Pokémon K_S Villian-tine's prompt, "a book/reading" Now Grammarly'ed

[K_S]

Spoiler: authos note

AN:​

Author's note/Salutation:

Welcome to the edited version of my Villiantine's prompts. As it says on the tin, there be editing... as well as some dividing. My frantic note storage made the O.G version a nightmare to read, so I'm splicing them up into standalone pieces and re-releasing so anyone who wants to read my most recent work can skip a migraine.

Enjoy!

Villains-tine prompt, a book/reading
Part 1

Summary:

It started as an idle day in. Trying to ignore Mother Nature's temper tantrum and pass the time. It ended with the discovery of a long-abandoned scion of the Sakaki bloodline. Other traumas are also revisited.

(where my situation/character notes for Antonio Sakaki, as well as other Sakaki's from Giovanni's family, are converted into narrative form)

Content warnings: Racism, criminal activities, established adult relationships, discussions of a pandemic,​

Grace and Giovanni had, during the start of the day, taken a view of the world beyond their Forest-side home, and the consensus was mutual. No way in Hell were they going out. The normally blue skies were slate grey. Lightning snapped its electric fingers along the cloud banks like a Capo making death threats. The air was thick, and the wind hissed among the forest branches at a pitch that forewarned of a probable power outage.

The ground types were sheltering among the rock garden. Digging familiar trenches to prevent overflow from flooding their dens. The whole battlefield in his backyard was a crazed mess of tunnels set up to divert the upcoming overflow. Each scrape honed claws, so all the better for him. He ignored the looks his team canted up, cringing first at the sky, then at him. They were vetrens to his methods, and knew they weren't going to sit this out in their pokeballs unless it became a hurricane level threat outside.

It was one of the few downsides of having a trainer who believed whole heartedly in survival of the fittest.

Watching the subdued panicked excavation from the dry, sheltered, span of his porch, he only spoke up once. To warn Sandslash from the waterline, Giovanni waited until the spiney critter filled the tunnel and started working away from the house in safer soil. Content the rodent wasnt going to flood his house, Giovanni took a long sip. Least his 'mon note his frown and tear into the sod with too much enthusiasm.

'Queen was going quite a bit slower than her norm. She, he decided, would need a check up. After all the ground 'mon had set right his training grounds.

But that was tomorrow Giovanni's problem.

Today's finished his cup, left them to it. The consigliere, owed no man, 'mon, or Capo anything worth going into that upcoming downpour for.

So he went in, and let his lessers wallow in anxiety and wet both.

When the downfall came, it skipped Meowths and Growlithes stage and jumped right into the Persians and Arcanines. The Sakaki's had indulged intimacy with a childish twist. Lazing in a comfortable twining of flesh, pillows, and blankets that might have resembled a pillow fort in a certain light. Granted it was one build on a king sized bed...

The fireplace was set, going full tilt, and commandeering the place of honor previously held by the alarm clock was a tray of odd and end snacks and two cups.

The finest Cinnibarian blend was their favorite brew, though each had radically different opinions on what to put in it.

Hers was spiked with cinnamon, his with a splash of vanilla and cream. Indulging further weakness, and braving drafts and cool floors like a madwoman, Grace had indulged nostalgia further. She'd left him to slip into the attic. A quick root around, and she'd came back with some books from her old things.

Though books were a generous term.

They squeaked through existence on the merest of technicalities. There were the requisite covers and pages, everything was glossy, glaringly so. If there was a word to encapsulate them, "shiny" would have been in the top four spot.

Godawful gaudy and would have covered slots one through three.

Following the trend of irrelevance, the collection was more pictures than words.

She'd laughed at him and asked if he'd never seen a school photo album before. Then nestled into his arms, boodle in tow, she decided that his "no" was an invitation to catch him up.

The awards and titles doled out to the smiling children had baffled him. How they'd been decided, their merit, was a mystery. And her explanation, that they didn't mean anything at all, left him bemused. What was the point of it then? Some of the alien wordplay were references to old pop culture, and Grace had declared him "too young to be this clueless," and that at a later date, she was going to "catch him up".

She chattered about familiar faces. Friends, acquaintances, that weird kid in the back row... It rolled over his head, an idle storm, but he perked at the word rival.

"Welcome back," she'd snarked, then returned to reminiscing about her grade school days. And mildly rebuked, he paid her more than half a mind.

He supposed there was some charm to be found in a preadolescent rivalry that had been boiled down to "They'd been at each other's throats", with informative tidbits of "Little Ms. Perfect Wannabe had wanted to be a trainer". And that's all it'd taken to get Grace on board.

Because "Ms. Perfect" was the meanest girl in the second grade, having a thing for pulling Grace's hair. After one stinging assault, Grace had decided that she was going to be the best trainer Viridian had ever seen.

Spite had carried her through rigorous training. Getting her first 'mon, a Meowth, and permission to battle at a stupid young age, she'd been eager to get out and train.

One scratch attack later, because meowth weren't shy in slashing up their trainers, Grace decided that rivalries were stupid. She was going to run a 'mon petting zoo. Soft, fluffy, not bite-y things, were more her speed. And training, and trainers, could go rot.

Except Giovanni, because he was her special exception...

And Andre, because that man and that man's charmeleon were inseparable.

How that ambition had changed to nursing was quite the mystery.

He'd poked and prodded, and Nurse Grace Evens let slip none of her secrets. In tones, one was told about the bird types and the beedrill, she drawled out her sarcastic tale that was more snark than informative.

There was this fun thing called a "medi-experience share", and when someone equipped with that was passed a "degree stone"...

"For the last time, that's not how stone evolution works." Giovanni snorted. "So should I fear death via cancer per a surfeit of evolution stone radiation?"

"Only if I had gone into radiology." She countered sweetly.

Thunder rumbled above them, the windows rattled, and cradling her close, he considered what of his past he dared share. Because the lightning strikes were getting closer together and he could feel her heart hammering under his touch.

Grace's brave front would not hold forever.

For him, vulnerability and history were a calculated risk. He weighed truths to lies, and settled for a sanitized middle ground. Wheeling out a rather pedestrian tale of his childhood.

It was a mild defilement of old memories, all done for the sake of providing Grace a distraction.

He confessed he hadn't gone to school. His childhood was a thing peppered with just enough education to avoid sbario attention. The second they were able, the elder Sakaki's had pulled him out of academia, and tossed him at every apprenticeship they could. Some were of a mildly illegal slant, and odd jobs were at odd hours, which meant he never got to interact with kids on a normal schedule that weren't tied to his familgia. While he was deliberately vague, one of the shady gigs he expanded on. It had been a spat of plumbing jobs at what he'd suspected to be a mob hideout.

"Between frat boys and mobsters, I'd be hard to say which had the worst habits."

"Well, I'd say you avoided the worst of both worlds, you know the perks of taking a good shower, and you're living on the straight and narrow."

