of data, an infinitesimal compared to the voluminous tomes of research heâd written and pored over at night.
The man inhaled the chemical stench of the lab. Heâd grown to like it, but it still induced unusual commotion inside, as if he were a mere assistant not given enough rope to perform operations as he saw fit. Many a scientist found it exasperating, but Gideon, on the contrary, preserved the feeling, as it mentally sent him back to the days he was first introduced to the intricate procedures he had learned to follow to a T. It refreshed him every time. A timely refreshment never hurt, especially when he was most agitated.
Standing in front of a mirror he had mounted in front of the operating table, Victor reached for his lab coat, his fingers trembling with an almost imperceptible vacillation. Slowly, almost ploddingly, the man undid the buttons, one by one, exposing the pallid flesh. The cool air of the room, abundant with pungent smells of chemicals and detergents, enshrouded his tall, bulky figure, washed in artificial, fluorescent light.
When Gideon pre-examined his subjects, he indifferently registered the general condition of their bodies and recorded the signs they displayed: he took their temperature, drew blood samples, and accomplished another dozen tasks a simple surgeon wouldnât even consider. It was work and nothing more, just another step on the road leading to the revelation ripening in his mind. His own body, however, evoked different emotions. It looked⌠vulnerable. Defenseless. Pristine almost. Imperfect and incongruously big, it had already begun to change color in certain areas and was covered with formations that resembled scales. The virus Gideon had consumed a few nights earlier was inexorably transforming him, turning him into a peculiar amalgamation of human, lizard, and snake, as if it couldnât decide which route to choose and split into multiple variations at once. It was a resilient, strong body, but it was the body of a man who knew no battle, only intellectual disputes. Not that he minded it, of course, but his further plans required more⌠practical experience. Intellectual superiority was one thing, but he wanted to enhance his physical abilities as well.
Either way, he still appeared very much human. At least on the surface.
Victor touched his own chest, the reflection did the same. With growing curiosity, he pressed his fingertips into his skin, noting the change in texture. It was no longer malleable; for some reason, it had the unnerving elasticity of rubber, and he wondered whether the scalpel would be able to cut it. He had mapped out the process in advance and concluded that he needed to make a few incisions to extract just the right amount of material. On a side note, it would be interesting to see what was hiding under the hood of bodily limitations and whether the virus succeeded toâ
Gideon licked his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. He was getting ahead of himself: although the acquired data had revealed certain patterns, the virus remained relatively unpredictable, though not lethal. The surgeon took a marker and charted his body, especially the abdominal area that was of great interest to him. He was dismayed that he couldnât invite an intern for the throat examinationâit would almost certainly arouse suspicion and could disrupt the procedure, as the intern might start wagging their tongue at every cornerâbut overall, he felt ready to start.
Dr. Victor Gideon perused his naked reflection in the mirror and corrected a few lines. Now that he had transferred the outline of the upcoming operation onto his body, he deduced that it looked a trifle more complicated than he had envisioned at first, but his extensive experience would tell him where to cut corners. If need be, he could still invite an assistant under the pretext of an urgent checkup, but he hoped that wouldnât be necessary. The fewer witnesses, the better.
Dr. Gideon slid off the gloves, now covered with ink blotches, and tossed them into the wastebin. Then he pulled out another pair, relishing the familiar sound and artificial smell of the stretching latex, snug around his large palms. After a momentâs hesitation, he got onto the operating table and counted to ten. It wasnât anxietyâhe was just almost physically affected by the upcoming procedure. God, he was so excited. The thrill was spiking in the pit of his stomach.
His steady hand extended to seize a syringe and injected anaesthesia. In all honesty, he had intended to avoid that at all to explore the pain tolerance of his new body, but it wouldnât do him any good if he fainted in the middle of the operation, so he erred on the side of caution. Once the numbing agent hit, his practiced fingers stroked the handle of the scalpel and resolutely grabbed it. With a slow deliberation of an experienced surgeon, Gideon made the first incision, staring in the mirror he had attached slightly above and at an angle.
The blade struggled through the thick skin, and the familiar rivulet of blood streamed across his grayish chest to the abdomen and into his crotch. Gideon felt detached and fascinated: he mustâve been in a hurry after all, for a short shot of pain lanced through him, but he hardly noticed it in his infatuation. Blood had never had such a beautiful tinge of ruby, and heâd seen gallons of it, returning home after being splashed and suffused with it. It had an unusual smell, tooâless metallic and more spicy, with a previously unknown note of fire. Surprises started at the beginning. Good.
Victor put the scalpel aside and took another instrument to tease the tissues open, revealing a breathtaking sight of the human organism in all its glory. To his chagrin, he could not expose his ribcage and watch his heart at work, but the fragmented picture pleased him beyond measure. The pinpricks of faintness came over him, but he endured and continued.
But as he splayed the incision open, he encountered a ghastly sight. Meaty dark tendrils, normally breaking through the flesh of infected subjects, remained in place, protecting his organs. They were remarkably elastic, almost like rubber, but much more pliable, arresting the blade rather than damaging it. Again, Victor felt sorry he didnât have a trustworthy partner whoâd share his fascinationâthe only enthusiast, enthralled by science as much as him, had already sacrificed herself to medicine, so that he had the only opportunity to accomplish his more or less clandestine mission. If he were her, heâd do the same, but in that case, he wouldnât have observed the evolution a bodyâan ordinary bodyâcould undergo.
Victor cauterized the vessels; a wreath of smoke coiled up from the wound. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air and hit his nostrils, and a veil of faint fell over his forehead once again. He hated having to hurry things, but now it was essential to his success: the anaesthesia had started to wear off.
The man made a few careful cuts around the scaly region and then removed it with his tweezers, placing the sample into a metal basin. Simple. Now he had to proceed to the most intriguing and difficult part, the intestinesâthe likely place for the virus to store and multiply.
It was hard to sit upright; numbness dulled his limbs, and the surgeon moved on impulse, his trained fingers adjusted accordingly. Victor pressed the blade into his skin again and made another incision, deliberate and unflichingâdeep enough to reach the bowels.
Blood gushed from the fresh wound, streaming through his fingers and congealing in the cold, sterile air of the lab. Gideon licked his lips, feeling a wave of vertigo and a surge of suppressed panic. Where his innards should have been, he only saw dark ropes of the same tissue that protected his chestâdenser, tougher, and impossible to nick with a knife. Of course, he wanted another sample, but he didnât have the time to ascertain if a biopsy was even feasibleâone wrong move, and he would be found prostrate on the gurney, bled to death, which would be highly unfortunate. So, the man picked a safer option: he targeted the adjoining fibers, seemingly made of the same strange, resilient matter.
The harbingers of faint pushed harder now, and he realized he had to wrap it up. He had little doubt that the alterations in his organism would withstand a few more superficial cuts, but he was no fatalist and didnât want to test the limits. Proceeding as swiftly as he dared, Victor sutured the incisions, mentally registering the increased heartbeatâhis heart hammered against the ribs, threatening to break through the chest and swell somewhere in his throat, choking him to death.
All of a sudden, a miracle occurred. As soon as the two flaps of skin touched, the black matter stitched the pieces together, leaving a purplish blemish, livid and leathery against his pale, ashen flesh. Victor, his chest heaving, stared at it in disbelief: he was the superior being. He reached his goal. He could finally execute his Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center plan. Once he was done with all the examinations, he could scale his scientific endeavors.
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Fandom: RE9
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Author's Remark: I just wanted him to have some comfort. Sorry, no action, just pure psychology, and this one's real bad.
Leon
What do you see when you look at me?..
If I were asked the same question, I doubt I wouldâve been able to answerâI do not recognize the man I see in the mirror in the morning. Heâs not a stranger, weâre well-acquainted, but I⌠sense that rather than know. He mimics my movements and copies my gestures, but Iâm not sure this is not a monster from the nightmares I carry within. I am made of horrors. They have sprouted so far into my body that I no longer understand where they end. If they do, that is.
Iâm still trying to flee. Iâm trying to outrun my past that is clawing at my shirt and haunting me at night. Raccoon City has long become a legend among other agents, and only a few know the truth. The never-ending terrors Umbrella keeps pulling out of a hat must be dealt with as fast as possible, but I often doubt myself. I donât know what to expect. I donât know what monsters have been engineered since my last visit to one of the many labs scattered across the States. I... donât know what theyâre capable of.
Frankly, Iâm horrified. But I cannot let fears overpower me. I simply cannot afford that.
When I look at you, I see peace incarnate, someone who hasnât seen a glimpse of hell. You stare back at me, curiously, and eventually reach for my face as if you spot an emotion I fail to control. Your finger brushes against my cheek, and you smile. I canât parse the meaning of that smile, but it somehow mollifies me. My fears retreat, and I can finally think.
What do you see when you look at me?..
Definitely not the loving husband you must have expected to get. I should pay more attention to you, but it never works outâI canât just turn off my phone and pretend I donât see urgent messages from Chris. Yes, I lie to you repeatedly, because I donât want you to worry more than necessary. Iâm tough, you know?.. You know. You know it better than I do.
Are you even happy with me? You always say that you are, but how can someone be happy with a husband whoâs practically never around?.. Iâm a jack-in-the-box, but the box is full of nightmares and painful memories I donât think I can ever put to rest. No matter how hard I try to eradicate them, they resurface with enviable regularityâand annoying intensity. Iâve learned to live with those chains, but I cannot force you to follow me. I have my remedies, true, but they donât heal the old wounds. You persistently ignore that, though. You consistently give your all, attending to my woundsâboth physical and mental, the ones I hope to conceal from you.
I fail abysmally. You always see more than you reveal, though you never wring your hands at me, weeping and shouting. Oh, no, you jokingly call me a beaut instead. Your eyes glow mischievously, and you tilt your head to the side, examining me from head to toe, undoubtedly registering new cuts and scarsâyouâll later enumerate them all, out loud, scolding me for not being careful enough. I love that about you, really. I also love when you take off your earrings in front of the mirror, gazing at me with the silent perplexity writ large on your faceâI completely ignore your queries because Iâm stunned by how effortlessly elegant you can be when I least expect it. I always praise myself on how well I keep my emotions in check, but I find you irresistible. I hug you tight more frequently than I probably should, and every time I feel the redolence of your perfume mixing with the fragrance of your skin. It causes you to laugh, and I canât believe I finally have a home to return to.
You always let me know that you still want me, with all my nightmares and fears, even though Iâm such a lousy husband.
What do you see when you look at me?..
PartnerÂ
When I look at you, I see a broken man.
It is not obvious to others, but your harrowing experiences are reflected in your postureâa heavy burden of the past is pinning you down, nestled between your scapulae. The tragedy of Raccoon City left a print on your face. I can see it. Not sure about others, but I can.
Pain has found its way into the tangle of lighter streaks in your eyes, surrounded by long eyelashes somewhat faded at the ends. When I wake up earlier than you, I often see a trace of focused tension between your eyebrows, as if youâre running interference, trying to get out of the quandary youâve found yourself in. When you sit in the kitchen, finally sliding out of the gloves and staring blankly into space, I occasionally spot an opaque shadow of panic that is never overtly expressed on your hard-bitten features. Whether you want it or not, Raccoon City has become part of you. It has been engraved into your bones, incised into your skin, injected into your body, and no matter what I do, I cannot erase its malignant, detrimental influence. It canât be eradicated, and you know itâRaccoon City is here to stay in your sloping shoulders, translucent eyes, efficient movements, and clear commands.
What you donât acknowledge is that Umbrella failed to warp you. Albeit they have taken something from you, they failed to mutilate you and make you one of their monsters.
