Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Bucciarati!”

Mista ran over to where his body lay, still resting where they’d left it, bullet-ridden and deathly still. Beneath him, blood had spiraled outwards into the cracks of the pavement like kaleidoscope patterns — but his wounds weren’t bleeding anymore. 

There was no movement at all. 

When the wind blew, there wasn’t so much a rustle in his hair. There was an unearthly stillness to the air around Bucciarati, one that signaled alarm bells in Mista’s head. 

He crouched as Trish caught up to him, her boots scraping against the worn stone. Her enthusiasm died along with Mista’s when she got a good glimpse at her fallen friend. 

“Mista, is he…” she started, cut off immediately by a stern shake of his head. 

“Giorno!” Mista barked, turning his head over his shoulder. “The fuck is taking you so long? Come heal Bucciarati already!”

He watched Giorno out of the corner of his eye, dragging his feet over to them — almost like he didn’t want to confront the situation. Almost like he knew something Mista didn’t. It was unlike him.

The gunslinger glanced back to the body lain in front of him. 

His breaths ran ragged. His skin burned. Tightness snaked around his heart and dread seeped into his veins.

Not this, not now… not Bucciarati too…

“Giorno,” urged Mista in a hoarse voice. It barely sounded like himself.

Placing the turtle in his hand onto the ground, Giorno crept to Bucciarati’s other side and crouched down. Blinding light cut through the darkness cast by the Colosseum, like Moses parting the Red Sea, while the hands of Gold Experience carefully traced the outline of his body.

Gold settled around them and before they knew it, the light dimmed and the gang were left once again swathed in the cool shadows of the arena. 

Bucciarati’s body was healed, but he didn’t wake.

“Bucciarati?” Mista’s voice called hesitantly, tiptoeing into the space like it was intruding. He shook him lightly. “Oi, wake up, man. It’s over, we beat Diavolo! It’s over.” 

Still, he refused to wake.

“Hey,” Mista said with more force. “It’s time to get up. We still have shit to do, we gotta get back to Naples, we gotta…” He forced down the bile rising in his throat, his mind flashing back to Narancia.

Tears welled in Trish’s eyes. She hugged herself, unable to bear it.

“You gotta tell us what to do,” Mista tried again. “We can’t do this without you, man. Get up, Bucciarati!”

“…it’s useless, Mista.” 

Giorno slowly rose from his spot. His face was downcast, and when Mista looked up at him he saw for the first time just how tired he looked. His braid unravelled and his suit wrinkled, his hands decorated with cuts and his shoes scuffed, never had the image of the unshakable Giorno Giovanna look as exhausted as he did now.

And never did he look as defeated.

“Bucciarati, he…” His throat worked as he struggled for words. “It’s no use. He’s gone.”

Mista stood abruptly. “No, Giorno. He can’t be. He was just here.”

“His body had already been gone for a long time. His soul has just…” Giorno couldn’t voice it out loud. Refused to. “He told me — On our way to Rome.”

“Told you… what?” asked Trish quietly.

“That he, his body, was on borrowed time. King Crimson had killed him back then, in Venice. It was already too late, but… He said that I had gifted him the resolve to keep going. For our dream, for you guys, he was able to keep going.”

Giorno clenched his fists, unable to look the others in the eye. It broke his heart when he thought of it. It had been breaking his heart ever since the car ride.

“What?”

He looked up, casting himself into the fiery pools of anger that were Mista’s eyes.

“You knew? You knew this was gonna happen?”

“Bucciarati asked me not to tell anyone.” He shifted on the spot. “But yes, I knew he would leave us soon.”

Red blinded him and in an instant Mista stood, his gun aimed at Giorno’s head.

“How could you not tell us something like that?! We came all the way back here for him and you already knew he was dead? Why?”

Did he really intend to shoot him? Even he didn’t know. The Pistols buzzed around him in agitated confusion. 

Giorno’s face flickered. He met his gaze, face cast in iron conviction. He stepped forward. Mista felt sweat bead over the trigger. 

“Mista,” Giorno started, “I understand you’re angry at me. Rightfully so. I respected Bucciarati’s wishes by not telling you of his condition, but you—and the others—should’ve known.” 

Another step.

“You can do what you want with me. You can be as angry as you want at me for not telling you. But—” 

Giorno set an unwavering hand on the gun. His grasp tightened around it, his eyes never dropping Mista’s line of sight. Up close, he could tell just how much Giorno was trembling.

“If there is one thing I will not allow you to do to me… is kill me.”

Mista’s blood thumped harder in his ears. 

“Bucciarati and I shared a dream. It would be a great disservice to his memory, to the actions that have brought us this far, to Abbacchio, to Narancia, to Fugo, if I let you kill me here without having achieved our shared goal.”

Mista’s grip loosened. Of course he wasn’t going to shoot him. He was never going to. He couldn’t.

“Do you understand, Mista?”

It was then, under the passion of Giorno’s gaze, the crystal clear determination and the golden resolve Mista’s felt so acutely on their journey, that he felt utterly weak. 

How could he ever even entertain the idea of harming him? What was wrong with him?

He cast his gaze down, remorse and guilt and shock flooding him all at once.

“Tell me he’s okay Giorno,” he whispered. “He’ll wake up any moment now, right? Right, Giorno?”

Something in the boy’s demeanour broke at that.

“Mista,” Giorno pleaded, his voice tight. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Mista wrenched the gun out of Giorno’s grasp and dropped it to the ground, all of his energy leaving him. His breaths erratic, he questioned who he was even angry at anymore. Giorno for not telling him? Bucciarati for feeling like he had to keep his condition to himself? Fugo for leaving? Diavolo for starting this all?

Himself for being unable to protect his friends?

Mista bit back a curse and forced himself away from the weight of Giorno’s line of sight. He trudged back to where Bucciarati rested.

He moved past Trish, who hung back awkwardly, her arms crossed over her chest. She followed him with her eyes, Mista could feel it, but ignored her. She shouldn’t be pitying him. At least he was alive.

He crouched next to the body of his fallen friend. No — Not just friend, Mista corrected himself inwardly. His mentor, his leader, his saviour. 

