XLVIII
The morning light is warm, but Harry doesn't feel it much from where he's perched across the bar. He's not far—just high enough to watch unnoticed. A weathered stone ledge on a rooftop, his feathers ruffling faintly in the breeze, his shape muted by a disillusionment charm and a careful bit of will. To the casual eye, he's just another city bird: dull, quiet, nothing worth a second glance.
Below, the streets move with early foot traffic. Children pulling at their mothers' skirts. Men in dark coats talking too loudly. The scent of coffee and bread weaves through the air like a temptation. But Harry's gaze is fixed on one place: The bar. More like a café, really—an old-fashioned sort of place with carved wood chairs and a small awning, worn by salt and sun. The sort of place Fon told him about while tracing city lines on napkins and hotel maps, calling it a meeting spot for more than just mafiosi.
And at one of the small tables outside, someone's already waiting. Harry had noticed him the moment he landed: A handsome man in a dark suit and fedora, sipping espresso like it's a weapon. He'd been there since before Harry arrived, unmoving except for the casual lift of his cup.
Then Fon appears. He walks with the same quiet confidence he always does. Controlled, graceful, entirely unhurried. But Harry, who's been watching him every evening under snow-dusted skies and campfire stars, can see the set of his shoulders. The way his hand lingers just a second too long at his coat's edge, near where he keeps his blades. His expression is perfectly pleasant—the smile that Harry had once mistaken for genuine.
It's not the real one, he now knows. Not the one that softens his eyes and makes his voice gentler.
No, this is the one Fon used the day they met. Courteous. Professional. Cold as a mountain's shadow.
He sits in front of the man in suit and fedora and they start talking. Harry doesn't know what's being said, but he watches the shift in Fon's posture. The stiffness. The sharpness. And then the smile disappears completely.
Harry narrows his eyes. His talons tighten slightly on the ledge, his tail-feathers twitching in restrained frustration. He doesn't like that expression on Fon's face as the conversation pauses. Fon leans back, contemplative, arms crossed loosely as if he's thinking over some long game. And then—subtle as a whisper—he tilts his head. To anyone else, it's nothing. A slow sweep of his gaze over the buildings across the street, pausing briefly on a row of pigeons. But Harry knows he's not looking at the pigeons. He's looking at him.
Harry's feathers rustle because he knows what Fon's doing. He'd explained it once before, on a snowy night over fire-grilled fish and stubborn Mandarin lessons: how Harry's mental link is strongest with touch, but that eyes—true, anchored eye contact—can be enough for a small bridge. A signal. A question.
A request.
Harry meets Fon's gaze, locking with it. No words pass between them, but something gentle and weighted brushes his mind. An image of Renato's face, a memory of a conversation, The request the hit man made. The question is there, the implicit Do you want to meet him?
There's no pressure in his mental tone. No manipulation.
Harry exhales through his beak, tilting his head just a fraction in return, enough to be seen at a distance. A nod. Deliberate and a little tired.
Alright.
Fon breaks eye contact immediately. The bridge severs gently. He stands up, and the man in the fedora—Renato—follows.
Harry watches them move through the crowd with quiet grace, two shadows cut from the same cloth of secrets and silence. Harry waits a couple seconds before spreading his wings as he glides from the rooftop and follows.
The wind welcomes him.
XLIX
The park is hidden, quieter than the street, tucked behind a row of pale buildings, where the cobblestone gives way to soft grass and tired trees. A fountain burbles gently nearby, weathered by time and moss. A narrow path curves around the benches—empty, save for the one Renato walks toward, flanked by Fon.
They don't sit. Instead, they stop near the bench's edge, close enough to be seen by no one and everyone. Renato says something in Italian, low and dry, his tone almost bored. Fon simply crosses his arms and waits. Harry, watching from above, takes it as his cue, thanking his lucky stars to the fact that he spent this past week polishing his Italian.
He swoops down—not fast, not aggressively, but with practiced ease. He glides low and wide, circling once before landing behind Fon's shoulder. He doesn't approach from behind Renato; he's a hitman, after all, and Harry is many things, but suicidal is no longer one of them.