When I look at you, I see a man of immense courage and valor, whose kindness knows no bounds. When I look at you, I see a genuine smile, though with a slight trace of sorrow in the corners. When I wake up by your side, I feel a wave of warmth engulfing me, and I want to share it with youâI want to assuage your worries and rarely resist. Yes, my touches awaken youâyouâre a light sleeperâbut you never complain. I didnât even know that men could be so gentle before I met you. How do you manage to remain caring and respond tenfold?.. Iâm joking around, and you take my hand and kiss it; you cackle and haul me towards you in a tight embrace. You nuzzle into my neck, your stubble grazes against my skin, and I laugh uncontrollably, especially when you start grunting and mumbling into my ear. You know how to be loving, but youâre somehow convinced you know nothing about love.
Yes, Raccoon City is there to stay, and Umbrella has tried to claim you as theirs, but you finally have a place where your inner demons pose no threat. I might not be able to indemnify you against the nightmares you carry withinâbut I can be the beacon in the night that guides you back to the light.
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Fandom: Resident Evil (RE9)
Characters: Victor Gideon, Original Female Character
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Blood and Gore
The lab where Dr. Victor Gideon spent his daysâand most of his nightsâwas of the spartan sort, save for a few cabinets and shelves that lined the walls. His immaculate white desk, with stationery and a swivel chair, was just enough for the job, and he hardly gave any thought to decoration. Other employees, though still passionate about their work, werenât so austere: they adorned the walls with certificates and diplomas, placed preserved specimens on the shelves, and flung around jars and vials in something resembling botched modern art. Victor, however, preferred to keep the lab unaltered, as if trying to retain the atmosphere created by the previous owner. There was only one liberty he allowed himself: a desiccated hand holding a jeroboamâa memento his rare visitors called a Hand of Glory.
His once viridescent eyes slid across the relic, scanning the elongated fingers, covered in earth-toned flesh. The papery skin, thin as parchment, did little to conceal the bones; instead, it seemed to amplify the qualities the owner of the hand had possessed in life: elegance, refinement, and a subtle swiftness lingering in the bend of the delicate wrist and in the adroit fingers so accustomed to holding a scalpel. Little did they know, Gideon thought, that it was an actual Hand of Glory. Without Her, he would be nowhere near the status of a self-proclaimed Asclepius, and his revelations might have never come to pass. He was grateful. So, so grateful.
Gideon leaned back in his chair, his deft fingers with neatly trimmed nails pensively stroking a document with a sprawling letterhead at the top. He still remembered the sceneâand cherished it greatly, mentally going through it over and over again to savor every second. He wouldnât admit it out loud, but every time he recalled it, he registered that his pulse became sporadic.
âWe must do that, Victor.â
The womanâs voice, normally impassive and aloof, now rang with a breathy tingling of fanatical anticipation Victor had rarely encountered in other Umbrella employees. It wasnât, however, the only thing that betrayed her excitement: her dark eyes, usually so distant and disinterested, were backlighted by a feverish spark of imminent revelationâthe fire of knowledge raging within was devouring her from the inside, consuming sense and reason.
She tried to seem unaffected. She lapsed into silence, striving to rein in her emotions and force herself into an air of apathy, but tension nonetheless reflected in her postureâ in the crossed ankles and tightly clenched fingers, gripping the seat so hard her knuckles turned white. Her entire frame was jutting forward as if waiting for a kiss from an ardent lover, who could effortlessly pry into her mind and understand her passions and proclivities without asking all sorts of unnecessary questions she would not be able to answer.Â
He admired that in her. Women in the Umbrella Corporation never nibbled at the edges, often surpassing men in their scientific urges, but this one topped them all. Aurora Nox demanded the best specimens, conducted the most brazen research, countered the brass with her supposedly far-fetched conclusions that frequently proved true, took bold strides where others stalled, and was hardly dismayed by setbacks. She saw failure as evolution on a smaller scale and treated her mistakes as valuable lessons. Perhaps her near-bestial intensity and uncompromising approach made her a trailblazer others looked up to. Some were jealous, too; science was a competitive field, but Victor was in awe. When they first met, he felt more than surprised to discover that their fiefdoms overlapped, and their ideas converged. When she found it out, she responded first with curiosity, then with fervent passionâshe recognized a kindred spirit and embraced it.
But despite the unanimity and similarity of views, she appeared a trifle unhinged in her endeavors, even though Victor always considered himself an open-minded man, eager to plunge into the mysteries of the universe. Unlike him, Dr. Nox rarely did things by the book: she took shortcuts whenever she could and often clashed with supervisors for overstepping or skipping steps, which sometimes caused minorâthough still unpleasantâcomplications. As a result, the subject had to be put to sleep and incinerated: the contamination was so widespread it was impossible to create a convincing smokescreen and deflect attention.
In all honesty, Dr. Nox happened to frighten him from time to time, cranking out all sorts of audacious ideas, each more unfathomable than the last. But it wasnât her unpredictability that unsettled him; it was the revolutionary slant of her intelligence: whenever he faltered halfway, she pushed, testing one hypothesis after another and scattering instructions to the four winds. Aurora Nox was precisely the type of zealot Umbrella wanted, and Victor appreciated it in her. She was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish her scientific goals. She wasnât flawless at whatever she was doingâbut her results were commendable. Some findings were so brilliant the board of executives barely questioned them: Dr. Aurora Nox became a household name in her own right, inspiring younger scientists and instilling veneration in those who saw her swift, effective hands at work.Â
Her effective hands with a scalpel were the sight that enthralled him every time. One economical move, and an incision bloomed in the pale flesh of the subject. Another one, and the clamps were secured. Two more, and she pulled a gurney with medical instruments and asked him to fetch the rongeur. That woman loved her job, and he watched her, utterly absorbed, feeling a strange thrill whenever her gloved hand, streaked with sleek rivulets of red, brushed across his knuckles.
âVictor?â Aurora finally broke the silence again, her face alight with obsession, her voice trembling imperceptibly. âI do want that. You are the only one who can conduct this research, analyze the results, draw conclusions!.. There is no one else I can count on. I will endorse your decisions; the papers are already in the folder, and youâll have the highest access to the most secret laboratories deep within Umbrella. This one experiment will establish your reputation within and outside the corporation; it will... help you understand what weâve been doing here. Together.â
The womanâs body leaned another inch forward toward him, and Victor was washed with the warmth it radiated. Her close proximity had never stirred anything in him before, but that excited look ignited something, setting him on fire. Nox was a top-notch science advocate and could be charming, but she didnât try her persuading skills on him. Not until this day.
âThis is... this is the pinnacle of my work, Victor.â Noxâs carefully modulated voice dropped another notch, turning into a seductive hiss. âAnd I want to share it with you. With you, and no one else in this inept corporation that cares about numbers and not actual science. You are the only one who can grasp the value of unadulterated, pristine knowledge, unbound and unrestricted by the obsolete norms of ethics.â
The hissing gradually petered out, morphing into the incomprehensible rustling of old documents. Nox kept staring at him with the indescribable emotion that always crawled into her face whenever she splayed open a fresh corpse: a mix of curiosity and fierce determination. Then her visage softened slightlyâher hand hovered over his hollow cheek and slid down to the collar of his lab coat. She was too logical to loveâbut she respected him and treated him as an equal, which probably meant more than vehement caresses of a lover.
âWill you do that for me, Victor? Can I rely on you as I used to?â
As usual, she didnât prod him, giving him all the time he needed. Her tea-colored eyes drilled into his, but it was the intensity of her gaze that unnerved him. On the one hand, she openly defied âthe obsolete normsâ reigning in Umbrella. On the other, if her preliminary results proved true, his work would be immortalized. This remarkable woman, bent on making a scientific breakthrough, was going to bestow him with the gift of revelationâsomething he might never achieve without her.
Victor contemplated that and the endless possibilities her decisions might entail. However, before he could reply, Aurora extended her hand; she already knew his answerâa split second before he could even voice it.
âThe vial, please.â
Gideon nodded and plucked a phial from the test tube rack. The vessel contained a viscous black liquid they had been analyzing for the past few months. It resembled honey or molasses in consistency, yet it carried an air of hidden malice withinâit twirled when disturbed, slithered like a snake, splashed, and threatened to pop the stopper. Nox lifted the vial to her eyes.
She studied the substance for a moment. It was hard to say whether she was high-strung or simply thrilled, but Victor could have sworn her fingers trembled when she poured the sample into the jeroboam.
At first, the dark goop remained still, as if adjusting to the surface, temperature, and atmosphere. Dr. Nox twirled the chalice in her hand, and the substance thickened, as if the particles were fusing together. She scowled. Albeit she had been prepared, the liquidâs unstable behavior came as an unwelcome surprise.
âIt... shouldnât be that thick,â the womanâs gaze shifted to Gideon. Her adamance didnât falter, but she certainly wondered whether she needed to follow protocol for once and examine the virus again. âHas it been in storage too long?â
âNo. It has been exposed for too long,â Victor set down a test tube filled with solution. âMight I suggest adding this? Itâs a primitive method for such a delicate substance, but it works.â
âWonât it ruin the molecular structure and turn it into mush?â
âNo. Iâve found a formula that keeps it intact while breaking the cohesion between the particles.â
Dr. Nox arched eyebrow, as if confirming a conclusion she had drawn months ago.
âNo other scientist wouldâve tested a water solution in such a situation. Youâre a very gifted man, Dr. Gideon. And very dedicated.â
Her thin hand grabbed the pipette and aliquoted a few drops of the solution into the malignant-looking substance, which instantly reacted by losing its gluey texture. It kept splashing, but the clumped ridges and chunks dissolved. The womanâs eyes darted immediately to Victor, and her lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile.
âItâs time.â
Nox lingered; she had her emotions under control, but the frenzied fervor shone through the cracks of her imperturbable mask. Oddly enough, Victor couldnât take his eyes off her: Godâs work performed by an ordinary human. Godâs project brought into life by the hands of a woman, faithfully consuming the substance. She licked her lips with the same fanatical zeal, which, however, was somehow dulled by the effects of the potion. Aurora raised her head, brought him closer with a hand, touched his wrist and guided it to the dimple between the clavicles.Â
That was where his memories began to fragment, splintering into thousands of scattered specks that drifted through his mind. He couldnât describe how he registered what followed; he seemed to perceive it through his senses alone, trying to absorb as much as he possibly could. Dr. Noxâs scientific passions receded into the background, while her personal qualities came to the fore. With growing reverence, Gideon noted her unwavering determination, the sharp precision of her movements, the slight quiver of her hands as she took the jeroboam. She was science incarnate, and he did not feel worthy of her presence.
For a moment, he wondered whether he deserved to do the honorsâthough undoubtedly talented and resilient, Victor lacked her absolute resolve. He did not think he deserved to touch her with his finger, let aloneâ
His distorted lips stretched into a smile. Dr. Nox understood his uncertainties. She seized him by the wrist, hauled him closer and placed a scalpel into his hand. Victor failed to recall what she said, but it didnât matterâbecause in the next moment, she guided his hand. The blade nicked the flesh, and a rivulet of vermilion ran down her body.
Gideon licked his lips, feeling the exhilaration take hold of him once more. It was the dissection he had been anticipating, and as time ticked on, he felt galvanized into action, eager to press the scalpel into her flesh. Oh, how he wanted that. How he wanted that.
He drew up the surgical knife, its blade stained with blots of red, and held it to the light, feeling effervescency fizz in his throat like champagne bubbles. With the utmost careâborderline reverenceâhe traced a gloved finger along the first incision before slipping it into the wound, feeling the warmth her body still retained.
Victor reminisced about his ill-hidden euphoria as it struck him again like a lightning bolt. It was more intimate than sexâhe was, in the most literal sense, beneath her skin, separating tissue from cartilage and sinew, tracing the slick contours of bone, slipping his gloved fingers between her ribs to palpate what still lingered within.
