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An invitation, with 9 eyes surrounding it like vultures to a carcass.
Within a second of it being read aloud, the objections flooded in..
“A dinner?! The Boss’ll probably charge us for it.”
“A suit out of the bottom of the closet would be a nice change...”
“WE HAVE TO WEAR SUITS?!”
“What a curious time to call a dinner…”
Splintered off into their own couplets, the bickering between why and what was split between drinks and the leftovers of dinner. However, at the head of the table, whose food was barely touched, the invitation was enough food for thought. Lost in the printed text, the printed signature, the feeling across the sides: Genuine, he had received an email of the exact same nature, but something had not sat right with the leader about this whole affair. Leaning over, one of the lieutenants who could hear the cogs ticking over in his mind gave an ear to the leader.
“It’s genuine.”
Red pupils did not flinch from the invitation but the curled and trimmed nails of the blonde lieutenant peeled it out of his hands. Surrounding it, the leader looked across the table at the bickering, seeing the premonitions of the lieutenant’s wariness coming to fruition.
“You are not there to carry them like a father, nor rule them like a tyrant. Listen…”
Lost in the sauce of his own suspensions his squad were in their own pairings, with their own worries and troubles. Rubbing the bottom of his chin until the bells of his hood began to jingle, he decided it was time to perhaps organise the rabble. A wine glass thrown at the wall brought silence to the room almost instantly.
“Tomorrow, we go for fittings. The day after, you will learn your manners. On the night of the dinner, you shall represent the Execution Team with a SMALL degree of decorum”
Within seconds a pair of bright red trainers were removed from the tablet and a latex-wrapped elbow slid off. The lieutenant who gave the warning even jumped with a cocked eyebrow and the taller partner behind him shrunk in his chair. The last two miscreants who were busy half eloping over each other gave a pair of smug looks across the table. In the silence though, agreement had steadily come together. Nudges between the red sneakers and the latex, flashed eyebrows between each other. He worries that the taller green haired, slightly thicker multiple-chined man turned into smiles when something nice happened. A vacation this dinner would turn into, and within seconds it was yet again taken away from the leader’s hands.
The finest tailor in Northern Italy could not quite prepare for the mess that was being sent to them, however. There was enough sway from the leader’s words that the tailor would hold their complaints and put on a strained smile, but the pain in the old woman’s face was clear as day. She’d even speak in a thicker, rougher dialect that perhaps this generation’s reiterations families were not quite what they used to be as they watched a blue curled haired man screech down about the colour of burgundy.
The first pair, one who signed their size form with a chicken scratched “Ghiaccio”, caused perhaps the most physical damage directly. At the same time, his partner in the fitting room caused perhaps the most mental damage to the poor younger assistant measuring girls who originally fluttered at the curled handwriting of “Melone”. For you see, it was not that Ghiaccio objected to the nature of fine leather shoes and form fitting suits, but he needed ease of movement . The poor girl who was browsing through rows and rows of pinstripe suits to match his taste could not comprehend his long babbling about how White Album needed this, and how he needed movement that, and how he was already sweating bad enough even with the ice and snow around him. Even when a poor girl who found a looser fitting suit mentioned it was water- and snow-proof, she got the "Hairdryer Treatment" in return. It took Melone’s still gloved hand to pinch the mouth shut of the hunchbacked assassin. Authority of a partner sealed the deal and with Melone’s knee pushed a bit too sharply into Ghiaccio’s thigh, the mouth had sewn itself shut, or at least into grumbles. It was Melone’s eyes that pinned Ghiaccio enough that after going through half a store’s worth of shirts and blazers that a vague outfit was decided upon. A casual loose-fitting turtleneck with a pattern ripped straight from a decade ago, pinstripe blazer and half-cut loose-fitting pinstripe trousers patterns assuredly straightened out, assuredly exactly spaced out. He wasn’t happy, but as soon as the pack was zipped up in it’s takeout bag and the older woman flicked her hand at him to go. The faster, the better.
Melone, while easier to dress, did not stop his loose fingers and tongue, trying to pull maybe a spare sample from one of the girls that evening. Each failed attempt earned him a sneer or jibe from his partner, and Melone gave him a rude gesture in return. He had wanted something very tight, with gloves, akin to a chauffeur’s outfit himself, but the option to have a matching pinstripe pattern as his partner -- oh the taste was wonderful. Hunchbacked with clawed hands, Ghiaccio fired a bunch of curse-laden swears and cracks back. Yet, his mouth was silenced once again when Melone’s neck cracked in the full matching suit but cleaned with a purple finish. Hair flicked back with fringe just covering his other eye, fingers cracked behind leather gloves. Sensing that his pose was becoming stiffer, creased up casual outfit there was a sudden power imbalance, the blue haired ice puppy took his back and buried himself in the car outside. Burying red blushes and frustrations with his tail between his legs.
