Italy then disappeared whith whatever doors he had hidden to travel to the injured nation, since his and Germany's room were right next to hers. It left Romano alone, sides Belgium. Prolonging his gaze towards the blonde a moment, Romano looked out the window that let the moon beams enter freely. There really was nothing else like the night sky, the Italian thought, smiling. Even after all these decades, wars, centuries, millenia… Romano loved the night the most

It was ironically fitting, the mafioso older brother liked the night, while the bright, cheerful younger liked the day, but he couldn't help it. He related to the darkness, one that could never be cleared, destined to always be dark and feared. The moon was the only thing in the night sky that took the spotlight, alone, and as such, provided little luminance. However, Romano was fond of that as well, since he had always thought it unrealistic there was so much happiness in the world. Stars, tiny and twinkling, reminded the nation of his people, those that smiled within in him, no matter the state of the world. There was so much unexplored, so much unknown, and what Romano loved the most was that people also loved it-the mystery. Humans went to such great lengths to take a single step, and that determination was what Romano loved the most about the creatures.

Sighing, he gave a nostalgic, but tired glance to Belgium. I really was failure, huh? he thought, eyeing her injured form. She was obviously in much better condition, the wound almost completely healed, but she won't be able to function fully for most of Sunday. Biting his lip, Romano opened the window. About 15 feet off the ground, suitable size, and the crowded buildings surrounding the hotel made it all the better. Grinning, he posed himself, propping his left foot onto the window's ledge as he plotted his path.

In an instant, he shot off, gliding through the air as if it were water, and silently landing on to the broken roof of the flower shop next door. Sliding to the edge, Romano grasped the shingles, and fell off, only to swing back. After a few, the mafioso flicked his wrist, and he was in the sky again, although only slightly, and positioned himself mid-air to land without sound or impact. Finishing with a graceful stance, he stood straight, and dusted off his black shirt. He had planned to visit Belgium, so he strategically parked his motorcycle below her window before hand.

He put in the key, and gave her a good spin before the engine roared to life. The ferocious sound died quickly into content purring, signaling for Romano to hit the accelerator. Freely, the Italian sped out of the narrow lane, not even glancing at the speed limit sign. He was the fucking personification of this country, damn it, and he could speed if he wanted to.

Although it was in the early morning hours, Catania still had people and cars meandering the roads, drunk, delirious, and so stupid, they probably wouldn't notice if Romano crashed his bike right into them. But the pedestrians were hardly important as he rushed back to where he had been not 10 minutes previous.

For the entirety of 11 hours, he had endured sitting next to that bastard, going over the information and trying to track down more. Romano was fully aware of how skilled the man was; he had experienced near death at his hands several times. However, just that damn, emotionless attitude he held was so acted so modern gen, and Romano despised modern gen. They had no sense of finesse or style. Well, to be fair, there had always been a modern gen, before that generation became less modern, and then became the old fashioned generation.

Still, the point was, Romano had to deal with that annoying attitude for more than he had ever feared he would have to, sitting side by side, digging through informants. The only thing in the existence of the universe that could force him to be in the vicinity of someone he didn't like, and them not being a corpse, was if it were for the sake of saving one of his friends, and luckily for Corvino, that was true.

Turning onto another lane, Romano quickly killed the engines, returning the dark alley to silence. Hopping off the machine, the Italian lackadaisically walked over to the rusty, dented door he had parked across, unlocking it, and immediately turned to the side. To his utmost expectations, Corvino had attempted to kill him again, and like the last 48 times, he failed. With a coffee mug shattering on the nearby opposing wall, the Italian cheerfully peeked an eye into the room, seeing the standing form of Corvino, glaring at him irritably.