It was an alluring, irresistible sight, and he could not turn away. Led on by an unknown impulse, the man dived both his hands into the cavity, feeling the remnants of warmth close around his large palms, blood slipping and gushing through his long, nimble fingers. The procedure was not in the protocol, but Dr. Nox had always coaxed his more unhinged instincts to the surface. Besides, it was the only way to detect fibrosis or discern subtle changes in tissue density, blood consistency, andâ
Victor drew back at last, halting the manual inspection. He brushed his nose with the back of his hand, catching the dense, cloying odor of congealing blood rising from his glove. It smelled... wrong, devoid of its usual metallic undertone. It looked wrong, too: the sticky trail of blood was threaded with faint specks of black that seemed to glimmer in the light.Â
A strange emotion thrummed and vibrated in his chest, reverberating through his bones until they seemed hollowed out. He was nearing a scientific revelation few were destined to come across, and he could hardly contain himself. It was unfathomable, and yet it was about to happen.
The manâs gaze flicked back to the body. Dark striations had already begun to spread along the veins and capillaries, blooming in visibly random spots. The sight sent a frisson through himâsomething electric, almost dizzying, coiling low in his chest and tightening his breath. He reached for the scalpel again, too quickly, and only then noticed the tremor in his hand. His lips stretched in a lopsided smirk: he was agitated beyond measure, and needed to steady his handâŚ
All of a sudden, Victor snapped out of it: the world around him cracked and intensified, ruining the atmosphere created by the monotonous buzz of fluorescent lamps and insistent ticking of the clock. He longed to linger in the memory and savor it properly, mentally returning to the weight of her pulsating organs in his huge hands; to the dark, spreading blotches of blood in the enamel basin where he had laid them, with the veneration worthy of a priest in a church; to the faint rut pressed into her skin by the gold bracelet she wore... Each detail vibrated within him, causing his breath to hitch. Alas, he had no time. He had no time.
The man clicked his tongue. Memory was too thin and fleeting to contain what he had felt at the moment, and he realized he needed something that would endureâsomething he could return to, touch, possess.
His gaze slid across the hand in the cabinet, and his palm imperceptibly twitched. The slow glide of his fingers along her arm, down to the fragile line of her wrist; the careful way he had taken her hand, turning it, passing his fingers over hers one by one, as though memorizing them through touch alone. He had lingered there, tracing, testing, feeling something tighten within himâsomething he neither named nor resisted. A long-dormant arousal stirred within him, tethered to the curve of her wrist, but he could not afford to dwell on itânot with Leon S. Kennedy intruding on the premises and threatening to ruin decades of painstaking work.
You can throw kudos at me here if you like the fic.
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Victor Gideon, Leon Kennedy
Rating: PG-13
Dr. Victor Gideon paced the room impatiently, his unnaturally luminescent eyes fixed on an undisclosed point in space. It was unfathomable, reallyâLeon Kennedy, the formidable investigator, a household name in certain circles, had become infected. Not that it couldnât happen to the indomitable DSO agent; after all, even scientists, far better prepared, often failed to dodge active virus transmission. But him⌠He had managed to steer clear of it for ages. Leonâs stamina was impressive. Even more so, his luck. Thatâs why it was so... unsettling.
Gideon halted, his disinterested eyes scanning the multiple screens adorning his private office. All of them displayed dark passages receding into the macabre gloom. He observed the lackluster sight, so commonplace it elicited no reaction: the compromised specimens tethered to their bunks, braying and unable to wrench themselves free; their more fortunate peers, apathetic figures, baying up the doors whenever disturbed; the more aggressive ones, useless for further experimentation due to their bellicose nature, thrashing against the bars of their cages; mutilated bodies, mauled monsters, roiling masses of flesh, lumps of meat and muscle, offshoots of evolution, indescribable aberrants, scientific failures, mediocre successes... They used various terms in the documents to avoid the blatantâand painfulâtruth: essentially, they were all zombies. Some of them clung to their routines, but the scraps of sanity nestled in the dysfunctional brains simply failed to reignite lost personalities. With such a foil, the person making it this far into the belly of the underground lab looked even more peculiar. Leon Kennedy, resilient as ever, was now tampering with the lab security system in order to gain access to the preemptively garbled data. That certainly spiced things up.Â
Gideon stared at the image, his forked tongue sliding across the crowns of his lower teeth. After a momentâs vacillation, he zoomed in and examined Leonâs stooped frame.
Unlike all the other victims of the t-Virus, Leon showed no visible signs of the disease. Unruffled, the agent moved sparingly, with remarkable ease, occasionally using the gun he had been toting the entire time. Efficient and steadfast as before, the man demonstrated no fever, no insatiable hunger, no delusionsânone of the symptoms Gideon had witnessed in his patients. He looked... normal. Strangest of all, he behaved normally, too. And that in itself was concerning.
Gideon knew he was not mistaken. He had seen it a thousand timesâin unicellular organisms, mice, dogs, infants, teens, adults, men, and women. He could detect the trace of the t-Virus permeating a cell in a split second. An infinitesimal amount of information was enough for him to draw conclusions and map out a detailed plan. Heâd done that, more than once, more than a thousand times. But Leon, unbeknownst to himself, defied all categories and posed a galvanic challenge to Gideonâs luminous talent and strict precepts he had set for himself and his lab. Leon became the conundrum Victor wanted to unravel, and that conundrum grew even more complex by the day.
...Oh, how heâd love an experiment.
The mere idea made him delightfully anxious. Gideon, reinvigorated, felt a pleasant frisson spread across his body, numbing his wrists and ankles and dissolving on his tongue like chalk powder. The sensation wasnât unfamiliar, but not many subjects caused such a reaction: he performed his duties with scientific zeal, but his true passion lay elsewhereâhe wanted to see the virus thrive and take over someone who could resist its effects. He wished to see this person withstand and gradually wither, yielding to the disease, embracing evolution. He wished to dissect every organ of that person to find out where the resistance center was situated: in the brain, in the spinal cord, in the heart, or somewhere less predictable. He wished to discover whether it was possible to switch on and off the will to remain a human being, and if it could be done from a distance. Such an endeavor could hardly be called peaceful, but he didnât have any military intentions, the interest was purely scientific. And Leon, probably despite himself, kindled this interest, putting Victor, naturally a staid person, on a previously unknown edge.
Oh, how heâd love an experiment!..
A bizarre, primordial sensation tickled his larynx and plummeted into his stomach. A mixture of reverence and almost intimate thrill stirred within him, smothering him, as though he had just encountered something sacred and yet unspeakably profane at the same time. And wasnât science sacred? It countered fallacies and misapprehensions. But wasnât it also profane? It relentlessly autopsied obsolete norms and conceptions, removing the organs and dumping them into a trash bag. Leonâs body could serve the right purpose and show the world that improvement was one injection away. Evolution was one injection away. If Leon had been more reasonable, he wouldâve become a hero in his own right...
Victor closed his eyes, envisioning the painstaking process: first, the procedures that required the patientâs consciousness. Heâd hogtie Leon to the cot, jab him a dose of muscle relaxant, and take all sorts of blood samples. Then, perform a few minor operations: scraping some tissue off the bones, taking a biopsy. Next, a major one, which would most certainly result in the subjectâs deathâextracting the cauda equina, the spinal nerves. He would be gentle. So gentle it would hurt just a little. No more than necessary.Â
All of a sudden, Victor came to his senses and grunted, shaking off the stupor. He pensively clenched and unclenched his fingers, frustration welling up in his chest. That was a disgrace. He shouldâve been smarterâhe had literally held Leon by the neck and could do as he pleased. Gideon smacked his lips, savoring the sensation: the bulging veins beneath his fingers; the rising blood pressure, obstructed breath, the pulse thrumming under the agentâs skin... Although Leon was not in the least intimidated, he certainly felt ill at ease, wary, as if he had something to hide. The scientist paid no heed back then, but his trained body followed the instructions, hammered into his habits by years of painstaking workâhe accomplished the procedures by the book, registering the texture of the manâs skin, counting the heartbeat, taking note of the temperature...
Temperature. Thatâs what alerted him, tickling a sensitive spot in the subcortex. It failed to trigger a response, but it was enough to execute a familiar algorithm in his brain and prompt him to think.Â
Alas, at this very moment, Leon saw the window of opportunity and kicked back. Gideonâs body could be trained, but the agentâs instincts must have been inimitable, second to none.
Still, the scientific mind prevailed. At first, Kennedyâs disease only seemed to be within the realm of possibility, but the more Victor speculated on the subject, the more plausible the idea became. All he needed was a speck of evidence that could corroborate his conjecture, morphing into a solid theory. Gideon, an avid researcher, never gravitated toward wild guesses. Despite his obsession with science and medicine in particular, Dr. Victor Gideon remained a sober, clear-headed man. At least by Umbrellaâs standards.Â
Gideon kept watching Leon tinker with the computer in the underground lab. It was devastating, reallyâto see such a fine specimen exhibit the slightest changes in his condition without medical supervision. Luckily, he had managed to steal a glimpse of the infection overtaking this once robust body.
Victor let another reminiscence resurface. The sight of Leon, unconscious and trussed up, excited him beyond measure. The agent didnât seem harmless, no; he resembled a drugged beast, put to sleep by a devious hunterâand that in itself enraptured the scientist. It would have been so simple to run the usual tests, scrutinize the visibly salubrious organism, jot down the indicatorsâblood circulation, stress response, oxygen deprivation... But no, he waited. Patiently. He wanted to be fair. He wanted to maintain a scientific approach, with its litanies of regulations. This prime patient deserved special treatment.
But Gideon had to admit he was genuinely enthralled, almost seduced to prick the manâs vein and watch the vermilion liquid flow directly into multiple test tubes, yet he quashed the impulse. He couldnât resist, however; he leaned a tad closer than necessary, reached his hand towards the manâs face, and brushed the hair away in a soft, loving gesture. He didnât want to ruin the impeccable specimen, so he had to be careful. Extremely careful.
The heat of the living body, though mightily reduced, was about to spur him into action, but Victor had learned to keep his passions in check, so he forced himself to focus on the muscle contraction, even though his attention was occasionally diverted by the sharp scent of sweat and gun oil. It broke his concentration, and he barely thought about Leonâs tension coiled under the guise of composure. But when he noticed the mark stretching across the manâs neck... it all diminished in scope. He had found the evidence he had been looking for.
And the agent fully acknowledged the situation. The patientâs awareness was intoxicating; Leon perfectly understood Gideonâs ulterior motives, and it made the scientistâs body tremble with anticipation.Â
Victor succumbed to the temptation. His huge hand landed on the manâs shoulder, and his fingertips, unusually sensitive, stroked a rough patch of skin that resembled a crust of necrotic tissue. Perfect. Just perfect.
Leon didnât even flinch. Gideon, on the other hand, felt a surge of anticipation coursing through him. His pulse quickened, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. He couldnât let his emotions take over; no matter how exhilarated he was, he must remain a scientist. Perhaps, he should use a scalpel?..
Victor wouldâve hesitated to ruin the beautiful picture of the evolution painting the manâs neck, but the wisecrack ruined the mood and precipitated unnecessary violence. It shouldâve been an examination, but Leon botched it. The surgical knife became an overt reflection of a primitive need, an urge, rising unbidden from the darker recesses of his mind... His fingers lingered where they were for another second, tracing the hardened edge of the lesion with delicate curiosity.
Thenâone precise, deliberate cut.
The scientistâs keen sense of smell immediately picked up the faint, metallic scent wafting from the fresh wound. Blood. Gideon inhaled slowly, his forked tongue sliding across his cracked lips.
How... extraordinary. How... exquisite.