The leader, who signed his name in almost perfect uniform akin to a typeface as “Risotto”, had a much more intimate time with the affair. Calling upon his lientent by his side for the fittings - supposedly for security purposes - to be by his side, the shop was much less of a rabble. Despite the lieutenant being repeatedly told not to smoke, he would stand outside the dressing room curtain and simply talk to the Boss as if they were merely at a cafe. The sizing girls would retake measurements and take design notes from his causal outfit, but their conversation would keep on going. Be it the state of the world, or simply the state of their current safe house. Their conversation flowed as smoothly and as quickly as the old woman’s tailoring hands did with the sewing machine. A small comment back and forth about designs, or colours, but every opinion shared was met with a mutual nod. The giggling sizing girls and assistants would gossip between each other with smiles and rumours about them, only for the clip of a slipper from the old lady got them back to work. For Risotto, his pickiness in the patterns was not without intention, nothing he did was without. An intimate time away from the rest of the team was a rare moment. Not borne of jealousy- but the strong facade of a leader, or at least a guiding force in the lieutenant's case, was exhausting and only between the two did they understand that. Electicing for something as formal as it could possibly be, a simple layered black and white suit with straps embedded inside and padded shoulders, with enough concealed pockets within the lining to pack half of a kitchen in it.
With much softer, middle-ground between the previous handwriting, “Prosciutto” was exactly as the girls had called.Mature like wine soaked ham in, was soaked in, but still fresh and almost raw as it was cooked. A middle-ground of temperments that the girls would swoon over, but treated like they did not exist. Eyes focused solely on Risotto as an equal, not just a leader. His colours were more vivid and brighter; he had elected for spiderweb and high-fashion patterns on everything from the shirt to the shoes. Luxury and elegance, but placed over a rather normal, and thin suit. Risotto had pushed him that he could wear something more casual, akin to Ghiaccio who had already abandoned his new shoes for slacking red trainers, but for Prosciutto this was for himself as much as it was a show. Risotto had given a nod in approval, but as soon as the curtain drew closed, Risotto’s head turned away, in thought, clenched fingers with the pair of index fingers nudging his lips. To be humbled as a leader was a sign of weakness, but to be impressed and openly express such a feeling was almost disgraceful. It was the old woman, still wielding the insole of a slipper, who whacked the leader on the side. With her coy smile, she gestured to the closed curtain.
“There are two types of management: out of fear, and out of respect. It was not weakness, but a strength to lead by respect. Many of these newer politicians and capo’s do not understand that. We have bodies lining the canals because they have no respect from themselves or their peers.”
She grumbled back into the way to contradict her own words and to spook the girls out of their gossiping once more. Yet for Risotto, who clenched his arms, the casual outfits of Prosciutto, including the entrusted magatama=like pendant… he had to take a deep sigh to steel his face as Prosciutto's final outfit came out. A silent nod between them. That’s all it took.
The day after, the group minus the ice cream pair had a restaurant booked- it had taken enough phone calls to ruin their phone bill for the month to get the reservation early- but it had been needed for the sake of at least trying to prepare for whatever the Boss had wanted them for in the first place. The two pairs of vibrant colours had turned up to the test run of the dinner not in the outfits they had prepared, but in outfits that would barely be acceptable for group meetings and dinners even at the safe house. A loose fitting baggy jumper and striped pants that were London-floods around those damned red trainers. shirt and pair of shorts coated with bright circles and swirls straight out of what a European would assume an American sleazeball would wear in the early '90's. They had come simply to follow orders and without the orders being more precise than that, it is what the leader and his lieutenant had gotten. Even Prosciutto's partner, away from the leader, had wrangled a deep formal coat and matching full suit set that struggled around his neck, leaving the top button to the wind.
Curled together on their side of the table, Ghiaccio had nudged his chair over to his partner and had a backrest for sitting on his phone, with thumbs moving at lightspeeds, supposedly “working” on a contract for a job towards the capital. Their food and desert was split between them and every single infraction had wound up the leader more and more. A quiet, sharp slam of a knife and fork once again brought the table upright. Slicing across the thick meat with the steak enough, his eyes were down low and Risotto’s tone was somewhere between anger and gentle annoyance. A gentle annoyance though, a gentle annoyance that turned into a gentle smile, for a gentle heart.
“If you want more money, and more jobs I expect you all to align yourself much better tomorrow night in front of the Boss. I will not tolerate any further insolence. I have respected your freedoms, and given you as much leniency as I would allow, o, please, return that respect back to some degree.”
