Turned Tables

Meddling With Mafia

Barely half a kilometer away, South Italy grumbled some choice words under his breath, wondering where on Earth was that Spanish bastard. The sky began to darken, causing a small ball of panic to unfurl in the Italian's chest. If it was raining, it either meant Spain was unhappy, which was almost impossible, or something was wrong, seriously wrong, and the land was grieving.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he bolted, searching for any sign of the older. That was when his hazel gaze settled on a splatter of blood on the sidewalk. Heart thumping unnaturally fast in his ribcage, he trailed it with his eyes, and the scene entered his vision.

Seven armed men were gathered around a bloody body, but the fallen person was grinning. His heart skipped a beat, for he could recognise that idiotic grin anywhere.

Spain.

One of the mortals noticed his frozen figure standing there, and asked; "Hey, who's that supposed to be?"

South Italy never heard any of their responses, for long buried insecurites clouded his mind.

"Who's that?"

"South Italy, I think."

"Why are there two Italies?"

"I don't know. I wish there was one though, this one's rude and useless."

"Oh? Well I know his brother is amazing."

"Yeah, he's definitely better than him."

No.

This was not the time to dwell on such thoughts.

Clasping his hands behind his back and reining in his sizzling emotions, he allowed his mafia persona take over, a cold, dangeorus, and hatred-filled smirk gracing his featuers as he approached the group of humans.

"Now, why would any of you ever think you are good enough to even look a nation in the eye, hm?" Mock heavily coated his words. "Actually, why would you think you're better than us?" The tallest of the mortals retailted as they all trained their guns on him.

South Italy tsked, his lips curling into a disgusted sneer. "Because, we are." His words, tone, expression, and stance all screamed power and dominance, and it seemed a couple of the group had finally realised it. Just as he took another step, one too close to one of the mortals, a gunshot was fired.

The Italian was expexcting that. It was because of it there were now only six humans left standing, and one had a bullet in his neck. He clicked his tongue in disappointment, looking up at the shocked shooter. "You missed, but good shot." His eyes gleamed madly as he picked up the weapons off the corpse, smoothly dodging bullets. A long knife and a rifle, none too bad.

It only took a minute for five of the mortals to have a bullet in their head. The last one was beyond terrified. He could have been long deceased as well, yet unluckily for him, South Italy loved toying with his prey. Like a cat, he prowled towards his last victim, knife in hand. The human was backed up against a wall of a nearby building now.

Nowhere to run, no one to assist him, no one to save him from his fast approaching fate.

The mafia leader chuckled darkly, shoving the knife hard enough to go through not only the man's abdomen, but the wall behind him as well. A psychotic grin adorning his lips, he twisted the knife a few times, causing anguish-filled screams to erupt from the other. Leaning in close, he hissed; "Do not ever dare to think for even a moment that you are worthy of our time, mortal."

Those were the last words the dying man heard. With one last twist of the blade, South Italy stepped away, chilling persona leaving just as the man's soul left him. Almost as though with a jolt realising his situation, he scrambled to Spain's side.

So much pain.

So little tolerance.

Matters never improved.

They only worsened.