IMPORTANT REMINDER:
If the whole concept of omegaverse and mpreg are new to you, please don't skip the Introduction.
ON TERMINOLOGIES:
Meanings of words/phrases with a (*) can be found in the Glossary.
UMORE:
Since Wattpad and Scribble Hub still don't have an option that lets you add music to every chapter/episode, I will just recommend 2-3 songs that can help create the right mood for every chapter. All of the songs can be found on Spotify (and hopefully on YouTube and SoundCloud, too).
I will call these sets of song recommendations as "Umore" (which simply means 'mood' in Italian).
Chapter 1-1's Umore are:
♪ Summer Breeze by Ensidya, Fractite
♪ 10,000 Emerald Pools by BORNS
♪ Tu vuo' fa' l'americano by Renato Carosone
Link to the Spotify playlist: https://tinyurl.com/yyj9cx5q
Giovanni "Gianni" Mancuso, known to many as the "Lone Wolf" of New York City, doesn't do dapper. Dapper is all about perfectly groomed looks and bespoke suits. Dapper is for the prim and proper. For the gentlemen who have time to lounge away in busy idleness, coffee or tea in their well-manicured hands.
Most of the high-ranking Mafiosi* fit into this pretty picture, but an associate like Gianni is not built to stick to the rules of etiquette. If anything, he is more of a jeans and T-shirt, than a full-suit type of guy. It's comfortable. Practical. Easier to move around in.
This couldn't be a more glaringly obvious reminder for the associate especially when today, the city is experiencing its highest August temperature on record.
It was a hot and humid Saturday morning in Lower Manhattan. The heat has started to become unbearable in late June and got into its stride by the end of July. By August it's just plain ridiculous, and the air conditioning wasn't doing much of a job dispelling the heat.
Gianni looked out the window expecting to see darkening clouds in the sky in the hope of afternoon rain. Raising his head, he saw the sun high up in the clear blue sky, emitting endless heatwaves. He sighed in frustration.
So much for rain.
Sunlight spilled between the half-closed curtain, and Gianni squinted at the brightness. Beads of sweat running down his temple, he stepped away from the window and walked in front of a full-length mirror, working on his silk tie.
It was looking to be the worst day to wear a suit.
"Why do I have to wear these, anyway?" the Lone Wolf complained to himself. "It's just a courtesy call, isn't it?"
He put on a dark blue blazer and gray slacks; the pressed white shirt underneath pulled taut against his chest. His broad shoulders strained against the suit – a new custom fit he had picked up from a local bespoke tailor just the day before. It made Gianni squirm, but it fit him like a second skin.
The Lone Wolf didn't have a lot of choice of what to wear in formal events since he barely had time to get his wardrobe together, if at all. He inspected himself in the mirror once more, a self-satisfied smirk twisting his tightly pursed lips.
He looked dead smart in a full suit, yet he worried over his hair for the next ten minutes. He slicked his wavy brown hair back as best he could with some hair gel, shaved off his week-old beard, brushed his teeth, drew out his cuffs and collar, and polished his dress shoes to the semblance of a sheen.
Gianni was scrutinizing himself once more in the mirror when he heard a soft knock on the door. "Yes, come in," he said as the door creaked open. In the reflection, he watched as a man wearing a charcoal-gray suit walked into the room, his hand resting on the doorknob. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly pulled back, and the wire-rimmed glasses he had on made him look sensible and business-like.
The man's name is Samuel, Gianni's valet, and perhaps the only person in the world he can trust.
"Sir, Mr. Stanford is on the phone and would like to know your time of arrival at the estate," the valet said in his soft, formal tone.
Gianni walked towards Samuel, fiddling with his cufflinks. "I'll be there in a half an hour," he replied as the valet helped him with the cufflinks and shook his jacket into place. "Does this look good enough, Sam?"
Samuel took a step back, quickly perusing his master from head to toe. He nodded with a satisfied smile."Absolutely dapper, Sir."
Gianni looked quietly pleased by the other's response as he walked over to his dresser and pulled out a silver watch and a pair of black push-lock gloves from the top drawer.
"Is there anything else I should tell Mr. Stanford?" Samuel inquired as he stepped out of the room.
Gianni shook his head as he clasped the silver watch on his wrist and gave it a quick inspection. "I'll be out soon. I'll be using the red car today so please have it parked out front."