He watches as Renato glances toward the movement, then away, disinterested. Dismissed. As if he were a pigeon. It amuses him until Renato's gaze flicks back and he squints, watching him with narrowed eyes as Harry lifts off the grass again and lands neatly—flame-light and tail trailing like a silk ribbon—on the back of the bench, closest to Fon. Then Harry drops the disillusionment with a burst of heatless shimmer, feathers black as ash and eyes bright as magic. He gives it a second, maybe two, waiting for the awe. Or surprise. Or even a breath held too long.
He's met with nothing. Renato just blinks.
Harry croons, soft and bright—a welcoming trill, the kind he used with nervous creatures in the deep woods, or chicks that hadn't yet opened their eyes. It glides through the air like warmth through winter.
Renato hums, the only show it affected him is how the slight frown between his brows eases. And then, finally—finally—he says something.
"It has the same Flame signature as the Sky from yesterday." He tilts his head, gaze sharp but amused. "Is your Sky a bird, Fon?"
Harry almost squawks. Instead, he huffs. Not a real bird, dammit. He's a phoenix.
He shifts closer to Fon's neck and nudges his cheek with one long feather, brushing the skin gently—What's he talking about? What gave me away?
Fon doesn't blink, doesn't move, but Harry hears the exhale he lets out. "I really need to teach you how to hide your Flames better."
Harry would groan if he could. Instead, he tucks his wings tighter and lets his head rest under a wing for a second, resigned but not defeated.
Renato just keeps smiling. So Harry, wanting to erase the smug look on his face, begins to shift—light bending inward, pulling in heat and color and shape until a man sits where a bird had been. Harry exhales and immediately begins fussing with his robes. They're the ones the Triads had given him—flowing and too formal, but fire-resistant enough to survive his transformations. He hadn't had that issue back in his world. Wizard robes, especially his own, had been layered with magic, charmed to endure every ridiculous thing he got up to.
He hadn't realized until arriving here that his phoenix form burned through normal fabric like paper in a hearth.
He smooths the edge of his sleeve, thinking briefly of Juan and how she had managed to make clothing that didn't catch fire at the slightest puff of flame. He should have asked more about that.
"You're not with the Triads anymore," Renato's voice cuts in lazily. "So why does your Sky wear their clothes?"
Harry blinks.
"He's not my Sky," Fon says immediately, voice steady.
"They're the only clothes I don't burn through," Harry says at the same time, drier than intended.
"That so?" he murmurs, gaze flicking across him like he's cataloguing something. Then one hand is moving, slow and casual, toward Harry's sleeve. He doesn't get far as Fon grabs his wrist. Not harshly, but firm. The warning is clear in the silence that follows.
"Despite him not being my Sky," Fon says softly, "I still won't tolerate people reaching for him without warning."
Renato raises an eyebrow, unbothered. "You said he could defend himself."
"I can," Harry says, eyes narrowed.
"Didn't mean harm. Just curious." He shrugs before glancing at Harry again. "Wanted to feel the fabric."
Harry lifts an arm slightly, letting him go ahead. Fon doesn't let go of Renato's wrist until the hitman actually reaches for the sleeve, fingers brushing the material lightly.
Renato hums. "Flame-processed. No wonder. Woven with intention. A real artisan's work. Won't burn easily, even under direct Flames."
Harry's eyes widen slightly. "How do you know that?"
Renato smirks. "I wear the same. Not this style, obviously. I've got a tailor." His gaze sharpens, calculating but amused. "Knows the craft. She could make you something that won't combust every time you flap your wings."
That—that—makes Harry light up. "You'd introduce me?"
"Sure," Renato says with a small grin. "Bit expensive, though."
Harry waves that off. "Does she accept gold? That's all I've got."
"That'll do." Renato leans back, casting a sidelong glance toward Fon, who hasn't moved, still standing like a sentinel at Harry's side, every muscle coiled like drawn wire. Renato's smile stretches a little further as Harry looks between them, still rubbing at his robes. "You two always this tense, or is it just me?"
Fon exhales through his nose. "Only when someone touches what isn't theirs."
Renato chuckles. "Didn't know he was yours."
"He's not."
Harry sighs, rubbing at his temple. "I need better clothes and better communication."
Renato smirks again, easy and confident, and sits beside him with the fluid grace of someone who's never once felt threatened by the world. The bench creaks slightly under the shift in weight. Harry doesn't lean away—but he doesn't lean closer, either.
