The first message came the morning after the hospital.
Mikey - Did you survive the death call from Papa?
Takemichi stared at the text for a second before sighing and typing a reply.
Takemichi - Yes. Thank you for your concern.
He hesitated. Then added: Please don't call him "Papa."
Mikey replied within thirty seconds.
Mikey - lmao too late. You have TWO dads. This is my dream manga.
Takemichi closed his phone with a snap and buried his face in his pillow.
.
The next message came that evening.
Mikey - Draken says you probably eat like a depressed raccoon. Come get dinner.
Takemichi - I appreciate the offer. I have food at home.
Technically, he did. He'd made rice. That counted.
Mikey - r u mad at me
Takemichi stared at the blinking cursor for a long time. Then he typed, 'No. Just tired. Thank you again for checking in.'
He didn't send another text that night.
Mikey didn't either.
.
By Friday, the messages slowed down.
Mikey - You're not fun when you're polite.
Takemichi - Noted.
He didn't add anything else. He didn't open the memes Mikey sent after that either, even though one of them did make him snort milk out of his nose.
Takemichi was keeping his distance, after all. Because it was the right thing to do and he'd made a promise.
Also, Mikey deserved safety—not proximity to him.
But the silence felt heavier each day.
.
The apartment was quiet. Sunlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, and the rice cooker ticked softly from the corner of the kitchen. Takemichi stood in the hallway, phone in hand, staring at his contacts. His thumb hovered over Shinichiro-san for a long moment.
Then—finally—he pressed it.
Takemichi - Good morning. I was wondering if you'd be at the shop today. If it's okay, I'd like to stop by.
The reply came a few minutes later.
Shinichiro - Hey, good morning. I'm getting discharged this morning. Family's dragging me around for a bit, but I'll be at the shop in the afternoon. You can drop by whenever.
There was a pause—then another message.
Shinichiro - Bring something sweet. Emma's baking too much, but Mikey keeps stealing my taiyaki.
Takemichi smiled, soft and unguarded.
Takemichi - Understood. I'll come by later. Thank you.
.
The familiar scent of oil and metal drifted out from the open garage bay as Takemichi approached. Sunlight glinted off half-polished chrome, and the hum of an old radio filtered through the air—some easy, low-volume jazz track that didn't match the grease-stained tools or lingering smell of engine smoke.
Takemichi slowed at the edge of the sidewalk, clutching a small paper bag of taiyaki and cream-filled pastries. His Hyper Intuition buzzed faintly—not with danger, but with anticipation. The kind that said: Pay attention.
Shinichiro was there, leaning against a workbench in a loose black hoodie and bandaged shoulder, sipping a bottle of barley tea. He wasn't alone.
Three other men were with him: The tallest was built like a wall—Keizo Arashi or Benkei, Takemichi remembered from Kusakabe's files. The second was sharp-eyed and smoking, his button-up open at the collar. Takeomi Akashi. And the third leaned on a tool cart with the casual arrogance of a panther—Wakasa Imaushi, all lazy grin and watchful eyes.
All three turned to look when Takemichi entered.
"You're early," Shinichiro greeted, waving him in with his good arm.
"I, uh…" Takemichi held up the bag like a peace offering. "You said to bring something sweet."
Wakasa whistled low. "Kid's got manners."
Takeomi took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. "And decent timing."
"Name's Benkei. Those are Takeomi and Wakasa," Keizo—Benkei—crossed his arms as he pointed at the other two guys with a tilt of his head. He then turned to Shinichiro. "He's the one who saved your ass, right?"
"Technically, yes," Shinichiro said, amused. "This is Takemichi."
Wakasa stood straighter, studying him. "Man, you're tiny."
"Rude," Takemichi muttered under his breath.
But Shinichiro's friends weren't being malicious—just blunt.
Benkei gave a sharp nod. "You've got guts, kid. That would've been one ugly death."
"Yeah," Takeomi added, flicking ash into an old coffee can. "Getting taken out by a middle schooler? Hell of a legacy for a guy like Shin."
Takemichi blinked. "Wait. You know who attacked you?"
The room quieted.
Shinichiro's jaw tensed. "I don't know the one who hit me," he admitted. "But the kid I was scolding before that… I recognized him."
He glanced at Takemichi.
"A friend of Mikey's."
The words dropped like a wrench. Takemichi's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
Shinichiro nodded slowly. "Doesn't excuse what happened, but I don't think they knew who I was. Probably thought I was just some guy catching them stealing."
"You're right. That's no excuse," Benkei grunted.
Takeomi made a noise of agreement. "Exactly. Even if they didn't know, they still bashed your skull in with a pipe. They should face the consequences."
