Work Text:
“Why don’t you just make me a bordello queen while you’re at it?”
Gojo briefly looks up from his spot by the end of the table, arms steady as he polished his knife; steel meeting asphalt with every buff of whetstone. “Shoko,” he tsked. “We’re Made Men now, have a little faith in us.”
The strobing lights from the bar concealed half his face, making him look more intimidating than he actually was. It was technically illegal to bring in hazardous objects into an establishment frequented by most high-profile figures of Chicago; but the owners were also in bed with the caporegime, and lo and behold, the sole heir to the Outfit was a regular customer.
Gojo was in their regular booth thrice a week. Today was no exception.
The sound of sandpaper hitting iron was starting to grate her nerves, fumes from the smoke fog filtering through their private room away from all the action clouding her focus. Steeling her nerves, Shoko levelled her gaze with a friend she’d known since sandbox and tried again. “You’re asking me to be the comare of a 50-year old man. I’m allowed a certain level of doubt.”
Getou kicked himself off from a corner of the wall, his favorite Berreta nestled snugly in a leather gun holster by his side. Settling down beside her as he brought an arm around the velvet sofa, he leaned in as he spoke carefully. “We’re not asking you to be his escort, just that you distract him long enough for our men to make a move. He is smitten with you, after all.”
“Some infatuation,” Shoko scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I would hardly call groping a girl decades younger than him in public a proper way to show interest. At his nephew’s initiation of all places.”
Gojo stiffened, nearly nicking himself in the process.
The vivid memory of what was supposed to be the most memorable day of his career served as a double-edged sword at the obscene reminder that long-found traditions of lewdity still ran rampant in their circles, carrying over generations. This motivated him to put an end to such indecency even more, assigning himself more hits, knowing it was the fastest way to get to the top of the food chain.
Since that day, all three of them never came to work with barren guns.
Getou slowly turned his head to side, addressing his partner who earned the title of ‘Stone Killer’ just months after his officiation. He sighed. “I know he’s your great grandfather and all, but man do I wanna put a gun to his head every time I see him. He screamed at the twins the other day and I almost did.”
“You’re telling me,” Gojo huffed, turning his attention back to fine-tuning with even more pointed aggression. “Not even the old man wants to deal with his shady-ass hustles anymore. Perverted shit just refuses to kick the bucket.”
The music from the basement blasted even louder, thrill palpable in the air as twentysomethings children of the Outfit and Familia partied their lives away under the protection of their lineages. Smoke from the fog machines enveloped the entire compound in a misty haze, openly giving animosity to anyone who needed it. Shoko looked out the youthful scene unfolding before their glass window and thought of how easy everyone else had it.
It was simply pure coincidence the only three children of Chicago’s most influential mob families were born in the same year; making the assimilation into their expected roles all the more easier, as it blanketed them with the convenience of going through their training as a shared experience within them.
Getou and Shoko were heir to the various business ventures funded by notorious mob dealings, more back office than up front as their fathers were both respected Dons who stealthily handled things in the shadows. Gojo was the face of the administration in itself, standing next in line to be the next capo when the boss finally stepped down; with plans already in place to make his best friends his official consiglieres when he assumed.
Their parents made the unanimous decision to put them on a trial period before they properly stepped into their roles. This was two years ago.
Now, they were more rightful underbosses than glorified mob princes and princesses; having put more people to bed and closed more deals than the average legbreaker. Everyone in the inner circles of the firm knew they were shoo-ins for domination, and in turn have made all efforts to delay their initiation with petty side hustles: and, just recently, coming for them directly by physically disturbing their once unshakeable tandem.
They’ve been robbed of their divine rights for too long. Enough was enough.
Shoko observes her boys from the rim of her wine glass and regards them both evenly, not a single hair out of place and all the grace of the next mafia godmother. “How do you wanna do this?”