Although Victor had broken the physical contact, he could still feel the throbbing of life pulsing somewhere in this resilient body. No tremor, no feverish twitch, none of the spasmodic agitation he had come to expect from infected subjects. Leon remained lucid, stubbornly composed, almost defiant in his equanimity.
The scientist felt the sensation ripple through him againâthat peculiar tightening of the nerves, the tight knot of tension in the stomach, and... the rapid fall. Leon had slipped away, but he left a mark, a memory any scientist would cherish.
Gideonâs lips twitched. Yes, he would very much like another chance. And he would not let it slip away next time.
There was one thing Scianel knew for a fact: all grandes dames of the past hosted salons, where they played cards, bandied civilities, or gathered to gossip, rarely condescending to discuss affairs at hand. She couldn't remember exactly where she'd got that idea fromâperhaps she picked it from a book, heard it on TV, or came across a painting during compulsory school trips to a museum. Either way, it sprouted in her mind, and the woman pledged to herself that she would finally become somebody and establish one such salon where she could, just like the grandes dames of the past, play poker, chat, and previsualize the strikes she was about to deliver.
Although the outline only existed in her imagination, Scianel managed to pull it off: without bloviating or digressing, she persistently pursued her goal, using whatever occasional help she could muster. Even though it took her more than a few years to achieve, she was eventually relishing the fruits of her perseverance, tenacity, and wit: surrounded by loyalâand often obsequiousâminions, she could order whatever her heart desired: glean information, destroy an enemy, bushwhack to finish an assignment, or perform a trick that required the utmost adroitness and aptitude. Come to think of it, she was capable of building an empire that was bound to thriveâif only she could topple the tyrant. The mere possibility of it stroked her ego and galvanized her into action, but Scianel tamped down her zeal and forced herself to lie low. For now, she must go to ground and resurface only when Gennaro was at his lowest. An experienced poker player, she knew she had to play it safe.
But only for now.
Thatâs why Scianel barely paid attention to the mess around her. First of all, she didnât really think anything might pop up, and if things did indeed go south, her guagliĂš at the drug den were more than competentâthey could handle any problem, including brawlers, enemies, or sbirri. Second, she didnât go through it all to constantly supervise anyone; if they wanted a modicum of her respect and a bigger chunk of money, they had to prove they deserved it. Theirs was a ruthless business, a dog-eat-dog kind of place, and those who hadnât learned that quickly were eliminated. Scianel had already had a fair share of life lessons and was now entitled to some free time, which she chose to spend with a group of friends gathered around the poker table.
"As usual, the feared donna wins again!" guffawed Ludovica, a bulky woman with garishly painted lips and bejeweled fingers. "I shouldâve learned not to place higher bets while playing with you."
"Win that back, then," Scianel replied with a lopsided smirk, motioning her cigarette in a magnanimous gesture. A boy of about fifteen materialized out of thin air, as if the flick of the cigarette was enough to summon him. "Take that away," the donna pointed at the euro bills and coins scattered across the table. "We might want another round, but a little later."
"Not so quickly. Youâve drained us to the last drop," Ludovica laughed again and grabbed her gold cigarette case. "Give us a break."
"Youâre growing old, Ludo," Scianel flipped the ash off the cigarette. "I remember times when you were far more reckless than that."
"My recent Tarot reading was against recklessness, and I ignored the signs," the womanâs voice sounded almost dreamy, although laced with irony. "There were plenty of those. Iâve already lost a fortune, and Iâll gamble away my own ass if I donât stop. No, thank you, donna. Next time, next time."
Scianel leaned back, eyes affixed to an undisclosed point in space, jaws idly chewing on the smoke billowing in her mouth. She didnât know Ludovica was a fan of Tarot cards, but it wouldnât be extraordinary for a person this odd: Ludoâs familyâs eccentricities had become proverbial, and she certainly acquired a rare knack for esoteric practices and divinations. La Smorfia, Anime Pezzentelle, and Malocchio items were probably only the tip of the iceberg, but Scianel never pried into it: she neither had the time nor interest to ask around.
"Whereâd you get a reading?" the donna asked casually, by way of encouragement. "I didnât know Secondigliano could offer that too."
"Whateverâs popular in the world, I lay my paws on it," the woman shrugged and took a lighter, proffered by a gaunt lady sitting opposite her. "Graziâ. Besides, I was curious," she lit her cigarette and returned the lighter, her hazel eyes squinting. "Arenât you curious, Scianel? Donât you want to know whatâs awaiting in the future?"
Scianel paused, nibbling on the filter. She hadnât thought of it in earnestâsuch things always seemed minuscule to her and never played a role in her decisions, otherwise she would have been buried six feet deep or scattered like some kind of trash, but she had to admit, sometimes she was tempted to try.
"I guess that wouldnât hurt, would it?" she drawled somewhat pensively, her eyes swiveling in the direction of a ramrod straight silhouette, so quiet and aloof it resembled a specter. "What do you think, Patri?"
The figure, customarily solemn and wary, roused at the call. Taciturnity and inconspicuousness, so uncommon in their line of work, usually aroused suspicion, and yet, Patrizia hadnât done anything that would trigger Scianelâs instincts. The donna decided to give the woman the benefit of the doubtâafter all, it wasnât her first day in the business, and if she wanted to take down Gennaro, she should take every advantage, this unexpected ally included.
"No. I guess thereâs no harm in that," Patrizia replied in a hollow voice that mostly sounded like a confirmation coming from Scianelâs own mind.
"See, Ludo? No harm in that," Scianel gave out a raspy, slightly artificial laughâshe couldnât quite explain, but the esoteric allure had somewhat put her on edge. "Predict us more prosperity and the fall of Savastano!"
Another raucous laugh, laced with ill-hidden dark triumph. While it was far more genuine than the previous, Scianel hoped that her reaction might reveal Patriâs ulterior motives, but she didnât even flinch. If she were a traitor, a fleeting emotion would've given her away.
Scianel perused the woman's features with curious intensity. She seemed loyal, but just how loyal could she really be? Was she dependable? Trustworthy? Stalwart? Partizia possessed a whole lot of qualities Scianelâs boys lacked, but wasnât it what defined a woman in general? At the same time, she appeared flexible and ready to serve, but it was clear from her behavior that she would not be ordered aboutâshe chose when to obey, refusing to kowtow before anyone who proclaimed themself a sovereign. Another rare quality: men blindly followed orders and fell into traps, while women reconnoitered and reported back.
Just by looking at her, Scianel understood that Patrizia was better off without these cafoniâfirst, Pietro, then Ciro, next Gennarino. They ruled the world, resorting to superannuated, anachronistic methods that no longer worked. Pietro had refused to adapt and got eliminated; Ciro, slippery like an eel, promoted a mock democracy that did little to help them reign over Secondigliano; and now Gennaro, the baneful, pastiche combination of the two: not quite pliable and cunning as the renowned LâImmortale, he wasn't even remotely as steadfast as his father.
Ah, to hell with them. They all believed it was the men's world. It was not. She was here to prove it.
Ludovica had already scrounged up a deck of old Tarot cards that looked so fragile it could fall apart. Albeit she was clearly eager to start, she didnât prod the donna: instead, she quietly smoked her cigarette, eyes squinted at the fume, prowling into her hazy sclerae.
"Lay it on me," Scianel said with a note of finality in her tone. "But donât even try to pull tricks. You know how it ends."
Ludo didnât react, as if entering some sort of trance. Her derisive face switched into an impassive mask, and the susurrus of the deck being shuffled gained a mysterious cadence, the emerald card backs flicking between her ring-clad fingers. Scianel watched her movements, completely mesmerized: though Ludovica wasnât the most graceful of their clique, her gnarled digits acted with previously unknown elegance. Scianel felt uneasy. Whatever it boded, it couldn't be bad, could it?.. She had her people. She had her sources. She had a trump card, tooâPatriziaâby her side⌠She might not be able to outrun Gennaro, but she could outsmart him, blindside him, and promptly sidestep, while he was trying to recover, and stab him in the backâ
"Lift," came Ludoâs jarring voice, her enormous gold earrings clinging in her ears. "With your left hand."
Scianel did as instructed. Unlike other fortune tellers Scianel had heard about, Ludovica didnât ask her to ponder over a question or an intricate predicament her friend wanted to resolve. Perhaps Scianel's attitude toward Gennaro was evident, and her behavior self-explanatory; perhaps her problems, though clandestine, had begun to seep through the cracks; perhaps it was just a different approach... Banishing the thoughts to empty her head, Scianel tried to focusâand realized that her eyes were transfixed on the emerald cards, ancient and weatherbeaten.
The beefy hand with ugly bunions fanned out the Tarot and soared over them, as if scanning them one by one. Then, out of the blue, it clawed at a cardâthe one Scianel herself had been attached to. No matter how much the donna wanted to divagate, nothing could deflect her attention; her eyes always returned to that card. The fortune teller turned it faceup and laid it back on the table, revealing a picture with a stately, majestic woman whose regal countenance radiated quiet authority.
L'Imperatrice.
"Do I need to be any more clear?" Ludoâs inscrutable face suddenly shifted into a smug expression, which lasted only a few moments before reinstating the veil of apathy.
"Yes. Please, humor me. And our dear guest from the Savastano camp," Scianel replied with audible delight, rolling the words on her tongue, stressingâfor everyone else in the room even more than for the stranger, Patriziaâthat she was the authority. "Just in case we misunderstand something."
Ludovica blinked, raised her head in a slow, steady gesture, and motioned around, her bracelets chiming.
"Meet L'Imperatrice," she announced almost histrionically, not losing the bizarre lilt in her intonation. "A powerful card. There is not a thing she could not be: she is fertility, she is creativity, she is nurturing, she is... abundance, life itself!.." the fortune teller enunciated with unadulterated pathos. "But in this case, she most likely defines your position, Scianel. You are in control. You have the power and the means to achieve your goals. You are exactly where you ought to be."
Pleased and gratified beyond measure, Scianel willed herself to stay silent. She wanted to elaborate that she did not intend to stop here, that it was a mere pause, a strategic retreat, a necessary respite before an exhausting battle, but she thought better of it. It wasn't distrust; rather, she didn't want to evince her plans while she hadn't mapped out her assaults and her targetsâ
"Your second cardâŚ"
Ludovica froze and glowered. She was either seesawing or pulled in several directions at once.
"Che cos'è?" Scianel failed to conceal her curiosity under the guise of nonchalance. When Ludo didnât respond, the donna felt more than a little agitated. The air congealed with suspense, thick and viscous as coagulated blood. Even Patrizia, a glum statue in the murk, leaned forward, her tea-coloured eyes scintillating in the dim light of the salon.
"You wonât like it," warned Ludo, her eyes swept past the Tarot to the donna, her fingertips stroking a card.
"Naturally," Scianel issued a hoarse laugh. "But Iâm in control. Youâve just said so yourself.âÂ
Not adding anything, Ludovica swiftly turned up the card and patiently waited for the reaction.
L'Appeso. Reversed.
Scianel's body stiffened like a coiled spring, and she straightened up in her chair. Of course, all this Tarot nonsense was a hoax, a pile of shit never to be believed; these once-bright pictures, dulled by ages of use, had no real meaning behind them in the first place. At the same time, the pictures hardly corresponded to their interpretation, so the Hanged Man could be anything, anything at all. For instance, it might mean Gennaroâs imminent fall.
"Huh? What does that mean?" Scianel prompted her friend in a tone carrying a nascent threat. "No one hangs anyone these days. Guns are cheaper and do a better job."
"Betrayal."
The donnaâs predatory eyes, encircled in yellow hoops, drilling through the fortune teller, cigarette smoldering between her fingers.
