The mansion thrummed with the low bass of a celebration. Tonight, the air was thick not with the scent of fear or cigar smoke, but with the rich aroma of roasted meats, fine wine, and a palpable sense of revelry. It was Capone Bege's birthday, a rare occasion where the mask of ruthless efficiency was lowered just enough to reveal the camaraderie of a brutal brotherhood. For Antonio, however, the party was a stage, a perfect distraction for a final act of betrayal.
He had long since decided to leave. The life of a mobster's son, even a favored one, was a gilded cage. He was a weapon to be pointed, not a man with his own will. Capone's future alliance with Big Mom and the coming of his biological son, Pez, sealed his decision. He knew he would be cast aside, a mere tool with a limited shelf life. Antonio's ambitions were far grander than being a hired gun. He had a different purpose, a destiny he had dreamed of in his previous life: to find the One Piece and become the Pirate King. This was his one chance to live that grand adventure, a life of boundless freedom that had once been his only escape.
But before he could chase his own destiny, he had to settle a debt. A debt to the child whose body he now inhabited and to the parents who had been mercilessly murdered. That debt was named Vito. Vito, the man who had taught him everything, the man who had been a closer thing to a father than Capone, was the man who had killed his parents. Antonio had pieced it together from a stray conversation he had overheard between two mobsters years ago. The details were foggy, but the truth was as clear as the polished surface of a rifle scope: Vito had led the hit.
His hatred for Capone and the entire family was a quiet fire that had burned for years. He never showed it, his face a mask of stoic calm. He was a perfect asset, an obedient son. The unpaid missions—those quiet, unheralded successes that strengthened the family's reach—festered in his mind. He was a hired gun, but he was never paid. He had come to expect it, to use the missions as a cover for his own secret training.
Whenever Capone sent him on an assassination mission, Antonio would take his time returning. The extra days were not for rest but for relentless, solitary training.
Conqueror's Haki
Antonio's first encounter with his Conqueror's Haki was a terrifying, eye-opening experience. When he was just ten years old, Capone had ordered Vito to take Antonio on a grueling survival mission. They were stranded on a small, rocky island in the middle of a choppy sea, with only a small boat for shelter. Antonio was a mere child, terrified and alone. After two days, a colossal Sea Beast, a monster of the deep with razor-sharp teeth and a body the size of a mountain, emerged from the murky depths. It loomed over his boat, its dark eyes filled with a primal, hungry intelligence.
Antonio's fear was absolute, but so was his will to live. He had not survived a reincarnation and the brutal training of the Capone family just to be swallowed by a sea monster. In that desperate, final moment, a raw, primal force erupted from him. It wasn't physical; it was an invisible wave of pure, overwhelming will. The Sea Beast, a creature of instinct and malice, shuddered. Its eyes, moments before filled with predatory hunger, now held a deep, animalistic terror. It whimpered, a sound like a dozen grinding stones, and submerged itself, fleeing the overwhelming pressure of Antonio's spirit.
Antonio, shaking but alive, collapsed in his boat. He didn't understand what had happened until he later recalled a passing mention of the rare ability in one of the books he had read. From then on, he trained it in secret, away from the prying eyes of Vito and Capone. He would find isolated, uninhabited islands and practice, releasing his will until the very air around him felt heavy and suffocating. He trained by trying to knock out wild animals, then larger, more powerful creatures, until he could fell a dozen at once. It was a secret he guarded fiercely, a trump card for when the time came to break free.
Armament Haki
Antonio's training in Armament Haki was more logical, a physical manifestation of his will. He remembered scenes from the anime, the black coating on the bodies and weapons of characters. He knew it was a form of armor, a way to harden one's body. He would spend hours on his isolated missions, pouring his concentration into his fists, trying to achieve the blackening effect he had seen. The process was agonizing, a slow burn of energy and focus. At first, he could only maintain it for a few seconds. But with each mission, with each silent, infuriating training session, he grew stronger.
He didn't just train it for defense. He had a grander vision. He began trying to imbue his bullets with Armament Haki, an incredible feat of micro-control. He would sit for hours, holding a single bullet, focusing his will into it. He failed a thousand times, his energy draining away. But slowly, painstakingly, he began to succeed. He could coat the tip of a bullet, then the whole thing, transforming a simple piece of lead into a hardened, destructive force. This, he knew, would be his ultimate weapon against anyone who stood in his way, even those with Devil Fruit powers.