He snorted a laugh, and Grace considered something, one of her fingers tracing a path up his arm. Her nail was not cutting sharp, but a pleasant prickle along the circular scars that'd been Zio Sal's neglect more than anger. "So where's your coat of arms, Mr. My Family's Been in Existence for Centuries?"

"The tacky old thing with the white blob that's supposed to be a mew stamped on it? I wrapped my mother in it for her funeral shroud and burned it all."

"Gio!"

"In my defense, it was ugly as sin."

"Seriously! You could have given it to a museum or something, not indulge in some... history... deleting... arson kick!"

"Seriously," he chuckled, "it... doesn't exist." He deserved that pillow to his side. "I think Nona might have something like that, somewhere, but I wouldn't know what it looked like. Or could care less. It's an off-mainland treasure if it exists at all. I'm not passing it up to a mainland region, much less one as anti-Italian as Kanto."

"Alright, but you have to have something like a photo album, right?"

The no he uttered sounded lame, even to his own ears. He frowned in confusion because he knew lies. And this felt like a lie, even though he hadn't meant it as such.

Mind reaching back, through the years, he remembered that first plane ride to Nonas as a little boy. There'd been an endless seeming book, the old Madam drilling him on names and dates for the whole five-hour flight... He hadn't touched it since. But it'd been among her things, and perhaps he hadn't thrown it out...

Discharge met wind burst just right; the resulting racket sounded downright apocalyptic. Lights flickered, making Grace curl into him as the faux night's shadows spawned into impenetrability.

Before worry could set to roost that something was down rather than rattled, light returned with a staticy flick.

And the alarm went off, because it always did whenever there was a blip in the power grid.

"Fuck, Arceus damn it!" She was quicker than him, and closer. Digging the clock out from under the bed by its cord, Grace slapped the mute button with enough force his hand stung in sympathetic pain.

Unfortunatly Grace had hit the temporary mute button. The clock howled to life as soon as she set it down and pushed it away. The resultant tug to rip on its power cord from the wall and kill it for good was more than understandable. Even if the violence of her doing so had him half up and lunging to save the tray. If he hadn't they would have had a shit ton of laundry to deal with.

"I hate that thing."

Perversely enough, it was hers. Alarm clock and complaint both. Any attempt to replace it had been met with resistance as she swore it was the only thing that got her up after a bleed eye shift.

He'd pointed out that she could just not take those shifts anymore. She was her own Made woman. Why play these games? She'd rattled off her standard excuses. Obligations to coworkers preferred patients with special needs needing stability... And when he was unmoved, she told him to shut up. From the set of her shoulders and the pointed glare as she shoved the unplugged monstrosity back under the bed, he knew not to push his luck.

Between her mood and the aggravation of modern technology, another round of "why keep it?" would wind up with him on the couch.

"Do you think there's... like a... Zapdos up there who's done the 'mon equivalent of hit the sultry music, got his girlfriend over, and they're doing love loops or something to make baby Zapdos over our heads?"

That was an image for the ages.

But realistically?

"There's not enough discharge going off for one Zapdos, much less two," He ruled. "The last Zapdos sighting off of Vermilion left miles of molten rock, blasted everything taller than a blade of grass, and people went deaf from the thunder. I guess if you need a god 'mon to bitch at... Palkia?"

"HIS Pearlescent Embessary of Space isn't supposed to be petty enough to be moving choice bits of sky matter to scare us, mere mortals." His chuckle made her rib him. "Alright, fine, I'm spooked, Mr. Unflappable. You're fine. And a troll, but that's how I pick them." She huffed. "The TRIO is supposed to be better than that." She flinched as the lights flickered again. "Not that I'm saying HE might get bored occasionally. But..."

"Maybe it's Pikachu season?" He wondered. Taking the opportunity to get her to curl into him. She steadied in his arms, distracted and comforted.

And that finger was back to tracing, swirling around one particularly thick scar by his wrist. Her strokes slowed as she spoke.

"You're the trainer, not me. Are they?"

"No idea. There are almost nine hundred of these pain-in-the-ass, god-mode capable critters. And you want me to know what gets them in the mood?"

His mind... might be lingering in the gutter a bit today. But with the thrumb of thunder rattling his bones, her warmth, and proximity, it was a recipe to put him in the mood.

A kiss-nip on her shoulder got her to tip her head back with a smile and hum. Her wordless acceptance of his offer of distraction was met with him pressing kisses along her jaw and down her neck. As he worked, her nails continued their patterns along his arms in feigned indifference.

Feigned, because he could feel and hear the uptick in her breathing and pulse. Her muffled, throaty chuckle was sweeter than any Persian's pur.

And her hand was busy. Her nails scraped along his skin in a distracting pattern.

Was she writing something, or doodling? He couldn't tell, but the feathering touch and its attendant edge made him want her more.

With a blistering crack, the lights gave up the ghost. He snarled a soft oath at God because it figured. Spite done, for now, he shifted his grip. Loosened but close enough to be present. He was not going to take advantage of the claustrophobic dark. Because he knew Grace's phobias.

His once coaxing motions turned to steadying. He twined their hands together, interlocking their fingers to still their tremor. Curling so he could press his head into her back, between her shoulders. He felt her shiver in his hold, as thunder spit and snarled above their heads.

He slowed his breathing, humming a familiar tune; his calm cut through her panic.

She followed his lead, no longer on the edge of hysterics, but definitely not happy.

"Sorry... sorry... it's so fucking stupid... I know it's just thunder..."

Distraction. Her panic flicked a sympathetic twinge of nerves over him, and he grabbed the first idea he had and ran with it.

"I'm scared of Garchomp."

She stiffened in shock. Very much aware of the old saw, of a Sakaki never admitting weakness.

And perhaps she wondered where this was going.

Honestly he was wondering himself.

"One of the strongest 'mon in the ground type genome. Why do you think I don't have one? During a Rocket assault," he needed to edit this, quick, "its off the official records..."

It was sloppy as shit, was what it was. But the floodgates were open. She could hear that familiar inflection, a breathy rush that told of his control giving out. He loosened his grip because while she might pick and scratch in her terror, he had a habit of crushing whatever was under his hands. He'd not hurt her. Unfortunately, letting her get free meant that she could turn to him in concern. Coward he was, he closed his eyes as he continued.

"You know I get called in to help with rabid mon?" He felt her nod. "It wasn't feral. It was augmented. This splinter cell of Rocket had gotten hold of a berserk gene, a god complex, and decided to start End Times."

He swallowed and recalled his doctor's advice. That sometimes those horrid things you saw tumbled out, and that if he was safe, to let it.

Here and now, there was nowhere safer. But that didn't mean he didn't feel regret in indulging.

"Pitch dark room... this biped thing that was all spines and soft sand sloughing off. You couldn't breathe when it was near. All you could hear was hissing. That's it, no footsteps, and you couldn't scream. You choked. Everything was muffled. It was twice the size of a man, almost as broad... and it made this awful raspy chitter. It was... talking to itself while it killed. Raving. Tearing through men and 'mon, croaking, "So hungry."