The truth was, they all knew. How Bucciarati was acting ever since the encounter with King Crimson, the mysterious injuries and the ominous things he’d say — they all knew, to some extent, that something was wrong.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

Giorno approached behind him. He could tell by the jingle of the brooches on his suit.

“He asked me to tell you he said goodbye.”

Mista screwed his eyes shut, tears threatening to escape him again. He couldn’t, not in front of Giorno, not again.

“…Make yourself useful,” Mista grunted in Giorno’s direction, “and get Narancia.” 

There was a beat of hesitation before his friend picked up speed away from him, footsteps light as leaves upon water.

He sighed heavily through his nose, steered his thoughts back to the body of his friend in front of him. With a gentleness he didn’t know he was capable of, Mista cradled Bucciarati close to him, one arm hooked under the backs of his knees and the other around his shoulders. His head lolled backwards until Mista quickly adjusted his grip to prop him up.

It was stupid, he knew, Bucciarati was already long gone, but if he held him like this… if he held him just like this then maybe… maybe it looked like he was just unconscious. If one strained their eyes, maybe they would be able to make out the shallow rise and falls of his chest. 

But there was no such thing. There was no such thing when the skin pressed against Mista’s was undeniably cold, and nothing stirred beneath the thin stretch of skin of his eyelids.

Bucciarati had given him a purpose, a family, a home. Mista swore he would repay him for it one day. 

Now what?

On the other side of the landmark, Giorno went to Narancia, crossing the threshold of the lush petals and leaves he left him in.

“It’s over. We’re going home now,” whispered Giorno, a small and insistently cruel part of him hoping that Narancia would somehow hear his words. “We’re going back to Naples.”

Giorno lifted his body up, flower stems twisting and nudging at him, almost like they didn’t want to let go. Giorno called them back and the flowers shrunk in on themselves like they were ashamed, scrunching downwards into the ground until two lone flowers remained, tucked delicately into the fabric of Narancia’s headband. Giorno closed his eyes, blindsided and upset. He bit his lip until blood ran.

“You didn’t deserve this. None of you deserved this.”

And so, the trio collected themselves and made their way out of the Colosseum. Mista stomped ahead, and Trish kept close, cradling the turtle in her arms. Giorno trailed far behind.

Along their path, he spied Mista’s gun, its blue gunmetal sparkling alluringly in the daylight, discarded and broken from the scramble for the arrow. A weapon of stunning accuracy and danger, and yet it reminded Giorno only how it was used to protect, to rescue. 

Giorno stepped quietly towards it and tapped it with the end of his shoe. Butterfly wings of lapis lazuli fluttered upwards and came to settle on Giorno’s right shoulder. He’ll give it back to Mista later.

There wasn’t time to grieve. They simply had to keep going. It was over, but there was still so much to be done.

♡

They had been travelling for hours, eager to get as far away from all the commotion as possible. The city was agitated, buzzing with questions and licking its wounds. They arrived on the fringes of the capital, a run down area mostly unaffected by what had gone on.

It had been hours since the city awoke, and most people had since returned to their routines - vendors tended to their stalls, children walked their way home from school, cars and bikes zipped past each other in the mayhem that was Roman traffic.

Though Giorno and Mista were eager to travel throughout the night to reach Naples, Polnareff managed to convince them to rest. After some light milling about, deciding what to do, Trish put her foot down and insisted they stay at a hotel.

“If I have to sleep on those uncomfortable-ass turtle couches one more time, you all are going to have to pay for my back treatments,” Trish had said. The arrogance was obviously put on, but it earned strained smiles from the group anyway.

They had decided to place Bucciarati and Narancia in the turtle for the time-being.

“Sorry, uh, Mr Polnareff. I know this is probably really weird for you…” Mista rubbed the back of his neck.

“No need,” grimly answered Polnareff in that low, gruff voice of his. “I am prepared to do what’s necessary. And, it pains me to say that I have done something like this before.”

Saddened but not surprised to hear so, Mista didn’t press. Idly, he pondered on what he meant, what sort of secrets lay beneath his wisdom, his strength, his trustworthiness. The man was an enigma.

They pooled whatever money they had between them and found an offshoot hotel down a tiny alleyway. A shabby sign hung over the entranceway, letters scraped and worn. The brickwork was cracked and the reception area smelled, but the prices were right and they were too tired to find anything else.

Giorno counted the crumpled lire in his hands. “I don’t think we have enough for us all to have a bed to ourselves. Are you okay to share with me, Mista?”

“Sure.”

Giorno nodded again, trying to shake free the discomfort he got at Mista’s unusual curtness. It was to be expected considering… well, everything, but when he was so used to Mista’s casual touches and easy conversation-making, Giorno couldn't help but feel disquieted by the change in attitude. 

He continued. “Then, we’ll get two rooms—”

“No!” Trish suddenly cut Giorno off. When he turned to her, she bowed her head and said quietly, “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Giorno regarded her for a moment, a feeling he couldn’t quite place clenching at his heart.

“Okay. One room then.”

The plump receptionist raised an eyebrow at the group, eyeing their state of dress and the exhaustion pulling at their eyelids. Questions arose, but the energy to ask them did not. Once money changed hands, she pressed the key into Giorno’s palm and waved him in the direction of the stairs going up to the rooms. She returned to her computer and didn’t think about the three strange teenagers and their pet turtle again.

The trio settled into a cramped room with peeling walls on the third floor. No mildew though, a mild victory in Trish’s eyes. 

Giorno placed the turtle by the only window, which looked out onto a small piazza still bustling with passerbys. Polnareff emerged to say a quick thanks, and perched on the edge of Coco Jumbo’s shell to idly people-watch for a while.

Mista flung himself gracelessly onto the bed closest to the window, throwing his hands over his face. He groaned.

“Fuck. I could sleep for like three days straight.” 

“Same,” Trish mumbled. 

Giorno wanted to say that what they did next was quickly and maturely plan the order of who was going to shower, but it went a little more like this: Trish and Mista fell into heated bickering over who was going first, talking over each other like the argumentative teens that they were, the absolute spitting image of fed-up siblings. Giorno idly wondered if they were somehow actually related by some freak circumstance. Stranger things had happened.

Eventually, Giorno slipped away and quietly locked the bathroom door behind him to leave them to it.