"Right away, Sir," replied the valet, nodding curtly before closing the door behind him.
Taking one last look in the mirror, Gianni adjusted his tie and ran his hands through his hair. And then, he slipped the glove onto his left hand, staring at it, caressing the stiff new leather. He did the same with his right but before he could put on the glove, his eyes fell upon his pinky finger... or at least the small stump that remained of it.
The Lone Wolf didn't want to remember how many years it had been, but some memories tend to linger a bit longer than others. And for him, it's the bad memories that chose to stay.
Five years.
It's been five years since a mafioso had cut off his finger with a cheap Swiss Army knife that chopped it off instead of slicing it clean. The man could have either kept it as a souvenir or had given it to his Boss* as proof that Gianni had faced retribution for the offenses he'd committed against a certain borgata.
The only problem was that he never really did offend anyone in the past. Much more to a family he once considered his home and safe haven. But as it turned out, he was the only one thinking that. It was a bitter irony, and his missing finger had always been a painful reminder of the truth.
Getting one's finger cut off is the lightest punishment one could receive from the Mafia, but that's only if you're a gambler who couldn't pay back a debt or a mafioso who's betrayed the family. As far as he's concerned, however, Gianni doesn't fall into any of these categories. He's lived all these years wondering and questioning, and he was alone with those horrible memories he couldn't quite fathom.
In the end, he chose to stop pondering on it. He just doesn't care anymore. Only the pain and the constant reminder of betrayal remained in his heart.
Every day Gianni would be haunted by phantoms of the past. Eventually, he learned to endure them. He would close his eyes and listen to the mantra rising from deep inside him, repeating the same words over and over:
Remember all the details. The names, the faces, the voices, the pain.
Never forget. Never, ever forget.
Opening his eyes now, Gianni smoothingly pulled the leather glove through his right hand, making sure it's a snug fit. Nobody would even think he'd lost a finger underneath it.
More importantly, he'd love to see the look on his punisher's face when he finds out he's ambidextrous, skillful with both hands when it comes to wielding a gun. The Lone Wolf wasn't called the 'best of the best' for no reason, after all. And the loss of his little finger didn't so much as affect his grip on smaller firearms.
Occasionally, however, Gianni would experience brief, recurrent bouts of phantom pain where his finger used to be. Sometimes the pain would be so horrible, yet he couldn't understand how he had the pain where there was nothing. Oftentimes it strikes when the day begins with cold or rainy weather. When this happens, Gianni's thoughts would drift back to that horrible day. It's when the phantom sensation hurts the most.
Gianni pulled out a silver whiskey flask from his suit coat's inner pocket, took a long and swallowing swig at it, feeling the dark liquid burning a fiery path down his throat. He then recapped and tucked it back into his pocket, then slapped himself across the cheeks twice.
"That's right, Giovanni. This is going to be a fine day," he muttered as he smiled at himself in the mirror and left the room.
Giovanni Mancuso had done everything he could to secure himself a home, to always have food on the table, and to make sure he never had to rely on anyone else again. Today, he owns two houses, with his personal favorite being the waterfront house picturesquely situated in a quiet, shadowy little area in East Hampton.
But because of the nature of his work, Gianni would frequently go to his townhouse in Lower Manhattan, conveniently nestled among residential towers in Fulton Street.
Compared to most of its neighbors, the townhouse is a rather unimpressive decades-old building, its façade decorated with small red bricks that strive to blend in with the modernist, elegantly corniced "Millionaire's Row" mansions rising majestically up just a few yards away. Gianni had grown to love this neighborhood, simply because it wasn't anyone's business what the people next door are up to. After all, everyone's far too busy being rich that there's no time to mingle with the neighbors.
More importantly, the place is under the protection of the Agostini crime family, Gianni's favorite client and perhaps the most amicable of the thirteen borgate. The Agostinis are generally on speaking terms with everyone, and the districts they hold on to often serve as a "neutral ground" for discussions and negotiations between conflicting families. The safest and most peaceful district in New York, as far as all that went.
It was nearing lunchtime when Gianni stepped out of the townhouse to a bright and sweltering summer day. He started perspiring almost immediately, beads of sweat trickled down his back as he felt his shirt clinging tightly to his skin.
"It's a fuckin' oven out here," he hissed as he ran down the front steps and hurried to his car.