So very hungry.

They both shuddered, and Gio swallowed.

"I'm sorry, it... I was going to make light of it but..."

The truth had tumbled out. A dangerous truth that was almost totally uncensored.

"It happens." She poked him, and he cracked open his eyes. There was nothing but affection undercut by concern. "Gio, the doc said this is going to happen. You had a messy time, we both did. And you," another poke, "bottle things up. That's bad."

He huffed a wordless nonsense noise that he let her decide the meaning of.

Her arch tone and prod told him she was suspicious but she wasn't calling him out on his bullshit, yet.

"You letting it out is good. Is it going to make a mess, yes. Do I care, no."

A look of horror slid across her face, and Giovanni braced himself.

"Seriously, Gio, in all truth... You have nothing on that last super flu. My first year in Scrubs, I thought I could handle anything. And then this mutation moseys out, and it's a real killer. Most of my patients got cramps so bad they were immobilized, a few older folk got broken legs. It was like something from the Dark Ages. There were relentless fevers, and everyone got sick. Young adult, old, child, they just staggered in vomiting... You want to talk about a mess?"

Her tone warbled, a ghost of old suppressed hysteria trying to come to the fore.

"The first round of symptoms was cramps that could snap bones, and add on unrestrained vomiting, and diarrhea. It lasted for seventy-two hours in mild cases. People were coming in with bone bruises, immobility, and were utterly desiccated. We needed an all-hands-on-deck until they were able to modify the vaccine. Everything smelled and tasted like vomit." She swallowed back remembered nausia. Her fingers feathered up his chest, as she used the touch to remember she wasn't there.

That it was now, not then.

As for him, he hadn't been in the Regions. He'd been trapped off the mainland by sheer chance. A famiglia meeting that had been meant to last days, and been nearly half a year per that illness. Being trapped among the swarm of Sakaki's had been it's own hell. He'd ran his affairs remotely, been basically untouched, but he'd lost enough men, lost enough revenue, to know the damage was bad.

Grace's narrative added a fresh hellish skeen to the disaster he'd missed out on by sheer happenstance

"You burned your clothes at the end of the day... And it was damn virulent. You saw the quarantine scrubs, the whole body covering?" He nodded, the news had been controlled but not that controlled. He felt her resultant shiver. "I hated those, not because you got bruises wearing them. You did, everyone did, that wasn't the problem. It was with all those layers you couldn't see anyone. The person next to you could pass out mid-IV. And you wouldn't know why. You'd be left scrambling between a panicking patient and your peer. Not knowing if it was sickness, or exhaustion, or just some older practitioner's heart just giving out from stress."

"That happened." Her voice was tight, old loss, familiar pain at some mentors passing. His hands ran soothing patterns down her back, she let out a shutter sigh. "During the worst, the beginning, when they were yanking doctors out of retirement, the stress would peak and.."

Silence, while both stared unseeing into empty space.

"I know its not a Rocket monster from hell, but it's a sort of proof, you know? I've seen and done things. And if I need to, I can do it again. So... don't hold back. Not for my sake. I'm not glass, I won't break"

Giovanni sighed and repeated the tired mantra for days like this.

"Sometimes it comes out," Then he pecked the top of Grace's head, both a thanks, and an apology. "And I get the sentiment. Thank you for trying."

Lightning rumbled outside, a crackling slash that made him wonder if he shouldn't go to a second-story window and check for two Zapdos going at it.

"I'd really like to get out of Stephen King's head now." Grace whimpered, stiffening against him.

"I could see if anyone in the extended family could arrange someth-" She really was abusing that poor pillow. And him. He'd of felt ill-used if she'd hit, but somehow she managed to miss. He wrested the softness from her for himself, tucking it behind his back. "A simple no would have sufficed."

"No mob jokes."

"You know. Ah ah," his mild scolding kept her from ripping off the sheets. Well, it was her own fault that she was out of pillows. He'd made quite the nest and wasn't budging. "Let me finish... I think I do remember something. Madam Sakaki," Because he'd never lied about what his mother was, Grace was very well aware that his mother had been Kanto's Capo de Capi. He'd had to swear on everything sacred to him he hadn't inherited the title, that she wasn't marrying into some evil Saprano's knock off.

Rocket, not being a monarchy, didn't believe in members inheriting thier rank. So it hadn't been a lie when he told her he wasn't anything like his mother. Either in rank, or personality...

"She had an old picture album,"

Really, if the lightning didn't let up, he was going to poke his head out and see if some stock horror villain was nattering about bringing a cadaver to life...

And if there wasn't a better sign, a better atmosphere to fit the mood, he couldn't think of one. The beginning of a horror film, and Madam Sakaki, the ideas fit together like a hand in a glove.

"I can't guarantee "no mob", but I can promise most of them are old enough to be safely mocked without fear of retribution. Most of them likely being dead..."

She gnawed her lip, outre morals wrestling with boredom and fear. Finally curiosity pushed through, giving her enough wiggle room for her to hang her scruples. And perhaps indulge in gossip against old mobsters centuries dead.

"You have a deal."

It was the best one he'd gotten all week.

 

[K_S]

Villian-tines,
prompt number 26
A book, part 2​

He'd had to go to the basement. Part to ensure the generator for the fridge and emergency line was working properly, part to root through a few boxes in the back. There were, to his surprise, some old Sakaki keepsakes among the deeds and dated deals. Nothing incriminating, mainly a few odd and end things that he felt like someone had just dumped half a desk into his packing while his back was turned.

He found the black-bound book halfway in.

A quick flip proved it to be part photo album, part scrapbook. Nothing dangerous caught his attention as he skimmed. The back was a glued-together mess, but besides that oddity, nothing stood out. He tucked it under his arm and rooted out an odd decoration to take its place.

Because the book had been holding down someone else's tax reports. A quick skim found them to be Zio Sal's. What the man was doing, owning a bakery when he couldn't boil water, was not Giovanni's business. What was, was that the base of the papers was starting to rise. Alarmingly. Like an accordion compressing in reverse.

Making a mental note to have a burn day, before the bakery papers roused to sentience, Giovanni headed out.

Persian, the brat, had been napping down below. Making her regal presence known among the dust bunnies and topmost boxes. Smoothing the hair she'd swatted when he dared to get too close to her lofty perch, Giovanni left her to it.

The unrepentant cat wasn't one to tolerate being ignored. She hopped down from her perch of old Sakaki odd and ends with the grace of a drunken donphan. All thumping and thudding despite her species' supposed grace and elegance. Her last jump caused a box to topple.

Its fall was marked with a glassy "tink a link" of something breaking. Mobster and feline froze. Waiting.

When Grace didn't holler about the ruckus, Giovanni glared down at Persian. Clearly, the decade-old soundproofing had held, saving thier asses. But did she find something like repentance?

Nope.