“Hey, wait—”

Thump thump thump.

“Giorno, what the hell?!” Mista’s muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

He chuckled to himself. “I’ll be quick,” he assured.

Mista’s annoyed huffs and grumbles only made him laugh harder. 

Giorno almost didn’t remember the last time he had a shower. He turned the temperature all the way up, closing his eyes and letting himself feel the warmth of every drop of blazing water sink into his skin. Some feeling was infused back into him, a vigour running through his veins. He hadn’t realised just how much the day had numbed him. 

True to his word, he finished up quickly and freely took one of the bathrobes folded upon a decaying shelf. He wrapped himself in it and exited. 

“Move!” Trish whipped past Mista before he could protest and slammed the bathroom door shut.

“What the—! Not again,” Mista cried.

Giorno hesitantly perched on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m sure she won’t take too long,” he tried.

Mista waved him off, slumping near the window alongside Coco Jumbo. Polnareff had already retreated into the animal in question.

“It’s fine,” he said distractedly. He rested his chin in his hand, eyes cast on a landmark in the distance, and that was that for their conversation.

After twenty minutes, Trish finally emerged from the bathroom, donned in a scratchy hotel bathrobe, wet hair around her shoulders. Like Giorno, she didn’t enjoy being seen so unkempt. With a sour expression, she sat on her bed and curled up under the covers.

“Oh my God, finally,” remarked Mista, jumping from the bed and bolting into the bathroom.

When the sound of the water running crept into the bedroom, Trish spoke up.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Giorno looked up from his side of the bed. She wasn’t looking at him.

“Well… It would be wise for you and Mista to return home for the time being. I’m going to have to consult with Polnareff about what to do next regarding Passione…” He trailed off, sounding lost. After taking a leap of faith overthrowing the previous boss and coming out victorious, Giorno hadn’t considered the consequences of doing so to be so nebulous. As it turned out, there wasn’t an easy checklist for what to do after you conquer an entire criminal organisation. 

Anxiety creeped around his heart like shadowy tendrils, and for the first time in a while, Giorno wasn’t really sure where he was headed. He still had a dream, of course, but he’d maybe made a tenth of the progress on that. The rest of the road ahead was so much harder.

“And after that? Where am I supposed to go, Giorno?” Trish pressed her knees against her chest, peering at him owlishly through shining pink strands of hair. 

“After that is up to you. You’re free to do what you want.” Upon the look of fear on her face, he rushed to add, “I’ve only thought briefly on it so far, but I won’t be leaving you in the dust, Trish. I’m more than happy to help you establish a new life, anywhere you want. Passione has more riches than it knows what to do with. I’m happy to give you what’s yours.” 

Trish seized up, rubbing her fingers together. 

“Those “riches”…  It's Diavolo’s money, right? Do I really want to use that kind of blood money for my own benefit?” 

Giorno frowned. “I understand where you’re coming from, but there’s no reason not to take it.” He knew he had no qualms using it in any way he deemed fit. It was incredibly unfortunate it was earned in the way that it was, and while Giorno hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, he knew that it needed to be used. For the betterment of others, it needed to be used.

Trish paused, thinking. After a moment, a sardonic smile edged onto the corners of her bare lips. 

“…Yeah. Bastard tried to kill me. I guess I can use his money whatever way I want.”

Giorno suspected that the door to this discussion wasn’t shut yet, but he didn’t know what else to say. For the time-being, he was grateful that at least Trish will have a good future ahead of her. He wasn’t sure what lay in store for himself yet. And Mista? He—

“Why the fuck are there only two bathrobes?”

The door to the bathroom creaked open a few centimetres, allowing Giorno to catch a glance of Mista in just his underwear. He quickly looked away.

“It’s a room for two people, that’s why,” grumbled Trish. “Did you never learn to count?”

“What am I supposed to do then? I don’t wanna sleep in my dirty-ass clothes again,” Mista whined. 

“Oh please. I don’t care about seeing you in your tighty whities. I can’t see you like that anyway, you’re like a brother.” She grimaced. “And I’ve literally been in your body. Trust me, I’ve been through the worst of it with you.”

Mista just pouted, still hovering in between the bathroom and the main room. His eyes quickly darted to Giorno, a silent question in his eyes.

Giorno shook his head gently. “I don’t care either. I’ve healed you before too. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

A blush spread on Mista’s face like wildfire. 

“W-What the hell… Fine, then!” 

He threw open the door, making his way to his side of the bed before quickly hiding underneath the covers. He settled on his side, arms crossed and turned away from Giorno.

“Mista?”

“What?”

“You didn’t get the light.”

His shoulders tensed up. “Oh, come on—!”

“It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Giorno chuckled, getting up. “You’re so easy to rile up.”

“Shut up,” came the muffled reply. 

With that, the room was plunged into darkness. Faint city lights bled through the curtain and the sounds of traffic struck through the pervasive quietness. Some noisy guests shouted and made animated conversation in the corridors before they finally retreated to their rooms. Covers rustled as all three adjusted themselves, and then it was time to sleep. 

The problem was, as exhausted as he was, Mista couldn't. No matter how much he tried, he just couldn’t stave off the shaking. It started when he was in the shower, his body suddenly breaking down into a fit of shivering as he crumpled to his knees, barely holding on. It was doubly hard to ignore now that he was alone with his thoughts again.

He peeked over at Giorno, who suspiciously looked like he wasn’t asleep yet.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when all he could hear was Trish’s even breathing, Mista decided to chance it before he changed his mind.

“Giorno? Are you still awake?”

The body next to him stirred slightly. A few seconds passed before Mista heard a barely-there “Yes.” 

“…Yeah. Same,” he replied back lamely. Now that he was here, he wasn’t even sure what to say. Maybe it was just nice to talk to someone, distract him from his thoughts.

“…Is something wrong?” asked Giorno carefully.

“Dunno. I just…” He swallowed, not really wanting to admit it. “Just can’t stop shaking, you know? Even though I know it’s all over.” 

When his friend didn’t say anything, Mista hurried to fill the air. 

“I know it’s stupid! I don’t even know why I said that. I’m fine. Just wish I could sleep, is all.”

Then, he felt warmth against his skin as Giorno warily slotted his hand in Mista’s.