"Do you have it?" he demanded, but despite the serious 'answer-truthfully-and-quickly-before-I-kill-you' glare he was giving the don, Romano blissfully walked passed him to the couch, dropping onto the furniture like a sack of bricks. He never liked going on errands, but this one he would never leave to an underling. Lifting the long book in his hands above his head, he inspected its chipped hardcover and the crinkled, worn leather that covered the spine. The green book had been with him since the first years of his life. The first 50 pages or so were antiquity level, and this red one he had gotten in the renaissance. It wasn't a diary, like Prussia's, but something much more powerful.

It was a contact journal.

Even when he was a tender age, Romano had sucked horribly at making relationships. So, ChibiRomano wrote down every person he ever met, if he knew their name, and their contact information, if available. These days, the thick volume was only a few pages from full. He'd probably need to replace by the end of the trip. White would be next, then. To last perhaps even another millenia.

A hand suddenly attempted to snatch it from his grasp and Romano could practically feel the surprise of Corvino. Sitting up, the brunette gave him a dubious look, scoffing. The guy was pretty young for someone so experienced. "You really think I wouldn't clutch my most important possession like a fucking life line? You should know how valuable this thing is."

And it was true. The only reason Corvino knew of it was the rumor that the don of Roma kept a list of all his contacts, and passed it on for the next. However, both had forgotten about it, despite Romano deliberately making sure he always had the book with him if he traveled, preferably on him. The closer, the better, since mafiosi could never be trusted to be courteous to one's privacy and not search your home for something they wanted.

Growling, the raven sighed, and begrudgingly sat on the couch across from Romano. Giving him a harsh glare, the don sighed, and flipped open the book, heading more to the end. He looked over the rough, crisp paper with a smile on his face, happily picturing all the faces that went with the names he had cursively inscribed on the sheet. Running a hand down one page, the nation sighed in happiness. All those good times.

Then, seemingly without doing anything, Romano clapped the book shut and set in his lap. His hands were still tightly secured on it, though. Blinking, Corvino furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, obviously displeased he was unable to see what had just happened. Noticing this, the Italian shook his head, and explained, "I've written and gone over these pages so many times, that I just need to glance at it to be able to remember who was who. In the last 30 years, I have written down 452 informants, only 216 of which trustworthy, and of that, only 176 are alive."

Corvino blankly stared at him for a moment, before recomposing himself. He nodded faintly, looking away. Romano smirked. Telltale signs of someone in denial of his badassery. Although it was a mystery why they all did that (A/N perhaps they couldn't believe a mafioso or someone with his personality would ever be good with numbers and memorizing?).

Shaking his head, Corvino continued, "Any of those we've already talked to?" Romano paused briefly, before replying, "Yes, 34 of the 176 we've already spoken, as these were the most immediate and recent of my informants." Nodding, the hitman walked the short distance between them to sit next to Romano. The brunette Italian eyed him suspiciously, backing to the edge of the couch. Sneering, Corvino reassured him, "I need to input their phone numbers."

"Oh… okay," Romano muttered, turning to a seemingly random page, before he stopped at one and began spouting numbers. Corvino paused. "...You do know that that area code… is for the government of North Korea, right?" he asked. The Italian laughed, "Of course! He works for their secret… intelligence force!" The raven, for the sake of his sanity, decided to ignore that pause, and pressed the dial button.

"당신은 누구이고 왜이 숫자는 알 수 있습니까?!" a voice barked into the receiver, speaking fluent Korean. Corvino knew Korean, so that wasn't the issue, but he gladly took up Romano's offer and gave his cell to him. A carefree smile popped on the Italian's face as he spoke, uttering words the hitman didn't think possible to be spoken so cheerfully, and especially not to trade them with a North Korean.

Soon, Romano was bid him a goodbye, and ended the call with a cheerful smile. It was foreign on the mafioso's face, for Corvino at least, and he decided, though he didn't open his mouth Romano could be a pretty nice guy. "You were listening, right?" the Italian asked, opening the red book again. "This one is in Norway. That guy is a lot of fun, nothing like his country, even though that guy can be pretty interesting, too…"

"His country…?" Corvino inquired, before dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. He realized that the more he got to know the man, the more and more confused he got. Romano, also thankful for this, clicked the contact button. The notepad he had been writing on, with nearly 16 pages chock full from the past 11 hours, was in front of him, ready to write down any information he could get and making a note of who would call later and when.

