BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! | ODIS WEFF ONESHOTS

THE LAND OF TAKING & KILLING--PT. I

Kansas City: December, 1949

Josto looked aggitated. He always looked aggitated, but there was such a restlessness in his dark eyes at the news--news that should've been at least surprising, at least mildly aggrieving--that it rivaled anger.

Odis didn't know if he was supposed to be here for this, for Arsenio died and he's given you his connections in Italy. But he couldn't just walk out. Donatello's cigarette smouldered untouched in the polished stone ashtray. The sun shone too bright through the window, and Odis stared at the ground.

"What?" Josto said finally. "Next you're gonna tell me Gaetano's coming to the States, fucking Communist."

Your brother is not a Communist, he is a Facist. Odis could've slipped out were the door open. This was raw business, he shouldn't be here. He was better used after the lines had been smoothed over, not when everything was chalk and unclean money and soot. He was better for turning away, not initiating. Give him the schrapnel to clear, dust to brush away. Do not hand him the gun, do not make him throw the grenade.

The thin man with the thick-rimmed eyeglasses, the messenger, barely looked at Josto, he looked at the boss. This was custom.

At the news of the death of his father Donatello looked neither pleased (which Odis thought might be a possibility) nor saddened. He was only reserved, accepting. He'd been under the impression that Arsenio hated him for all he was worth, and now he was faced with the news that his business had expanded to his homeland without any effort at all.

"We will need someone to go," he said resignedly, letting his son's comment bleed its insinuation into the room and die unnoticed.

"Vai dove? Sono qui per fare l'accordo con te."

Odis understood that this meant the messenger was confused. He'd said something like: Go where? I am here to make a deal.

"Mio padre aveva dei partner che non permettevano a qualsiasi idiota di proteggere i loro affari."

Donatello'd spoken too fast. Odis understood my father, moron and yourself.

The messenger mustered annoyance. "Cosa ne sapresti? Tuo padre ti ha dato questo come un onore, so come il suo più stretto consigliere. Questi sono uomini potenti-"

Josto cut in, "Non abbiamo bisogno di te!"

And his father snapped, "Smettila, sciocco!"

And there was yet more rapid Italian, and the two men stepped out. And with the crack of the door closing in it's bronze molding Odis and Josto were alone.

Josto looked genuinely surprised when he looked up at him. "The fuck're you still doing here?"

"I've been here the whole time." That didn't answer the question, but Josto was too pissed to notice. He picked up his father's cigarette and smoked it. This was such a tender sort of thing to do--So much so that Odis thought on it with the strong line of illogic that one does when coming across a completely erraneous equation.

But Josto moved casually. "Can you believe this guy? Like we fucking needed his help."

"It's not his fault, it's your grandfather's."

"You hear what he said!?"

"I dunno what he s-said."

"'These are important people', fuck off! Like he fucking knows better!"

It was best to let him ride this tangent out, Odis knew from his three years of standing here.

"And my old man's gonna take it, too."