Betrayal. She thought as much. It was so predictable and commonplace that it hurt to admit. But who? Surely one of the ruffians who killed that puttanaâs fuckboy. He did what was told, true, but she saw the look on his face. He probably imagined himself while shooting his balls off.
"Of course," she said in a carefully modulated voice, " A betrayal. A traitor. Is he active now?"
"Not yet, but the Empress must remain cautious at all timesâthis person will reveal themselves, but it will be hard to read the signs."
"Fine," Scianel took a long drag, the smoldering tip almost burning her lips. "Next card."
"You sure you don't need further elaboration?"
"You think I don't know how to deal with traitors?" She narrowed her eyes, "Who do you take me for?"
Ludovica left it unanswered, but it was hard to say whether she wanted to stay away from the trouble or if the trance took a stronger hold. She shrugged and turned the last card without thinking at all.
La Torre.
Foreboding crept into the donnaâs bones, snaking into the tiniest fractures and swelling within like a wet sponge, growing in size. She had already been prepared to dismiss any premonition that might unsettle her, but the sight of this card left no room for denial. The tower stood jagged and crumbling, struck by lightning, and the very air around it seemed to tremble. Ludo had lapsed into silence, her bulging eyes poring over her mistress.
"Speak," Scianel commanded as coolly as she could, though she had already guessed the meaning.
"Destruction."
A moment of stasis. Everyone in the room seemed to have been petrified by this one word, and even Patri, the most reserved and collected of all, appeared affected and bewildered. Her composure was restored in a couple of seconds, but the trepidation that distorted her visage still nestled in the depths of her pupils. She was the one to break the silence.
"Or a change," she spoke quietly, her eyes glued to the greasy picture. "Quick, drastic, unexpected. Everything will lie in ruins, no one will have enough time to react, but it will give way to new beginnings." Bit by bit, her voice gained strength. "To new empires."
The fortune teller kept observing the table, not seeing it, as if blind. Her face drew a blankâPatriziaâs words had no impact on her, sheâd barely heard them at all. The others, much more impressionable, felt too sheepish to participate in the conversation and simply shifted their eyes from Patri to Scianel and back.
The donnaâs visage smoothed. She stood up and approached the woman with a sinister grin playing on her lips.
"New beginnings, you say," she hissed, her face inches away from Patriziaâs. "New empires. Whose those empires might be, Patri?"
Patrizia felt a pungent stink of smoke enveloping Scianelâs figure, mingling with a suffocating redolence of her perfume. She had been accustomed to that smell, but now it seemed overbearing, stretching its tentacles over to her and bringing her closer to the bloodthirsty demon who would stop at no sacrifice.
"What is it, Patri? Are there indeed any new beginnings?" Scianel muttered, softly raising Patriziaâs face to the light with the tips of her fingers that still preserved the warmth of the cigarette. "New empires? New prospects and new worlds?"
Staring directly into the yellow eyes of the tigress, Patri mulled over her answerâshe had to be smart to pull that off, come up with a decent reply, please LâImperatrice, and fortify her own positions.Â
âYes,â the woman replied slowly and quietly, maintaining eye contact, her posture straight as ever. âEmpires fall because they fail to adapt. They latch onto outdated ideas and obsolete principles,â she paused, letting the words sink in. âAnd thatâs where LâImperatrice comes in. Creation requires space, and she takes it all. La Torre is a warning for the Empress, but if sheâs reasonable enough, her sacrifice will be repaid.âÂ
Scianelâs eyebrows arched, the corners of her mouth tugging into a wry smirk. She scrutinized Patriziaâs tired face and tilted her head to the side.
âNo man deserves you, Patri,â the donna finally uttered, her raspy hiss gaining a smarmy note. âItâs good to have you here. In a place where your skills can truly be appreciated. Tâappostâ. Tâappostâ.âÂ
Her fingers lingered on the womanâs chin for another second, and then she brusquely turned back to the table.Â
âJatevenne, moâ. Iâm done with your idiot games.âÂ
The women obeyed. Chairs scraped against the floor, and the guests hurried out of the salonâall but one, the silent observer hidden in the dark.
The day was drawing to a close. The hot Sicilian sun glissaded across the sky, splashing the final remnants of its orange paint, washing the town in amber hues of an old photograph. Unapologetically, it smeared the watercolor across the roads, spilled bright rays on wave crests, and, like a thousand shiny snakes, slithered into the flowers that generously adorned the houses. Normally quiet, if not outright drowsy, San Celeste had just begun to hum like a stirred beehive: cheering kids, clapping their hands, were playing a game with the rules only they understood; women, leaning from the balconies, unsuccessfully tried to chase the rascals home and hang out the laundry; men who had previously toiled at the shipyard, wrapped up for the day, arguing loudly but without spite in their voices. Young lovers took advantage of all this evening commotionâthey could finally slip into the garden unnoticed and enjoy kisses and promises whispered between the leaves of lemons and jacarandas. All in all, San Celeste wasnât any different from any small town in Sicily: bucolic and languid in the June heat, it gradually came to life under the watchful eye of the stately Etna, the majestic volcano, all shrouded in a mantle of smoke and clouds.
But the four men at the table ignored the fun. While even the most irascible and loud-mouthed of them looked serene, the group did not fit into the relaxed atmosphere of the evening. Despite the glasses of wine and carelessly discarded cigarette packs, they had not gathered here for a casual chitchat.
âSo? What do you think?â asked the paler one, pulling out a lighter from his tailored suit. âSure, there are risks, Iâll be honest with you. But in the case of successâand the odds are in our favorâwe will brighten our perspectives. Both clans.â
Luca didnât reply immediately. He respected the Galantes and acknowledged Leoâs independence, but the man was not infallible. Although Leo did think a few steps ahead, he tended to jump the gun, not doing things by the book and cutting corners whenever possible. To give him credit, he knew the ropes well enough not to have tasked Enzo or Cesare with arranging the meetingâhe did it himself, making it look like a friendly reunion. Leo Galante was everything the Torrisis were not: tactful, level-headed, and poised for a subtle ploy. One had to be devious to survive in their business, and Galantes surpassed everyone, producing sons worthy of Mercurius. They could trade hell from the devil, no less. Too bad Leo was the only one left.
âEssentially, what you propose is to schedule a reconnoiter and shortcut, if possible. Correct?â Lucaâs eyes followed a boy throwing a lemon at his friend; then they slowly swiveled back to Leo and affixed him with a penetrating gaze.
âReconnoiter? Hell no,â Galante flicked open his lighter, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. âWhat Iâm offering is dodging the customs. Well, the most rigorous part of it,â he took a long drag and exhaled the smoke. âYou have the wine, I have the means and the contactâwhy not give it a shot? We arenât losing anything.â
âYou did mention certain risks, Leo.â
âYes, but nothing that canât be smoothed over with a bill.â He paused and scratched his eyebrow. âWhat we lack is a meditator. Someone we can trust on the premises.â
At this, Luca could hardly suppress a smile: an implication that a Galante couldnât find a meditator seemed almost outrageousâthis family had a finger in every pie, and all the pies were very legal at that. Trapani simply could not imagine that people with his connections failed to hire the right person for the job.
âAre you asking for help? Canât believe the proud son of the Galante clan needs contacts.â
âNah, he just doesnât want to get his hands dirty,â Cesare barged into the conversation with the grace of a charging rhino. Strangely, his eyes seemed almost peaceful, glued to the cigarette in front of him, as if he were creating a work of art. âWeâre always doing muscle work. Heâs the brain of any operation. Too bright to work with his fists.â
âCesare, watch your mouth,â warned Luca. âThink before you speak.â
âWhat a remarkably long way to say âshut upâ. Smettila, Cesare. Weâre talking real business right now, your profit included.â
âYeah, right. All you do is business,â Cesare rolled his eyes, âYou never call us for a party.â
âOh, really now?â Leoâs nimble fingers flicked off the ash. âMissing the girls already?â
âA man is entitled to some free time, no?â
âAre those girls really your most devoted fans?â Leo eyed a garishly clad prostitute who passed by Cesare with a salacious grin. âWhatâs that one thing you do so well that makes them forget youâre an idiot?â
âDonât you forget, Leo, that you are spending time with the same girls,â Luca interjected, by way of defending Cesare. âThey might eventually take you for a bigger idiot and charge you twice as much.â
Cesare almost beamedâhe felt instantly emboldened, and replied with a triumphant, âSee? Whoâs the idiot now?â
Luca shook his head. No matter how serious these two wanted to look, they still had too much fire raging in them. Enzo, howeverâthe more reserved of the trioâprovided an interesting contrast. Although he clearly enjoyed the bickering, he never participated in it or in the other dubious activities Cesare desperately tried to drag him into. He might actually be much more mature than Trapani had anticipated.
For a moment, all fell silent. Enzo, reticent for the bigger part of the conversation, did not lose the distinctive coiled spring withinâalthough relaxed, he was ready to spring into action whenever necessary. His eyes, however, told a different story: he was deep in thought, which was probably grim. Leo kept smoking his cigarette, watching Etna with a contemplative countenance. Cesareâs belligerent nature was simmeringâperhaps not even out of spite, but mostly because of the restless, healthy energy surging inside. Galanteâs words had nagged him somehow, but Luca felt little desire to backtrack or rebuke either of them.
âLooking at you two, I wish I had a daughter,â Luca said half-jokingly, wrapping up the discussion. âGirls are far more disciplined.â
âOh, they are,â the magic word galvanized Cesare in no time, and he was ready to cast his mind back to the adventures in the nearby bordello. âBut itâs not over for you, is it?.. I mean, Valentina gives birth, and you can... You know,â realizing he was nearing the abyss of Lucaâs paternal disapproval, Cesare grew uncharacteristically sheepish and thought better of finishing the sentence.
âWatch your mouth,â Luca responded, his tone slightly more threatening than before, exposing his authority. âWhy do I always have to repeat myself?â
âBecause someoneâs intelligence capabilities are ten times lower than those of a fish,â said Leo, stubbing out his cigarette. âThe sarde in the sea can boast a bigger brain.â
âChi minchia è?â Although Cesare did not fully grasp the extent of the insult, he nonetheless realized that it was directed at him. âWhat do you mean?â
âNiente,â Leo snickered, shoving a glass of wine in his friendâs direction. âGrab a drink before you say something youâll regret.â
As if in an attempt to atoneâor to drop the subject altogetherâCesare seized the mug but didnât drink. Humbled by Lucaâs presence, he felt obliged to forego his usual beverage.
âAnyway, retracing the steps, Leo. Iâll give your word to Don Torrisi. Enzo will deliver the final verdict.â
âTake your time,â Leo gave him a dismissive handâa magnanimous gesture, unconsciously mimicking his late father. Watching Leo grow and gain confidence, Luca couldnât help but wonder if Galante intentionally repeated after his patri. âWill you stay with us? Cesare was right, Iâm never calling for a party, so be my guest. It was my idea all along.â
âThank you, Leo. Unfortunately, I am occupied at the moment, and I canât be seen loitering around. Youâll get it when you get married,â Luca smiled, smoothing his waistcoat.
âWill I ever?â Leo languidly stretched in his chair, a sly grin playing on his lips. âNow I can have as many wives as I want. Grazia, Giulia, Concetta...â
âYou forgot Francesca!â Cesare groaned, gesturing with both his hands. âĂ pazza, chista bambola! Mamma mia! That one thing she doesââ
âI get your point,â Lucaâs finely modulated voice easily cut off Cesareâs. âBut donât get too arrogant: you never know when a woman is poised to steal your heart. It may happen between the sheets or right after when she takes your walletâwith your heart as a bonus.â
Even Enzo found it hard to maintain his usual composure and cracked. That little chuckle didnât escape Trapaniâs attention; if anything, it intrigued him. He worried for the kid, though he couldnât explain why: it mustâve been something inherently solid and sound about him, something he had rarely encountered in people. Enzo never picked fights, but wasnât a coward; he didnât carouse or hang out in the brothel, but wasnât a hypocrite; and, best of all, he hardly fell victim to Cesareâs boisterous charm. At the same time, Enzo had something none of Lucaâs acquaintances possessed: he carried an air of tragedy within. He always expected a betrayal; he never fully believed he was good for anything, but he stuck to the unwritten laws of âchivalrousâ conduct accepted in the family, hoping to achieve something.