Samuel was already waiting in the driveway, standing in front of an imposingly classy red Porsche Carrera, its engine running and the car door on the driver's side opened.
"Ready when you are," Samuel said as he held the car door for Gianni. "Will you be home for dinner, Sir?"
Gianni jumped into the car, hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel. "Yes, Sam. Anything but red meat, please."
The valet nodded with a knowing smile. "And I'll have a bottle of wine ready chilled for you."
"This is an Italian gathering I'm going to," Gianni said, shaking his head as he slammed the car door shut. "It's hard to imagine one without wine. That would be social suicide."
Samuel nodded agreeably. "Right you are, Sir. No wine, then."
The valet watched as Gianni reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pistol. He examined it closely, making sure the safety was on before sliding it into the holster hidden in the small of his back, under his suit jacket.
Samuel didn't so much as bat an eye at the sight of a real handgun. The man is used to his master's whims – even more so with the nature of his profession.
"Can't be too careful now," Gianni remarked, grinning impishly at the valet as he revved up the engine.
"Safe driving, Sir. I will call Mr. Stanford to let him know you're on your way." The valet nodded curtly as the Porsche whizzed by, heading south to Brooklyn.
Forget discretion. Today, the Lone Wolf is going to drive in style.
The Rossi family lives on an estate aptly named La Aiuòla, a vast property that lies at the heart of Brooklyn, surrounded by trees and lush foliage.
Being the oldest borgata in the country, the estate was home to seven generations of Alphas who have greatly expanded their power and influence through time. Much of Brooklyn was under the Rossi's protection, with only a quarter of the borough under the Veronesi family's influence. But for the Rossis, these were contested lands – a dispute that created a rift between the two families.
For the Lone Wolf, however, this was none of his business. In the turbulent world of the Cosa Nostra, if there's anything more abundant than dirty money, it would be the number of enemies and people to get rid of. And for a mercenary like Gianni Mancuso, being at a certain vantage point a safe distance away from the crossfire can be quite an amusement.
After all, there's a certain gritty charm to watching wolves ripping each other's throats.
Thirty-five minutes later, Gianni found himself passing by a high stone wall, running for more than half a mile enclosing La Aiuòla. Ahead, as he came around the elbow to the courtyard, he could see a long line of cars queued up to enter the gates, the drivers inside cruising up and down the driveway, their necks craned anxiously.
Gianni got into the courtyard fifteen minutes later, circling twice before he found a space at the end of the second row. He had already shut down the engine but found himself still glued to the driver's seat.
"What in damnation is this?" the Lone Wolf muttered under his breath, eyebrows scrunched in confusion at the sight of limousines and luxury cars neatly lined up in front of the Rossi manor.
Surely, this family doesn't own this many cars!
It was getting hotter by the second. Gianni had decided to take off his suit jacket before he could even step into the manor. As he did, a tall brawny man in a white suit and matching fedora cautiously approached his vehicle, pen and paper in hand. From where the man stood, Gianni caught a quick glimpse of a pistol tucked in a holster under his suit jacket.
"Good day. I'm here to see the Boss," Gianni explained, blinking up at the man who, from the suspicious look on his face, clearly didn't recognize him.
The man bent down to peer through Gianni's open car window. "Of course 'ya do," the man said with a thick and lazy Southern drawl. "State yer name and purpose of yer visit, Signore."
Gianni shrugged his shoulders. "It's Giovanni Mancuso and may I know what the occasion is today?"
For a moment, the man stared at him incredulously, then let out a scoff. "Listen, buddy. If yer one of those stubborn reporters looking for their next scoop, then I advise 'ya to get the hell off this property while I'm still being nice to 'ya." He edged into the lot to get a better look at the license plate number of Gianni's Porsche, which he jotted down on the paper.
Gianni heaved a deep sigh as he stepped out of the car, suit jacket swung over his shoulder. "I'm an associate. I was invited to come and see your Boss."
The man pulled out a cigarette tucked behind his ear and popped it in his mouth, all the while eyeing Gianni even more suspiciously. "And 'ya don't even know what today's occasion is?"
Again, the Lone Wolf shrugged as he cleared his throat. "I'm here on a courtesy call."
"Courtesy call, he says..." The man scoffed once more, shaking his head as he pressed two fingers to his ear, pushing a radio earpiece in tighter. "Capo, there's a goombah out front. Says he's here to see the Don," he said, talking into the earpiece.
