The only portrait the Vongola had of Secondo was littered with inaccuracies. According to the artist Riccardo towered a good foot or more above lesser men, had arms the approximate girth of tree limbs, and wore a perpetual scowl. His flames of wrath had a shimmering glow like fairydust and served primarily to halo the heavy ring he wore on his right hand, emblazoned proudly with the Vongola crest.

In fairness, the scowl was entirely accurate.

The artist had set out with the best of intentions; by the time the second sitting for the painting was finished it was mutually concluded that it was impossible to convince the Vongola boss to hold any expression other than “glower” or “distasteful indifference” for more than five consecutive minutes. Executive decisions had been made regarding which expression was best suited to immortalize his memory among the Family.

“Really,” was all Daemon had to say when the portrait was finally completed and hung in prize of place above the sweeping staircase in the grand entrance hall. “How conservative. I expected a lion pelt under your feet. Drinking wine from the skull of a vanquished foe, perhaps.”

The look Secondo shot him suggested that skull could just as easily be his own.

“It’s a reminder. Of exactly who the boss is around here.”

“Mmm. Your guardians do seem to require the visual aid.”

Secondo snorted, raked fingers back through his hair in a way that made the lamplight gleam off his ring, and smiled a slow feral smile at Daemon. It bared markedly more teeth than the one in the portrait; all in all, it was a fairer representation.

“No. If they value their pathetic lives, they won’t.”