Suddenly, Luca thought that there might be another reason that made him nervous. Was it Enzoâs presupposed infidelity? Or was it because of his perfectly timed encounters with Isabella? If it happened again, Trapani, as his superior, should probably give him a heads-up. Nothing eludes the Don, and if it does, it falls into Tinoâs lap. And, frankly, Luca didnât know which was worse: Bernardoâs short fuse or the consiglieriâs sleuths in every possible corner.
Just as Luca was about to take his leave, he heard a loud shout: a tall, lanky boy of about fourteen sprinted toward their table, waving his disproportionally gangly, scrawny arms.
âSignore Trapani! Signore Trapani!â the boy panted, trying to catch his breath. âItâs urgent. You gotta go! Ora!â
Instantly on alert, Luca leaned forward, expecting an explanation.
âYes, Carmelo. What happened?â
âSignora Trapani, she...â The boy was clearly struggling to reply, but the words stuck in the back of his throat. He was either confounded, unsure whether he was allowed to announce personal news in Leoâs presence, or simply needed a glass of water to wash down his words. âSheâsââ
âGot it.â
All further details were unnecessary. He headed for the horse and mounted.
âYou two,â Luca pointed at Enzo and Cesare with a nod, âdrive Carmelo home; heâs in no condition to run back. Then make rounds as usual. Leo, thanks again for the evening. Stop by whenever you can, regardless of the decision made on your offer. You are always a welcome guest at Villa Torrisi.â
Throwing this one last civility, Luca spurred the horse and departed, leaving his subordinates in his wake.
âWhatever got into him,â drawled Cesare pensively, watching Lucaâs silhouette disappear in the clouds of reddish dust. âNever saw him so graveâ.
âI think we should go too,â said Enzo quietly, motioning Carmelo to follow.
âMa va, Enzo! We can have some more fun before we leave! Whateverâs happening to Valentina isnât our concern.â
âNo. But whatever may happen in the process might just be. AmunĂŹ.â
âWhatâs that youâre trying to say?â
Leo placed his chin on the tented hands and grinned. âWhat heâs trying to say, Cesare, is that Lucaâs beloved wife is in labor and youâd better be keeping watch if you donât want unpleasant surprises. Because if something happens⌠you two are to blame.â
Two lectures were already too much for Cesare to endure, so he chose not to provoke another.
âYou drive,â he spat on the ground and sauntered toward the car.
***
The familiar outlines of the villa lay aheadâLuca could already discern the stout silhouettes with the looming bulk of Etna above. Although the atmosphere remained seemingly peaceful, and the landscapes hadnât changed a tad since his last visit to more remote places, he nonetheless sensed an invisible threat hanging over the impregnable fastness he called home. Trapani failed to properly verbalize itâand if someone had voiced similar concerns, he wouldâve hurried to allay themâhe nonetheless felt a strange tinge of anxiety, weakening his knees, turning his joints and bones into putty. Was it Valentina? Perhaps. He never doubted her, but labor still could be immensely dangerous, even with a qualified doctor. But sheâd gone through it before, and he had no reason to worryâsheâd already made it clear that she wished to have a big family. Was it a stray spark of cowardice? Thatâd be odd. His life was rife with ventures and risks, and he acknowledged them allâhad acknowledged them all. No, there must be something else. Something even a man of Luca Trapaniâs outstanding composure and sobriety was reluctant to admit: his actions put others in jeopardy. Primarily, his wife and their two kids.
Although Valentina had never pushed her nose into his affairs, she wasnât blind. Nor was she stupid, easy to dupe, gullible, deaf, or mute. Though burdened with the usual tasks of a woman in rural Sicily, she regularly approached him with a conversationâmere remarks laced with a quiet warning. When he was younger, he used to kiss her worries away, pressing her hands to his lips and reassuring her. As he grew older, he came to understand her innuendos: she strove to push him to the ultimate decision that wouldâve sealed his fate forever.
Only now had he truly grasped the consequences of his unquestioned loyalty to the don. Heâd already come to terms with his mortality, with the fact that his line of work always implied a certain degree of danger, but he could notâwould notâsacrifice his wife and children, especially now, when this certain degree of danger was growing exponentially. He had to think of something, find a way to smuggle Valentina, Samuele, and the newborn away while he still could⌠Oh, this quarrelsome woman will start a scene, he thought with a smile as the hills and lemon groves flashed by. She wouldnât go without him. Valentina wasnât the quiet type, and he loved her for that. Very voluble on any occasion, she always remained his companion; Madonna, she could be his trustworthy partner in crime. Not knowing the details, having a vague impression of the situation, she consistently took his side, though not without a properâand well-deservedâscolding.
As the horse rushed into the gates, Luca noted that the villa was unnaturally deserted and uncharacteristically on edge. When women were in labor, men took care of the kids, playing with them and trying to distract them from the yet-unknown horrors of childbirth. Despite that, however, some of the children dallied around, disoriented and nonplussed, a peculiar contrast to the unsuspecting hordes of San Celeste. The man felt a pull at the heartstrings, wondering whether Samuele was hiding somewhere or had been taken in by a sympathetic and resourceful signora, who could find a dozen tasks requiring a manâs assistance. Because thatâs what he was projected to be. Trapani wondered if he was destined to see it.
Pushing the thought aside, Luca scanned the façade, wondering whether he should burst into the main house or patiently wait for the invitation. Either option seemed equally strange; turns out one cannot be ready to become a father. Even for the second time in a row.
âLuca! Veni ccĂ !â Isabellaâs voice interrupted his train of thought, and her disheveled head showed up in the window. âYouâre just in time!â
Forcing his stiffened limbs to move, Trapani followed her voice, realizing with surprise that Isabella had truly asserted herself as a matron, capable of ruling the entire household. The family hearth would eventually become her domain, and she was successfully exercising her female powers. Like Valentina, one day she would make a flawless homemaker. Unlike Valentina, however, she would always have her husband by her side, safe and sound, never to be shot, never to be killed. As much as Luca disagreed with Bernardoâs point of view, he could clearly see one advantage: Isabella wouldnât have to mourn the loss; she wouldnât have to go through the same ordeal as Valentina. If her husband dies, it will be perfectly natural. Heâd live up to one hundred years and peacefully pass away in his sleep, surrounded by his closest family.
âItâs impolite to keep women waiting, especially when they give you a son,â Isabella smiled broadly, pulling a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. âDid Carmelo find you? He hasnât come back yet.â
âYes, he did. Enzo and Cesare will drive him back home...â Luca paused, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if trying to fight nervousness and anticipation. âHowâs she? Is it okay to visit her now?â
âSheâs as vigorous as a woman in labor can be. Cursed you up and down for putting her through that once again,â at this, Isabella chuckled and placed her hand onto his forearm. âLuca, you must see her. I believe she has something to say, and you wonât have a better moment together.â
Still rigid, Luca stumbled in the direction of the room where Valentina was confined: anxiety and happiness overflowed, intertwined, forming tight knots in every limb of his body. He felt elatedâbut this elation was diluted, marred by an ominous premonition; he knew he was capable of protecting his family, but he was not the one to determine the course of the battle. The Torrisi clan could invent devious decoys, create clever stratagems, and place intricate traps, but it all required thorough planning, and thorough planning required time, the asset they did not have at their disposal. If they make one mistake, however small, itâ
Isabella gave him a gentle push. âDonât keep her waiting. Who knows what sheâs capable of?â
Luca mustered a smile. It looked a little strained; he wasnât sure how to behave: should he give way to genuine joy and let habitual equanimity betray him? Should he lock up in his head and grope for the right words? Should he simply comply with Isabellaâs nudge and quietly climb the goddamn stairs?.. Bedda matri, he would love to have a girlâheâd spoil her rottenâbut a son was good, too. The man imagined his wifeâs reproachful stare. Just like with Samuele, sheâd keep saying that the child took a lot after his father. How he loved her. Madonna, how he loved her.
Valentina, livid and exhausted beyond measure, reacted to the creaking of the old hinges with so much as a feeble flutter of her eyelids. The sight of his wife holding a tiny bundle was enough to ease the tension and make his knees weaken; placid, staid, and collected, Luca suddenly felt out of his depth. He recalled the first time he saw her, a little impish and self-confident, with her black eyes glowing like embers in the pile of cinders. No, he didnât lose his head; he didnât go insane; he didnât chase her like a lovesick foolâValentina was his deliberate choice. But the fact that she chose him every day and repeatedly gave him her all threw him off balance. His heart was swelling with love, pounding hard into his ribs, breaking out of his chest. It was a feeling he couldnât describe: love, at least the more fathomable part of it, didnât do it justiceâit was so much bigger than that, mixed with respect and worship worthy of a religious zealot.
âIâm sorry I couldnât arrive in time. Isabella sent Carmelo, butââ
âIt doesnât matter now,â Valentina smiled faintly, her face beaming with an emotion he couldnât pinpoint. âI wanted you to take a look before anyone else sees him. Niccolò Trapani, pi esempiu. How does that sound?â
In an instant, everything diminished in scope. The concerns of the last few days fell into oblivion, and he no longer felt anxiously high-strungâthe dignified calm of the woman enshrouded him like a fresh breeze. He stared at the infant, sniffing by the motherâs breast, and saw his own reflectionâas well as that of Valentina.
âYouâre too tight-lipped even for a reserved man,â she jested, carefully sitting up not to awaken the baby, probably knowing from experience how easy it was to disturb a newbornâs sleep. Surprisingly, the kid didnât whine; Samuele, his older brother, had terrorized his parents for days on end, making his opinion known, and Luca joked he was his mammaâs son. Niccolò was much more tranquil in comparison. Or he was too tired to register the many impressions the world had laid out for him.
âYou know, tesoru,â Valentina whispered, noticing her husbandâs vacillation, âSometimes I think I have an older son who only pretends to be an adult. He says has his way around and all that, but deep inside, heâs just a child pretending to be an adult.â
âIsnât it what we all do?â Lucaâs voice echoed her softer tone, his eyes staring into hers. âPretend to be adults?â
âMen, perhaps. Women grow up fast enough to manage the mess theyâre dragged into.â
âLuckily, I have you. A resilient woman with opinions.â
âYou do.â
She did not elaborate further. Instead, Valentina lapsed into pensive silence as if mulling over an idea that had been implanted into her head years ago. Luca recognized the mood that was slowly sliding into her features. Though the look of unadulterated happiness had not shifted into a calmer expression, he already knew what she was about to say. Probably reading his mind, the woman tried to assuage his worriesâand tenderly covered his larger palm with her delicate hand.
âKeep them out of it,â she begged in a lower voice, her dark eyes drilling into his face. âPlease, keep them both out of it. I risk losing my husband every day, and I do not want to lose my sons with him. Do what you can to shelter them from whatever you are doing for Bernardo.â
This quiet request was enough to render him speechless. Valentina hardly beat around the bush, but he did not expect her to articulate her concernsâbesides, he wasnât sure as to how much she actually knew about the shady business he was involved in. It took him a moment to recover.
âValentina, cara miaââ
âNow you may drop the act.â
She sounded soft, but he could pick up a barely audible noise of fear and inexplicable finality. When Valentina squashed the inner panic, she continued.