"Alright, then. We can do this all day..." Gianni crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, trying his best not to faint in the sweltering midday heat.
The man fixed his eyes on Gianni, scanning him from head to toe. "... A red Porsche. Said his name's – "
" – Giovanni Mancuso. I received an invitation from the Don himself," said Gianni.
There was a momentary pause as the man spoke at the other end and relayed Gianni's name. After a while, his shoulders relaxed the slightest bit as he nodded to the other. "Understood, Capo," he said as he walked toward Gianni. "The Capo's on his way. 'Ya can wait here."
"Yes, but –" Gianni perked his head up and looked around in confusion. "You still haven't told me what the occasion is."
"Seriously, Signore. How can 'ya not know it's the Don's birthday?" the man said as he walked off, fanning himself with the paper.
Gianni was dumbstruck for a moment and just stood there, speechless. He instantly regretted his decision to show up. "Shit," he cursed under his breath, slapping his palm against his forehead. No wonder he was required to wear a full suit.
"Mr. Mancuso!" a voice called out, high and businesslike.
Gianni turned around and his mood was instantly lifted. "Ah, the cavalry has arrived."
"Indeed I have," said the man whose name is Martel Stanford.
Stanford is a sandy-haired man in his late thirties, standing a little under six feet tall, hazel-brown eyes, and nice lean features. The expensive Italian suit he had on perfectly matched his imposing reputation.
Stanford is a Beta who had come a long way since he was a boy growing up in East Harlem. Back in the early days, he was a tough youth with a high sense of self-worth – a classic raw material of a mafioso. He started out as a small-time hustler and bagman*, worked his way up into the mob until he was initiated into the Cosa Nostra at age twenty-one. Now, the man is one of six Capo who are loyal to the Rossis, gaining a reputation as a sharp and shrewd man who could look after himself and the borgata.
"It's been a while, old friend. I'm glad you made it!" Martel Stanford quickly greeted Gianni with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"You wretched old man, did you deliberately forget to tell me one important detail?" Gianni released the Capo and gave him a hard slap on the back.
Stanford coughed out a chuckle. "Ah, come on. You need to unwind a bit. You sounded crabby the last time we talked over the phone. Besides, I knew you'd bail if I told you what the real occasion is."
"You know how I hate big crowds," Gianni said and elbowed Stanford in the ribs.
"For Christ's sake, it's the Don's birthday," Stanford argued. "You know better than to refuse the old man's invitation."
The two men walked arm-in-arm as they made their way into the manor house, greeting guests and mafiosi as they went.
"Don't let these folks bother you. It's just a small gathering between family and friends," Stanford assured Gianni.
The Lone Wolf pursed his lips, filled with doubt as his eyes scanned the crowd, slowly taking in the mixture of people around him. "That may be the case, but these are friends from high places," he remarked, taking a quick glimpse at familiar-looking silver-plated family crests mounted on the front fenders of each vehicle they passed. "You should know I'm not much for socializing these days."
"Cut yourself some slack, friend. You don't have to do anything at all. Today, we drink wine like we drink water!"
For anyone who had been to the Rossi manor, one would think it's more perpetually white than the White House itself. Several arriving guests have already gathered on the flagstone veranda on the main entrance and were being received by two of the family's Capo, exchanging greetings and shaking hands with each of them, before entering the hallway through the majestic double French doors.
Gianni and Martel Stanford passed through the crowd, exchanging smiles and a few small words with acquaintances, before continuing inside after the other guests.
Dozens more people have already gathered inside the mansion, almost filling the central hall and the circular staircases on opposite sides. It was a vast space with deep-set windows overlooking the rear of the property. The wall-to-wall carpeting was so white, Gianni could see footprints in places. The black and white marble walls were effective as mirrors, adorned with huge cascades of red and gold velvet banners lining the hallway leading to the ballroom, where the Rossi family's coat-of-arms swayed proudly for everyone to see.
The most beautiful white marble statues and relics Gianni had ever seen graced the halls. They depicted what he could describe as Greek or Roman deities – graceful beings wearing white garments with golden accents. He didn't get the chance to have a closer look though, as his companion's gruff and commanding voice snatched his attention back to him.
"They're right this way," Stanford said as he took Gianni through a long and narrow hallway leading to the banquet hall.
