Chapter Text
The day Dazai Osamu’s carefully constructed world began to fall apart began like many other days he had lived in the past. He woke up, showered, and arrived to work an hour late only to slack off for another three. Kunikida would scold him and Atsushi would look at him with exasperation. Fukuzawa would come through and tell everyone good morning. Maybe there would be a case to come through the door, but nothing too exciting.
All according to plan.
Except when the receptionist came through and said there was someone to see the agency, it wasn’t some citizen or god forbid a cop looking for help. The man who walked in wore a suit, one far more expensive than anyone on a normal paycheck could afford. Pressed and fitted with a satin blue tie that perfectly matched the subtle needlework across the jacket.
Dazai had only seen clothes so expensive on Mafia higher-ups or the members of the Guild.
So instantly Dazai was intrigued, because this wasn’t one of the Port’s men, Dazai would know if someone new worked that high up. That meant that this was either a random rich man that had come to get help from the agency, or this was someone who worked for a different organization that had come to do… something. Dazai was leaning more towards the second option, judging by the scar on the man's face and the way he held himself like he was the most dangerous person in the room.
“Hello! I’m here to deliver something to your president!” His voice was young and chipper, completely contrasting the air around him. If Dazai were dumber than he was, he might even mistake the man for being kind. (No one in the agency was that stupid, though. Everyone eyed the man with a level of suspicion, some hiding it better than others.)
Kunikida, as expected, took the lead. “I’m sorry but our president doesn’t usually greet visitors he doesn’t expect. I’d be happy to pass along your message.”
“Ahh, unfortunately, I can’t really do that. I have orders, you see. I’m sure he’d make an exception!” The man’s cheerful demeanor almost masked his thinly laid threat. His smile was wide and genuine, but so were his words.
Kunikida’s eyes narrowed and it was clear he’d picked up the message as well. But before he could continue, Ranpo spoke up.
“What’s your name? I'll tell him you’re here, then he can decide if he wants to talk to you.”
Kunikida looked startled, but didn’t protest. It was odd for Ranpo to speak up and take the lead unless he was solving some case, so for him to decide it was worth getting the director involved, he clearly knew something the rest didn’t.
“Yamamoto Takeshi. I’m sure this won’t take too long.”
Ranpo threw Dazai a glance that meant to watch the man closely, which he definitely planned on. The name sounded distantly familiar to Dazai, and that was reason enough to be suspicious, beyond what was visibly obvious. Dazai didn’t recognize civilian names.
It was brief, Ranpo’s visit into Fukuzawa’s office. In fact, if Dazai had to guess, he’d say only about a sentence could have been spoken between the two before Fukuzawa came rushing out of his office. (To anyone that didn’t know him, his walk would seem calm and collected as always, but Dazai knew him enough to see the quickness in his step and the pinch in his eyebrows.)
The short silence between Yamamoto and Fukuzawa was tense, as if sizing each other up with a glance and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And yet it wasn’t Yamamoto who broke the silence, like Dazai would have expected. Rather it was Fukuzawa, with a respectful bow of his head. “You’re Tsuyoshi’s boy.”
Yamamoto returned the bow with a smile and a laugh. “I am. I guess you don’t know him from his amazing sushi, right?”
“We worked together a few times, when the need arose. It was a shock when he retired to be a family man.” Fukuzawa’s head tilted slightly. “Though I see his sentiment didn’t hold, if appearances are to be believed.”
Yamamoto laughed again, genuine. “No, it didn’t. He wasn’t happy when he realized. You know, you should visit him sometime, I’m sure he’d treat you to some sushi, and he’s opened up about his past a lot more now that he’s realized I don’t plan on giving this all up.”
Fukuzawa hummed in agreement, sizing Yamamoto up for a second time. “But you are not here on a social call, I assume.”
And again Yamamoto’s demeanor shifted. Not aggressive, but no longer friendly.
“I come representing the Vongola Decimo.”
Fukuzawa straightened and the Agency, those that recognized the name at least, tensed.
Vongola.
Dazai lived life by a few rules. Try and fulfill Oda’s dying wish. Keep the people he cared about safe. Avoid the groups on the Do Not Fuck With list he had made back as a mafia executive. And the Vongola was right at the top.