Corvino, given a slip of paper with 21 informants and their numbers, all of which being in Southern Europe, grabbed another disposable phone and began dialing. The first was a Swiss man, and demanded who the hell was wasting his minutes. Realizing 'I'm a friend of Romano's' would never be trusted, Corvino asked what the don's safe word was. "Tomato-Bitch," the nation answered calmly, simultaneously ending the racket blaring in his own ears.

Not even reacting, Corvino spoke in exactly the way Romano said it, "Tomato-Bitch," the man immediately calmed down, even getting friendly. "You're a friend of Romano's? Well, it's nice to meet you. What do you want to know?" The hitman was used to getting the 'friend of a friend' treatment, but if a Swiss was acting like he would towards a 'friend of a friend', how did he treat Romano? Corvino glanced to the Italian, before focusing back to the conversation at hand.

They called the entire world over, scribbling all of the notepad about the mystery perpetrator; who he came from, who he's after, where he is, and what he's after. After another 4 and a half hours of searching, the two Italians came up with most of the answers. They couldn't supply enough information for the informants to tell them where in the hell this guy was, but the others were nearly totally answered.

It was confirmed that the man was definitely Southern Europe born, most likely countries being Spain or South Italy, taking into account his fighting technique. It had also been ruled out the victim, anyone not politically active within the last 15 years, and hasn't caused harm to their people within the last 50 years. Take into account the countries he possible came from, only Alfred J., Antonio C., and himself remain as the possible victim.

More analysis was being done, but reading the clock as on the verge of tipping to 7 in the morning, Romano set the phone down onto the coffee table in the basement-like room they had been in all night. The walls were leafy green, in a considerable good shape without many stains, besides some caused by a leaking pipe. The floors were black tile, contrasting sharply with the soft green, that were largely hidden by the Italian themed carpet that stretched most of the room. On it was the stubby, glass coffee table, two dark green couches, and a small desk in the corner where a coffee machine was stationed. All of which, excluding the coffee pot, had papers tossed over. Corvino eyed the mess bitterly, and even harsher at the don walking to the door. After completing the first batch of 50, they started up the coffee machine, to which Corvino was helping himself to another mug. Reluctantly, the hitman did confess that Romano could make a damn espresso.

"Oi, what about the mess?" he growled. Romano gave a tired sigh. "You know what," was his pithy reply, before he walked out. Corvino didn't even bother moving, still leaning against his plain walls, as the howling cry of a motorcycle ripped through the air and died into the distance. Even in south Italy, they had Sundays, though. Quite a few people were hollering, having disturbed their day of rest.

Romano relived the path he took the night before, noticing that the houses looked dirtier in return for the lack of creepiness. Easily, he ignored the yollering aimed at him. He was used to pissing people off, hell, he took pride in it. Well, he could do no such thing today. Not only were they going to church, the bastards he normally considered too noisy for maturity were now his 'guests' and he needed to treat them with as much respect and patience his existence could muster.

Well, no one was worse than new gen bosses, but at least he didn't have to restrict any mafioso talk, and could freely tease and call them out. Sighing, Romano stopped thinking about it, and started considering what he should be wearing at mass. The day after the invitation, he had received a reply as to who would be attending mass, around half at18. The pagans and lazy asses that abstained would stay in the hotel before the service ended.

Swiftly, he found himself in the parking lot of the hotel, and decided to park to the side of the building. Walking into the large hotel, his eyes took several moments to adjust to artificial lighting, but took over all pleasure in the air conditioning. Checking in, Romano strided the few meters it took to reach the elevator and entered, pressing the up arrow. The don, in a good mood thanks to all the progress they made, didn't even mind the disgustingly sweet elevator music, only recognizing the distinct ping of his arrival.