âDrop the act,â she repeated. âWe both know you understand. I may be a simple woman, but I am not a brainless puppet loitering around the house...â the woman sighed, clearly struggling to find the right words, thoughâLuca was convincedâshe had played out this conversation multiple times in her head. âLuca, I... I would have asked you to escape. I would have prayed to Madonna until my knees were sore if I knew it helped. But Iâm never going to win. Women donât play menâs games because they have no place on the board.â
Her warm hand squeezed his fingers, and she leaned into him. Her words hurt; it hurt to admit that he had been sworn in to prioritize his business, not the people he loved so dearly; it hurt to admit that his achievements, his status, his skills, and knowledge played no role in the life of his familyâif he didnât come up with something, anything, this tiny bundle in Valentinaâs arms would be splattered with blood, just like his brother. They would learn to hold a knife; they would slit throats and shoot like real highwaymen, and there would be no way in hell to change their lives. It wouldnât end with him. It wouldnât end with him if he didnât take action, and, luckily, there still might be a wayâthat vague scheme offered by Galante and his ties with La Merica...
Luca expelled a shuddering breath and wrapped his arm around Valentinaâs frame, holding her and little Niccolò close, wallowing in the warmth of their bodies. By now, the decision had formed and solidified in his headâand the words flew out almost effortlessly.
âI will keep them out of it. I can promise you that. Itâs the least I can do.â
With that, Luca pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed his eyes. What an idiot, he thought. You were the only idiot living up to the values you no longer believed in.
I will die in this fandom. If you want to encourage me to keep writing, feel free to leave kudos and comments here or on AO3.
Winters in this part of the map had always been merciless, but this one really took the cake: even criminals, vigilant at all times, chose to lie low and reschedule their meetings. Some, like, undoubtedly, Leo Galante, sequestered at home and wallowed in luxury, roasting feet by the fireplace. Others, for instance, Joe Barbaro and Eddy Scarpa, preferred less refined sources of entertainment. Few were concerned with safety: the deadliest killers had been buried six feet deep under piles of fresh snowâan unexpected blizzard took good care of itâand they needed more than a day to retrieve their weapons. The climactic hell seemed to have finally brought peace to the hectic, feverishly jittering city of Empire Bay.
Vito Scaletta, however, was undeterred. His Sicilian nature protested, and his skin crawled every time the temperature dropped, but he nonetheless felt an inexplicable, bizarre urge to get out of his apartment and take a stroll around the deserted city, cloaked in a pale shroud of snow. He risked a frostbite, but heâd seen worse than thatâdodging bullets required much more luck. And he had plenty.
âA pack of reds,â he said absent-mindedly to a vendor, a roly-poly man in his early fifties. âA big oneâ.
âIt ainât easy being a smoker during a snowstorm, eh?â joked the seller, placing the pack on the counter. âTwenty cents.â
âYeah. Thanks.â
Vito grabbed the cigarettes, leaving a one-dollar bill. He quickly marched off into the snowstorm, found a temporary refuge around the corner, turned away from the wind to flick the lighter open, and finally took a long drag.
As the familiar taste of nicotine filled his mouth and spread across his lips in a warm wave, Vito scanned the bleak surroundings. The tall buildings of the center were practically indiscernible, hidden behind a thick curtain of wind, and neon signs barely broke through the snow, glowing in eerie lights. It may not be Apocalypse just yet, but damn it if it wasnât close enough.
The man winced and rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm as if clearing his vision, and raised his head to look at the gray skyâthe grayest it had ever been.
The Gothic spires of the church, grotesque like some antediluvian monster, pierced the clouds without ripping them apart. The turrets, intimidating only at night, now loomed over rare bystanders, threatening with divine comeuppanceâor promising to ascend a more pious person. The single stained glass, a colorful rosette embedded in the stone, stared blindly into space like a huge eye veiled with a thin, diffuse nebula. Perhaps it embodied the Eye of God. He must be blind, too, welcoming every riffraff into His embrace.
Out of the blue, a recollection resurfaced: the first time Mamma took him here with Francesca. He glared at the structure in thunderstruck awe, trying to imbibe the glorious sight. Churches in Sicily were majestic, true; when he was old enough to assess their grandeur, he gazed at them just like that, but the house of God back in Italy could not compare to this one in scale or size. He pointed his little finger at the statues, at the portals, at the effigies, and Frankie, equally mesmerized, only replied with a reverent gasp. When Vito grew older, his deference didnât exactly dissolveâbut it mutated. He skipped masses, lied to his mamma, lied to Francesca, but the distant spires, seen from the other side of the city, always reminded him of that first time he saw a regular church in Empire Bay.
âYou enterinâ, kid?â mumbled a desiccated congregant in a croaking voice. âIt ainât summer, yâknow?â
Vito, roused by the sudden intrusion, snapped out of it. âSorry. I was, ahem, spacing out a little.â
âYou can space out inside all you want,â smiled the old man, ushering him inside with a subtle nudge. âBetter for your health than this damned climate.â
As if entranced, Vito eased open the door with a creak and took a tentative step into the parlor, blessedly scented with wax and myrrh. The strong redolent immediately smacked him in the face, and he wincedânot that he was averse to the smell, but it didnât feel right. All sins aside, he simply didnât belong here anymore. He was about to start wondering how Henry could still maintain his devout façade, but quickly found the answer: he wasnât at war. Without war plaguing your thoughts, you could endlessly redeem yourself in the eyes of God, should there be one.Â
Vito banished the unwanted thoughts and passed a form hunched over the pews, praying and paying no heed to the melody of the wind, which was climbing quickly in volume and frequency, an infernal glissando that morphed from a hiss into a roar. Reluctant to disturb the woman, he trundled through the passage down the aisle to the chapels. The pictures in the alcoves seemed both familiar and foreign; a goldilocks with a quill didnât ring a bell. He bent forward to read a plaque attached to the plinth. A St. Barbara. Still a mystery. Vitoâs mother was a highly religious woman, but he was sure she never mentioned any Barbaraâor at least he had no recollection of such a name. But the lady, it seemed, was still worshipped: her flourishing face was wreathed in whorls of incense burned in her honor.
âDo you mind, sir?â Vito heard a quiet voice of the congregant behind his back. The woman who had been praying stood up and hobbled over to the chapel, her face lugubrious but not without a faint spark of resigned acceptance to her fate.
Vito took a silent step back. She gave him a smile, plucked a candle out of the pile, and lit it with a quiet whisper of gratitudeâwhat she was thankful for, he could not fathom.
Somewhat humbled by the encounter, he visited other chapels, much more popular than St. Barbaraâs. The names were vaguely familiar, yet nothing struck a chord: all the stories his mother had told him eroded, leaving nothing but a blank slate. These saints must have been good people, he thought. Otherwise his godfearing mamma would be shunned. He couldnât suppress an involuntary smile: the old Mrs. Scaletta had some serious judgment and often treated saints as if they were real.
Finally, Vito spotted Maryâs exalted visageâas usual, her statue was drowning in fresh flowers. As a kid, he always felt shy to leave a flower at Madonnaâs feet. Effortlessly magnificent, she looked like a superior creature, a beautiful princess from a fairy tale.
âVito? Vito Scaletta?â
The raspy, stilted voice startled him, and he turned around, already knowing who he was about to see. A gaunt, wizened figure with an aquiline nose and crowâs feet at the outer corners of the azure eyes, unbelievably tall, stared at him with inexplicable interest.
âYes, Father... Fatherââ
Ah, damn, what was his name? Dirizzio?.. Maurizio?
âDi Marzio,â the man helped. âI did not expect to see you here.â
Urgh.Â
âTo be honest, I did not⌠expect to be here in the first place.â
Gazing at the priestâs faceâdevoid of Maryâs exultation and religious ecstasy, so commonly met in artâVito wondered whether he should have tried this career instead, but his train of thought was interrupted by another eerie incantation of the wind, which, like a mythological harridan, was belching invectives and lashing her imaginary quirts.
âWhat brings you here, then? I doubt you are here to confess.â The priest smoothed over the sleeves of his cassock and looked Vito in the eyes.
Father Di Marzio never beat around the bush, and his proverbial no-nonsense attitude secured him a peculiar reputation, which repelled Vitoâs parents. Back in Sicily, they had a cheerful, portly priest with a face so florid and puffy it resembled a babĂ . His American counterpart couldnât be more different: gloomy, rigorous, and straightforward, he hardly spoke about hell and heaven in his sermonsâhe made it his mission to educate his flock.
âIâm not. I was just passing by.â
Father Di Marzio paused. Again, unlike his Sicilian colleague, he didnât push his nose into his congregantsâ affairs, and Vito was grateful. For a few moments, they were listening to the hubbub outside, gradually dying down within the confines of the church. The woman in St. Barbaraâs chapel adjusted her dress and genuflected in front of the painting, as if this effigy meant the world to her.
âYour mother died,â Father Di Marzio quietly uttered. âBut I didnât see you at the funeral.â
âI was incarcerated,â Vito replied in a stolid voice, glaring at the single candle in St. Barbaraâs chapelâright behind Maryâs statue. âThey donât let you out to deal with a tragedy.â
âPerhaps they should. Tragedies and their repercussions may rehabilitate and save more people than humiliation and bars,â his voice was oozing with distaste. âSome people must witness and process the tragedy. Too many become delusional and see themselves as masters of the universe, equal only to God, ready to brandish their repudiation of decency and eager to turn the world into another unnecessary abattoir,â the man expelled a long breath and shook his head. âBut you are not here to listen to an old manâs rant,â the priest gave out a soft laugh that revealed his true nature. âI hope youâve learned your lesson, Vito. As much as I am inclined to lecture you, I will refrain from it, letting you, ahem, fare la tua scelta. It was nice seeing you here. Perhaps you are far more religious than you think.â
Before Vito contrived a responseâan elusive one that would not have been taken for a ribaldryâthe priest had already patted him on the shoulder and disappeared into the sacristy, his cassock swishing across the aisle, his light steps echoing in the church. He couldnât understand what message the clergyman had tried to convey: was it an attempt at lecturing? A sermon? Had he suddenly realized that the little boy he had once welcomed here grew up and didnât need any further moral preaching? Did he guess why Vito had been put behind bars?..Â
The woman in St. Barbaraâs chapel roused, her delicate hands lingering on the crest. Then, with visible difficulty, she stood up and teeteredâVito appeared just in time to offer her an elbow to hold.Â
âThank you, mister,â the stranger spoke with a strong Italian accent, which had a hastened, accentuated cadence of Sicilian. âSei un pezzo di pane,â she smiled, carefully unhooking her hand. âSt. Barbara must be looking after me, too. Though Iâm not a carusu.âÂ
Not adding anything else, she trudged towards the exit. Vito thought for a moment, dropped a coin and lit a candle in the candle stand before St. Barbara. After a few long minutes, he left another billâand vanished in the snowstorm.
Back with Mafia OC posts đ¤ redraw of an old pic of Sam & my OC, Julia. she's a columnist at the lost heaven courier đ° comparison to the old one under the cut
I know this is incredibly far-fetched but my brain is reeling. (I'm so NOT OVER this goddamn game)
I'm currently reading a book, Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires: The History of Corpse Medicine from the Middle Ages to the Falun Gong by Richard Sugg, and the author states the following:
Sixtus was the most eminent participant in the Pazzi Conspiracy of 1478. In April of this year, the Pazzi family attempted to murder two members of Florenceâs powerful Medici clan, Giuliano and Lorenzo. If the Pazzi were successful, control of the city would then pass to the popeâs ânephewâ, Girolamo Riario. (This detail is significant: in this period ânephewâ was very frequently a coded label for one of the popeâs many illegitimate sons.)