Confident that all accidental noise was finished, Persian flicked her ears up. The fuzzy brat looked up at him, eyes half lidded, licking a paw. Channeling that patented cat panache that screamed: "nothing to see here". Rolling his eyes, he left her to it. Seeing her audience of one, was on thier way out, she followed meowing at his heels, mewing about everything but an apology.

And because of that, he ignored her nudge, the mute request for a good petting.

Used to being ignored when she was being a little demon, Persian murred under her breath about head scratches and treats from Grace.

A snarl from the sky kicked up while Gio was locking the basement door behind him. Persian, as cats did popcorned. That fun feat of going from standing to flying straight up in a perfect vertical jump that ended in her landing with her claws drawn. Each leg thumped and clicked heavily on impact.

Ears pinned back in alarm, Persian glared at him. From the hiss and spitting, she clearly blamed him for Mother Nature's shenanigans.

Or perhaps for not warning her.

Well, she'd been a demon, and no one ever could accuse a Sakaki of being nice.

Persian yowled like a Legend was breaking in through the window. Barrelling up the stairs like a fuzzy klaxon. Tail poofed and raised like a broken flag to declare her surrender to the world.

Snorting, Gio picked a slower path to the bedroom. All Persian had to do was apologize. He'd open the basement, and she could go back down to being oblivious. But no. Off she went to get snuggles from Grace.

Stupid cat.

Grace pulled her attention from the quivering Persian that was trying to meld into her side when he strolled in. A ghost of her old curiosity lit her eyes as she tipped her head at him.

"I found it."

"Is that the Necronomicon?"

He'd read Lovecraft and got that reference, thank you very much. As a reward for his labors, he might have taken the softest blanket from the bed-nest and bundled in. Glaring at the woman and cat from his nook of warmth, like an angry kakunna.

"If I say sorry, will you share?"

There had been a spill between him coming and going. Sheets were stripped and pushed out of the way. She'd made do with what hadn't been soaked, but from her shiver, it wasn't enough.

So much for avoiding laundry.

He considered Grace and Persian; both were employing their infernal puppy eyes. He glared at them and crunched up among the folds.

Grace's hands found the edge of his sanctuary and started tugging and prodding at the seams.

"If you let me in, you'll be warmer." Lies. If she left him alone, he would stop getting cold air coming in. "And you can share and care your vampire book-"

He rolled his eyes, unfolded the edge, and acquired a Grace lamprey as a result.

Persian could damm well take her cat pillow at the foot of the bed, and like it.

To be... completely fair... the "vampire book" seemed to have been started back when cameras weren't a thing. It was done backwards. Starting in near pre-history, it became more modern as it went. Pages had been added in, though how, Giovanni had no clue.

The artist hired for the first few generations of Sakaki's had taken the idea of somber and monochrome to whole new levels. And the Sakakis within seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with dark colors.

"Seriously," Grace drawled, "why does everyone look like a vampire?"

Pointedly not looking too closely at the teeth of a distant uncle, Giovanni hummed. "There must be some Sakaki genetic inclination towards wearing black."

"That level of bad taste better be a recessive trait."

If Grace were raised as a Sakaki... well, Giovanni might have feared for his manhood. As it was, her insinuations warmed him better than the best scotch and a blazing fireplace. Toes curling in pleasure, his answering smirk was tender.

Before she could decide if she wanted to take him up on that unspoken offer, Persian decided to flaunt her nesting instincts. Indulging a slinky sort of kneed with a Thief twist. The result was one stolen pillow and sheet, and the feline twisted into a snug cat croissant at the foot of the bed.p

More than familiar with the cat's "it's raining, and I don't care" facade, Giovanni ignored the show. He had Grace in his arms, something to read, and mercifully, the thunder was on the decline.

A few pages later, he had to wonder if he hadn't screwed his eventual children with some prophecy. There wasn't a lick of anything other than an accent in white or red. It looked like he was seeing a procession of great-aunt and uncle funerals. If it hadn't been for the text scribbled around each shot, he wouldn't have guessed the shots were the acknowledgment of births or family gatherings.

"Did you notice, no one's smiling?"

Hm. That was an interesting contrast between Grace's "books" and this one. But it was an easy one to explain.

"Sakaki gatherings are somber events." Gio mimed Nona's inflection since such shrillness was beyond him. "Men are meant to be sober, loyal, and strict."

"Ung." Grace stilled her relentless burrowing into his side. "You hear this bull, uterus? You need to damn well reject these genes he's talking about. Girdle those eggs. Or no more fun times. Ever. I swear it."

He laughed. She took advantage of that to steal a pillow back. He had no one to blame but himself for indulging, and she had no one else to blame herself when he retaliated. He was more than capable of adjusting her position, ignoring her protests, and making her serve in place for what she stole.

As the text became more modern, he started to recognize people beyond obscure, historically inaccurate one-liners. In the areas where he recognized the handwriting, the purpose of documentation had changed.

Pictures, some candid, some formal, stood beside a folded paper. It hadn't taken much to work off the decades-old tape and find that when teased open, the "papers" were not harmless notes or purloined love letters. They were death certificates.

In a few cases, the papers were several pages long.

Some lunitic had, via a mad melding of origami and determination, managed to slip in a full medical examiner's uncensored report.

At least five times.

After a few pages of this, Grace stopped him from going forward. Her pretty features were twisted into an expression of quiet horror as she asked. "Gio, we aren't reading your mom's "hit" book, are we?"

He... couldn't believe the Madam would be that stupid... Still considering her viciousness. This could be something mild, her notating everyone's deaths so she could savor the ones she hated without drawing attention to her sport...

A sort of feel-good indulgence for the depraved...

"I'm not sure." He confessed. Mind whirling between excuses, evasions, and mild plans to throw someone under the bus. Perhaps suggest her burn this book. An idle motion, a turned page, and things were taken out of his hands.

He turned a page and lost his train of thought.

Sal's picture blew a hole in Grace's hypothesis. It was a candid hospital shot where Sal had been recuperating from having two broken arms and a broken leg. He was awake in the shot, his cast-bound leg raised insanely high on its sling. There wasn't a medical person in sight. No one, just a shadow on the wall from the photographer and a close-up of an old mobster's debasement. Except Sal wasn't old in this shot. The injured Made Man was possibly younger than Giovanni was now. The wounds were fresh, and there was blood under the bandages. His eyes were wide, and all intelligence in them was gone.

"He can't have been seeing visitors. Not with his eyes like that. He's drugged to the gills."

"Probably best we don't know anything else," Giovanni warned.

All thoughts of burning fled his head. He turned another page and found further evidence against this being a feel-good anything. This book was made to torment him.

And he daren't burn it because the next shot was a pair of agonizingly familiar little girls. Arm in arm, dressed in their Sunday best and trying to look sober. Their sparkling black eyes told tales. The littlest was nine, the other fifteen.

It took him a long moment to recognize Gemma and her little sister Saphrina on the page. The eldest was long gone, the youngest a fresher loss. Dead at twenty-one, at least if the gossip was right.

It felt positively alien to realize that he was older than his big niece Gemma, that he'd outlived her and her spitfire of a younger sister. He was older than they both were...had been... now. Presently.

