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Diavolo was not a kind or nurturing person, nor was he a good one. His own daughter could attest to that; she had quite coldly let him know on more than one occasion that she saw him as little more than an employer. He kept everyone at arm's length, and for good reason. He liked it that way.
So why. Why did this irritating, mangy stray cat keep pestering him? For nearly three weeks, it had found a multitude of ways to break into wherever he was staying, somehow following him through two of his routine relocations. If it was human, he would be torn between killing it and hiring it for infiltration jobs. But as it stood, it was just a pest with a baseless, aggravating attachment to him.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, brought out of his musing by a gentle paw on his leg. When he looked down with a sneer, the cat stared back wide-eyed and let out a long, chittering meow that could have easily served as the world's most annoying ringtone.
It was an ugly thing, he thought, dark lavender fur full of tangles, smears of who knows what on its face and paws from digging through garbage on the streets. There was no way the filthy thing didn't have fleas.
"Get out," he muttered. It let out that meow again, flopping onto its side bonelessly and continuing to stare up at him. What the hell did it want? They say you shouldn't feed stray cats, but this one was hanging around, regardless. Maybe if he fed it, it would let him be as long as it was full.
He didn't want it stinking up the room for one more moment, though. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he sent out a brief message to Trish from a burner phone - a list of supplies. She replied within moments.
'What is this?'
'A shopping list. Make it a priority. I'm dealing with an annoyance.'
'I'm glad you're finally getting rid of your fleas.'
Teenagers. But despite her rudeness, she would comply - she was loyal if nothing else. No less than an hour and a half later, he found two plastic shopping bags by his door, a receipt taped to one of them. The stray, which had previously been lounging near his chair, sprung up the moment he stood and insistently tried to get under his feet. He wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't purposefully trying to trip him. That was the life of a mob boss; even cats were after his life.
"Come here, you fleabag." He grabbed both shopping bags in one hand before picking the cat up by the scruff of its neck, grimacing at how grimy it felt. After making his way to the bathroom, he closed the door, dropping both the cat and the bags in favor of running warm water in the tub.
Kneeling down, he dug through his purchases, swatting the cat away when it tried sticking its head in, until he finally pulled out a bottle of pet shampoo and a fine-toothed metal comb. He then unceremoniously snatched the stray and dropped it into the bath water, where it proceeded to lose its goddamn mind. Diavolo managed to grab it before it could launch itself out of the tub, but it latched onto him, clawing all down his forearm in a desperate bid to get out of the water.
“Ungrateful shit,” he hissed, ignoring the pain and firmly holding the upset animal in place. It eventually held still, meowing mournfully when he squeezed shampoo directly onto its back from the bottle. It sat in the water shivering as he washed its fur carefully, starting at its grubby little face and working his way to its tail. Once the general filth was dealt with and rinsed off, he moved on to combing through the fur, hunting fleas with a patience he wasn’t aware he still had. There were no more serious escape attempts, but every now and again there were further attempts to garner his pity with pathetic mews. (They all failed entirely.)
The longer it went on, the less sure he was why he was even doing something so ridiculous. The shampoo was stinging the scratches down his arm. He was a professional criminal, a mob boss, and now he had been bullied into grooming an animal off the streets - but he was in too deep to just quit. After what felt like hours, he was confident he had plucked off and drowned every flea on the little bastard, and the knots in its fur had been worked out in the process. It looked up at him as he drained the tub, giving a sad, warbling meow.
"Well get out, then. Go." He made a shooing gesture with his hand, but the waterlogged thing just sat there, looking up at him with its big amber eyes. Twitching in annoyance when it stayed motionless in the tub it clearly wanted out of, he grabbed a towel from the cabinet under the sink, unfolding it and scooping the cat up. If it was too stupid to get out and air dry, he would just dry it himself before it got water everywhere. And so he did, rubbing it dry with the towel as much as he could manage before releasing it and tossing the towel over the shower rod to dry. Taking a glance down at his arm, he saw it wasn't quite as brutalized as it felt like it had been. He rinsed it off under the tub faucet and shook it dry. He could disinfect it later.
Then his attention went back to the shopping bags. He grabbed them before opening up the bathroom door and heading out, the still slightly damp stray darting out and tearing off somewhere in a frenzy.
Trish had added a few things he hadn't asked for on his list, he noted as he unpacked what was left in the bags: a small bag of dry cat food, two containers of wet food (each with a sticker reading €0.50), two small silver dishes, a pink breakaway collar and some sort of string toy attached to a plastic stick. He had wanted to feed the thing once, not keep it as a pet, and sure as hell not play games with it. At least she hadn't spent much. He pushed the extras aside, taking only the silver dishes and the bag of dry food. One dish was filled with water from the tap before he set it on the floor. After opening the bag of food, he paused for a moment. How much was he supposed to feed it? A glance at the bag showed feeding directions based on weight, but he had no idea how much the thing weighed, so he settled for dumping food into the dish until it was even with the rim, then put it down next to the water dish. Maybe with that out of the way, he could get some work done.
