Mafioso Vacation

Not Run Boy Run

Starting with a flashback
I am SECONDS away from crying and writing all of the cringy, "over exaggerated of all their angst and how it might affect them" fannon personalities. SECONDS.
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"Silence!"

They all stilled, the stern voice of their father ringing in their ears as it echoed around the too large room. It wasn't often that he shouted at them, even less often that he got truly 🌱angry with them, they were his prized possessions after all. But now didn't seem to be reflective of that, because Reginald looked downright furious as he stalked forward into the room, his cane clutched in one hand, adding an extra echoing tap to his steps.

All of the children were present today, the eight boys and girls standing at attention, backs straight with their hands clasped behind their backs in their matching training uniforms. The uniforms weren't actually much different from their regular uniforms, they consisted of knee length shorts—even for the girls, despite Reginald often preferring them in skirts like the ladies they were, he'd say—a much-too-fancy-to-be-sweating-in white button up, short-sleeved shirt, leather gloves that stopped around mid-forearm, and heeled loafers. He always said how it's best to train in what you wear on missions, rather than specialized gear that makes life too easy on you. Because life could never be easy for them.

Finally, he'd made it to the general middle of the room, standing in front of the children with an uncharacteristicly irritated frown on his pale face. "Can any body tell me," he started, words clipped at the edges in a way that made them all wince, "why it is that we're still here, in the training rooms, after our usual training time?"

No one spoke, all keeping their eyes forward on the far back wall. Reginald liked to play this fun little game where the first person to make eye contact with him would be the one answering the question, regardless if they knew the answer or not. Their father never really used corporal punishment, at least not in the way it was typically used, though the punishment for not knowing what he considered an obvious answer to a question he'd remove their training gloves and give them three stinging smacks on the forearm with either a ruler or a horse whip. Whichever was closest that day. After Number 3 had said she didn't know when asked something so small that really none of them even remembered it now and received three hard strikes with a ruler, drawing raised, red dotted lines on her forearms they were careful to either keep their eyes down, or have an answer prepared for anything at any time. That was the farthest corporal punishment ever got with Reginald when it wasn't disguised as training.

"Number Six," Reginald called, eyes falling one the nervous looking boy in the line up.

"Yes, father?"

Reginald gave him a pointed look, as if to say 'you know what I want, so give it to me.'

Number Six sucked in a quiet breath before he spoke, as if he was prepared for the inevitable fallout. "We were...- our scores were not high enough today?" He tried, hesitantly. It should be mentioned that none of them, in fact, knew what exactly they'd done wrong today. It'd been a group training session, as few and far between as they were, where they were paired off to fight each other separately, rotating every thirty minutes to the next child, counting their wins and losses as they went. Normally, they'd tally by hits landed on their opponent, taking one away every time they were hit themselves. It tested their strengths, ingenuity, and intelligence during battle. Though today had been slightly different, they'd been told to fight until someone dropped. Whether it be from exhaustion, or a genuine injury, their father had said he didn't care, just to keep going until it happened. For reference, they weren't normally allowed to injure one another.

Reginald took a deep breath, held it, and released it in one, strenuous sigh. "Incorrect."

Number Six pursed his lips into a small white line, his hands clutching into fists behind his back. Reginald didn't even have to ask before he was stepping forward, his head held steady despite his dying want to lower it and stare at the ground. When he reached their father, he stopped and brought his hands out from behind his back, holding them out palms up. Reginald nodded to him to remove the gloves himself as he turned around and retreated from the room. Apparently he hadn't expected to need either of his punishment items today.