Chapter Text
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Lovino didn't have time to fool around. The office was buzzing with phones, negotiations, and the tap, tap, tapping of fingers on keyboards. Late morning sun was beginning to slip into the room and in the afternoon, the windows would be thrown open. Plans were in the works, minds were churning out ideas, and he simply didn't have time to think about anything else. He had a meeting he had to go to in an hour and he was already phoning his chauffeur, to make sure he would be on time.
He was a punctual sort of person and Lovino's sister would be sure to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't have to worry. Oh no, she had gotten an art scholarship to send her halfway across the goddamn world when she graduated high school. Now that she was back, all she did was lounge around the family penthouse, doodling images in her sketchbook while her assistant fretted over her professional image.
Their grandfather had created a business -- it dabbled in just a little of everything, from advertisements to the organization of parades -- and Lovino was intent on keeping it in the family. If only Feliciana felt the same; she'd be getting a share of it regardless, but it would have been nice to see a little enthusiasm on her end, to support Lovino and the effort he was making. There was no news of their grandfather retiring just yet, but still. It kept Lovino on his toes -- he needed to push himself, to make himself better. And for that reason, he didn't need or want distractions.
His chauffeur answered on the third ring, earning him a tirade of harsh words from Lovino.
"Sorry, sir," the woman replied. "My wife just went into labor. Earlier than expected, I swear I wasn't planning this--"
Lovino cut him off. "How would anyone plan that?" he asked. "Don't be stupid. Just tell me if you have a backup plan."
There was a sigh from the other end. "No sir, I called around and everyone is booked," she said. "I really didn't think anything would come up--"
"Yes, yes, I see that," Lovino snapped and then, after a pause, said in a slightly less severe tone, though it didn't make that big a difference, "Congratulations. Call the office when you get a chance to refigure your schedule and we'll take it from there."
Lovino was, after all, a reasonable man. His grandfather had worked hard to become who he was and he never forgot his humble beginnings -- he made sure his family didn't forget either.
He checked the large watch on his wrist he was never sure suited him. Less than an hour to figure out a new way to get to that meeting.
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When Tony opened his eyes, he had the distinct feeling something was wrong. It didn't feel right, somehow. He sat up and looked around him and sure, he wasn't feeling the best, but that was because of the shots he downed the night before, in the bar below his apartment. It wasn't a hangover, his head wasn't killing him, but his mouth was dry and he really wanted a shower. Something to eat would also be pretty good, though several cups of coffee sounded much better. He'd probably swing by the coffee shop at the corner of his block and get some donuts before starting his day job.
Shit.
That got him hopping in the shower before his socks were off. His alarm clock hadn't gone off -- that's what felt out of place. He scrubbed at his face, willing his mind to wake up some more. The coffee was definitely needed. Something to get energy back in those limbs of his, get him buzzing. Tony threw on simple green t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and was running out of his apartment before realizing he'd forgotten his shoes.
As soon he'd gotten his food and coffee, he flipped the light on to show his cab was ready to take on customers. Luckily for him, his line of work always provided those.
A woman bustled in with plastic, star-shaped sunglasses covering most of her face. She told Tony where to go and immediately busied herself with fixing her bottle-blonde hair and running a finger along the rim of her mouth. She was a sort of athletic thin -- muscular arms and long, smooth legs she kept open like a boy. If Tony wasn't at least 90% sure he was gay, he would've been disappointed she was wearing shorts instead of a skirt. Then her phone started ringing and Tony turned down the music, even so it was barely playing to begin with.
"Hey there," the woman answered while simultaneously digging through her purse. "Oh my god, Olivia, babe, I'll be there in like, five minutes...I'm in a cab, on my way over...Hey, hey, hey, hey, don't you Amelia me, I said I might be late and it turns out I am!...Well, what do you want me to do? I can't make time stand still while I slog my way through mid-morning traffic!"
Tony wanted to point out that it was him doing the work -- he was slogging through the traffic. Not that it bothered him, he quite liked the slow drive, but just for the sake of correctness.
"The gallery is going to be there when I get there," the woman was saying. "Just make chit chat like you usually do!...Oh my god, I don't care about any Italian artists being there, you care about that and you're there, so what's the big deal?...Oh well...Yeah, okay...Thanks, babe, I love you too...Okay...See you when I get there...buh-bye."