"So," Renato drawls, one elbow resting casually over the back of the bench, his fedora casting a shadow over sharp eyes. "Fon didn't say, but what did it cost you?"
Harry glances sideways, brow raised. "What?"
"Fon's freedom." Renato's voice is light, too conversational for the weight of the question. "I know the Triads don't let go of their prizefighters without blood or leverage. So what'd you pay?"
Harry pauses, eyes narrowing. Then, dryly—because it is true, in its own twisted way—he says, "My tears."
He waits for the sarcastic quip. For disbelief. A scoff, maybe. Instead, Renato hums. Not amused but thoughtful. His head tilts, shadow shifting over his face as he looks at Harry properly. Not just at his face. At his Flame. His posture. His intent.
"Do they have an important property?" he asks, voice quieter now, like he's adjusting the pitch to fit something more fragile.
Harry stills, fingers tightening slightly on the sleeve he'd just been fixing. He meets Renato's eyes, and that same uncomfortable pressure presses into his chest. The hitman doesn't sound like he's joking. And worse—he sounds like he's close to the truth. Too close.
Harry shrugs, tone casual. "They're… a rare panacea. Let's leave it at that."
"Panacea," Renato echoes, amused. "Right. And you just gave them to the Triads, out of the kindness of your heart?"
"They were hurting people I care about," Harry says tightly, before he can think better of it. And the silence that follows isn't accusing, but calculating.
Renato leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. He studies him the way a hunter of prey studies shifting winds.
"I'm starting to see why Fon's so territorial," he mutters. "It's not just your Flame."
Harry swallows as his hand curls into his lap at the long pause that follows. Then—mercifully—Renato's smile tilts just enough to make it feel like the weight is shifting again.
"Relax, birdboy," he says, standing up in a smooth motion. "I'm not about to auction your feathers. Just interesting, is all."
Harry watches him warily, but says nothing as Renato stretches slightly, cracking his neck. "I'll let you know when I've arranged your tailor visit. I'll even pay for your first commission—call it a thank-you for the entertainment."
"I'd rather pay," Harry says instantly.
"Suit yourself." Renato chuckles as he adjusts his fedora, already walking off. "But I'll be disappointed if you don't come dressed for the part next time."
"Wait," Fon says suddenly, voice sharpening. "You forgot something."
Renato pauses. "Hmm?"
"You promised to help create a new identity," Fon continues, arms crossing as his brows dip. "For someone who needs to live freely in Italy."
Renato tilts his head. "Oh. Right. The scientist."
Fon's eyes narrow into a glare that could cut glass. "You forgot?"
Renato shrugs, unbothered. "I got distracted by the shiny bird and your aggressive possessiveness. You can't blame me."
"I can and will," Fon hisses.
"You know," Renato muses as he slowly circles back toward them, "you look much better with your fake smile gone. It makes you seem almost human."
Fon's expression doesn't shift, but Harry can feel the energy spike beside him.
"You'd look better with a punch in the face," Fon says, deadly calm.
Harry glances between the two of them, blinking. They're standing maybe two feet apart now, stiff-backed, glaring like old men who forgot whose turn it was to sit on the only bench in the park. The tension is real and deeply ridiculous.
Harry coughs, and then lets out a short chuckle.
"Wow," he says, eyebrows raised as he leans back against the bench, arms folded. "You two have the weirdest friendship I've ever seen."
That gets their attention.
Fon turns to him immediately, eyes wide—almost betrayed. "He's not my friend," he says, tone urgent, like he wants to make it very clear.
At the same time, Renato hums. "Oh, I wouldn't call it friendship. I just like poking at his impeccable control. It's fascinating."
Harry snorts, fighting a grin. "Whatever you say."
He leans back, smiling into the fading light, and watches as Fon continues glaring murder at Renato and Renato, in turn, winks like the bastard he is. They might not be friends, but Harry's pretty sure they've got the kind of history that only weirdly affectionate near-enemies could develop.
"So?" Fon snaps. "About the new identity?"
Renato finally sighs, as if dragged into the responsibility of being a decent human being against his will. He leans back, tipping his head just so that the brim of his fedora casts his eyes in shadow.
"Fine," he mutters. "I'll need the full information. If you want something real done, no secrets."
Fon, with the air of a man swallowing something sour, pulls a sealed envelope from his coat. "All here. As promised."