I KNOW that the story is not set in the 15th century Italy BUT what if Cesare is Don Torrisi's illegitimate sonâ
NOTE: This is my first-ever firefight, and I'm a terrible writer when it comes to action. BUT I HAD TO.
You can also read this fic (or any other one) on AO3.
Fandom: Mafia II
Characters: Vito Scaletta, Joe Barbaro, Eddie Scarpa
Generally, Vito disliked casinos. Although the appointments there were declared businesslike, all potential partners ended up gambling, dismissing the âbusinessâ part. The moment they stepped over the threshold of the casino, they headed for the tables under the pretext of âa breakâ, lost enormous sums of money, and rescheduled the negotiations in an embittered mood, all prospects damaged. He hated that, really. He hated rescheduling renegotations when everything could have been discussed in some two hours of their time. Nowâmake it four. Or even fiveâdepending on how mad they all were.
This particular casino, however, didnât cause the same level of hostility: Vito found it remotely tolerable. Not overcrowded with drunk knuckleheads, maintaining an atmosphere of relative control, this place seemed more or less fine: the voices didnât drown in the overwhelming noise, and, for once, he could hear his own thoughts. Besides, the soundtrack was good: the singer on stage didnât resemble the usual boards in Joeâs favorite cathouse.
Of course, it wasnât a private resort with the happy whistles of victors kept down to a minimum, but the incessant clinking of bottles, clicking of chips, and rustling of cards slipped into the popular tune without grating on the nerves. Frankly, when in the mood, Vito even sat at the table himself, winning a few grand, but he never overindulged: excessive success in such establishments was secretly frowned upon, and the players who aced the game more than allowed rarely got to lay their hands on the money.
That evening, Vito wasnât in a gambling mood: Joe had a terrible habit of calling in the middle of the night, not necessarily with an urgent assignment. The previous night was one of those, but he hadnât explained in detail what exactly he wanted his friend to do: it was the usual âgrab your piece, we gonna meet a manâ. Scaletta complied and arrived at the casino, where he bumped into Eddie Scarpa, much less grumpy than usual, but hardly willing to get down to work.
Almost immediately, Joe and Eddie exchanged civilitiesâwhich looked like an onslaught of insultsâbut Vito was barely listening, his impassive eyes scanning the surroundings. The pretty chanteuse was chirping with the pianist while a sadly looking tech was tinkering with her microphone. The sleek-coiffed barman was pouring out brandy. Croupiers shuffled cards, faces imperturbable. A woman in a silver gown placed a bet and leaned back in her chair.
She was a regular: her gestures exuded the confidence of a person accustomed to visiting casinos and other such places. Vito had seen her here before; in fact, he had played with her a few times, and she eyed him with curiosity, which instantly faded as he placed his next bet. Since then, he watched her not without interestâher risky, yet steady and rational strategy impressed him, and she knew when to stop. He hadnât cared to learn her nameâotherwise, it would quickly become personal. He didnât want personalâit complicated things between people, and he already had a lot on his plate.
So she paid him no heed, and he didnât initiate a conversation, though something in her movements, be it inherent grace, elastic resolution, or firm stance, arrested his attention. Or he was simply spacing out. Yeah, most likely that. He could use some sleep.
âAlright, guys,â said Eddie with a disgruntled snort, âGo have fun. Youâve earned your day off, and I must be elsewhere.â
âWhat a fancy to say cathouse,â noted Joe in his good-natured manner. âDo you need company? You canât thrash this place on your own.â
âWanna help the whores? Sorry, Iâm not into ugly fat fucks like you, Joe.â
âYeah? Why are they the only ones I see when youâre around?â
Eddie replied with an even harsher remark, but Vito didnât barge in: he kept examining the room, occasionally glancing at the woman in the silver gown. His instincts werenât exactly set off, but he sensed the air congealing around them, seething, breaking at the seams with tension. Something was coming, but he couldnât pinpoint the source of the sudden alarm. Most of the faces in the casino were unfamiliar; if he had crossed paths with any of these gangsters, that was done without his knowing.
âJoe, isnât your source getting a little late?â asked Vito slowly, with a touch of annoyance in his tone.
âYou know how it is. Anything could happen,â replied Joe, lighting a cigarette.
âYeah, like dying on the way to the casino.â
âLike dying on the way to the casino,â he agreed without the slightest trace of irony in his voice. âBut if that were the case, we wouldâve known.â
Vito grunted under his breath and diverted his eyes again. The woman, clearly winning, clapped her hands. He didnât count her victories but came to suspect that she had closer ties with the establishment than any of the visitors.
Just as he was about to say something else, the casinoâs doors sprang open, and a man entered the room, violently shaking off water. Vitoâs jaw tightened with disgustâthe idiot was flinging rain everywhere, and they hadnât even shaken hands. Where the hell was Joe dragging them into? Was it that necessary to run the business with a guy who attracted so much attention the very second he appeared on the doorstep?
The moment of stasis stretched into minutes. Time seemed to come to a standstill. The entire casino froze in apprehension, eyes fixed on the drenched stranger: his hat dripping, trench coat plastered to his disproportionate limbs, water puddling on the carpet beneath him. With casual, deliberate slowness, he began wringing out the vents of his coat, droplets flying with each twist of his hands. His face was hidden in the safety of the brim, but one detail cut through the shadow: a nose so smashed it looked like it didnât have any cartilage left.
A distant memory flashed in Vitoâs headâthe night they botched the hit and had to run because the cops were closing inâ
âDown!â he shouted, relying on his military training even before he realized what was about to happen.
The stranger fired a split second before Vitoâs warning. The bullet, preordained for Vito or Joe, missed them and struck a croupier instead. The brutal scene seemed to unfold in slow motion: the small casino audience, paralyzed, watched, but it took the visitors another heartbeat to grasp what had actually transpired. Then the casino erupted into primeval chaos.
In a span of seconds, the tables were overturned, the chips dispersed across the floor, and the players scrambled for cover, ignoring the sharp tang of spilled alcohol and viscous trails of blood.
âWhoâs that ugly fuck?!â roared Eddie, recharging his pistol behind a couch. âDid you win him at cards?!â
âJust an acquaintance I didnât wish to continue. He got salty.â Vito replied, raising his gun. âJoe, cover me!â
Other men, all with pieces, were quick to take sides. Those who stood closer to the dead croupier returned shots; the strangerâs presumed accomplices went on a killing spree, firing wildly in every direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Vito noticed the woman in the gown duck under the counter, just as bottles upon it shattered like glass fireworks. A dark, acrid-smelling stain was spreading across the floor, mixing with the blood: the finely-coiffed barman had been shot as well.
Vito didnât waste a moment. He slipped to another position, searching for a better vantage point. If the bastard corners them, itâs over. He needed more spaceâand fewer enemiesâbut heâd have to make do. A bullet whizzed past him, and he stumbled back. Their aim was off: some of the thugs were so drunk they seemed impervious to fear, pain, or reason.
Guessing Vitoâs next move, Eddie fired, and the bullet hit one of the offenders. The other, trying to dodge the shot, slipped on the blood-slick floor and slammed into a table, glass shattering across his face. Joe reacted immediatelyâand shot the man in the back of the head.
Vito seized the window of opportunity and crawled behind a couch, scanning for the barricade where Nose could be hiding. He wasnât heavily armed, but carried plenty of ammo, which was probably worse than a machine gunâin the long run, it might be enough to take them down.
âBoth sides!â
Joe and Eddie were closing in, but a rain of shots slowed them down. Scarpa fell backward, slamming into the table; Barbaro, breathing heavily, landed near Vito.
âJesus Christ, that bastardâs got more bullets than a damn ammo store,â Joe muttered, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
âToo bad he didnât die on the way to the casino,â replied Vito, estimating the distance between his position and the counter. âCouldâve saved us some trouble. Now, watch out!â
While Eddie reloaded his pistol and Joe fired nonstop to keep Nose distracted, Vito sprinted for the counter, where the gambler in the silver gown had taken cover. Although her dress was soaked in blood and alcohol, she seemed otherwise unharmed. In fact, she looked surprisingly well, all things considered. Collateral damage in situations like this was usually unavoidable. If anything, she appeared almost bored. Clearly not her first firefight.
âYou good?â Vito asked, checking his remaining rounds and trying to calculate how long they could hold out.
âNot my blood,â she shook her head and jerked her chin toward the dead barman. âMost likely his.â
âRight.â
Suddenly, the casino fell into uneasy silence. The staccato of shots died out, but it was impossible to tell whether the attackers were dead, regrouping, or simply waiting. Vito held his breath, listening hard for the scrape of a shoe or the click of a pistol. There was only one way to find out: he would have to risk a look.
To reconnoiter, he risked a glance over the counter, eyes darting across pandemonium of the ruined casino. Out of the blue, a stray bullet struck a lone glass perched on the bar, shattering it into a spray of jagged shards that skittered across the floor. One of the fragments caught him just under the eye, a sharp sting of pain slicing across his skin.
âShit!â
But there was no time to waste. Nose hesitated for a split secondâheâd clearly miscalculated, giving away his position with that last shot. Vitoâs eyes locked onto the target, and, when he spotted movement near the overturned table, he fired.
The bullet struck the man square in the face with brutal precision, snapping his head back as though pulled by an invisible cord. The force sent him sprawling across the floor, limbs flailing, knocking over chairs and scattering chips like a storm. For a heartbeat, the echo of the shot lingered in the air. After that, all plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the soft drip of spilled alcohol.
Not uttering a word, Vito sank to the floor and pulled a pack of cigarettes, ignoring the blood gushing from the gash on his cheek. Eddie was the first to come to his sensesâand the most vocal about the situation.
âWhat the fuck, Vito?!â boomed his angry voice. âWhat the actual fuck was that?!â
âJoeâs best friend. He sends us his best regards,â Vito responded, taking a long drag on the cigarette.
âManciniâs boys,â Joe interjected matter-of-factly, scanning the corpses lying prostrate on the floor. âAt least this one here.â
âFuckers,â Eddie spat, glaring at the bodies. âLoot âem, just in case.â
As they got down to business, Vito leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes. The metallic tang of blood from the gash on his cheek mingled with the acrid bite of nicotine. A warm, sticky rivulet ran down his face to his lips, soaking the cigarette filter. He wiped at it, but it was no useâcuts like this always bled like hell, and he only smeared blood across his visage.
Suddenly, he felt a warm presence close by, accompanied by a faint crackle of fabric. A delicate hand brushed against his cheek, dabbing at the laceration.
âYou one of them? Suited thugs?â the woman asked as she cleaned the wound.
âNo,â said Vito, tilting his head to the side and exhaling a stream of smoke, âIâm a salesman on vacation.â
His dry humor didnât faze her; she raised her eyebrows, mockingly amused.
âFunny. You look exactly like the vendor I saw the other day. He wanted to sell a vacuum cleaner.â
ââtwas me. But today Iâm on vacation, remember?â
The woman studied him intently, taking in every line and angle of his face, which, strangely, puzzled him. She didnât scrutinize him avariciously like the boards in Joeâs Pleasure Palace; instead, there was a curious glint in her eyes, a faint, knowing smile, and a calm, self-assured presence that made her different from anyone he had encountered.
âWould you kill me too, Vito?â she asked after a long pause, flicking her own cigarette to life.
âI would.â
âWould you at least hesitate?â
He paused, narrowing his eyes at the curling smoke. The familiar bite of nicotine touched his tongue as he swiveled his gaze back to her.
âNo.â
The answer seemed to please her. Her lips curved into a lopsided smirk as she rose, every movement deliberate and confident.âYou are a very dangerous man, Vito. Best not to cross paths with you. But somehow⌠I hope Iâll see you again.â
