My writer has scoured the interwebs to find a suitable photo to say thank you to the dear lady that has gifted me with a permanantly insane account. Now I match the mental state of my writer *grin*

This is the best she could do, unless she really falls off the deep end and becomes a stalker paparazzo.

Naples, Italy, 1917

The city was starving. What sections were not starving were diseased and already rotting, only those too infirm and close to death already remained behind. The city belonged to the dead and he was not ready to join that citizenry. "We need fresh food and water, Bettina. We have to find Mamma's cousin." His voice was weary under his patience as he answered his sister's question for what seemed like the thirtieth time in as many minutes.

Bettina looked distinctly unhappy by this news and almost baulked in the middle of the road. "But why did we have to leave home? My feet hurt more than my stomach hurts." Large, dark eyes looked up to her older brother. "It hurts to walk any more."

He nodded his understanding. Roberto wasn't sure when he lost feeling in his feet, almost as long ago as a mile back on the rutted and bombed dirt road. "Maybe you have a stone in your shoes," he suggested while leading Bettina off the road to sit for a few minutes. "Let me look and then we need to find some place to rest for the night. Mamma and Papa would want that," he added in the desperate hope that she wouldn't argue over that sentiment.

"So would Cosima." There was little emotion in her voice when she spoke. Bettina watched as Roberto undid the laces knotted twice to hold the too-big boots on her feet. "I heard her telling you that we had to leave; that she would wait at home for Mamma, Papa, and Beppe before finding us."

It hurt to hear her child's voice, so like a bird when she laughed, speak such things. It hurt just as much to know that Cosima was too weak to travel with them. He thought that Bettina must know somewhere deep in her heart that Cosima had been starving herself to feed them after their mother... left. She was dead. He knew her end was coming when she sent them to the care of their older sister. No one survived coughs like that, even in times of peace when there was enough food to feed everyone. He rubbed a grimy hand over his eyes and muttered something about the dust even though the road was muddy. Bettina, with the innate wisdom of a six year old, did not mention that fact.

Roberto made a show of emptying out the stolen boots for her benefit. "Here is the culprit." With a street urchin's deft slight of hand he produced a small pebble and held it out for his sister to inspect.

She made a noise of annoyance, or perhaps disbelief at the trick, whilst making a great show of examining the stone. The longer she looked at it, the longer they could rest. "Aren't you going to check your boots?"

Roberto shook his head. He had sacrificed his socks to her to keep her feet from slipping too much in the boots he had taken for her. If he removed his own boots now, he would never get them back on his feet and then they'd really be in trouble. If they couldn't make it to Benevento, they might as well be in the ground with Mamma. "I'm fine," he lied.

He couldn't give in. He couldn't let Bettina give in, either. Growing up in Naples taught him that life was a struggle and hard no matter what you did. If you didn't fight hard enough for yourself, you became a stepping-stone for others. No-one in the packs of children roaming the streets, more like feral dogs than humans, ever treated Roberto Giovanni like a stepping-stone. He fought, and he fought hard, to take care of his family after his father and older brother left to fight against the Austro-Hungarians. Now he would fight to move forward with Bettina. They couldn't go back. There was nothing but death in Naples. They could only go forward, he repeated this to himself when his feet screamed out in agony once he stood.

"We will walk for another hour and then find shelter," he held his hand out for his little sister. They hadn't taken a dozen steps before Bettina began to cry. "My feet hurt, Roberto. I can't walk any longer and I'm hungry."

Roberto began to panic. If she began to cry now, there would be no getting her to safety for the night. Just as he began to think this was hopeless, he spied a small dark spot across the ruined fields. There! If he could get her to that building, they could rest until tomorrow. "Here," he rummaged in his pocket for a heel of bread and gave it to Bettina. "Chew on this, and I'll carry you."

