Polar Night (Completed).

Part 2 - Him, 'The Child'

He was six years old the first time he came to the estate, hand interweaved with his mother and hid behind her skirt because of the sight of scary men with scary beard that stood around the room where his father sat behind his imposing desk. He looked intimidating for people who had no purpose to be there or had all the purpose that his father interested in.

He wasn't old enough to understand the conversation between his mother and the man, other than 'move here', and 'he's my son'.
He didn't have a father before he stepped inside the manor, then in a blink of the eyes, he was the son of one of the most powerful kingpin in Calabria the next day.

He remembered when his mother took him on a stroll around the vast land in Seminara, thirty kilometers from the estate, two days after their arrival. Where his father grew and cultivated thousands of bergamot and olive trees. Hectares of land that produced tones of precious 'green gold'- drums of olive oil that contributed to his father's bank account, and bergamot oil as ingredients they supplied for finest perfumers and beauty traditionalist.

Or the next few days after that when she took him around the extensive orange plantation in Vallata del Gallico, a few miles north Reggio Calabria.
San Giuseppe belladonna oranges, the famous fruit with intense tangerine color that painted row after row of trees was another form of scenery he had never seen in South Korea before, a pleasant substitute for the pink color of cherry blossoms that bloomed over the early spring around Seokchon Lake. The oranges were tangy, sweet and juicy, he forgot how many he gobbled at the time, only remembered that he left the plantation with swelling belly from overeating the fragrant citrus.

His mother was trying to show her son, the new life that was awaiting for him when they moved to Italy. She was also trying to convince herself that abandoning her life in Seoul and be with the man she knew nothing about would be the best decision for her son's future as the heir of the man's empire.

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"Abeoji?"

His father was quick when seized his jaw, holding it in his punishing grip, his stare probably could kill him by the look alone. It was semantics of course, because in reality -he indeed killed but not by his eyes.

"How many times I told you, don't call me that. You are not in Korea, you are not a Korean. You are my son. Do you understand?"

His father was pretty affable whenever he was in good mood, but that kind of time was rare, which he most certainly wasn't at the moment.

"Yes ... Papà."
The eight year old boy in him didn't understand why his father despised his son's maternal descent so much, he was pretty generous and cordial in front of his wife-Taehyung's mother, in most times.

"Good. Now, tell me again, who is your name. Don't give me bullshit."

"Gio. My name is ... Gio."
His father was scary even when he was less serious. The grip on his jaw started to hurt.

"Full name, Gio."

"Giovanni Romano, papà."

The man released him and smirked in satisfaction, rubbing his five o'clock shadow while throwing an assessing glare on him, his eyes softened a bit, but the warning from his previous words lingered.

"Good. You are the son of Marco Romano, you are my heir. Use your Italian name everytime, don't fucking embarrass me."

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It wasn't long before he found out, that the life his father led wasn't as vibrant as the groves of bergamot he planted, and that the means he used to fund his lavish lifestyle was nowhere as sweet and juicy as that belladonna oranges they served on the dining table during spring.

He was eight years old when he saw his father held a gun to make a show how to use it, before pulled the trigger and killed one of the dobermann that was sitting at the porch in front of his son, stating how important it was to master proficiency with guns in order to survive in their world.

He was nine years old when he overheard Alessandro- his father's consigliere, talked about almost ten acres of marijuana plantation in Mexico that his father visited every other month, and a whole container of weapon anchored at the harbor of Port Messina, covered in layers of faux bear fur to disguise them from the authority.

He was ten years old when he witnessed his father killed three suspected turncoats at the warehouse next to the stables, before his stooges threw their bodies in the truck to dispose them in some godforsaken dump.

His father never talked openly about his business in front of his son, but he didn't have any reservation in revealing his sinister side, as well as his affair outside his marriage.

He was married twice, the first one was to a beautiful Italian almost the same age as Taehyung's mother, who came from notable family in Sicily. They signed official separation not long after he asked Taehyung's mother to move to Italy, as the condition stated by her, she wouldn't want to settle in a foreign country to become his mistress.

He met his second wife in Seoul during his business trip to the country.
He was entertained by his Korean associates to one of the night club in the Seoul red light district, where he met Kim Binna, who worked as a bartender in the club. It was fortunate that she didn't work as one of the escorts when Marco Romano met her, otherwise she would find her value in general would be even lower in front of him.

He was fascinated by her beauty, and paid a fortune just to have her for a night in his hotel penthouse suite, only to kick her out the next day before flew back to Italy.

It was probably destiny that the one time intercourse left Kim Binna pregnant with the mob's child, and also another fate that his first wife couldn't bear him any children even after years of marriage.

Marco Romano was far from a faithful husband, he slept with too many women to count, but none of them could bear any male heir for him.
Only Kim Binna who could.
It was a bitter reality for him, almost like a curse, a red string that tied Taehyung to the life of the mafioso, one he probably would never have any option to refute.

Years into his life in the mansion had him grown accustomed to the ominous gleam in his father's eyes, and the gradual overcast in his mother's look at him, losing her zest and vitality with each passing day of her life beside him.