A/N: I'm back! Your friendly neighborhood SMACker is back… but not with a SMACked fic. Judging my the title, can you guess what this is about? Going once… going twice… you guessed it! DANNY MESSER.
This is another one of my experimental fics. I am in no way leaving SMACked – but having written 5 or so in a row drained me out. But I do have at least two in the works; and it is SMACked. But for this one… well, I have an Aiden-centric (somewhat) and a Flack-centric fic so I decided what the heck. Here's my Danny-centric one.
But the way I'm attacking this is more on a flashback… daddy Messer's POV. I did some research about New York, Staten Island, Yonkers, Tanglewood, the mafia and whatnot for this project. I named his mom and dad on this, as well as giving them backgrounds since TPTB are so gracious with information. Basically, the first part is AU and in no way connected with the reel deal.
I'm excited to share this with you and I hope you join me in this, even if this is not SMACked. Thank you!
The song is by Loggins and Messina, appropriately entitled…
People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one
And we've just begun, think I'm gonna have a son
"O dios mio," my wife screamed in pain. "Francesco! You get here this instant," I heard her from the kitchen. "Fretta!" I ran from our room, finding her sitting on the floor and hugging her swollen stomach.
It was late at night. I was watching another Western movie off local channels to coax some sleep. My pregnant wife, Rosa was peacefully dozing off to my right, oblivious to the fake gunshot sounds. When I was about to turn the TV off, she stirred and mumbled something about being thirsty and stood up. I decided to wait for her to come back before I went to sleep.
My thoughts drifted back to those fake gunshots. Oh yeah, even in my sleep, I know they're fake. I grew up in and around the Mafia. My father was in it and his father before him. I could trace my roots back to Sicily, where it came from. The big tattoo between my shoulder blades is sentiment enough that I have continued with the family tradition, so to speak.
Rosa had not the privilege – or curse, whatever you want to call it – of growing up in that. Her grandparents were immigrants from Lombardia. Her grandfather got a job here in Staten Island, New York and at age two, Rosa and her Italian father and American mother and two siblings adjusted to life with Uncle Sam. We went to the same high school, where we met and fell in love. I promised her parents and two older brothers that I will take very good care of her, that she doesn't have to work for I had more than enough for the both of us. Little did they know I was on my way to be a big boss on my own. I hid my affiliation from Rosa until our first night as a married couple. She's the most beautiful girl in town – I was so thankful that she'd go for someone like me – I was nothing without my tattoo.
She asked about my tattoo… and, "What does Tanglewood mean?" That night, we had little sleep and lots of talking. She was visibly shaken – scared even – having married a mafia guy. I thought she was going to bolt out when I was finished with my explanation. But she held my hand and kissed me, saying, "I trust you. I know you'll keep me safe. And please, Franco… be careful."
I kept to that promise the best I could. I kept her safe and myself… well, danger comes with the territory unfortunately. Rosa wasn't comfortable having several guns hidden in the basement of our house or having my friends over for dinner. Because of that, I didn't have the heart to tell her about the drugs I hid behind the bookcase. It was like living two lives. One with the Tanglewood crowd and when I'm at home, I must leave it at the door. Every time I go out of our house, I know she says a little prayer for my safety. Before meeting her, I was this fearless man, ready to face anything. But now… the thought of not seeing her anymore – if I get shot and die or something – scared me.
More so when she had our first son, Louie. She named him after her older brother who died a month before. He was a big baby, strong lungs when he first got out to the world, strong arms and legs; would give his mother hell come bathing time. At an early age, I saw that he was interested in the lifestyle. I would bring him to my discreet meetings and he would sit on the floor sucking a Tootsie Pop or playing with his toy gun. It was clear that my little Louie will follow his Papa's footsteps. Rosa wasn't really happy with that. She did everything to protect him from that. But Louie was always his father's son.
Six years later, that little boy of mine was sleeping in his racecar bed. His thick brown hair, just like my own (although mine is slowly falling off), wide eyes like his mother. My wife is eight months pregnant with our second child – a second son. She expressed her desire to raise this second little Messer her way. Meaning, away from the mafia life. I gave her the green light but deep inside, I knew it was impossible. My own mother wanted that for me but here I am now. From all my brothers, I was the only one accepted to be an official Tanglewood boy. Nobody can change the fact that I am Franco Messer – one of the big bosses.
My thoughts were interrupted when I heard my Rosa scream out in pain. I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. "What are you standing there for?" she cried out, trying to stand up but only was able to get up and sit on a chair. "This baby of yours will not wait."
"What?" I exclaimed. "But Rosa, it's too early." My hands were shaking. It was only eight months.
"Tell your son that, Franco," she was about to say something else when a contraction hit her. "Hurry… wake Louie up and we'll make our way to the hospital, d'accordo? Ho bisogno di un dottore!"
I felt myself nodding and the next thing I knew, I was behind the wheel en route to the nearest hospital. Louie was in the backset, sleeping and drooling on the gym bag I brought with me. I tossed whatever clothes I could in there. We were totally unprepared for this. Rosa was controlling her breathing and the pain as much as she could – screaming here and there in pain and how, "I'm not going through this again, Franco. D'you hear me?" Yes, amore.
So that's it so far. I'm not sure how long this will take – but it'll end by "Charge of this Post". Now, for the Italian. I am terribly sorry if I mess things up. I don't know a peep of Italian, only Filipino, English and Spanish (and some Mandarin Chinese).
Fretta – hurry
Ho bisogno di un dottore – I need a doctor