Reborn took a single tutoring job and within a week of his job's conclusion, he had suddenly become the go-to tutor for all future mafia bosses.

The inbox he reserved for mafia work was flooded, the inbox he reserved for more 'legal' work was flooded, even his personal email (unnervingly enough) had a few job offers trickling in. Idiots on their death beds from all over the mafia begged him for even a week of his time to whip their heirs into shape, offering anything from money and alcohol, to giant robot armies(?), it would have been funny if the constant pings weren't so annoying. Reborn wrote a blunt message declining and sent it out en masse to all those who'd approached him through his work emails.

Those who had somehow located his personal inbox, he went to talk to personally. Anyone who could track down private info on the world's greatest hitman deserved some sort of prize: theirs was the honour of being target practice for Reborn's sexy new CZC AO1-LD. Better than they deserved, if he was to be honest. He'd nabbed the gun at a recent show and hadn't even had a chance to christen it with a name and officially introduce it to the family yet – he rarely used his guns before they settled into their new home, but oh, that smooth, slick cut, the curve of the grip, and that sweetly mild recoil, the CZC was threatening his CZ75's place as his main weapon. Truly a gun after his own heart.

More pleasant thoughts aside, Reborn was on the verge of going berserk just to remind the mafia who exactly he was, something they seemed to have conveniently forgotten the moment word of his success with the hopeless Cavallone heir got around.

Luckily for the rest of the world, the emails trickled off pretty quickly after Reborn expressed his disinterest. No one was brave enough to go against him, after all, and no one was stupid enough to try and sway him where others have failed. Any proof of the contrary aside, if Reborn said he didn't teach, he didn't teach.

Reborn might have gone on a rampage anyways just to remind the mafia of their place (beneath him) in his younger days, but at the ripe old age of two years old, he really was getting too old to make such a big deal of things. The majority of his excessive pride had been neatly destroyed by Luce and her curse.

The mafioso were still young, he thought in a rare moment of merciful contemplation, he'd give them time to make other, bigger mistakes that he'd garner more satisfaction killing them over.

He'd just about put the incident behind him when a letter arrived in the mail. The envelope was high quality, the wax stamp leaved with pure gold. Strong, pure sky flames leaked from the envelope in droves, authenticating the document and providing a proper signature, and Reborn grudgingly appreciated the professionalism shown, something all the emails had clearly been lacking.

Dear Reborn, the letter said, could you help an old man out of a tight spot? Life has been a mixed bag for me, as it is towards all of us mafia folk of course, but these last few decades have been a pleasure, watching my children grow up. I see my children beckoning to me from the other side now and I do think it is time for me to settle down with my age and choose an heir. These old bones won't last forever.

There was only one man in the world who spoke this casually to Reborn, only one man who could pull off the helpless old man act so well it seeped through his letters. Cursing his softness towards his long-time friend and ally, Reborn began planning his trip to Sicily, home to the Vongola Famiglia headquarters.