“I wasn’t aware that Nono had retired. You are young, for a Guardian.”
Yamamoto’s grin was razor sharp. “It’s not official yet, but Nono has been considered… unfit to lead currently. The official announcement will be later on this year. And skill speaks louder than age, don’t you think?”
Fukuzawa relented with a nod.
Yamamoto held out the manilla envelope he had been holding. “An invitation, for yourself and one of your men.”
“A summons?”
“You, Decimo, and leaders of the Port and the local government are to attend.”
“Can I ask why?”
“No.”
Dazai wanted to roll his eyes. Of course not. It’s not only worth it to give Fukuzawa a summons he can’t refuse. They also had to make sure he had no idea why any of them were there.
Fukuzawa simply nodded and put the letter back in its envelope.
Few more pleasantries were exchanged before Yamamoto took his leave. He was likely only there for close to twenty minutes, but it was enough to shake Dazai’s foundations if only slightly. He supposes it only made sense; Yokohama had stood through things that should have leveled the city. When they brought down the Guild, the underground was abuzz for months. Yokohama had gone from being known as a mafia town to being a dangerous mafia town overnight. And after the Agency’s stand against Fyodor and his men, it's not surprising that their name got out internationally.
He just didn’t think they had gotten to the level of renown that they had even gotten on the Italian's radar, much less the Vongola’s.
Fukuzawa gave a long and drawn-out sigh before sitting atop the closest table. Dazai had never seen him look so exhausted.
“So. Vongola?” Dazai couldn’t help but poke the bear. He wanted answers, and this was where he would start getting them.
“Yes. One of the higher-ups at that. I had been… expecting some kind of visit from them for a long while, but this… I don’t know if this is even related.”
“It isn’t. Not completely. There's no way the don would invite the government if it just had to do with you or Mori. They wouldn’t let you bring a plus one either.” Ranpo’s face was fixed with a frown, and that alone would be enough to tell Dazai they were in for a shit-storm, even without knowing who the Vongola were.
“Von…gola?” Atsushi’s confused voice finally spoke. Of course he wouldn’t know the name, the boy had hardly recognized the name of the Port Mafia when they brought him on. He didn’t seem to be the only one confused, though. Kenji and Tanizaki had a slight tilt to their head, like they were trying to place the name and failing.
Kunikida sighed, placing his pen on the desk and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The Vongola are mafia. Like the Port, except ten times older and maybe a hundred times more powerful.”
Atsushi took a step back and Dazai watched as Kunikida’s words washed over him. Confusion replaced by shock. Shock replaced by fear. Fear being once again overtaken by confusion.
“If they’re more powerful than the Port, how come I hadn’t heard about them until now?”
“They’re Italian, and the Italian mafia is thankfully pretty self contained. Even their inter-family feuds make our fights look like play-time.”
Whatever chord Kunikida’s words struck had the entire agency tensing up and eyeing the door Yamamoto just left through. It spoke to all they had been through as an organization and as people, that none of them were anything beyond alarmed. When life was a series of surprising and dangerous events, of more and more dangerous opponents, it only made sense that the novelty began to wear off.
And yet Dazai was still reeling. More than he probably should have been at that point. Because the deep sense of dread had somehow wedged its way further into Dazai’s chest in the time since asking his question and listening to Kunikida explain who the Vongola were. And on some deep level, he knew it had nothing to do with the idea they had made an enemy of the Vongola, and more to do with the strange warmth he still felt radiating from the ball of orange flames still hovering above the little wax seal.
Getting an audience with the boss of the Port Mafia was much more difficult than it was to see the President of the Agency. In fact, it was near impossible unless the boss himself called for you.
Except, Yamamoto Takeshi was not just anyone, and he had a mission.
At least, this is what Mori discovered when he looked up from his desk and saw a man standing in his office, with no clear indication of how long he’d even been there.
He knew immediately that the man standing before him was a powerful Rain. Mori had prided himself on his ability to identify Flames, especially when it was the reason people would call on his Sun rather than another Mafia affiliated doctor, back in the day. Despite his predecessor’s disdain for Flames, or anything else associated with the Italian Mafia for that matter, it was still the recognition that came from his expertise that had him called upon, rather than any other doctor the boss might have wanted.