Shaking off the question of tense, he flipped through a few pages to see if Saphrina's kids were deeper in. But the book was too out of date to tell that tale. The last few pages were blocks of bound papers, a near pouch of documentation in... binary? The code was too thick for him to understand. So he ignored it, flicking back to familiar pastures.

Grace took the hand not holding the book and twined their fingers. They leaned against each other, looking at the picture of those two girls for a very long time. She knew of Gemma, the young woman was one of the few famiglia members that had a picture in Giovanni's home, on his personal work desk, no less.

"You know, if you want to know, you could just call."

Grace was a smart thing, having sussed the reason for his flipping ahead, though he hadn't said a word. But her solution was more than it seemed. More than an insultingly easy phone call.

Saphrina had overt ties to the Mob. Grace's encouragement to reach out was an offer to mutely tolerate the social fallout of that contact. And, in theory, it might even work. But there were more than just Kanto law enforcement to consider.

With a sigh, Giovanni shook his head, moved to turn a page. "I went legit. Barring Executives and the Madam, the rest of the famiglia won't have a thing to do with me... and being around them would be..." He could imagine the shrill screams of P.R. Worse, any smirching of his name was an invitation for the police to all but move in.

Between the scuffles Grace had kicked up during her wild social justice crusade years and Giovanni's... well, everything... the police and the Sakakis were not a good combination. To put it very mildly.

He huffed, and she released his off hand to pin his hand. It stoped him from worrying the page down, doing damage to the image within.

"You know, when I was younger, it didn't bother me." He breathed the confession, startled at the fact that it hurt. "But now, sometimes, it does."

She took the book and turned back to the girls who had been told not to smile. He wished they had dared to defy that order. Seeing them happy would have been nice.

"Tell me about them?"

"Gemma and Saphrina Sakaki Corosso were sisters in arms. Hell-bent on breaking the mind of every sbirro they could."

Until Gemma couldn't, a bullet in the head ended her career stupid young. Saphrina had carried on the proud Sakaki cause of being a royal pain in the authorities' ass. Skirting that fine line between brave and stupid until an encounter with police brutality had left her unable to walk.

Oh, she'd recovered, but after?

She'd been too scared to carry on after that.

"So if I'd seen them during my civil unrest days?"

Grace had attended protests and rallies against everything she could. Hell, she'd even had a record in corporate circles.

That'd been a fun find.

Once, when giving her a tour of one of his legit businesses, his head of civilian security had barged in like a Tauros with its tails on fire. Giovanni had gone from placid tour guide to grim Made Man in moments. Expecting to hear that they were under attack by some upstart anti-Rocket insurrection. The commotion had much tamer roots, thank God.

It was just the man having a fit. The head of security had seen Grace on the cameras, and he remembered the fiery red head with her silver colored eyes. The story had come out around a slew of widely inappropriate, angry posturing. The guard had claimed that Grace had assaulted him during a protest against Viridian Co.

Grace's defense had been lackluster at best. She'd accidentally dropped the sign. It'd been heavy.

Surprised at that spot of rather passive aggressiveness, Giovanni had given his fiancée a long, long look. She hadn't elaborated. Or amended her words to become an actual apology.

Knowing Grace... each facet of her behaviour was damning.

"I have everything under control," he'd soothed the irate guard. "And I'll personally oversee her conduct. You have nothing to worry about."

Part curiosity, part to shut the man up, Giovanni did some independent research. It had resolved to be one of those fun social upheavals during his early days as an entrepreneur. He'd nominally owned the company, inherited it in the upheaval of his mother's death, and promptly forgot about it during his league training days.

It'd been Madam Sakaki's pride and joy.

Suffice to say, its practices were overtly evil and wasteful. Enough so the locals, mainly stereotypical conflict-avoidant Kantoese, had raised hell.

Grace and fifty other young adults had waged a mudslinging war with the intellectual property the company produced. During that time, they'd unearthed a string of noisome scandals and shifted thier attention to a rather noisome CEO. Going over the man's files, Giovanni found himself agreeing with the picketters. The CEO should have been shot rather than allowed to have power over anyone.

Likely realizing thier waste would put them at the top of his to-do list when he gained power, they'd, impossible as it seemed, jumped off the slippery slope faster.

And the attendant incident report, when things had hit boiling point, was one of those grey things. Yes, there'd technically been an assault. One of the kids, an offspring of a protester, had chucked mudballs at the guards. Yes, the security teams should have been rotated in shifts to prevent them from lashing out due to unresolved stress...

But in Giovanni's defense, he had been barely grasping the scope of his influence outside of the Mob. He'd literally just inherited the business five days before the blowup. He had had no clue things were this dire, and back then wouldn't have known how to handle it anyway...

The result was a mini-riot that ended with his current security head developing one hell of a grudge. Understandable considering he'd had to take a mandatory leave of absence due to a concussion. Grace hadn't dropped a sign; she'd used it to break out of the scuffle because someone had armed the unarmed guards with illegal guns.

But considering the man had brought a literal gun to a debate...

And Grace was literally taking a tour at his side, arm threaded through his, wearing a ring that loudly proclaimed his intentions...

Such ancient history shouldn't have fucking mattered.

His smirk might have been considered a bit evil. They had a scale for grin-to-evil ratio. Something about a tooth count, and the shadowing of the room... But Grace was distracted, thus was not in a position to judge. It'd been an utmost pleasure to fire the brash bastard. And it had been amusing in more than one way to see a younger Grace in all her heated, rebellious glory. He let both the benign and not-so-benign amusement color his tone.

"If there was a chance to throw something, anything, at a copper, Gemma would have had your back."

"How was her aim?"

He made a so-so motion with a hand.

"She once tossed her pokeball with a seviper, fumbled, and hit herself in the head with it. The ball released the snake on her back."

The snake had gone full constrict mode the second he was out of his pokeball... It'd taken three adult Sakaki's to pry Gemma out of her beast's loops.

"You know, she got me into training?"

"You mean you weren't born riding a rabid rhyhorn?"

Giovanni laughed. "The madam wasn't that deprived."

Not quite, but it was a very near thing.

 

[K_S]

Villian-tines,
prompt number 26
A book, part 3​

The pearly gates were not meant for him. He had no doubts about his final destination in the hereafter. So like any good thief, he stole what bits of paradise he could.


Comfortable, cocooned in warmth, Grace nestled against his side; there was little more he could ask for. Persian lay at thier feet, purring in her sleep. A tame pseudo thunder that drowned out the last gasps of the dwindling storm.


It was his turn. They'd passed the time trading tales. A benign back and forth that had him breaking down a distant scam one childhood ago.


Gemma, himself, and an infant Saph' were pulling the "child is crying, help us" card. Well, he and Gemma were. Saph was unfortunately encouraged to scream as the older kids had alternated between subtly pinching her and rocking the baby with artfully panicked faces to sell the scam.