“…Is this okay?”

When Mista tilted his head to get a better look at him, Giorno looked tired. Very tired. And when his eyes darted down towards their interlocked hands, Mista had the thought that maybe Giorno needed the contact even more than he did. 

So, he said, “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Mista squeezed hard, like he wanted to make sure Giorno would still be there by morning. 

Long after Mista had forgotten what he said, he thought he heard Giorno address the slinking darkness around them. 

“It’s not stupid.”

Mista couldn’t answer. 

Some time later, Trish woke up from a nightmare. Gripping the sheets, she tried to compose herself, the will to go back to sleep strong but the strained pounding of her heart stronger.

The girl peered in disdain at the smattering of early sunlight gathered at the bottom of the curtain. She always needed complete darkness to sleep.

Groggily, she rolled over. When she caught a glance of Giorno and Mista, arms linked and fingers interlocked, Trish felt something in her heart she couldn’t quite place. It felt bittersweet. She never said anything about it. When the two eventually awoke, they detangled themselves from each other and never said anything about it.

For years after, none of them ever said anything about it.

Chapter Text

In the morning, the trio packed up what very little they had and left their room. On their way to a borderline late checkout, they stole a handful of food each from the pitiful dining room beside the hotel reception. Trish never thought that Stands could be used that way but it turns out that having a second ‘you’ that normal people couldn’t see was actually pretty handy.

Giorno directed them to an empty spot in a local park and they seated themselves by a fountain to eat. Their spoils consisted mostly of bread rolls and cornetti, with some stray packets of jam and butter thrown in for good measure. It was plain but plentiful, and it was worth the humorous display of Mista having to bat the Sex Pistols away from eating his entire portion. Meanwhile, Polnareff denied the half of a mini baguette that Giorno proffered him, saying something about not feeling hunger anymore, and Coco Jumbo seemed to refuse carbs outright. He munched on apple wedges instead, the trio watching on in very mild fascination.

When No. 5 sidled up next to Giorno, he couldn’t resist giving him the last bite of his buttered cornetto, watching the Pistol gobble it up. A wave of self-consciousness rolled over him and, for whatever reason, he kind of hoped Mista didn’t see that.

When breakfast was over and done with, they finally began the journey back home. It was a short ride to Naples, less than an hour and a half. 

The countryside scenery was a relieving sight for the group after the tiring atmosphere of Rome. The train rolled away from the capital city and Giorno’s unease melted away with it, at least for a while. Squat tight-knit housing trickled out to form pleasant scenes of toppled, ancient ruins. Low mountainous vistas slid into view, as did some charming rural towns and farms. About halfway through their trip they stopped at a station Giorno missed the name of and Trish pointed out two dogs perched behind a chain-link fence, watching the trains go by. They all proceeded to coo at them, and the strays wagged their tails, barking a greeting back. When the train bounded further down south they were gifted with sights of sweeping green fields and orange trees, a reminder of summer fast approaching. 

If Giorno closed his eyes and pretended a little, it could almost feel like a holiday.

On a few occasions, Mista goaded the others into stilted conversation. Whatever it was about robots and the Matrix missed Giorno’s ears entirely but he tried to play along anyway, though eventually resigned himself to gazing out the window when Trish became too heated in her argument about red pills or something. Giorno didn’t think he ever saw that particular movie.

There was about twenty-five minutes left to go when, knowing they had to stop avoiding reality, Giorno asked: “Shall we talk about the plan for today?”

The other two sagged in their seats and the relatively lighthearted atmosphere crumbled entirely.

“Yeah, guess we should,” Mista sighed.

Despite the lack of enthusiasm, Giorno straightened up, glad to slip back into a decisive role. Tried and true familiarity. 

“I spoke to Polnareff earlier, and we’ve decided on a plan for the takeover of Passione. He’s working on that at the moment, and of course I plan to help with that once we reach Naples.”

“Hang on,” Mista stopped him, raising a sharp eyebrow. “When did this happen and why weren’t we invited?”

Giorno blinked, mildly taken aback at the reaction.

“While you were finishing breakfast,” he admitted carefully. “I was anxious to get started as soon as possible, but it wasn’t my intention to leave you two out. That’s why I wanted to have a discussion now, and see what you both think.” 

“Still would’ve been nice to be included.”

A pause. A mental calculation.

“You're right.”

They locked eyes for a moment. 

“I got ahead of myself. Excuse me, Mista.”

Mista kept his gaze for a moment.

Then, he sat back in his seat, appraising Giorno with a flick of his eyes. Apparently satisfied with his answer, Mista sighed a long sigh from his nose.

“It’s whatever. Don’t gotta apologise.” 

The tension dissipated a bit, and Mista grunted affirmatively for Giorno to continue. Trish narrowed her eyes at the two of them, but nodded.

“It’s in our best interest to take control as quickly and painlessly as possible. So, we’ll start the process of tracking down all of Passione’s assets and dealing with the main Capos. We expect quite a bit of backlash but we’re still figuring out how to keep the peace. Polnareff is working on acquiring more information on the organisation as we speak.”

He swallowed, not completely prepared to voice the next part. 

“Meanwhile, we think you both should take a break. It’s been a tough week.”

“What?” Mista immediately reared forward, and if he was unhappy about Giorno’s talk with Polnareff, he was positively boiling at this. “No way! No way, I’m helping you, Giorno, there’s no way you’re just ditching me like that!”

“I’m not,” Giorno replied evenly. “I just want you to rest, at least for a little. This entire journey has taken a massive toll on you.”

“And it hasn’t on you?”

“It can’t be helped. I have to keep going until Passione is officially taken over. There’s no time to rest for me.”

“Yeah. Exactly. No time to rest,” Mista said hotly. “If you’re not taking a break, then neither am I.”

“It’s not just that. I also believe you should have a think about what you want to do next. If there was ever a chance to leave Passione, now would be it.”

“Giorno,” Mista spoke his name lowly, like a warning. “You know that’s not an option. What the hell was all this for if I leave now?”

His words hung heavily in the air, almost physically caging them in. 

“…It’ll only be for a few days at most, I promise,” Giorno conceded. “It’s just while we sort out the most urgent things. Besides, who will stay with Trish? No one knows the Boss is gone yet. There’s a possibility there are other traitors besides La Squadra who are after her.”