Boston, MA,
Monday: 06 August, 1928

It wasn't as if he went out looking for trouble, not anymore than any other red-blooded young man his age in a city that was more permissive than most in this up-tight Puritanical enclave of New England. Besides, if he went looking for trouble, the scolding Bettina would give him would be worse than the trouble he found. No, he was determined to keep his nose clean until she was married and looking after her own home and family. It was the least he could do, it was what Mamma and Papa would want for them, he crossed himself at the memory of their parents. So why, then, he thought once more as he stalked through the shadows, am I following this one?

He knew the answer. Roberto had seen the man, walking toward him, and thought nothing of it. There was nothing to put him on alert, the dark blue suit and fedora the man wore were well-tailored but nothing overly expensive for this part of town. Then the bastardo slowed down and circled around him, looking him down and then up, before smiling and going on his way. So he wasn't wearing a suit. His wool vest was clean, as was his shirt, though his sleeves were rolled up against the heat; heck, even his rough work trousers were clean and not covered in soil or shite. Live and let live only went so far. Roberto turned and followed this one. His behaviour bordered on disrespect and that wasn't going to go unchallenged, even in the public streets.

The bastardo turned down an alley. Despite the uneasy sensation that unseen eyes were watching him, Roberto followed him. The only eyes, he told himself, were from the rats in the shadows hiding in the shadows of the narrow passageway. His confidence turned to searing pain as he stepped free from the alley near one of the brick warehouses where he worked for the family's import business.

Two sharp sucker punches pulled the wind from him and he sank to his knees. He didn't realise his eyes were closed and watering until his soft cap was ripped from his head and a fist took a hold of his hair and forced his head up. "Damn, kid, you got some cojones following me like that. The boss was right about you," the man in the dark blue suit smiled down at him. Mocking laughter, from the two goons that had forced him to his knees with those punches he'd bet, came from either side of him.

Roberto watched in a daze as the man reached into his suit, half fearing that he'd pull out a pistol and finish him off here in the streets. Instead, an envelope was presented to him. "Make sure you follow the instructions to the letter, or it's your loss. Oh, and kid, get a suit." A second slip of paper was produced and put in his numb hands. "Tell 'em Hank sent you."

Drawing in a painful breath, he stood up long enough to sag against the warm brick of the warehouse walls nearest him. A quick glance at the card showed it to be a tailor's business card. He pocketed it swiftly and focused on the envelope. It was written in a bold hand and addressed to him. Scratching his bare head, Roberto opened it. He whistled softly as the black-bordered linen note slid whisper quiet from the envelope.

Dear Roberto,

It is my extreme pleasure to invite you to a midnight Mass this Thursday, August the 9th. It is to be held at St Leonard's Church. Please come alone, and do not be late, as no one will be admitted once the Mass begins. After the Mass, it would please me for you to remain, as we have something of mutual import to discuss.

Yours Sincerely,
Andreas Giovanni

He reread the note two more times before kissing it and holding it to heaven in thanks. Laughing, his pain forgotten in his euphoria, he started toward back to the small two bedroom flat he shared with his sister. Their luck was starting to looking up even more.

Roberto is very grateful for the gift of paid time. He promises to keep all cheeky comments about sequins to a minimum with the help and grace of God. He also promises to get out more and bump into a certain Venetian lady of mystery. If he's going to die, he says it should be with a smile on his face.

He wasn't hiding. Not really. Hiding assumed a bit of guilt, of sneaking about with the intent to not be caught. He had been ordered by Donna Isabel to keep an eye on George... more specifically, to keep an eye out for others who might actually be hiding and skulking about in the shadows.

And should he be caught out even after all the precautions he was taking to stick to the shadows... after all, lurk where the lurkers would be; it was only common sense... he had a panino and thermos of coffee to offer as his excuse. It was a fine day and he was out to stroll through the city. So far it was quiet and he pulled out his telefonino and decided to bite the bullet while George was coaching a herd of tiny terrors on the football pitch. He heard Giancarlo's "pronto" and swallowed his coffee quickly. "Carlo. Good morning? Not too bad here. Oh, just watching calcio," he answered cheerfully. After all he had nothing, really, to hide. "So, how's Primo?"