Unfortunatly Saph' was loud. So the panic hadn't been all an act.


They nearly went deaf to get a shot at the wares of a rather upscale cioccolateria. And the torture had been compounded by the old woman who ran the place. She'd been a cold-hearted thing that had no empathy for a howling baby and panicky pre-adolescents.


"Deaf, really?" Grace hummed, twiddling pages in her fingers as he talked.


"I had tenitis for two days after." Giovanni griped. "And it had seemed worth it at the time."


"Mhm, and what'd you learn from all that?"


"Don't rob old mobster shops, they make all thier displays out of bulletproof glass." At Grace's prompt to "think harder," he added. "Also, crutches can't break open bulletproof glass, no matter how hard you swing."


Grace let out a low snort, quipped a line about how she would have paid to see him pulling a Tiny Tim. There'd been some payback delivered via pillow. But after, they settled into thier places, a bit breathless and short a pillow. Persian, the lazy girl, slept through it all.


"Now, where was I?"


"Explaining why Seph' understandably subliminally hates you?"


The flick of pages under her fingers added an interesting undertone to her sarcasm.


"One, she does not." Did not, would have been truer to reality. But for now, he ignored the proper tense. "She was perfectly fine after I slipped her some caramel. Second, we are jumping too far ahead."


"Not my fault..."


Grace was too old to sing-song. But then Giovanni was too old to instigate a pillow fight. As long as she wouldn't tell, he wouldn't.

The soft hiss zip of her fingers teasing the edges of the book helped Gio gather his thoughts. No, he hadn't been dressed as Tiny Tim, thank you very much. But making papier-mache look like a plaster cast had taken hours. While he went on to explain how Gemma had pulled that off, it was to the background music of rustling and purrs.


While many would have viewed the fact that Grace was aimlessly turning pages as he talked as her being distracted, he knew better. It wasn't indifference. Grace was always toying with something. The habit had taken some getting used to, but now served as a sort of barometer for her temper and interest.


The sound stilled a bit as her fingers got caught in the back block of coded text. Between sewn-in pouches, overstuffed with folded papers, brick might have been a better term. Still, her warning that he'd better not teach any of their kids that trick had a firm, tapped, staccato beat accompanying it.


Grinning like a loon. Because the idea of "Kids' was intoxicating beyond belief, he promised he wouldn't. It was an easy thing to offer. The scam was too reliant on too many variables. It required three bodies minimum, one of which was an infant. Unless Grace was willing to have that many kids in succession, it was an unfeasible ploy to pull off.


"I swear you're going to have to go through an ethics class before we even have one, Mr. Variables..."


The book was leveled at him like an accusatory finger. Before Giovanni could suggest she wield something else, anything else besides his family historia, gravity took matters out of thier hands. The staples, pins, and sewing, decades old and poorly executed, came apart mid-scolding gesture.


The result was the book dumped half a novella between the two.


Persian woke with an irritated "Murr" and rolled off the bed to leave the two stupid humans to thier nestmaking.


"Ah crap..." Grace winced at the disaster of mangled, encrypted papers. A quick flick through the book showed the photos were undisturbed.


"Merda indeed." Giovanni sighed, taking the book back and tucking it under his arm. "Well, I'm sure you, in your moral superiority, won't mind handling clean up?"


Grace groaned, but nodded. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."


"Grace," A firm tone bellied the soft peck on her lips. It was the kindest way to stop a spiral he's learned. "Sort it, burn it, I don't care. Just get it off the bed before I get back, alright?"


Gathering the laundry from earlier spills and feathers from other activities, he left her to it.


The last glance he had of her on leaving was her sheepishly sifting through the mess, her embarrassment slowly being felled by a familiar expression of frustration. Unrepentant bibliophile, he understood. Not being able to tell page one from another could be frustrating, but being born and raised in the Mob, he knew a deeper truth.


Sometimes it was best not to know.


Letting the Madam's little secret die with her... It was both a feasible and appealing option. If the mess was there when he got back, he'd do the job himself.


"Burning is an option, Grace, the fire is right there." He reminded gently, then he was closing the door on his way out.

 

[K_S]

Villian tines prompt, a book

chapter 4 "a paper trail" i.p..


AN: THIS CHAPTER IS RANKED MATURE

CW: Discusion of sex, sexual torture, poke-philia, and a barely dodged attempted rape, roofies/non-consensual drug use, and criminal activity.



Chapter 4 i.p. (grammerly run needed!)



The mess had been moved off the bed and migrated to the nightstand to host a full invasion against his personal belongings.

Grace, was hovering over the scene of the (probable) crime like a mikiyu over a fashion magazine. Flipping and fussing over the pages. The rest of his bedroom had been spared, though in her mad dash to shunt things off the bed last minute she'd left a literal paper trail from bed topurloined pedestial.

He left her to it.

Taking a moment comb the room with his eyes, he relaxed once he discovered her alarm clock kicked under the nightstand. Satisfied nothing else of note was missong he got to work. Considering the bed was stripped, and she was far too busy to fix what she broke, he set the scarlet and smoke colored replacements on a nearby dresserto a tuneless hummed rendition of "thievery" from Les Mis'.


His brilliance went uncommwnted upon,

but the sight of her frantically shifting the encrypted giberish stilled his tongue.



He pointedly ignored her and got to work. Popping the folded comforter to the side he took full advantage of the bed being stripped. Black fitted sheets were tucked into plsce. The smokey grey silk sheets were spread and folded with neat military percision. Boredom made him mimic

I.p.
et about pulling out an alternate set of sheets, blankets, and whatnot. Since she was so busy and didn't bother to look up, she lost any and all complaint privileges about his color choices.



"Ung really?" She finally turned as he was tossing the properly fluffed and covered pillows into place. The thumps of them landing had caused her pages to rattle. "Red and black? It's like a Rocket themed fabio novel set up!"



He tipped his head, and Grace sighed, rolling her silver-hued eyes at him. Clearly, this was something he was supposed to know already. "Bodice rippers?"



He blinked and settled into a familiar no-tell expression that told her how little he knew.



Though they were quite familiar with each other carnally, Grace flushed. Flustered at the idea of explaining... whatever this was. She was a naturally pale woman, so much so that even mild embarrassment turned her into a neon sign. Not that he took any amusement from that trait or went out of his way to provoke her from time to time...



Gathering her wits, if not her composure, Grace pushed on.



"It's a genre of porn... With a very weak plot. There's a lot of stereotypes, and nudity... The genre I listed centers around made men falling for pretty civilian girls. Fifty-fifty odds on either the gal becoming corrupted, or her charming him straight."



And this was what she wanted him to read?



He turned down the sheet and made a circuit to tend a wrinkle on the other side. Reading his posture and silence as he worked, she had to know it'd be a cold day in hell before he bothered.



Had she been logical, he'd have pointed out that she had Andre and his Kalosian literature to scratch that itch. But she wasn't, she went to the lowest denominator at a swan dive.



"You read Fifty Shades!"



