Il capo di tutti i capi

[Bugs]

Il Guapo

The old man stood at the top of the jet’s stairwell, thankful to be allowed to smoke again.

The day was gray, the weather the kind of consistent drizzle that was such a bitch on his arthritis. Digging out the crushed pack tucked away in his shirt pocket, the shiny emblem of the golden galleon emblazoned on the front lifted his mood, if only a little bit. The day NS dropped off the face of the Earth, and the ship was replaced by that depressingly tiny red lion might have been one of the worst of his life. The lion was allegedly put on packs as a source of pride, but everyone the old man knew missed the golden ship. The gaudiness itself was the source of pride, it proved that Italy once had the money to burn on such frivolities. As hard as it may be to imagine these days, almost half a century since the good times ended.

Not so long ago you could smoke anywhere you wanted, even in restaurants. They don’t have smoking sections anymore. And in America? Forget about it. The fallen king of the tobacco industry acquiescing to the lunatic fringe. If being exposed to a mere chance of getting cancer is your biggest problem, then find some more. Now everything is about hemp, or some such chemicalized bastard. Hemp has far more important uses than getting teenagers stoned. His satchel is made of hemp.

It’s a very nice satchel.

Having wasted a suitable amount of time on the internal blathering of an old man, Passenger 14 of Flight 81-A disembarks onto the tarmac of the sleepily crowded airport of his destination.
Snowfield International Airport.

What a shithole.

No, a shithole is too mundane a word. Landing in this city was like landing in a circle of Hell. One of the more boring ones, perhaps. Greed, maybe.

Still.

The old man is sure that, for the largest city in a given state, Snowfield is probably one of the better examples of its kind. It doesn’t take very long to realize just how clean and sterile the city is, without coming across as some sort of ghost town. No, one could do far worse for one’s introduction to city life; the sprawling, impoverished monstrosity further to the southwest across the state line leaps to mind. The old man, of course, doesn’t care. It’s too fundamentally different to what he knows.

Campania. Napoli.

The gently rolling hills of Vesuvius and the Campanian Volcanic Arc, dotted with harshly destitute communities amid the fertile volcanic soil. Nothing can compare to that wild, chthonic beauty--

Anyway.

There’s only so much reflection one can take part in while still existing in the present world. Coming back to reality when he most needs to, as men who have seen multiple decades are wont to do, the old man sheds the fog clouding his mind’s eye to pose a question of vast importance to the emptying baggage claim he has found himself at.

“Where the fuck is that little chickenshit cocksucker.”

Aside from a few sideways glances from men and women who only know too well the same kind of geriatric bitterness mumbled from the drooping mouths of their own grandparents, the old man’s question goes unanswered. That’s fine. As if any self-respecting Italian man his age should care about something so inane. It was the gift of old age, after all, being able to disregard social convention like this.

But a degrading superego doesn’t make said chickenshit cocksucker show up any faster, does it.

Maybe they’d forgotten he was coming. Or more likely, they’d remembered all too well. If you want to send a message in the world of organized crime or the world of magi, wasting someone’s time is an efficient method.

Still.

What happens when a mafia boss dies?

The closest historical comparison that might be in the forefront of an average magus’ mind would be the death of Alexander. A

capo dei capi

king of kings

who surrounded himself with many trusted generals and sycophants, tied together by the conqueror’s charisma and innate kingship--but most of all, by Alexander’s talent at delivering results. With Alexander’s death at Babylon, this mutual connection between many different groups and individuals was severed.

Men of singular passion such as Alexander, who died before the birth of his one and only son, are not so forward thinking as to consider the line of succession as an integral aspect of party cohesion. Nor are such men prone to thinking the worst of trusted advisers and generals. The Wars of the Diadochi, the immediate and bloody interpersonal conflicts between Alexander’s surviving generals, were a mere

formality

eventuality

.

The very same scavenging and cannibalization occurs when a Don passes. In truth, a mafia boss and an affluent magus are practically indistinguishable in the effects they have on their surroundings after death.