Shinichiro was quiet.
Takemichi looked at him carefully. "So… what are you planning to do?"
Shinichiro sipped his tea, then set the bottle down. "I'm going to talk to them."
Wakasa snorted. "That's it?"
"If they know who I am," Shinichiro said calmly. "I want to hear it from their mouths. Why they did it. What they thought they were doing."
"And if they lie?" Takeomi asked sharply.
"Then I'll decide what comes next," Shinichiro replied.
The air grew thick as Takemichi's grip on the bag of sweets tightened slightly.
"Are you going to tell Mikey?" he asked quietly.
Shinichiro looked at him for a moment. Then—softly, "That depends on what they say."
Benkei let out a frustrated breath. "You're too soft on them."
Takeomi looked ready to argue, but Wakasa beat him to it—his voice more amused than angry, but not lacking edge. "They deserve more than a talking-to, Shin. If it had been anyone else? That pipe would've killed them."
"I know," Shinichiro said quietly.
And that was the worst part. He did know. Takemichi looked between the men—old friends, heavy loyalty in their eyes, all of them trying to shoulder the same weight in different ways.
And Takemichi?
He felt it, too. That tension of what should be done… and what might be right. So he stepped forward and set the paper bag down on the small metal table beside the workbench, the rustle of the paper strangely loud in the quiet shop.
"Pastries," he offered. "Still warm."
"Bless you," Wakasa muttered, already reaching for one.
Shinichiro didn't move toward them. His gaze was still locked on Takemichi, who, for his part, didn't look away.
"I think," he said slowly, "that Mikey deserves to know."
Shinichiro's expression tightened, but Takemichi continued, voice calm but firm. "Hiding it might protect him for a little while. But it'll crack later. And when it does, it'll hurt worse."
Shinichiro looked down at his tea bottle, thumb running slowly over the condensation on the label. He didn't answer right away. But Takemichi saw that flicker of something behind his eyes: Regret.
And maybe not just about Mikey.
Maybe not just about now.
"I need to hear it from them first," Shinichiro said at last. His voice was quiet. Tired. "I need to look them in the eye. Make sure I understand what happened."
Takemichi tilted his head slightly, not confrontational, just curious. "And what if what they say doesn't change the fact that they hit you with a pipe?"
Shinichiro flinched. Just barely. Then he exhaled through his nose, the sound dry. "They're kids, Takemichi."
Takemichi shrugged, unbothered. "So am I."
Shinichiro looked at him sharply, but Takemichi's voice stayed even. "They're not children. Not really. Not anymore. If they can make the choice to attack someone with a weapon, they can make the choice to face judgment."
Takeomi let out a low whistle under his breath.
Benkei grunted, impressed.
Wakasa grinned. "He's got spine, Shin."
Shinichiro looked like he didn't know whether to sigh or laugh.
"They're fifteen," he said dryly.
"So was my dad," Takemichi shot back without hesitation. "When he inherited the Vongola."
The room went very still.
Even Wakasa stopped chewing, but Takemichi's gaze didn't waver.
"I'm not saying you need to throw them to the wolves," he added after a moment. "I'm saying they're old enough to take responsibility. Even if it's hard. Even if it sucks. Especially then."
Shinichiro stared at him for a beat longer. Then, slowly, a bitter little smile tugged at his mouth. "You really are your father's son."
"And proud of it," Takemichi said with a straight face.
That got a quiet snort from Takeomi, and even Benkei looked mildly entertained.
The tension thinned, just a little, but the weight of the decision still hung in the air until Shinichiro picked up a pastry, holding it between his fingers like it might anchor him.
"I'll talk to them," he said again, quieter this time. "I just… need to be sure. Before I bring Mikey into it."
Takemichi nodded once. Not agreeing, but accepting. Because he'd said his piece and the choice wasn't his to make.
Not yet.
The silence stretched a second too long. Then Wakasa, ever the one to pierce through tension with a smirk and a drawl, leaned back on the tool cart and tipped his chin toward Takemichi.
"So," he said casually, but his eyes were sharp. "Now that you've mentioned your dad inheriting Vongola… and with the things Shin's told us about your family—"
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that the Vongola, the mafia family?"
Takemichi hesitated, glancing instinctively at Shinichiro, who winced.
"...They're the ones who saw it too," he said quietly. "The underworld. The side of it I tried to walk away from."
Wakasa, Takeomi, and Benkei said nothing—but they didn't have to. The shift in their posture was enough.
They knew.
Takemichi exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod. Not proud. Not ashamed. Just honest.
"Yes," he said. "My father is the current head of the Vongola famiglia."
.
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Also, if you want to support me and read chapters ahead, go to my p@treon: JorieDS