Her words were a spark on gasoline, though she'd have no idea why. And if he wanted her to drop the topic he was going to have to explain.



Dio gli conceda pazienza. (God grant him patience)



Irritation made him destructive, and he really didn't want to make the bed again.

So he stopped.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. Jaw clenched, until he took a moment to relax and loosen those muscles. That exercise didn’t do much against the pressure draped around his shoulders. His oldest go-to, to hit something, was neither viable nor sane.



So he wouldn't.



He sank onto the edge of the bed, pointedly ignoring how Grace's flash of irritation and indignation was dimming. He could almost feel her mood switch to concern without looking at her. Gripping the ring that marked his status as Viridian’s top Consigliere, he twisted it over and over as he mulled how to explain.



Once sure of his thoughts and temper, he'd speak. Only then. It was, for Grace, a long wait. But there were a lot of thorny memories to slog through and weave together into a coherent patchwork..



"The only reason I touched that trash was because young teeny boppers with unlimited bank accounts thought that it was the pinnacle of literature. Their parents, who wouldn't say no, were allowing their kids to re-enact that crap in real life. Never mind piddling things like consent, biological limits, or the fact that the "self-made woman" is a victim of human trafficking. The worse ones tried to get me to play along."



Grace rose one red eyebrow at him.



"You mean the tentecool scene?"



Giovanni snorted, forcing his balled fists to unclench.. "I'm talking about the non-mon version, the original humanist version rescued from the Third Archives." To her curious look, he elaborated. "Where the adolescence is screwed past euphoria and into insanity. Where the "protagonist" breaks a woman down to her soul, and we're expected to praise him in his restraint for holding back on breaking her body because she's pregnant."



He scraped a hand through his hair. Just remembering some of the proposals that’d been lobbed his way made him sick. He’d been propositioned to be the villain, yes, that was expected. But one rabid specimen had proposed a gender/race swapped reinterpretation and had tried to lure them to a bedroom that had looked more like a torture chamber than anything else.



She’d only gotten him to come along because he’d been young, stupid, and hadn’t checked his drink.



Orn had saved his ass that day. And he’d paid off the old Mobster’s legal fees and gotten him off the hook for the assault charges without even a murmur of protest. Both Mafioso, after a long night spent in and getting drunk, deciding to leave the whole episode under the category of “we’ll talk about this, never” and move on with their lives.



He wrapped up a mildly censored version of the assault, concluding with a dry “There's a very good reason why I don't date the youngest of the elite. Their grasp on reality is touch-and-go at best. And they've been sheltered enough, indulged enough, that consent is the furthest thing from their minds."



It was curious to see Grace go from borderline murderous to placid. And a privilege to watch her pack her protective, vindictive justice away. She knew from how he’d spun the tale he’d spill no names. Which meant the “elite” were either Mob that outranked his partial immunity, a government official’s kid, or some horrid bastardization of both.



"More than one reason, I hope."



Her words were teasing, even as Grace invaded his personal space. Her light touch, all asking permission and testing his comfort, was underscored by a frisson of stiffness. Despite being incensed, she made proximity her unspoken apology. He tolerated it. Leaning into her embrace, he thought of idle things, like mother ursaring and their deadly, nurturing hold.



"I'm sorry.” For more than one thing, her nails smoothed his hair. A mute assurance to herself that he was here and safe. He hummed at the prickly-edged touch, a content note. “If it's any consolation, it's nothing like the mon' version I read and thought you were talking about."



"I'm not saying the addition of hentai didn't make it any less awful..." Giovanni grumbled. "And I feel for the insanity the poor Cerulean Sisters had to put up with during the story's return to heyday glory..."



Grace made a non-committal noise, not really interested in the cyclical motions of media manipulation. And definitely not wanting to think about what horrors those girls had had to deal with... While her presence was a comfort, Giovanni was well aware of Grace’s methods; this was a quiet before a different storm.



So while held, he let his eyes flick about, seeking some form of distraction. Wordless comfort was not her way, and she wouldn’t mean to cause harm, but she’d start digging… And there were several things best left buried.



Those damned piles caught his attention. Seemingly sorted (he’d seen Grace’s work desk to know that any organization was a farce) stacked tidy enough to seem sorted. It would be a shaky dodge at best. But it was something.



"Any headway on the Madam's little mystery?"



Canting a look that told him she knew he was dodging and was only allowing it this once, she hummed an affirmative. "They're medical paperwork," Grace informed him. "She," because Giovanni never mentioned the madam by her name, and Grace had learned to follow suit. "Signed off on a lot of something for someone. Most of it's in Italian.” She huffed an irritated noise, “My Italian is mostly verbal, I can barely read a lick, so I'm getting more information from the formatting of the papers than the actual words."



That was no fault of hers. Teaching fluency to outsiders, even those married in, was a taboo even he hadn’t dared break.



"I'm not looking over the paperwork," Gio warned. This felt like trading one death for another. "We'd be better off burning it. Everything the madam touched was poisoned, remember that. If you want to unravel whatever twisted project she was running, be my guest.” He pulled back, offering a quick peck to take the edge off his ultimatum. “Just remember, sweetheart, anything you find that’s illegal is well beyond that statute of limitations."



Grace bit her lip, flicked her gaze from Giovanni to the paperwork, the near alien expression of guilt flitting over her features. Ignoring the rancid tension of anxiety curdling in his stomach, the Italian sighed and at least put up an act of bracing himself.



"What have you found?”



“A name. And I have a bit of a… sensitive question.”



He considered for a long, long time refusing her request. To shut this down now. It’d be safer, saner.



But it was Grace, and by her tone, she needed.



He cursed himself and his soft heart with a wordless sigh. Twining her hair in his fingers, he turned from regarding the papers to some dark corner. Perhaps it made him a coward, but it felt safer.



“Ask.”



“Gio,” she curled into him, relaxing into the motions more for habit's sake than anything. He could feel tension in the line of her spine. “You know it’s traditional for Kanto families for married people to take their husband's name on their wedding… Did… Did she do that? Her?”





“It’s Italian tradition too, but no, my Mother was a bit avant-garde. She kept her name after marrying my father.” Lips quirking at some dark memory, he elaborated. “She made her brother and his kin change their names after… ascending to capo dei capi di Kanto… she had enough clout to claim she was the only Sakaki. And none dared stand up to her.” He cleared his throat, trying for a sliver of levity. “Orn and Orm had just got their law firm and bodyguard business up and running when she threw that stunt. Of being the only Sakaki. Orn still bitches about the fees involved with changing the name on his degree, firm, and whatnot. Says he’ll hold it against me until my dying day, since I’m the only Sakaki left to bitch at.”





Unsaid was the fate of those few headstrong Sakakis who had insisted they weren’t changing their names. A few ballsy ones had appealed to Nona off-mainland to intercede. But Nona, distracted by the rollicking foundations of a woman acceding to levels of power near her own, had been understandably busy. His Mother and Grandmother had been feeling each other’s power bases; the usual dance of assassinations, sabotage, and resource poaching, mixed with the catty back-biting among social scandals, was in full swing.