So to have such a powerful user sneak up, one that wasn’t a Mist at that, meant that Mori knew instantly that he was in the presence of an Italian, and that if this was supposed to be a hit, Mori would have already been dead.
“Hello.” Mori greets, and other than a slow blink, he does not react to the sudden presence. Weakness, in this moment, was death. Now or later.
The man smiles brightly, and Mori forces himself to breathe through the oppressive Rain Flames, washing over him in waves. A silent threat – don’t call for help, don’t do anything stupid. You won’t win.
“Hello! I’m Yamamoto Takeshi. I’m here on behalf of the Vongola Decimo.”
Any nerves that Mori felt about the sudden meeting tripled with the admission.
“Ah. And what have I done to earn the attention of our dear Decimo?”
The man – boy really, if Mori were only to account for his age – held out an envelope, sealed by Sky Flames and made with heavy paper.
“A summons, for you and one of your men. Leaders of the local government and the Armed Detective’s Agency will also be in attendance. The details are in the envelope.”
Mori’s fingers buzzed where he held the paper. Something that had even the local government involved? It wouldn’t be a declaration of war, then. That wasn’t the Vongola’s style. Though, Mori couldn’t say he knew anything about this Vongola Decimo. The Vongola were eccentric, and an heir that called a formal meeting to declare his intent to wipe them off the map wouldn’t be the strangest things in their recent history.
For once he regretted upholding the previous Boss’s rule of no Flames, as it kept the Port firmly out of the loop in regards to the inner happenings of the international underground. It kept his city more manageable – abilities were a much more concentrated and therefor controllable evolution of Flames, after all – but it ensured that runaways with active Flames would start their search for refuge elsewhere.
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Thank you for your cooperation! I can see myself out.”
And with that, the man turned his back to Mori, and made his way back to the door. Mori wondered if the guards outside had been knocked out or rendered immobile, or if they had simply been unable to spot someone trained by the Vongola when they had decided to be stealthy. (Either way, Mori was doubling his security and the training they had to go through. There hadn’t even been an audible scuffle outside his office door.)
So Mori opened the envelope, and pulled out his phone, already putting in the number he had memorized years ago.
There was an envelope on Santōka’s desk. He assumed it was from one of his subordinates, but for it to be so purposefully placed in the center of his desk, it was probably important. So Santōka sat down, and he opened the envelope.
Three hours later, there was one of the longest meetings in the Special Division for Unusual Powers since the Shibusawa incident.
Yokohama felt like a bomb. Not one ready to blow, nor like one hidden from sight until someone made the decision to push the button. No, Yokohama was a bomb, large, blinking, one that everyone knew had the power to level a building. And yet, without someone to arm it, the bomb would remain. Imposing, driving fear into all who looked on it, and yet ultimately harmless.
Tsuna wondered if his arrival would be the thing to start the clock.
“Relax, Tsuna!”
Takeshi grinned from across the car and Tsuna forced his shoulders to drop. They were driving through the heart of Yokohama heading towards the hotel they had booked for the next few weeks.
“Sorry, Takeshi. This city just has me on edge. It feels like it’s… waiting for something.”
Takeshi hummed in acknowledgment. “Do you think we need to call in more people? Hayato was antsy when we left, I’m sure he’d be happy to join us.”
“Not yet. I don’t want to come across like I’m threatening them. After what happened with the Guild and the House of Dead, a heavy-handed approach is just asking for trouble.”
Takeshi laughed at that, shooting Tsuna a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. “Tsuna, anything the Vongola is involved in is heavy-handed. You should have seen the Port’s boss when he finally noticed me!”
Takeshi launched into a (dramatized) retelling of his adventure to the top floor of the Port Mafia’s base, very obviously trying to distract Tsuna from his nerves. Despite the obvious ploy, Tsuna couldn’t help but let Takeshi’s words and calming aura draw him into a sense of peace.
Something was coming, something important, but Tsuna wouldn’t be alone for it.