When you had reluctantly agreed to orders from the head to have someone vanish one winter, you certainly weren't expecting something like this to happen, not at all. It was supposed to be a routine procedure, and it turned out anything but.
You hated having to carry out covert assassinations.
Absolutely hated them.
It was always so much easier to go in, guns blazing, then leaving the cleanup to lackeys or getting right the fuck out before the police get there and letting them deal with the mess.
But orders were orders, after all. And you had, over the years, made enough men quietly disappear that it was no longer difficult, just inconvenient and slightly irritating, and not your first choice of jobs to do despite your proficiency in it. So when the capo had tasked you with discreetly eliminating the branch leader of an opposing famiglia who had been trying to expand into the territory of your own famiglia, you had made thorough preparations for the job with the usual slight reluctance that came from being ordered to carry out quiet assassinations.
It was supposed to be routine procedure, and neither you nor the boss were expecting it to be too tricky so you had been dispatched alone, with a small two-person squad on-call as backup if needed. No dynamite permitted on this mission, unfortunately, but you'd strapped some into your hip holsters anyway, just in case you needed them.
And it did go fairly smoothly, all things considered. Everything went according to plan. You didn't even need to call on your backup team for assistance, taking the target out from the rooftop of the next building over with a sniper rifle. Stealing into his flat to clean up the mess was easy, and you heard nary a peep from the neighbouring apartments as you hauled his limp, tarp-wrapped body out.
Everything went smoothly. It was almost unnerving.
You should have known that if a mission was going too well, something would happen to fuck it up.
And now, there was just this little setback of this one foreign assassin from a different famiglia grinning charmingly at you where you'd encountered him in the woods, a fabric- wrapped corpse over one shoulder and his suit jacket under his other arm, a gun holster strapped over his chest and a sword to his back. He looked Asian, maybe Chinese or Japanese? You couldn't quite tell in the darkness beneath the trees, and you didn't really care either way-- it mattered none to you. What did, however, was which famiglia he worked under.
You didn't recognise his face, and when he introduced himself as “Yamamoto Takeshi, pleasure to meet you!” in strangely accented Italian and a nod of his head, you didn't recognise his name either. Pressing him for who he worked for just earned you another disarmingly bright smile and no proper answer.
“That's not important, I'm not an enemy.” He had deflected your question easily, shifting the fat corpse on his shoulder as he spoke. The blood-stained wrap left the shoulder of his shirt damp and dark. Stupid man, you had thought, he should have worn a black shirt, not a pale blue one. “You're with Trad 6, are you not? That fast-rising famiglia. I've heard a lot of good things about you guys.”
“What the fuck,” you hissed in response, hands immediately darting to the dynamite sticks strapped to your belt as you let the wrapped body on your shoulder fall to the grass. “I should kill you now.”
Takeshi-- Yamamoto, you reminded yourself distantly, he's Japanese so his given name is the second one, not the first one-- laughed with seemingly little concern, throwing his free hand up placatingly.
“No, no, that's alright.” He continued to smile at you, taking a step back. “I'll get out of your hair in a moment, I see you and I still have a job to finish.”
“I would have finished it by now if it weren't for you, bastard,” you bit back. “You're delaying my schedule.”
“My bad, my bad,” he apologized, but you were still irritated. How did this man have the energy to keep that fucking thousand-watt grin on his face and be as cheerful as he was at a time like this? It was slightly creepy, if you were to be completely truthful. “I'll get going then. Maybe we'll run into each other some other time. When we're both less busy, I mean.”
“Run into my knife ten times, more like,” you grumbled in irritation, and he laughed.
“You're really funny,” he commented, and you bristled instantly, eyes narrowed. “I like that. Do you need a hand with that?”
He nodded his head at the tarp-covered corpse at your feet, and you couldn't find it in you to stop the growl that rose through your throat.
“I think I am more than capable of dealing with my own assigned tasks, thank you very much,” you snapped irritably, running your fingers almost lovingly across the row of explosives holstered along your hip.
“Ahahah. Well, I'll leave you to it then.” He shrugged, repositioned the body over his shoulder, and turned to leave. “See you around sometime, then, Mr. Trad 6!” he called over his shoulder, in his incredibly irritating foreign accent, waving in farewell as he disappeared in the shadows between the trees.
You pressed fingers to your temples and sighed deeply, hissing your breath out through your teeth.
You're too tired for this bullshit.
Way too tired.
And you still have to dispose of this corpse and then report back to your team and the capo.
This mission had turned out anything but routine, and you're exhausted.
You saw him again, the strange Japanese assassin. You weren't expecting to see him then, at an allied famiglia's Inheritance Ceremony a few months after your first meeting.
He waved at you cheerily, catching your attention from his seat amongst the members of the Vongola famiglia, and it takes everything in you to stop your eyes from bugging out in surprise.
After the ceremony, he'd cornered you and asked for your number. You had hissed that if he weren't part of the biggest, most powerful famiglia in the world, you would blow him up where he stood, but you gave him your number anyway.