It was a good few hours before he saw the cat again, and he was starting to think it had left after the shock and horror of being given a bath. His hopes were dashed when he heard it crunching noisily on the food he had left out, and then...a sound that rang out suspiciously like metal hitting the floor. Shoving away from the desk, he stormed into the small kitchen to find the little pebbles of food scattered everywhere, the cat prancing around happily as it swatted individual pieces across the tile, chased them down and ate them. It looked up once it realized he was there, letting out a meow that could only be classified as an excited yell. Its fur was surprisingly more fluffy and long now that it was clean and fully dry, and Diavolo noticed it had dark spots at the roots of its whiskers, almost like freckles. Two jagged, dark colored stripes ran parallel down the back of its neck; he had originally thought they were more dirty smudges, but apparently they were just a strange coat pattern. It trotted over to him, ignoring the rest of the food to rub all over his legs.
“I’m starting to regret doing anything for you.” He was also starting to make an embarrassing habit out of speaking to this thing, but oh well. Stepping around it as it weaved all around his legs, he righted the flipped dish and haphazardly scooped the food back into it, dusting his hands off on his pants.
“Now behave and leave me alone,” he commanded.
Thirty minutes later, back at his desk, he heard the bowl flip over again.
Trish had come to personally discuss business (mostly to air other members’ grievances with him, apparently) and they had been deep in discussion for the better part of an hour. Trish was his main link to the outside, and if these meetings could keep things running smoothly, so be it. Last thing he needed was a coup. The cursed cat was curled into a perfect ball in her lap, and she scratched the back of its neck with her manicured nails.
“By the way, have you named him yet? Why isn’t he wearing his collar?”
“It isn’t my pet. Why would I name it?” She was insistent on the strangest things at times.
“He’s not leaving now that you’ve fed him.” She scooped the cat from her lap as she stood, and it let itself be held on its back, curled in her arms like a baby. Before Diavolo could even argue with her, she was off to the kitchen where he left the other items she bought.
"Trish," he deadpanned, following her. "Leave that thing alone, we aren't done speaking."
"We are done," she answered matter-of-factly as she put the cat down on its feet on the counter, fishing the pink collar out of the plastic bag and fastening it around its neck with a click. It jumped down instantly and started scratching and pawing at the thing, making the little bell jingle. "I reported all the complaints and issues the teams are having. It's your job to figure out how to deal with the mess."
He was terrible at actually dealing with people and she knew that.
"What they're asking for isn't-"
"You need to name your cat," she interrupted, squatting down to scratch its chin and distract it from trying to kick the collar off. "He has those little double stripes on his neck. You could call him Doppio."
Why he had ever thought it was a good idea to spawn a child, he would never know. It must have been a moment of madness. At the very least she was bold and intelligent enough to perhaps be worthy of inheriting Passione one day.
"Fine, the cat's name is Doppio, now explain to me how in God's name la squadra esecuzioni expects to actually hold any territory."
Trish's expression turned sharp. "Maybe because they have the most dangerous and unpredictable assignments. Maybe because you shouldn't shit on the team who specifically specializes in tracking and killing. You don't go out there and look at things firsthand, but I do. I know."
"...I concede your point." Begrudgingly, but still. "I need time to consider my options, but I'll make them my next priority."
"Good. That's all, then. There's something I need to check on."
"Then you're dismissed."
She was already halfway out the door before he was even finished talking. Of course. He looked down at the cat, which had taken to pawing at his shoe.
"Doppio."
A questioning 'mrow' answered him.
"How did she turn out so much like her mother?"
Paranoia had him changing locations again not long after his rendezvous with Trish. The idea of privacy was ruined when he realized she had already been there, to set up a litter box of all things. Still, it would do for now.
Doppio was at his heels as always. When he stopped to place a few things in a cabinet, the cat did a little wiggle before leaping at one of the decorative sets of straps that hung from its pants, grabbing on and half dangling from them. He paused to look down as Doppio wriggled and gnawed on them. If he got some of that energy out, maybe he wouldn't be such a nuisance.
Grabbing the cat toy (which he hadn't intended to keep and just hadn't yet disposed of), Diavolo moved to the open space of the bedroom, dragging Doppio along with each stride. He examined the toy as he unwrapped the string from the plastic stick. It was vaguely in the shape of a bird, with tail feathers made of various ribbons, feathers and shimmery bits. Something inside the bird made a crinkling noise when it was pressed on.