“I’m fine!” Trish interjected.

“Then where will you stay? Do you have somewhere safe you can go? Any way we can contact you?”

Trish slumped in her chair, telling Giorno everything he needed to know. It’s true, she told him pretty much the night before — She really had nowhere to go. Her mother had barely turned cold when Pericolo turned up at their home and informed her of her father, urging her to take whatever she could carry and prepare to leave. “Don’t worry about your belongings,” he assured her. “When you’re with your father, you won’t need a single one of those old things. You’ll be living a brand new life, kiddo.” 

With some random mementos stuffed into her purse, she said a hurried goodbye to her childhood home and left for good. With that, the house was seized and put up for sale. Was any part of them left there still? Was there any sign that they had lived there, slept, broke bread, laughed? What was left of her mother besides her own memory?

“You can stay with me, if you want.”

Trish broke from her thoughts to look up at Mista. She blinked slowly, taken aback by an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes.

“I mean, it’s a bit of a dump,” he waved off, “But it’s better than nothing, right?”

Trish looked down at her hands.

“…I guess I can do that.” 

Mista grinned at her, and Giorno was left feeling like he missed the punchline of an inside joke.

The train rattled along a bend and into a tunnel, jerking Giorno forward, steadying himself with a hand on Mista’s knee. He hurriedly excused himself, perhaps a bit overzealously judging by the weird look Mista gave back. Why Giorno had such a reaction was a mystery to him.

Maybe it was because the memory of the night before was still fresh in his mind.

A question, an interlocking of hands, a simple answer.

He didn't know why he did it. Giorno was not a touchy person, that was just a fact — Initiating contact was as likely for him as rising from the west was for the sun. 

So then, why was last night different? Why was Mista different? 

Giorno’s brain supplied the obvious answer easily — Mista needed the comfort. It was as simple as that.

But intuitively, Giorno knew something else was at play here. He just wasn’t sure what that was yet.

He cleared his throat, shaking off excess feeling like he always did. “So it’s settled. You two will rest and decide for yourselves to go from here. Polnareff and I will hold down the fort on the Passione side of things.”

“Sure. It’s a plan,” Mista agreed, if still a bit reluctant.

“Then, there’s also what we’re going to do about…” The words died on his lips, but the others already knew.

“We’ll decide when we get to Naples,” Mista said darkly, with finality, and save for an occasional bellow of the train horn, the three were shrouded in silence for the rest of the ride.

When the train finally creaked its way into Napoli Centrale train station, it was time to say goodbye to Bucciarati and Narancia. One last time.

Having not known them for very long, both Giorno and Trish stumbled over ideas on where would be best to lay their friends to rest. It was only when Mista mumbled something barely audible did they finally decide.

“He always liked the ocean… Grew up in a fishing town. Always talked about how he wanted to live right by the sea again.”

Somehow, Giorno knew exactly who he was talking about.

They found a lonely corner of some uninhabited beach. Coast for at least a few miles to the naked eye and no housing in sight. It was the best they could do. 

The burial process was short. A little clumsy, but formalities were still observed to the best of their abilities, at least by Giorno. He thought that the least he could do was spare a few words for his friends. Trish stuttered out a few words for comradery — maybe her emotions were still too strong, or maybe she just didn’t know what to say. Mista was silent but try as he might, he couldn’t help but cry again. A northern wind blew and with it came guilt, guilt that they couldn’t bring Abbacchio here with them too. And, well, guilt about many other things as well.

No one was sure how long they stayed there. 

At some point, Giorno approached Mista, still hunched over their makeshift graves. He tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Mista?”

“Just one more minute. One more minute, Giorno.”

It was much more than one minute when they left. They hitchhiked back to the city, every one of them hollowed out and drained of any remaining energy as if the day before had never ended.

With heavy hearts, the trio gathered to separate for the time being. They decided on a method of contact—Mista’s landline—and with a solemn look, Giorno paused to speak.

“Get some rest, you two. I’ll call you the first chance I get, Mista.”

“You better.”

It ended up being about three days, and for Giorno, those three days were busy to say the least. When Giorno wasn’t sleeping, which was admittedly already not often, Polnareff would continue their work, feverishly typing at his laptop and muttering French expletives under his breath when he ran into another dead end.

The pair searched for everything regarding the organisation. Polnareff had an excellent headstart from all of his years watching Passione from the shadows, but whatever involved Diavolo directly was a woefully different matter.

With some luck, they were able to track down certain associates who, after a good old-fashioned beatdown of the Gold Experience kind, were able to cough up some tidbits of interesting information.

To Giorno’s credit, he did try to politely ask first. At least Polnareff managed some cheap entertainment from the whole ordeal.

Off-shore bank accounts, high-end properties dotted around the country, fronts for money laundering, capos who ordered teams who ordered their own teams who had affiliations with other groups and other gangs… The trail seemed endless and with each new thing Giorno learnt, the more nervous did he begin to feel. Passione’s entrepreneurial tendrils stretched farther beyond even what he anticipated.

He met that feeling with distaste. He hated being out of control.

And on top of that, none of this pointed to anything really important — That is, Diavolo’s base of operations or where his wealth was hidden. On some level, Giorno wondered if the man really owned anything at all. The man was irreparably paranoid. Would it be so absurd to assume that Diavolo really had nothing?

That is, until Polnareff discovered something interesting.

“Giorno,” he grunted, “check this out.”

A cursory glance slipped into curiosity as he scanned the screen. Despite the low resolution images and sparse text, it looked like an actual lead.

“A mansion, once the headquarters of La Forza, now under Passione control?” Giorno mused. “What’s ‘La Forza?’”

“Sometime during the early nineties, Diavolo wiped out a certain gang with his new rising power. That was La Forza. They were top dog in Naples for decades, so it was incredible that Diavolo had wiped them out as easily as he did. Of course, knowing what we know now about the arrow, as well as Diavolo’s Stand, it makes a lot of sense.

“I investigated the demise of La Forza at the time, and that was part of what led me to Diavolo in the first place.” Polnareff continued. “Truthfully I’d forgotten about them until now, but it would make sense for Diavolo to usurp their Boss’s headquarters while he was at it.”