Renato takes it lazily, peeking inside.
"Hoh?" he says aloud, eyes glinting with surprise. "URSS scientist. Dimtr Ivanovich Zeleny." He flips through the rest. "Specialized in propulsion theory, aerospace engineering, theoretical physics and, woah, those are a lot of PhD's… not bad. I see why they wouldn't want to let him go."
He taps the envelope thoughtfully against his palm.
"If he wants to go freelance, it's doable. Actually, being half and half might be the best option, to be honest. His name's out there, even if the USSR keeps trying to smother it. Someone with his rep won't be lacking offers… though most will come with strings."
Harry's brows draw together. "What do you mean by half and half?"
Renato hums. "There's a new group—Estraneo. Mostly scientists poking into Flames. Too ambitious, a bit messy, and not to be trusted entirely… but their resources are decent. I could angle him a position where your friend can use their labs, but doesn't join. That buys him time to learn and tech to explore, without a collar."
Fon's arms cross, slow and thoughtful. "And the long-term?"
Renato shrugs. "If your man wants a lab of his own, it's possible. But pricey. Connections, security, logistics, equipment. He'd be building a fortress with microscopes. Unless your brilliant little scientist is already sitting on a fortune, he'll need help."
He pauses, gaze flicking between them as he gives them a look. One of those deeply mafia expressions that said, show me your wallet or stop wasting my time.
Fon hesitates. Harry can feel it beside him, so he speaks first.
"I'll pay for it," Harry says.
Renato's gaze snaps to him. "You?"
"I have gold," Harry says simply. "A lot of it."
There's a beat. Then Renato leans forward slowly, eyes sharp. "So he's your element?"
"No?" Harry blinks. "He's my friend."
A longer pause this time. Renato studies him like he's trying to figure out what planet Harry is from and how it's not imploded from kindness yet.
"So," he says eventually, slow and skeptical, "you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"
"I'm doing this," Harry replies, calmly, "because he's important to me. That's enough."
Something shifts. Just slightly. Renato watches him for a beat too long. And then, out of nowhere, he smiles. Not the razor grin he wore before, but something softer. Still sharp, but less cruel. Less mocking. Like… approval.
"…Do you want to be my friend, then?" he asks, entirely serious.
Harry stares. "I—what?"
"I'm just saying," Renato continues, leaning back with a casual shrug. "It's rare to find someone who pays in loyalty these days. That's worth something."
"Are you asking to join my friend group?" Harry deadpans, and beside him Fon mutters something that sounds suspiciously like don't encourage him.
Renato just smiles wider, before looking down again to flip through the envelope Fon handed over. His expression remains unreadable though curious—until his fingers pause between two documents. He pulls something free with a raised eyebrow.
"A Mafia registration card?" he says, voice tinged with mild surprise. "Already a freelance?"
Harry perks up. "Yeah! We made it together."
He wants to talk more about it but then he sees it. The way Renato's smirk slowly sours as he actually reads the name on the card. Then, he looks up at Fon with a kind of offended disbelief, lips curling like he's tasted something foul.
"Verde Villanova?" he deadpans.
Fon remains impassive. Harry, on the other hand, chuckles, not even pretending to hide it.
"We said the same thing," he admits, grinning. "But he was very serious about it. Said it was easy to remember and that it fit because of his green hair and Flame."
Renato's expression is stuck somewhere between are you joking and I want a refund on this conversation. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm surrounded by idiots," but he doesn't argue further.
He just flips the card once, then sighs and sets it down. "Alright. I'll set the identity up properly first. Since he's already registered under that name—ugh—we'll have to keep it. Paper trails, bureaucracy, the usual."
Then he levels them both with a look. "But you need to talk to him. Let me know if he wants to go with the Estraneo option or not. I'll dig deep into some recent intel, get a report together. You can bring it to him."
Harry nods. "We'll ask him. He's been curious about Flames, so I think he'll at least want to know more."
"Good," Renato says, already pulling out a small notebook and scribbling something down. "Same bar. Two days from now. I expect you both there."
He glances at Harry's formal robes and at Fon's casual one. "And maybe wear something that doesn't scream I fought the Triads and all I got was this outfit. I'll leave you with my tailor's address, just in case you want something with more style."
"Will it keep you away from us afterward?" Fon asks serenely.
Renato just grins. "No."
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