Doppio had at some point untangled himself and sat up to watch, enraptured. When Diavolo held the toy up, dangling it just out of reach, he saw the cat's pupils go huge before it jumped up and swatted the bird.
Over the next half an hour of flicking the toy around this way and that, Diavolo learned several things: that cats could jump extremely high; that an excited cat did not care to calculate its jumps to avoid smashing into walls and furniture; that if you tired a cat out enough, it would pant like a dog to cool off. Doppio was in such a state now, lying on his side in a twisted up pose that made him look like roadkill. The fur on his chest and stomach looked much softer than the rest of him. Almost downy. Diavolo squatted down after tossing away the toy, reaching out tentatively to scratch at the soft fluff of the cat's chest. Doppio stretched all his limbs out, purring with enough intensity to sound like a small engine running.
After a few moments of that he stood, retrieving a laptop and sitting on the bed with it as he opened it up and set to work considering offers he could make to those miserable louts in la squadra esecuzioni. He was joined not long after by Doppio, who hopped up on the bed and curled up in a circle next to his thigh, purring more quietly than before.
Oddly, he found he didn't mind.
There was apparently a lot to learn about cats. Diavolo came to find that Doppio's meows meant different things.
The long chittering meow was a greeting, or a bid for attention. A short yell was for uncontainable excitement, a drawn out one for 'feed me' or 'turn this faucet on so I can drink from it even though my water bowl is full'. When a phone rang in Doppio’s earshot, each ring was answered with a short chirp. There was also a distinctive 'mrow', always with a questioning tone; this would follow after Diavolo said the cat's name, which he had learned to respond to awfully quickly. The last meow in particular had become a source of amusement for the boss on dull days.
"Doppio."
"Mrow?" The cat appeared in the doorway instantly, dropping the toy he had been carrying in his mouth and dragging around.
"Oh, my little Doppio," he repeated, drumming his fingers on the desk he was working at invitingly.
"Mrowow?"
Doppio entered the room and jumped up on the desk, tail up and twitching curiously. Diavolo scooped him up before he could step on the laptop, depositing him into his lap.
"Are you aware that this month has been extremely profitable?" Doppio had no answer this time, but he let out loud, rumbling purrs when Diavolo began scratching his neck and petting down his back.
Talking to a cat was no different than talking to yourself, really. Saying things out loud was a perfectly fine way to cement them in your mind. That was how he justified it to himself, at least.
Among other things he had learned was the fact that the mere sound of a bathtub being filled would send Doppio either slinking or skittering off to hide, dependent entirely on his proximity to the tub when the water was started. Quite a lot startled his companion, in fact. The first time the cat saw his stand (physically saw it, that raised some interesting questions), he climbed a set of curtains and perched precariously on the curtain rod, eyes wide and tail puffed to three times its usual size. That was the first time he had heard another Doppio meow variant: the 'boss! I'm scared!'. It was only to avoid further conflict that he trained Doppio to trust King Crimson using treats. That was the only reason.
At any rate, one of the few things Doppio didn’t fear was Diavolo himself. The cat would spend time investigating their surroundings when they moved somewhere new, but he always returned to his master’s side in due time, whether it was for a nap or to ask for food.
Diavolo paused in his thoughts when he heard a quiet croaking noise. Doppio had jumped out of his lap at some point and he was off on the other side of the room, messing with something in the corner.
“Doppio.”
The cat let out a chirp but he didn’t look up, instead darting out the door, something clearly dangling from his mouth. Was that a frog?
“Doppio, what is in your mouth?!” He stood quickly and moved to chase the cat down and take possession of whatever foul creature he was trying to eat.
At least it wasn’t a plastic wrapper that time.
He lay in bed one morning, needlessly awake at just a few minutes past 5:00 A.M. It took him a moment first to realize where he was, and then another to realize why he had woken up so early.
Doppio’s loud purring rumbled next to his ear, and he absentmindedly reached up to pet him without even opening his eyes. The cat was curled up against the side of his head, front paws kneading his cheek with such gentleness that his claws didn’t even come out. He had a piece of Diavolo’s hair in his mouth, and his tail was curled to perfectly frame the man’s chin. The picture of comfort and affection.
Diavolo didn’t mind. He had determined there were plenty of things he no longer minded when it came to Doppio. He never imagined he wanted or needed a companion, but going back to how things previously were was no longer an option. He had never realized how quiet it was before, and how suffocating that could be. Strange what a difference a tiny creature could make. Even his relationship with Trish seemed to have improved somewhat as of late, and with her assistance, he was making headway on quelling concerns and complaints from various capos. Things were running smoothly for the first time in a good while.
Well, he wasn’t going to give Doppio credit for all that. But he was a good cat, Diavolo conceded, rubbing behind his ears before settling back to sleep to the sound of loud purring.