Tony imagined her to be a movie star, on her way to see the love she tried keeping secret from the paparazzi. It was a game he played, to keep his mind active during the slower parts of the day. He rolled up to the curb, she paid him and got out. He watched as her skinny heeled shoes clacked against the concrete.
Then the door opened and a new story unfolded, with a different set of instruction. This time it was a quiet man with blonde hair and soft features -- except for his eyes. They were hard and wasted no time in glaring at Tony when he caught him looking his way.
"You look like a man with a story," Tony said, trying to get some conversation going.
"I pay you to drive, not to speak," the man replied.
So Tony shut it. Maybe this was a prince traversing city alone for the first time. He could be on his way to a conference, a meeting with a bride-to-be -- but wait, no, what if it were another prince? Tony liked that idea. A prince who wouldn't leave him alone, which explained the tired look about his eyes, and who was dead set on winning his hand in marriage. Children? Who needed children? Well, he supposed, the respective countries might want an heir. But they had that new thing, invitro-something or the other. Where they could knock up a woman without the sex part. It was all done in hospitals and labs. A crown prince or princess, created in a glass tube on some grimy scientist's counter.
But then the prince left and another man took his place. And another and another. People came, people went. His job was simple. It was good he had a memory for places and appearance. Not so much for names, but streets were easy to remember after a while of staring at a map.
It was as he was driving away from dropping off a particularly broad-shouldered hit-man when a young man flagged him down. His arms were waving at him, short legs trying to run at him, and his face -- his face was the most beautiful face Tony had ever seen and he was pretty certain that 90% had shot up to 100. Sure, his face was scrunched in panic and frustration, but there was no denying those pretty features.
"Oh thank god," the man said upon entering the cab. "My driver had to have a crisis on the same day half of this city's taxis were otherwise occupied." He told him where he needed to be taken and Tony eased on the gas.
"What's the rush?" Tony asked. He really wished his heart would cut it out because he was trying to hear the young man speak over all the bothersome thudding.
"I have to be at a meeting," he said with a huff. "And I only have--" he pulled back the sleeve of his suit. "--fifteen minutes to be there so could you please hurry your ass up? I mean, jesus, I've seen people in old folks' homes drive faster than you."
Tony nodded and picked it up a little. He wanted to try saying more, to learn more about the incredibly good-looking young man sitting in his backseat -- the thought sent a shiver down his spine before he realized he was being stupid, that he was a cab driver so of course he had people in his backseat. But the feeling didn't leave him.
"So, you do that a lot?" Tony asked. He could have kicked himself hard in the shins -- what kind of question was that?
"Do I do what a lot?" the man asked, his tone appropriately wary. His red-brown hair looked more red when the sun caught it.
"Meetings," Tony answered weakly.
And the man didn't respond, which Tony couldn't blame him for. Tony was officially the worst at making small talk. He could have talked about the weather, like with the hit-man. Something simple would have sufficed. Instead, he kept quiet and turned up the music. Come On Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners; a bouncy song, appropriate for the start of a summer afternoon. His thumbs tapped at the wheel to the beat and he couldn't understand most of the lyrics, but he loved the too-ra-loo-ra bits.
But his mind wouldn't settle. He couldn't come up with a story for this man. Instead, he wanted to figure out his story, his real one, and Tony had never done that before. So he just listened to rest of the song, pulled up in front of the building the man had asked for, and let him get out and walk away. He felt stupid but he knew he'd feel stupider going after him. The man clearly had better things to do with his time than waste it on a cab driver.
He turned his attention to his other customers, and though he had a potential siblings-but-not-by-blood pair, his mind wasn't coming up with anything good. He just kept thinking about how well-fitted that dark grey suit had been on that particularly well-kept body--
Tony stepped on the brake a little too suddenly and apologized to the woman sitting in the back. The sun had started to sink below the horizon, so he turned off the light on his cab after she got out and turned towards home. He needed to get his head back where it belonged -- on his shoulders. He'd need it for his second job, unless his friends visited for a second time in a row, in which case he had to set his alarm before he even started.
And so he parked on the street, outside of the bar he would be working, unaware that an olive green folder had slipped from the seat next to the dashing customer hours before and fallen under one of the front row seats. While Antonio was mixing drinks and making better conversation than he'd had earlier, the passenger he couldn't quite forget was arguably having a bigger crisis than the chauffeur who was slowly losing feeling in her fingers under her wife's death grip.
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