But that’s got nothing to do with the old man. Campania is different.

Regardless, the death of Galvarosso Scladio is not something that can be called an isolated incident. The dreams of the various people built upon the back of Galvarosso are already endangered, mediocre dreams though they may be. Perhaps they don’t realize that the proverbial gravy train will soon run its course, perhaps they simply don’t care. It would not be unlike a magus to look at the death of even their benefactor as a potential opportunity. Surely the head of a family that looked after dozens of fringe magi would have his own secrets and resources unknown to his wards. The truth of the matter is, of course, that the state of the late Scladio family is a complete unknown.

Which is why the old man has come to this American shithole in the first place, with its cheap cigarettes, uncannily vibrant skyscrapers, and the police and even civilians that drive around in what amount to noisy, miniature tanks.

Which is why he is unable to comprehend why he is being made to wait.

Usually when someone in his profession arrives at an appointed area and there’s no one there, it means that that same someone was very quickly going to be separated from his life.

If an attack was on its way, it’s likely that it would have arrived by now. Despite the baggage claim being located outdoors, and having nearly emptied by this point, vantage points from which to launch even a discrete magical offensive were few and far between. And why would anyone try? As far as the old man was concerned, he was doing the Scladios a favor by looking into their affairs.

So it came as a bit of a shock when an unseen blunt force knocked his knees out from under him.

Dim the lights, it’s time to go home.

--------------

There once was a great tree that grew in Benevento, Campania, Italy.

This tree was a walnut tree, and held very much as a sacred site to the native witches: the streghe. So sacred, that even though it was cut down by Saint Barbato in 660, the site itself has become steeped in the memories of the once mighty tree.

Benevento itself has a long and storied history, with conflicting stories that attribute its foundation to either Diomedes after the end of the Trojan War--the Romans having had such pride in this theory that they used to put the tusks of the Calydonian Boar on display as proof of their lineage--or to Auson; a son of Odysseus and Circe. The surrounding Phlegraean Fields are said to be the site of the Gigantomachy’s finale, Zeus driving the giants deep into the earth. Absorbed into the Roman Empire after the defeat of Pyrrhus of Epirus, it was given its new name of

fair wind

Beneventum

, having previously been known as

evil wind

Maleventum

. The genesis of the streghe--and the Magic Crest of Southern Italy as a whole--is alleged to have begun with Herodias in the early days of the Empire, but the truth is unknown. The origin of the walnut tree of Benevento, following this pattern, is a complete and utter mystery.

The streghe, despite over two thousand years of tumultuous Italian history, thrived to become one of the oldest continuous lineages of magi in Southern Europe. Even the rise of the Vatican and Catholicism didn’t impede the growth of the Campanian witches, living in such a consistently poor and secluded, rural area.

Until the 1600s or so.

When the Camorra was birthed into existence.

The legendary foundation asserts that the Camorra and the two other major criminal institutions of Italy--the Sicilian Mafia and the ‘Ndrangheta--were founded by three Spanish knights of an even more clandestine crime organization out of Middle Ages Spain: the Garduña. Each knight was protected by a specific saint, and after being shipwrecked off of Sicily, founded the big three syndicates. This, however, is almost certainly complete bullshit. The legend is only really popular in the ‘Ndrangheta’s home turf of Calabria, noted for its heavy Spanish influence.

The factual birth of the Camorra is far more mundane, arising as a group of local gamblers selfishly protecting the interests of the rural poor during an age of revolutions and restorations. Before Italian unification, there was the King of Naples, uncaring for the plight of the average Neapolitan, until the declaration of the Parthenopean Republic. The liberals, realizing the Camorra held sway over the poor masses, paid them for their assistance in overthrowing the king. After unification, the Camorra was seen as a parasite on Campanian politics that was too deeply entrenched to be removed. But before then, there was credible worry that the king would torture the camorristi for information should they ever be caught.