“Do you think he used it as a base of operations?”

Polnareff shrugged. “Hard to say, but probably not. I imagine he kept it for insurance, or as a safe house or something along those lines. Maybe it’s just a trophy, something to stroke his ego about.”

Giorno looked back at the picture of the mansion, already envisioning it as something greater. They couldn’t operate out of the turtle forever, after all.

“There may be nothing there, but it’s the first real lead we’ve had so far. I think we need to check it out.”

“I agree,” Polnareff replied gruffly, already gathering directions. “Think you can find a car for us?” 

Out of all the weird things Giorno’s been put through recently, he thinks again that having Coco Jumbo’s Stand ability was actually remarkably handy. Although Polnareff did give Giorno access to his savings (as a ghost, he decided it was better in his hands), it was probably smart for them to cut costs where they could.

Placing them into the backseat of a random car, they hitchhiked their way down a stretch of country road outside of the main Neapolitan area, keeping a watchful eye out for the location.

Not too far and not too close to the city, the mansion was perfectly placed to arouse the least amount of suspicion. Still, as Giorno climbed out of the turtle and stared down the flashy mansion, he thought that it probably didn’t matter. It was the spitting image of some mob boss’s HQ anyway.

The mansion sat fashionably amidst a once-tended garden, marbled statues poking out of overgrown thickets. Ivy flowed down the sides in rivulets and daisies sprouted out of the lawn. The house itself was mostly square, sculpted with angular columns and turrets with rectangular windows. The exterior wasn’t overly ornate, the brickwork simple but clean, laid carefully with professional hands. Several balconies jutted out of the second floor and Giorno concluded from the fence on the rooftop that were was an accessible roof space as well.

Giorno tried the door handle — No luck, but he expected about as much. Gold Experience transformed it into vines and allowed Giorno to walk into the foyer.

Giorno drifted along the hallways, peeking into rooms with doors ajar and running his hand along dusty wooden banisters. The mansion was eerily quiet, every creak of the floorboards ringing sharply in Giorno’s ears. Ornate decadence of old-fashioned taste littered the residence through the style of its vases, chandeliers, and painting frames. He came across a ballroom, a music room, a lounge room with a deserted film projector. When he thought he’d seen everything, he somehow found a way outside to a neglected courtyard, the plot wild with weeds and mangled plants. At first opportunity, Giorno vowed to rescue it from its dilapidation and create a proper, beautiful garden in its stead.

He carried on to the rear wing of the estate, where the majority of bedrooms were. The first floor was a little more plain, sparse in decoration — Perhaps it was an area for the servants and maids to reside in and make use of. The second floor wasn’t remarkable either, a repeat of the same bland design choices Giorno prepared to do away with the first chance he got. He found himself on a balcony, overlooking verdant plains and rows of Italian cypress, as well as a modest vineyard attached to the property. Below, a pool lay abandoned, once eye-wateringly azure but now swampy green and an insect breeding ground.

Having seen enough, Giorno walked back to the front of the house. Making his way over though, he spotted something.

It was the former Don’s office. Perhaps Giorno missed his private chambers on his brief walk through the house, but he had found his office. He trepidatiously walked in, pushing aside the door that groaned with his weight.

His eyes first met a portrait. Then, a large desk, followed by the rest of the room.

Rigid and uptight elegance screamed at Giorno through decorative wallpaper of William Morris-esque design and curving mahogany furniture with plush red fabric. There were bookshelves stuffed with dusty novellas and nonfiction alike, and a long-untouched liquor cabinet. Three windows dotted the eastern wall, looking out into an enclosed garden area.

The writing desk was almost comically large, bulky but finely made. The lacquered wood fostered an easy blend of rich satin tones, obviously expensive and one of a kind. But, Giorno ignored that for the most part because his eyes fell on something small resting right on the centre of the table.

A bloodied ring.

With a feather-like touch, Giorno inspected it carefully. It was a silver ring, weighing about the same as ten coins. He turned it over in his hands, running his thumb along its rounded edges. The rusted blood flaked off with light pressure. It was plain, no rare stones or gold embedded in it, just an emblem of a letter burned into the face - the letter B.

Giorno’s eyes drifted upward to the portrait. He scanned it, and sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed. The man depicted in the painting had the same ring resting on his fourth finger. 

The painting itself was just as stiff as the room, the softness of the oil strokes and the gray colour palette harkening back to stuffy portraits of eighteenth-century upper class nobodies, ordinary and dull in its effort to camouflage the subject’s own vanity.

Except, there was one thing about it that intrigued Giorno. A great slash blazed its way down the middle of the canvas, the likely culprit a knife or switchblade, with smaller cuts made to the face, leaving behind a disfigured and unrecognisable subject.

Did Diavolo’s total control over Naples begin here? Why was this ring here? Was Diavolo so petty he maimed this portrait to the degree that this rival gang’s boss was as unidentifiable as he was?

Giorno hummed in thought. He didn’t think he would ever get a concrete hold on the kind of man Diavolo was outside of his pervasive evil, but the mystery was thought-provoking nonetheless.

He pocketed the ring for now.

“Find anything?” Polnareff called out, his waifish figure curved against the turtle’s shell. He hadn’t looked up since Giorno reentered the hall, computer still glued to his lap.

“I might’ve,” he answered cryptically. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out the ring to show Polnareff. 

“Ah. It’s a nice trinket.”

“Mm,” Giorno agreed. 

“So how about the place?”

“Needs a lot of work, and I do mean a lot. But, I believe we can use it as a base for now, if not permanently.”

Polnareff smirked. “Not a bad find then.”

“Not at all.”

“Well,” Polnareff sighed with an air of finality, “there’s still more to track down, but it’s a relief to at least have a base of operations, however temporary. You deserve a good break, Giorno.”

Giorno nodded tightly. It would be typical of him to insist otherwise, wanting to do more, but he really was exhausted. There had already been too many moments throughout the day where he’s had to keep himself upright from a dizzy spell or push back against the migraine grinding between his eyes. Giorno could withstand a lot of pain, but even he had realised his limits by this point.