Busy both testing and manipulating her daughter’s ambition so it wouldn’t blow the top off of established Rocket systems, Nona had no time for her grandchildren’s pride.



So she hadn’t even heard, much less helped.



The result? Bella Sakaki a woman years out of the game and blissfully ignorant, had been left gutted in her gelato shop, as a message. Most had scrambled to make the changes before the body had even cooled, but most hadn’t been quick enough.



“He’s a strange man.” Grace chuckled, and that felt like a win. But still, the tension in her muscles didn’t ease. So it wasn’t much of one. “And a bit vindictive?”



The criticism was a question only for the unspoken line attached to it. The mute “why do you tolerate it?”.





“Orn, and Orm… are very flawed curmudgeons.” Giovanni allowed. “But they are the last two men I consider family.” She perked up a bit at that, and he elaborated. "They’re her brothers.”





“Gio,” her fingers ran a soothing path down his scalp. “Did she allow anyone to keep the name, besides herself?



“After?” This was getting a bit strange. “No. Dissenters were…” He took a deep breath. He didn’t shield her from this part of his past, had sworn well before their wedding to keep her in as much of the loop as was safe. “They were killed, sweetheart. I’m literally the last Sakaki left due to her vanity.” Then, least Grace imagine dead bodies piled in the streets (not that that was wrong per say), he added on. “Most of them switched to their mother’s maiden names for their own safety.”





“When did she do that? Not the year, but when did Orn say she did that?”





Because Grace knew Orm, and that the gregarious man was a bit shaky with details. Occasionally, scrambling famiglia history, with a penchant to exaggerate, and the occasional telenovela interlude.





He pushed her back, and she went with it. Scooting little, but refusing to let him go. Her hand stayed in his, and he let his dark eyes scroll from her fingers to her frame. A small frown of concern touched his features. Refusing to see the silliness of her wooloo pajamas or be charmed by her beauty, he catalogued her state. The furrow of her brows, her pallor, the flush in the indent of her lip… That told of a bite nearly hard enough to draw blood, and only stopped suddenly in fear of scrutiny.



Each tidbit of data was incriminating, and a quick flick of regard she cast on the papers told tales.





“You found something?” He’d left her alone with it for less than an hour. Irritation and resignation sharpened his tone and furrowed his brow.





“I found an allusion to something… and what you told me is sorta of confirming it. But there’s a part that doesn’t make sense.”



He waited. Whether she went forward with this was on her. He’d not even seem to agree with anything. This pain, and if she shared it, was on her.





“Gio,” her thumb scraped over his knuckles, as she ground herself with the touch, braced to keep going. “There were names. Emergency contacts in the paperwork. It was noted that they were previously named Sakaki, and that they’d legally changed their name in the last six months. So this paperwork happened after her… renaming… everyone in your family.”





Again, he remained silent, waiting.

And to his regard, she flicked another look to the far ckrner of tje room. His bedroom drapes must of been a study. Alomst as if hearong his sarcastic thoigjt she flushed, and thougj discpmforted Grace set her shoulders and lifted her chin. The counterpoint frpm her ususal laziefaire approuch to poise when it was just the two of them set Gios heart to quicken


Every alarm in Giovanni’s psyche roared to life. And through the mental cacophony of deflect, dodge, just burn the damned things, was an internal scream, he did not tremble. Or give one tell of his thoughts





“She did it, to make sure she was the last Sakaki and that her firstborn was the only Sakaki. Right?” Grace pressed.





“Yes.” The repetition seemed mad and was wearing at his patience. A part of him wanted to snarl at her to get it over with already. A superstitious corner of his mind wondered if this was the cost. That dealing with the Madam’s secrets would spread her taint, a madness, on everything. And that he was seeing the first stages in Grace, right now.





He squelched both impulse and childish fear into a tight ball and waited.





“The person she did a lot of somethings for was a minor. And he was listed as her first-generation kin. Considering what she did…”





Her words turned to static between his ears. Considering everything he’d ever told Grace about the insane breeding and rearing the hoard back home… His mind wheeled through dates and times, mentally clambering over family trees, offspring, and progeny. It wasn’t hard to do. The Madam had been a proficient culler of family, working or otherwise.





Just ask Bella Sakaki.





“You’re saying she.,. had some... she let a niece or nephew keep their name and… and pay his way through… whatever the fuck that pile of paperwork is?” Giovanni croaked.





Grace squeezed his hands. A mute “no” and “wrong”, and her tone gentled to near Persian fur softness.



“First degree Gio, not second.”



He knew what she’d meant. What she was saying. And heart hammering, he met her silver eyes, expression utterly lost. She loosed his hand then, gently reached up, slowly, so he could see each motion. After a wordless pause to ask permission, she cupped his face, smoothed the wetness running down his cheeks with gentle motions. Cradling him, touch tender, hold light.





“When?” His voice cracked.





“The ages start at five. They stop at ten. At least if I read the dates right.”





Silence, as he finds his voice and coherence in wet, awkward stages. “Grace… not how old was the kid… When did treatment start? For whatever?”





He’d know if he was right or she was by the date.





“There's one form I recognize, cod and Italian notwithstanding. It’s a hospital inpatient forum.” Grace swallowed. “It’s the only date I know for sure.”





She was hedging, dodging… and Gio met her eyes, turning her name into a small growl, the whole a warning.



So she gave him the date… and it matched. Mother Mary and all the saints, did it match? He pulled back, eyes wide, seeing nothing. Mentally combing over angle and plots and family lines, a world away.





“What.. was the name?” There was no impatience now, no anger, no frustration, just a flat, numb pall over his tone and his features.



“Antonio Sakaki.”





He had a brother. A brother who’d had the Sakaki name, who had medical… whatever… running from ages five to ten. And after… nothing. He was in none of the pictures. None of Giovanni’s memories. No relative back home had mentioned him. The Madam had never breathed a word. Neither had Nona.





He had a brother who had been, seemingly, erased from the world. Except some medical coded jargon in the tail end of the Madam’s murder book.





“Is there…”” He breathed. “A…” Fuck he couldn’t even say it.



“Not from what I could puzzle out.” Grace understood. Thank mercy for that. She swallowed, blinking rapidly. Damned if he’d let her cry over this mess without some comfort, he swept her into his arms, and trembled as she curled into him with a wet-sounding sigh.



Letting his gaze roam over to the papers, he wondered if one was which one it could be… a death certificate for a second Sakaki. A brother he hadn’t even met. Giovanni hummed nonsense noises, rocking Grace as she cried, trying might and main not to cry himself.



“We don’t know if he’s dead.” He managed a monotone, trying to be a voice of reason. “Hell, he could be a nephew, this could be a documentation error. We only have a few names, a few dates. This could be nothing.”



He knew bone-deep it wasn’t. And he knew the second he was calm, that Grace was steady, he’d be making some calls. Signore Orn, Zio or no, had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.