Don

17

The greasy man shifted, uncomfortable.

"I too can appreciate a good torture chamber," Luciana nodded appreciatively.

Vittore got his bearings,determined not to let a few creepy puttanas to unnerve him.

"I'd keep your pretty mouth shut if I were you, little girl."

Luciana smiled at the compliment. "You like? It's the new Matte lipstick from Urban Decay."

"Oh, that is cute! How much was it?"

Melanie glanced at her cute lipstick.

"Silence!" The greasy man ordered with an uncomfortable force.

The command could be likened a four year olds call for silence when his parents teased him for having a playyard girlfriend.

A half whine and a pathetic attempt at an order.

"Fine," Luciana huffed offended.

"Finally." Vittore breathed.

"Now that we've got that out of the way, I'm going to tell you what you're going to do."

The girls listened intently to what they absolutely were not going to do.

"You are going to kill Giano Baccardi."

Luciana nodded, narrowing her eyes in thought. "I'm thinkin' that violates the sibling code, but then again I get it,"

She offered a sympathetic look. "He has killable face."

Vittore couldn't take it anymore.

"Guards!"

"Oh, they're occupied," Melanie quipped.

"And by occupied, she means dead." Miranda added in flatly.

"Yeah," Melanie smiled, nodding a gleeful affirmation.

"Second...Guards?" He tried sheepishly.

Luciana sucked in a regretful breath blowing it out sharply, "Ooh, you don't have those."

"Pan him."

Melanie cheesed. Lifting the cast iron pan, she swung upside his head with giddily.

"My favorite part!"

°°°

Francesco heard a faint inhuman knocking at his door.

Furrowing his brow, he listened closer thinking perhaps he was hearing things.

Again, a knock then a scaping resounded from his door.

"Chi è lì?"

(Who's there?)

Silence from the other side. Francesco got his pistol from the drawer in his stand by the ugly sofa.

"Chi è lì? Io non chiedere di nuovo!" He warned, hand on the knob.

(Who's there? I will not ask again!)

"Non sparare!" A faint voice called tiredly.

(Don't shoot!)

"Pierto?" Francesco said to himself in question.

Thinking that whoever it was was entirely too tired to do anything anyway he opened the door.

He had his gun in case his guest was not as tired as he seemed.

He opened the door to find a heap of Italians.

DiAngelo's head hit the floor as soon as the door opened.

Pierto smiled weakly. He was soaked in glitter, a grass stain in his left knee, a bruise covering his right eye, and covered in blood.

"Come sei vecchio amico?"

(How are you old friend?)

Francesco sighed tiredly, a bout exhaustion hitting him as he realized all the work he would undoubtedly be doing.

Including cleaning his carpet.

"Sono disponibili in cucina, sei sanguinamento in tutto il mio tappeto."

(Come in the kitchen,you're bleeding all over my carpet)

°°°

"E come si fa a spiegare il glitter?"

(And how do you explain the glitter?)

Francesco demanded they explain their misadventures, and, more important when they were leaving.

Pierto consented(DiAngelo was unconscious), provided he could contact Giano Russo and his Father before he did anything else.

Curious, Francesco relented.

Once he had made the necessary calls and changed into some attire thay was not glitter and blood soaked, he sat down.

"Vedi l'accaduto era ..."

(See what had happened was...)

Francesco got comfortable. This would take a while.