“I imagine you’ll want to contact Mista tomorrow, as well,” added Polnareff offhandedly. “There’ll be a lot of people we need to contact, and the more of us the better.”

Giorno tensed. That’s right — He’d been so occupied the past few days that he’d almost forgotten about him. 

It really would be a relief to have Mista’s help now. And it would be nice to speak to someone of his age and not a middle aged French ghost shackled to the confines of a turtle with a Stand. A part of Giorno could still not get over that particular absurdity.

“Yes, you’re right. I’ll do that first thing,” and as he said it, Giorno realised something else he needed to do before that.

Polnareff looked at him for a beat, then nodded in approval. “Okay, now get in here and sleep. Merde, you really do look awful. A teenager like you shouldn’t be pushing yourself this hard, eh?”

Giorno smiled a little at that and stepped into the turtle.

♡

It took three minutes of rummaging through his pockets, hat and boots for Mista to realise that he’d lost his only apartment key. It took another full minute of verbal frustration before Trish suggested he use one of the Sex Pistols to unlock the door from the inside. Sheepishly, Mista sent No. 1 to push the lock open, and they stepped inside.

“Here we are. Casa di Mista,” he announced with forced enthusiasm. 

It was a pretty standard studio apartment, just about having all of the essentials. There was an open plan kitchen that blended with the living room, the bed and bathroom at the back. A small dining table sat next to a window, and there was a surprising amount of potted plants dotted around the place. Patches of wall were covered in band posters where Mista had an unfortunate accident or five with his gun and had to hide the gunshots in the plaster. It wasn’t anything special and it definitely could use a good clean, but it was home.

“Ahhh, did I really leave this place in such a mess?” Mista complained under his breath, kicking aside old clothes and stray bullets on the floor. 

But even though it was home, it couldn’t help but feel trivial. The Mista that left his apartment is such a state is nowhere near the same person that was in there now. 

He waited for Trish to grumble and comment on how much of a pigsty his place was, but she was surprisingly quiet. He turned and saw her still hovering by the doorway. 

“C’mon, close the door already, draft’s comin’ in,” Mista ushered her in, maybe a little more roughly then he intended. “You want a drink or something? I’d offer tea but I’m not really a tea kinda guy.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Uh, don’t think I got mineral but—”

“It’s fine.”

He found a glass that somehow wasn’t dirty and filled it up with tap water. She sipped at it like a cat, looking absently out of the window. 

“Let me get you some clothes or somethin’, you gotta be cold wearing that,” Mista joked half heartedly, already restless from the silence. Trish nodded. 

After some rifling, he procured a clean shirt and sweatpants — A blue T-shirt with a faded illustration of some Blur album, and black sweatpants in an unfortunate tiger print. 

“S’all I got, so no complaining, okay?” 

Trish took the clothes with long movements. At the sight of the tiger print, she gave a tight-lipped smirk. 

“Shower’s over that way,” Mista said lightly. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thanks.”

Out of Trish’s sight, Mista collapsed on the sofa, head in his hands. It was probably not a good thing that the ground was spinning as he stared at it. 

Mista wasn’t sure when, but he’d come to realise Giorno as a stable force in his life. Bucciarati too, but there was no question about that. Now that neither of them were present, Mista couldn’t help but feel utterly crushed. Uncertainty loomed over his head like Damocles, and as much his heart drew itself toward denial, Mista knew he had to confront reality.

Everything was so fucked. 

It was like when he first killed those guys and landed himself in prison. That was fucked too, but in a different way. Back then, he’d lost his family but he was more alone back then at least. He’d stubbornly moved away from his mother and siblings and started his own life, but something about the second time around… Forming a new family, new bonds, new friendships, and losing that again — That thought in particular broke something in Mista’s heart that he didn’t think could be repaired.

Where does he go from here? He said it confidently on the train, but is staying in Passione really the only way forward for him? Maybe he should’ve taken Giorno’s words more seriously. Maybe there is a life for him outside of the organisation—

But then flashes of Sardinia, the burial sites on the beach come to mind, and he realised again with a knife-like twist in his gut that those sacrifices couldn’t be for nothing. There was no way he could allow himself to leave Passione so easily.

The door to the bathroom opened and Trish stepped out, cloaked in a light steam. 

“I’m done.”

“Oh. Cool.” Mista heaved himself up, more than ready to relinquish himself to the inviting throes of a hot shower and forget about everything for a while before he’s stopped by a tap on his shoulder.

“Am I supposed to take the couch?” Trish asked. 

“Oh,” Mista said again. It took him another second to realise that she had said it plainly, without any of the usual snark that normally accompanies her delivery. It was a very straightforward question.

“Fuck. Uh… No, let me…” he straightened up, shaking his head. “Let me go make the bed, I guess. I’ll take the couch.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. S’not the first time I’ve slept on it. Comfier than it looks.”

“Yeah, but…” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “You let me stay here, you know? So I…”

“Dude, it’s not a big deal. Just take the bed.” 

“…Thanks.”

They settled in rather awkwardly. Trish rubbed her eyes, uttering a sleepy “good night” before she slipped into Mista’s room. Mista fed an aggravated Sex Pistols some boiled pasta, the spiral kind. It was practically the only thing he could find in his kitchen that wasn’t out of date. He bit down a sigh as he put the box back on its shelf, mentally cataloguing all the things he needed to restock. He really hadn’t expected to be gone for so long.

His Stand calmed down, he threw a blanket over himself and tried to sleep.

And tried. And tried again. 

Before long, his stupid brain started thinking. He thought about the beach today. He thought about Rome, and then the boat to Capri. He thought about the apology he never gave Narancia for ruining his new boombox, and then the look Bucciarati gave him as he warned him about that stupid rock, and the last dinner they had together at Libecchio’s last week with the best spaghetti alle vongole he’s ever had in his damn life, and last month when Fugo and Abbacchio went to the movies without him, the bastards, and then—

Fuck. When did tears start streaming down his face? 

“Not again. Not again… ” He whispered, wiping roughly at his eyes.

“Mista?”

Yellow light slinked into the living room, etching away the darkness on his form. 

“Are you… crying?” A voice asked tentatively.

Blearily looking up, he saw Trish’s worry-stricken face out of the corner of his eyes. He shook away his tears, promptly facing away from her.