So the Camorra turned to the streghe, and the curse of omertà was fashioned on the mobsters.

In Campanian society, the streghe and the Camorra have often been viewed as two sides of the same coin in terms of community phenomena: people would variously apply to either side for assistance they believed could not be obtained from ordinary political institutions. Women would often seek the streghe for assistance in all things feminine and spiritual, while the Camorra was interpreted as its masculine, temporal counterpart. Naturally, these two entities struggled to coexist, fearing one another’s perceived unnatural power. The camorristi supplicating to the streghe for assistance was a display of great respect, returned in kind when the witches did the gangsters their favor.

And as such things often happen, this meeting spurred marriage and copulation among the two groups.

It is from such a mating pair that the old man is descended. While the streghe as a “race” are composed almost entirely of women, male magi are not out of the question. It is this lack of breeding resources that led the streghe to accept the camorristi as mates in the first place.

Naturally, the old man was born with the potential of a magus.

But a young man born on the fringe of magus and non-magus society alike, when given power, is likely to misbehave. And likely won’t stop misbehaving once his hair turns gray.

--------------

“Haah, sorry about that. I would have knocked you out more subtly given the state of your body, but...it’s exactly the state of your body that forced me to bop you on the head, huh?”

A voice called to the old man through the miasma that clung to his mind. The dull pain that throbbed at the base of his skull was manageable; he’d taken enough wine bottles and sucker punches back there as a young man that he was confident he could simply ignore it. If he had received a concussion, he probably wouldn’t have woken up in the first place.

His self-diagnosis complete, he turned his groggy mind to the voice that had just spoken.

Male. Younger than himself. That much was immediately obvious. The young man’s tone suggested that he was enjoying himself.

La Paranza.

Come on, you son of a bitch. Focus. The old man forcibly brings himself back to the forefront through a combination of ornery tenacity and magecraft, laying eyes on his aggressor for the first time.

...Who the hell is this.

The two of them were seated in a luxury vehicle, facing each other. From the position of the sun shining in through the window, the old man determined it hadn’t been very long since he’d been knocked out. Mere minutes, if that. What else became immediately apparent was that the car was parked maybe ten meters away from where he’d been initially standing by the baggage claim. Meaning the young man seated in the leather cushion in front of him wasn’t planning on taking him anywhere special. It was a display of force, meant to instantly convey the young man’s power. Plain and simple. Whether or not it was also an exercise in arrogance, the old man couldn’t determine yet. Being hit in the back of the fucking head does that to one’s senses of observation.

“You seem to be a very talented man in your field, Mr. Doriforo. The protective curses you’ve laced around your body didn’t really leave me much choice. Once again, my most sincere apologies”

The young man was dressed sharply, and of a healthy color. One leg crossed over the other, the man casually reclined in his seat. He looked to be in the middle of reading the contents of a thin manila folder that was opened in his lap, although it looked more like he was peeking over the edge of the folder in a mockery of secrecy, very much like a child. Under the impression he was being stared at, the young man flipped the folder closed, somehow still managing to look sheepish about it.

“We’d heard you were coming, but when the security cameras and familiars we have out in the area short-circuited after catching sight of you, I figured rolling out the welcome wagon wasn’t uncalled for.”

The man continued pleasantly. He was clearly speaking English, but the words were transmuted by way of some telepathic magecraft into Italian, in order for the old man to digest his words. He’d stubbornly resisted learning any other language as a young man himself.

Oops.

The young man flipped his folder open again, reading aloud in a sarcastic sing-song.

“Nicolo Gran Doriforo. Known camorrista right out of Naples. Ah, but you’d probably prefer I call it Napoli, right?”

The old man--Nico--remained silent. Leave it to some American kid to find an excuse to turn an event like this into something right out of one of their gangster movies. Nico grumbled to himself internally, wondering just why he ever loved those movies in the first place. Actually, what Nico wanted to do more than anything right now was punch the young man square in the jaw, but that probably wasn’t happening anytime soon.