The leader's tone had shifted though and evened out into something more softer and gentle, and even cracked half a smile at the group. Prosciutto had begun to speak then trailed off, yet the leader's nod had relinquished enough confidence to actually speak. The light in his partner’s eyes shone with the green hair standing on it’s edge. The melon and ice pair even stopped and were surprised at yet another voice deciding to take their authority. Ghiaccio leaned off of Melone enough the gloved man was able to use both hands for desert easily enough. Prosciutto’s way of translating the leader's coldness into something more comfortable and swallowable was a miracle. A look shared between the two confirmed a thanks between them. Hell, the power was enough that Ghiaccio even adjusted his jumper to center and Melone corrected his collar. The sarcastic cough to hide the indignity of listening to the leader was little to hide the gesture itself.
In the car together, on the final day, it was a miracle. Suits straightened and creaseless. Ghiaccio’s red trainers finally cleaned and less scuffed up, with ankles actually hidden. Melone’s patterned outfits aligned, the pinstripes matched his partner and they behaved like made men. In the middle of the car, Pesci and Prosciutto sat easing each other's nerves, but it was not Pesci’s nerves that had bothered the vibrant suit’s mind. Next to the driver, a rare occasion at the front of the car, their leader sat facing eternally forward. Once more shielding himself with a divider. Even Pesci could pick up on this, mouthing a silent message between them.
“What are you two whispering about? Worried about Nero?”
Melone’s voice cut through their tension like a knife through cake, a fallen asleep Ghiaccio leaning across his shoulder with fingers running through the blue curls. Pesci had gone to speak but Prosciutto cut him off.
“You have ice to keep your drink fresh. I have Pesci to reel away my troubles. What does our Boss have, when you two cannot even dignify him with proper shoes?”
Prosciutto's voice was laced with anger and stressed syllables, but his voice never went above a whisper. Melone’s smile and flick of the hair was all he gave as a response, because in truth, even with the amount of sarcasm and slime that kept his hair so smooth, he could still understand the line in the sand. Pesci passed a hand over to Prosciutto, whose eyes locked with the Boss’s just for a second with the rearview mirror.
The house - near mansion sized - vila they were taken to, surrounded by vineyards, looked more like a tourist family home, than anything lived in by a human. The dining hall they came to was aligned with never touched curtains and grand-arched windows with engraved frames that overlooked the colours of the fields. The desk was fine and antique, all of the furniture was, yet not a single plant nor photo gave the room life. The cold earrings had caused their leader who took a seat at one head of the table to stroke across his concealed weapons just to double check. Dressed in their finely timed outfits, each of the members took their space assigned to them. Their whispers and murmurs still spread between them all, but this time with straightened backs. The wait staff and security who led them in had all but vanished.
Only when near a couple of dozen minutes passed, did a man appear with a towel wrapped around. Pint-sized, but with a grim look.
“I am afraid the Boss cannot join you for a meal tonight. You all have his deepest gratitude in coming and making such an effort. He states vehemently that you will be duly rewarded for your diligence to the Passione organisation. You are free to still eat and enjoy the evening and night. We will be at your service...”
Risotto’s anger was apparent and he had stood with fingers splayed across the table and eyes now deeper and more consuming to the point the waiter’s knees had buckled just a slight. Prosciutto held his hand up at him.
“Merely…an expensive test…”
The Boss knew how stretched they were, this injustice and dishonour of not even showing up...Prosciutto would understand, he should be able to see! Why are the others not tasting what the Boss has done to them again? Treated them like plastic soldiers to be knocked off the table at a whim…! The vibrant voice of the blonde lieutenant however interrupted any energy of Metallica that was about to snap at the wait staff.
“There is no wine strong enough to cause you to relax, is there, Risotto. Look at your squad…”
Within seconds though, a pinstripe blazer was flung through Risotto’s vision and arms in the air. Followed by a second one.Two ties of blue and pink flew up in the air and behind them. Chanting between them that the oppressive force of meeting the boss had lifted them, the pair’s small defiance of vibrant colours came with their exclamations.
“Casual Sunday it is!”
“I knew I should’ve packed my jumper in the car!”
Prosciutto looked disappointedly a t Risotto, steaming red-hot, but for confirmation he unfastened the top button of his shirt, and pulled off the tie before folding it gently into his pocket. They kept a smile saved between them, and the waiter requested their dinner orders and for wait staff to collect the formal tops that were abandoned to the wind. Ghiaccio’s red trainers propped up on the empty head of the table's seat and leaned into Melone once more. Melone shoved him a little back saying that he wanted to actually eat this dinner without hairs in his food. Prosciutto held out his wine glass to his leader with a wink of his eyebrows.
“I told you before - You are not Atlas.”
With a returned gentle look, Nero took his seat once more. Running a hand through his hair and a hood with bells that had his named engraved chimed. A smile raised across his face as he looked up at the exact same dinner table he led almost every week.