Chapter Text
Luca Paguro is ten years old when he realises that his family’s grocery store is not, in fact, a grocery store. Sitting in the corner, half hidden beneath a shelf of tagliolini, he watches his mother order her subordinates around in a marching-band staccato entirely unbefitting of their family-friendly store.
Surely regular grocery employees don’t carry guns in their belts?
“Antonio!” Daniela hollers from across the shop, interrupting his thoughts. Strapped into a no-nonsense, starched white apron, his mother is a formidable force in polyester and astonishing lung capacity. “Bring me that crate over there!”
Her assistant hastens to comply. He’s been around for as long as Luca can remember, all willowy limbs and lean strength. His greasy black hair is slicked back into a ponytail today, and his tight-fitting tank top does nothing to hide his gangly figure.
“The files on the Profaci family, si?”
Daniela blanches. “Antonio!” she hisses. She turns to Luca and hauls him into a standing position. “What are you doing here? The floor’s dirty, amore mio. Go do your homework.”
He blinks up at her and a sheepish-looking Antonio. “Who are the Profacis?”
“No one, darling,” his mother consoles him with a hand to his back. “Just Antonio’s idea of a joke. They’re the new batch of onions from a company called Profaci. Run along now.”
“Oh. Okay.” He’s unconvinced but nonetheless obeys, putting his sketching materials back into his duffel bag and running up the seventeen creaky stairs from the back of the store to their home.
The brass knocker winks as he bursts across the carpeted foyer and through the arched doorway into the living room.
“I’ve got to fix the stairs,” he hears his father murmur from his position on the stuffed red armchair. “Hey, son.” He’s cradling a box of cigars in one hand, a newspaper open in the other.
“Hey dad!” he said cheerfully. “Did you hear Mom started buying onions from Profaci?”
It’s a deliberate move on his part. While his mother can be a stone wall when needs be, Lorenzo Paguro is an open book. It’s from him that Luca is the most likely to get any answers.
His father tenses, then coughs into a fist. “Er, yes.”
“Are they very good onions? Mom says we’re starting up renovations again.”
Despite the worn-down stairs and the unassuming appearance of the entire building block that houses the grocery store, their living quarters consists of all five stories of it as well as those of the adjoining building, equally grey and faded on the outside but opulent within. With its panelled oak walls, creamy marble pillars and antique furniture, their home has always been Luca’s sanctuary.
“It’s not safe out there,” his mother always tells him. “We made it safe in here. But we can’t flaunt it to the world. Do you understand?”
He’d always assumed that they made great profits from running the grocery store. The files on the Profaci family, si?
His father nods contemplatively. “Hm. Yes, I think your mother wants another bathtub installed. I only managed to talk her down from a rooftop pool.”
“They must be very expensive onions.”
A furrowed brow. His father lowers his newspaper. “What’s with the sudden interest in onions, hmm, son?”
Luca shrugs as innocently as he can. “Just wondering how we managed to afford the house, that’s all. We learnt about taxes in economics today.”
His father makes a disgruntled noise. “Don’t listen to anything they teach you. I knew we should’ve kept you homeschooled.”
Fearing another rant about the inadequacies of the Genovan education system, he beats a swift retreat to his bedroom. His yellow notebook waits expectantly on the table, and he flips it open to a new page.
Things I know , he writes in capital letters.
Then, beneath it:
Mom has files on the Profaci family
She doesn’t want me to know
We live in a mansion
Selling onions doesn’t make a lot of money
It doesn’t add up.
There’s a firm rap on his door. “Mom? Is that you?”
The door opens to reveal his mother in her regular shift dress, having already divested of the apron. Crossing the room, she sits down on his bed, fussing with the bed-curtains. They’re a heavy velvet teal. He’s always loved the colour; it reminds him of the sea.
“Come here, Luca.”
She pats the bed besides her. He goes, angling his head for a hair ruffle. Laughing, she obliges before sobering again. “Luca, listen. There’s something you should know about our family.”
♡
It should surprise him that his mother runs something called the mafia. She described it as a large business organisation, of sorts. He’s not surprised, not really. Impressed, yes, but not surprised. Having seen the way she runs such a tight ship of the grocery store, a front though it is, he has no doubt about her leadership capabilities.
It also explains the money. Luca has never thought of himself as particularly materialistic, but there is something nice about the thought that he probably won’t ever have to worry about food. He could set up some kind of charity, too, with the extra money. Bread and hot soup for the homeless. Ooh! He could also-
“Luca?”
He blinks and finds his mother staring at him. “Are you listening?”
“ Si! Sorry.” It’s a habitual thing, the way he continually disappears into his head like a turtle retreating into his shell. It’s safe and sunny in his mind, most of the time, and even when it rains, the water is comforting against his skin. It’s a welcome reprise from the reality of the world.
She smiles fondly at him. “So? Any questions?”
“What does this mafia do, exactly? Besides collect files on the Profacis?” Oh. Oh, dear, he sincerely hopes they’re not blackmail files.
She laughs. “It gets a bit complicated her, figlio. We are technically…how shall I put this? Not on the side of the law.”
Suspicions confirmed. “Are we criminals? Also, are we blackmailing the Profacis?”
His mother winces. “We find that term slightly limiting. We prefer vigilantes. Or business associates.”
“Oh. That’s a yes, then.”
She waves an airy hand. “Signore Procafi is a terrible man that profited off terrible things. He deserves it. Do you remember the Bellagio heist?”
How could he forget? He’d only been seven at the time, but the infamous robbery of the vault of the most famous casino in the country had been the talk of the town.
“Santa mozzarella, that was you?”
The infamous eleven. That’s what they’d called the suspected number of criminals who’d pulled it off. Never, though, despite the wild speculations of the press, had they ever theorised that its mastermind was a woman. Much less a matronly woman with mousy-brown hair and a loud voice that ran a grocery store.
“Me and a few other associates, yes,” she confirms, leaning back and looking for all the world like a beleaguered mother rather than a world-class criminal. “The point is, we take only from those who have too much. We take from casino owners, criminals that got rich through illegal loans, things like that. We don’t steal from people who need the money.”
“Well. I guess that’s slightly better, then.” He likes Robin Hood, although he is a bit pompous for Luca’s taste. His teacher had not been appreciative of that commentary when they’d read it in class. Luca proceeded to spend the rest of the lesson in his own head, fingers tracing the glossy book cover as he mentally rewrote the entire story.
Perhaps he ought to write it down. Perhaps-
“Good. Because you’ll inherit it.”
He whips his head around in alarm. “ What? Mom, no!”
She shrugs, her eyes bright with amusement. “Yes, sweetheart. The mafia will be yours once I retire. You know how many kids would kill for that opportunity?”
In horror, he imagines himself in a black ski mask, rappelling down a dark elevator shaft, armed with bombs and guns to blow open a vault door. He shudders. “No, thank you. I think I’ll pass.”
A long-suffering sigh. “Blunt as always, Luca.”
“I think I prefer to call it honesty.”
She laughs. “You really are one of a kind, tesoro. Don’t worry, I’m not shoving it at you now. I just wanted you to know so it doesn’t come as a shock later on.”
Slapping her hands onto her knees, she stands up. “Dinner’s in half an hour, so no sweets, okay?” She cups his face and rubs a smudge of dirt off his cheek. “And no mentioning this to your friends.”
A completely pointless request, given that he has no friends. He wisely keeps the thought to himself.
“Okay, Mom. Can I go do my homework now? I have an essay due tomorrow and I’d really like to finish it.”
She plants a kiss atop his head, and as she leaves the room, he hears her laugh under her breath.
“My God, I’ve raised a nerd.”