There was something off about the air inside the car. Though an outsider in terms of magical education, a life of danger has honed Nico’s senses even into his old age. This feeling is probably one of those Eastern Bounded Field things, mapped along the interior of the vehicle. He didn’t feel like he was being cursed, so its function was probably to keep noise in. Or to limit collateral to the surrounding areas if things get dicey inside the car. Probably both. It’s what he would do if he was capable of such things.

“Still, for a gangster to so blatantly show up on our doorstep like it’s 1940s New York, it’s almost like you took the wrong plane. Haven’t you heard of RICO, Mr. Doriforo? Donnie Brasco?”

The young man just kept talking, spewing out keywords associated with the history of American organized crime, completely filling the void in conversation left by Nico.

“To be blunt, the concept of an organized crime family has been extinct in Snowfield for a while now. I’d hate to have to give my subordinates a reason to think I’m some kind of liar.”

Extinct. That word caught Nico’s attention. Despite his playful tone, Nico could tell the young man wasn’t a careless speaker. The deliberate choice to employ that word either meant that the young man was speaking truthfully, and the Scladio family had been exterminated in some interim unknown to Nico, or it was an obvious ruse. Nico wondered why the young man was wasting so much of his time, but chalked it up to the stereotype that Americans love to talk.

“Therefore, I’d like to use you as a kind of archaeologist.”

What.

The man folded his hands in his lap, smiling to himself.

“Or perhaps a forensics specialist would be more accurate? I don’t know exactly what kind of relationship you have with the Scladios, and I don’t really care. That family is nothing but a corpse these days, but even a corpse still has its uses.”

“To keep gravediggers employed.”

Nico’s voice cracked, the translator-magecraft catching even the husky twinge of a smoker’s groan.The young man froze mid-sentence, surprised at Nico’s sudden interjection. A joke, at that. The smile had fallen from his face, but was quickly replaced and grew into a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true! A dead body does nothing but stink up the place until it’s transformed into something more useful. But that’s a philosophy far more similar to that of a necromancer, isn’t it? But it’s not the

individuals

body parts

of the Scladio

system

corpse

that interest me anymore. All the really troublesome ones are dead and gone, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“No, what interests me is...ah, no, I finally thought of a much better title!” The young man pounded a fist into his open palm, suddenly struck with some strange inspiration.

“Graverobber. That’s what you’ll become for me.”

Or die. Just die.

The sentiment was hidden under the young man’s vague way of speaking, but it was something instantly understood by someone like Nico. You could call it a “channel” he had access to, the awareness of a man at the intersection of three cultural understandings. If he gave the wrong answer, he’d probably be instantly eliminated. Assuming, of course, that he wasn’t mistaken about the young man’s aura.

Actually, in terms of pure combat power potential, Nico greatly outweighed the young man. However, the contrivances of the bounded field, Nico’s throbbing headache, and the puppet operating a sniper rifle roughly a mile away, compounded to swing things more in the young man’s favor.

“Fine.”

Nico had no intention of continuing this conversation, if possible. Not like there was much more for him to say, the curse of omertà had been actively limiting his power to speak since the conversation began. So he’d say whatever he had to in order to be rid of this flashy car and the flashy young man inside. Plus, he really had to use the restroom.

“Wise decision.” Seemingly satisfied, the young man finally tucked the manila folder under his arm, and popped his door open, the bounded field vanishing in the same instant. In the fluidity of motion of someone used to slipping away from danger, the young man was out of the car and on the street before Nico’s faculties could completely return to him. Poking his head back inside, he dropped perhaps the biggest bombshell of all.

“By the way, you can have the car, if you want. America isn’t like Italy, you basically can’t go anywhere without your own vehicle.”

With that final banal truism left hanging in the air, the young man was gone. Leaving only the old man left behind.

Ruminating on the preceding events, still seated within the car, Nico came to the conclusion that the first step in his mission was still--technically--a success.

He’d met with a real genuine chickenshit cocksucker.

--------------