The party was in full swing. Antonio, looking every bit the refined and promising son, moved through the crowds, a ghost in plain sight. He approached Capone, who was holding a glass of wine and laughing with a group of other mob bosses.
"Happy birthday, Captain," Antonio said, his voice calm and polite.
Capone clapped a large hand on his shoulder. "Antonio! Glad you could make it. You will be a great asset to this family, boy. Just remember your place."
Antonio's face remained a perfect mask. "Thank you, Captain," he said, and with a slight bow, he melted back into the crowd.
Now was the time. The main vault was heavily guarded, but Antonio had been observing it for years. Tonight, with the party as a distraction, the guards were slightly lax, their focus on the festivities. Antonio used his Observation Haki, his mind an intricate map of the mansion. He saw the two guards at the vault door, their minds a soft buzz of boredom and anticipation for the party food.
He approached them, a warm smile on his face. "Enjoying the party, boys?"
The guards, accustomed to the Captain's son, greeted him with deference. "Yes, Antonio! The food is great!"
Antonio's smile vanished. His red eyes, a flicker of pure Conqueror's Haki in their depths, met theirs. An invisible wave of pressure, a suffocating force of will, slammed into the two guards. Their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed, unconscious before they even hit the floor.
Antonio moved past them, his face a cold mask of purpose. He entered the vault, a room filled with crates of cash, gold bullion, and priceless artifacts. He worked quickly, filling the silver briefcase Capone had given him, not with the meager sum he was promised, but with bundles of cash. He also located and stole the detailed maps to the Grand Line, invaluable tools for his journey.
With his prize secured, he slipped out of the vault and made his way to the dockyard. A small, unassuming sailboat, his prearranged escape vehicle, sat bobbing gently in the dark water. He stashed the briefcase and the maps in a hidden compartment, securing his future. Then, with his mission half-complete, he returned to the party.
He found Vito standing near a railing, nursing a glass of rum, his face a study in quiet melancholy. Antonio approached him, his face a perfect picture of youthful contemplation.
"Vito," he said softly. "Could I ask you something?"
Vito, a hint of genuine affection in his eyes, turned to him. "Sure, kid. What's on your mind?"
"If someone killed your family," Antonio began, his voice barely a whisper, "someone close to you… should you seek revenge, or forgive them?"
Vito was visibly startled. He saw the girl he had taught to shoot, the boy who had come to be his closest friend in this family of wolves, and the question came as a sharp, painful surprise. "Antonio… what are you talking about?"
"I met a girl once," Antonio lied smoothly, his eyes filled with a manufactured sadness. "Her parents were killed by a man who then adopted her. She told me she had forgiven him. I don't understand how someone could do that."
Vito, his expression hardening into the familiar mask of a pirate, let out a mirthless chuckle. "Forgive them? Antonio, we live in a world where the strong eat the weak. Revenge is not a choice; it's a law. If you let someone get away with a slight, you're just inviting a bigger one later. You retaliate with force. You set an example."
Antonio laughed. He laughed so hard that tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He wasn't crying from sorrow; he was crying from the bitter irony of it all. Vito, his killer, was lecturing him on the sacred law of revenge.
Vito, confused and unsettled, reached out to him. "Antonio, what is it?"
Antonio's laughter stopped, and his face became a cold, hard mask of purpose. He moved with a speed that defied the human eye. His right arm, coated in a shimmering black layer of Armament Haki, shot out, a blur of motion. His fist, imbued with his killer's will, plunged directly into Vito's chest, ripping through his heart in a single, devastating blow.
Vito's eyes, wide with shock, stared at Antonio. There was no pain, just a profound, silent confusion. He had taught this boy everything, had seen him as his protégé, his future. Now, that future was ending him.
Antonio pulled his fist back, the black Haki dissipating. He let Vito's lifeless body fall into the dark, cold water below. He looked down at the ripples on the surface and then back at the mansion, where the party was still raging. He reached up, unhooked the silver cross Vito always wore around his neck, and placed it in his own hand.
"It had to be done," he said, his voice a cold, distant whisper. "For the child, and for his parents."
With that, Antonio stepped onto his boat. He didn't look back at the mansion or the party or the life he was leaving behind. He raised the sail and disappeared into the night, a ghost sailing toward a new dawn, ready to write his own legend.