To be honest, his eyes have seen death far too many times than would be expected from a boy his age — perhaps far more than the average man has.

Those scrutinizing glances, those skeptical, hard gazes pointed that would be pointed his way would tell him the same thing - disbelief. They would remark that it was impossible for one as young as himself to know what blood tasted like, how it felt to hold blood-stained hands harbored from the battlefield. They would remark to him that a child like himself would never understand why another man's blood had the nature of alcohol to Mafioso — how it was addicting and just made their spirits boil in excitement. However, at the end of such rants, these men would revert themselves back to sensible human beings, the sort of exhausted, drunken spirits that carried hopeless sighs on their tongues, as they tell him that he will never understand how much it means to maintain living.

But—he would click his teeth in the haughtiness of his tone—he does know how much it means to live as a Mafioso.

He'd remark that his hands do strike fear into the hearts of full-grown men—more than once, he'd like to add. But he doesn't like to get his hands stained, because when his hands do become dirty with the blood of his enemy, the feeling is so horrible that he'd refuse to lift another finger until he gets them washed. The fact that his boss—his older brother—dislikes the sight serves as further reason, because striking fear does not equal death. He'd argue to them that his taste buds won't even be addicted to the metallic taste of blood, because compared to the sweet sensation of delicious candies, blood is just too bittersweet. But then, he would simply answer that he is mafia, that his taste buds can't be addicted to the metallic taste of blood, because compared to sweet sensation of candy, blood is too bittersweet.

He knows what it means to live, because when he looks into the eyes of his enemies, his bones become frozen when he watches death come and takes its toll — his heart twisting in hateful knots at the sight. He hates the fact that he can tell when death has paid a visit, because it would take every fiber of his own being to force himself to not break out into tears. But not because Mafioso do not cry, but rather because crying has always been a bad childhood habit of his.

This bad habit makes them, the cruel Mafioso, to look down upon him, to categorize him as among the weak even though he really isn't, because he knows his potential become someone strong — not a ruthless killer.

He had always grown up and grounded with the notion that Mafioso are the scary ones — the ones to be feared because of the strength that they hold, the murder intent in their blood. But he's seen people in his life that don't hold that intent — that are more stronger when influenced to protect, rather than to kill. He understands that these are the people that are strong, that do not shed tears in front of the enemy — only when loved ones are finally saved. These are the Mafioso that are susceptible to their own weaknesses, but still have the strength—the courage—to overcome them.

And that is the point at which he doubts himself, the stalemate where he wonders whether he really is a true Mafioso. His shouts tell them that he is mafia, the sort that overcome weakness, and yet, he always seems to find himself retracting the statement once he feels himself on the brink of tears. When he becomes face with this, he doesn't know what to think or what to believe: is he a true Mafioso or not?

But he tries to tolerate this even though he's at a loss, because Tsuna—his boss, his older brother—tells him that he's still young, and so, he just lets the tears fall down his cheeks as Tsuna tells him the honest truth.

"Even though Lambo knows that a true Mafioso is strong and brave against weaknesses, Lambo is still a thirteen-year old boy with a heart."

—and tears are his worst weapon, while his susceptibility to cry is his greatest weakness.

[A/N]: I would really love it if I got some feedback on this! :D