speaking of figaro trying to pretend he likes violence to impress his dad, imagine franco actually NEEDING to defend figaro from somebody while theyre like, out running errands for Mama, and shooting whoever was being threatening dead right in front of figaro, and franco turns to like, check on the poor kid and just sees a very scared, absolutely trembling figaro hold a thumbs up and shaky fake smile and the little guy goes
"that was- *gag* awesome, papa!" only to for the poor thing to immediately vomit from stress and disgust. franco probably almost finds it cute for a moment because his son really is trying to seem stronger but then he realizes WHY his son is trying to seem stronger and feels a little bit shitty like
"damn i made him think he isnt allowed to be scared around me because he assumes i ALWAYS enjoy violence, no matter what and will be upset with him if he shows fear, even in a situation where it was actually warranted for once"
Oh poor sweet baby Fígaro :(
Despite being around Franco and Salvatore before the old geezer kicked the bucket, Fígaro’s overall exposure to violence was shockingly minimal. Of course there was the occasional isolated incident where Franco had to show his son that some folks are in need of “discipline” but other than that, very minimal.
Fígaro decided that the best way to pose as a violent person was to simply engage with media and media alone. It was fictional! That meant nobody actually got hurt and Franco would still love him. So Franco would walk in on his son listening to old mobster radio dramas, moderately violent movies and other things.
Of course you occasionally had to intervene, mostly because you didn’t want this. Part of your fear of having a son was that he would be inevitably exposed to this sort of behavior. At least a daughter would ensure that she wouldn’t be exposed to brutish behavior and instead join you in the gilded cage that Franco crafted.
It all came to a head when you had sent your two boys on an errand for a few household items. Maybe they could bond over more wholesome things like… was there anything that Franco enjoyed that didn’t involve inflicting misery? Anyway, things were going quite nicely.
Nobody had the nerve to pick on Il Bambino or his little monster in the making. There was a nicely friendly air between father and son for once, a simple conversation about a radio drama they both liked.
It was fine until someone had began to bother Franco. It was an unruly associate, massive wise guy who didn’t know when to shut up. The friendly air had vanished into something more tense. Fígaro watched anxiously as Franco and the man fought over something, drugs.
The bastard ruined Franco’s last batch which cost Franco a fortune. Something that Fígaro briefly heard his father complain about to you the other evening. If there’s one thing that you had taught Fígaro was that Franco took business stupidly seriously. As if he was trying to impress Salvatore and all the other men before him back from the dead.
Before Fígaro could at least ask Franco to put him in the car first, the guy tried to put his hands on Franco. Now Franco is a short fella and because of that, many people think that he’s easy to push around. After all he IS just a stupid fucking baby. Unfortunately “baby” is very much a man and doesn’t hesitate to kill like one.
No different than putting down the sick family dog or cattle. Just a simple shot to the head and the man fell like a pile of stones. Dirty puddle water splashing on father and son as a sickening thud echoed through the alleyway shortcut. Blood mixed with dark, filthy water creating a sickening color. Crimson trickled down the forehead and a permanent face etched with shock stared back to Fígaro.
This wasn’t like movies at all.
Franco merely complained about how he just dry cleaned his suit but quickly noticed Fígaro’s terrified face. Yeah, Franco had seen that before. It used to be his once. When Lupara was too heavy and idolization of violence was Franco’s outlet. Fígaro tries to straighten up when Franco asks him if he’s fine, giving a shaky smile before immediately vomiting from fear and disgust.
Franco didn’t know how to proceed. He was somewhat proud of his son for handling it with much more grace instead of freaking out. But something that was a moment of love between Franco and Salvatore was now something of fear. Fuck, why’d they even go this far?
Why couldn’t they toss a ball at the park or do Boy Scouts? Why this? Why?
The car ride home was awkward, they didn’t say anything aside from the silent agreement to not tell you. Fígaro practically rushed into your arms and didn’t let go for a long time. You wanted to ask but you quickly put the dots together at seeing the specks of blood on Franco’s suit and the fresh scent of gun smoke.
You can’t find it within yourself to even say anything because you expected this. You just hoped that it could’ve waited
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