Gianni gaped at the solid whiteness of the walls that evaporated before him. Wow. They were too offensively white and if not for the exquisite crystal-cut vases of dark red roses standing on the dressers, the place would be no different from a hospital. More marble statues and plaster busts lined the hallway, and the Lone Wolf could only wish he had more time to examine each of them.
"Just so you know, the Lagorios and the Espositos are here," the Capo said, leaning in close to Gianni and almost whispering. "I'm guessing you've done business with them before. Don Gismondi's wife and kids are here, too. And..." He looked around quickly before leaning closer to the other. "... the Napoleonis are here, as well. Those prideful sons of bitches."
Gianni heaved a deep sigh. "Please don't tell me the Voltolinis are here, too."
The Capo was quick to grunt and shake his head. "That family's business is... a little dangerous. The last thing we need is to get involved with human traffickers."
Good, the Lone Wolf thought to himself. Add one more rotten egg to this party and I would've walked out.
"Sorry. This is why I hate big parties," he reminded the Capo.
"How can you not love gatherings like this? Some folks would kill to get into the guest list."
Gianni's eyes narrowed into slits, mouth a thin line. "Funny time to be paying a 'courtesy call', isn't it?"
Once again, the Capo smiled contritely. "It ain't a courtesy call. If you're not here to party, then consider this an opportunity to... expand your business network. See?"
Coming to the end of the hall, the pair came to a stop as they found themselves inside a large, open room half-filled with people – men and women who look naturally regal in tuxedos and elegant dresses.
Gianni took a deep breath as he looked gingerly around the room, trying to appear calm as a nerve-wracking thought had suddenly come to him.
"Martel, you said most of the borgate will be here," he said.
"Yes. The Gismondis are already here. So are the Espositos and the Lagor –"
"Who else is coming? Is it possible that the de Lauren – " He bit his lip to stop himself from asking the real question on his mind.
Stanford cocked his head at the other. "What? Don't stop midway now."
Gianni shook his head and licked his lips. "Nothing. Forget it."
A waitress passed by with a tray of glasses filled with wine and champagne. The Lone Wolf's spirits lifted instantly as he took two glasses. The waitress beamed politely at him, thinking he would give the other to Stanford. She was mistaken.
The Capo took a glass for himself and chuckled. "You're not nervous about this, are you?"
Gianni finished his first glass of wine in one gulp. "Listen. I'll just pay my respects to the Boss. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. City business calls."
"What does that even mean, 'city business'?" The Capo sneered as he took a sip of his champagne. "Is there anything else more important than this?"
"I have to meet a client in Queens. Man's got to make a living, you know," Gianni explained, trying to make himself sound as credible as possible.
"Nonsense." Martel Stanford gave him a hard slap on the back that nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. "I know you've got your hands full, but even hitmen take a break on weekends." He laughed at his own joke, like he always does. "Anyway, I wish we had more time to talk, but I have far less interesting folks to entertain today."
Gianni's eyes widened. "Oh, no... You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"
The Capo laughed as he set his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. "Well, you are the Lone Wolf."
Harsh.
"Yeah. Outside." Gianni reasoned. "By myself, with my work and stuff. Not in here with, you know, people."
Stanford thought Gianni was just teasing but the look in his eyes said the anxiety was genuine. "Huh... Well, you won't be entirely alone," he replied over his shoulder. "You'll have the man of the hour watching your back."
"Where are you going?" demanded Gianni.
"Well if it isn't Giovanni Mancuso!" said a loud, reverberating voice that echoed through the hall.
Gianni winced as several heads turned sharply toward the source of the voice. A tall, slender man wearing a neatly tailored blue double-breasted suit came quickly down the grand staircase at the end of the hall, coming to him with arms outstretched, smiling a toothy smile.
The last thing Gianni wanted to do was to be the center of attention. But it's too late now. With a weary sigh, he set the glasses down on a nearby table and willed himself to smile.
"I'm so glad you could make it!" said the man, who was none other than the "man of the hour", Don Flavio Rossi.
"Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world," Gianni said crisply as the Don gathered him into a tight hug. "Buon compleanno, Don Rossi." He effected a convincing scowl at Martel Stanford, who winked teasingly before disappearing into the hallway.
A flurry of motion and delight followed as more familiar faces buzzed around the Lone Wolf with excitement.
Gianni felt hopeless at this point. There's no getting away from this one.
TO BE CONTINUED.