Arriving at his room, Romano glanced at the body that was Spain. He had been disappointed he hadn't been able to meet with him, since he had seemed really shaken up. The don was well aware of Spain's gruesome history, and didn't blame him. Surprisingly, Spain was on Romano's mattress, the covers tossed to the floor, and the larger nation's upper body sweaty and free of any form of cloth. Sighing, the Italian walked over, leaning down over his ex-guardian. He observed the tanned nation, who's usually peaceful and cheerful features were marred with pain and terror. It wouldn't be surprising if Spain hadn't gotten any sleep last night. Giving a soft kiss on the forehead, Romano turned around, heading for the bathroom as he stripped off his shirt.

Shutting the door and now naked, he turned the shower knob and jumped in. He hissed at the cold water, but slowly it transitioned into a lukewarm, easing his discomfort. Sweat and fatigue weighed him down, and with those refreshing waters, Romano left them swirling into the drain. "Romano!" a familiar voice shouted, the owner barging into the room the don was pretty sure he locked. Exposed, and water pouring, Romano was silent as Spain worriedly babbled his heart out. Although he really didn't blame the nation, Romano didn't want to have this conversation unclothed.

"Spain, knock first. I'm in the shower," he said, glaring at the other. As if just realizing this, Spain did a once over Romano, who hurried to turn so his more… private parts remained undisclosed. Glancing back, he could see his words hit Spain hard, as he flustered even further before squealing and darting back. Grumbling, Romano scrubbed his hair to get any persevering dirt out, before turning off the water.

With a quick rub on his head, the soft, hotel towel was secured around his waist. Balling his dirty clothes, he carried them out. Nonchalantly, the smaller passed the still blushing Spain, who rushed to his own bed seeing Romano's appearance, and set them beside his suitcase. Opening the box, he drew a suitable pair of pants and shirt, and folded the dirty ones, replacing them with the clothing he just extracted. With a wry glance at Spain, he dropped the towel, and dried any remaining water droplets. Moments later he he was securing his neck tie, fully clothed and refreshed. Spain, peeking from the hands he had firmly placed over his eyes, sighed in relief, relaxing.

Sighing at the man, Romano walked back to the entrance. His roommate was obviously distraught, if the him suddenly shouting, 'Wait, Romano!' and herdling forward was anything to go by. Normally, the don would have easily sidestepped the idiot. However, he shouldn't really cause the loss of even more brain cells, since he was already overworking the minimal preexisting ones. So, bracing himself slightly, Romano was tackled to the ground by Spain, head narrowly avoiding getting hit by the door. Only centimeters apart, the Italian could clearly see the concern, the confusion, the pain whirling and clouding his usually clear emerald eyes. His words slipped into Spanish as he cried out all that had been on his mind.

He let down his people, led them to their death, betrayed his most trusted friends. For a while Spain gave in, realizing that in his existence, there was no such thing as a true friendship. However, he still loved Roma, no matter how much time had passed, and that with the falling of one of his closest friends, he once again saw that Romano was his world, and that if he let one of his friends down, he might fail even him.

The Italian, still cramped between a rock and a hard place, understood what he was saying. Despite wanting immensely to shove the person on top of him off and throw him out the window, Romano decided to give him some slack. Scoffing lightly the other, the wrapped his arms around the other's neck, perching his head on the tanned nation's shoulder. "Idiot, who said I counted on you for protection? Seeing you kill yourself over it will hardly make me happy," Romano scolded. Spain brightened immensely, and was about to burst about, again, Romano saw that as a cue to get up.

His ex-guardian whined at the sudden harsh treatment, while the Italian dusted his backside. At least the other appeared far more calmer, he thought, inspecting the other. He was hurt by being sent a few feet, but it was the endearing kind of anger, one of the playful admonishing looks he got from Spain when he would headbutt him in the stomach, Good times. Smiling softly at the other, Romano grasped the door knob.

"Come one Spain, we gotta go!"