“No. Go away.” The command was undercut by the raspy cough that clipped the end of his words, but he hoped Trish would get the message.

He felt bad, knowing she came here because she worried about him. It wasn’t about him crying in front of her, he just couldn’t deal with her right now. Or anyone for that matter. Now that he had time to think about it, the weight of her gaze unsettled him, a grim reminder of what was sacrificed to save her. He didn’t regret betraying the Boss, not for a second, but the pain of losing his friends was still horribly raw, scraping away at every inch of him until either he gets over it or until there’s absolutely nothing left.

Something in Mista favoured the latter. He’d rather that than forget his friends ever meant anything to him.

Trish said nothing in response, and relief swelled in Mista’s chest when he heard her footsteps walking away. He wiped his face again, but the mix of tears and snot that wet his hand made him feel pathetic. Maybe he should’ve swallowed his pride and at least asked for a tissue.

Clink.

“Here.”

Mista snapped back to his living room and his line of sight met an awkward-looking Trish, a box of tissues shoved in his face and a glass of cold water on the coffee table left by shoddily manicured hands.

Flustered by Mista’s blink of non-response, Trish shook the box at him.

“Take it already. You look a mess,” she said.

He mumbled something incoherent, maybe a thanks, his voice sore and gravely. Mista accepted the box and he clumsily dried his face, rubbing away as much misery as he could. Trish heaved a sigh, tactfully directing her gaze elsewhere.

“I’m no good at this, you know. Taking care of people and stuff.” She was an only child, never having to deal with the chore of shushing picky infants at the dinner table or comforting a sister through heartbreak. Her mother was chipper and almost never fell sick, and when she did she never liked being doted on. This felt like the most Trish could do, and she knew it wasn’t enough. She’s been feeling like that a lot recently.

“But, you know,” she continued, “We’re a team, right? So… If you need anything, I’m here,” she managed to get out. 

Mista nodded, his chest swelling with gratitude. It’s true. He wasn’t alone. So many of his friends were gone but even so, he wasn’t alone.

“Thanks, Trish, seriously… You’ll leave me alone now though, right?” A weepy laugh came out of him, and Trish snorted.

“Okay, asshole. I’ll go now.” She hung back at the door. “Notte, Mista,” and she left.

The next two days were filled with bouts of crying from the both of them. Sometimes without meaning to, Mista would hear Trish in her room sobbing over her mother or the gang, mostly Bucciarati. “Why me?” She’d cry.

Other times he found her curled up on one of the dining chairs with a ruined glass in her hand. Spice Girl developed the unfortunate and unintentional habit of ruining all of Mista’s crockery, and by the first evening two mugs, a fork and a bowl had to be thrown out. Mista would bitch about it with no real energy, just to try to feel like himself again. It didn’t really work.

Trish helped Mista clean the apartment up, and Mista swore his place hadn’t been this clean even when he moved in. It was nice, having chores to occupy themselves. 

On the third morning, there was some plastic clunking coming from the living room. Poking his head into the room, Mista watched as Trish flipped through a catalogue of worn VHS tapes, a book of CDs at her side having already been investigated.

“Oi oi, be careful with those! That’s my prized collection, you know?”

Trish ignored him. Then, her eyes widened a bit as she searched through a pile of- 

“Romcoms?” She stared at him incredulously. “Is this, like, an ex-girlfriend’s leftovers or something?”

Mista blushed. “So what? A guy can’t enjoy a chick flick every now and again?” He promptly turned away to do what he was actually planning to go do, which was to make a coffee. At least Trish seemed like she was enjoying herself. 

More plastic-on-plastic thunks and clacks. “Notting Hill, Clueless, Bridges of Madison County…” Trish listed off. “Pretty Woman? Jeez.”

“That’s my favourite one! Narancia’s always on my ass for it but he hasn’t even fuckin’ seen it yet,” he said with a chuckle.

It was only a full second later, like a bucket of ice water down his back, did Mista’s brain catch up with his mouth and he realised the full weight of what he just said. If Trish noticed, she didn’t say anything. 

He bit his tongue and screwed his eyes shut. 

Fuck. Was he really supposed to just… get used to that?

Then, as if on cue, a ring came from the hallway. One distinct blaring of five upper register notes. Then another. Then one more.

Mista made a mad dash for the machine, damn near ripping the cord off the handset. 

“Giorno?” 

“Buongiorno to you too Mista,” someone barked, thirty years too old and too aged by tobacco to be the voice he expected. “Where the fuck have you been? Your rent was due two days ago!”

Ah.

“Uhh, oh yeah? You know, it just totally slipped my mind!” Mista fumbled. He forced a dry chuckle. “I’ll get that to you as soon as—”

“No no no, you get that to me immediately. The fuck do you think this is, a charity? I have—”

“So nice talking to you as usual, signor, speak soon…”

“Don’t you dare—”

The line was cut off, Mista holding the receiver at arms length like it personally offended him. He had to figure out the rent situation soon. Like, really soon.

Riiing!

“Oh for fuck’s— Look, I don’t have the money right now, okay? Can’t give you what I don’t have, right? So, can you just let me—”

“Mista…?”

The warm, dulcet tones of Giorno’s voice glided over him like hot chocolate spilling over ice cream and he immediately had to suppress a shiver of embarrassment. God.

“Shit, Giorno, sorry! I, uh, thought you were my landlord,” he explained sheepishly.

If Giorno was fazed, he made no noise to suggest so. “I wanted to let you know that Polnareff and I have finished basic preparations. If you still wanted to help—”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I still wanna help,” he said fiercely.

“Of course.”

Mista was surprised he could recognise Giorno’s tone softening when he said that, unreadable as he usually was. 

“Then,” Giorno continued, “I’ll give you the address of Passione’s new base of operations.” He recited a jumble of names and numbers, Mista committing it to memory by repeating it over and over under his breath. He should really start to keep a notepad by the phone.

“We‘ll talk more tomorrow, Mista. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, night,” Mista choked out, dismayed that the conversation was over already.

“Was that Giorno?” He didn’t even notice Trish padding into the hall.

“Uh, yeah. He wanted to see me tomorrow.”

She nodded, rubbing her arm.

Mista faltered. “You’ll be fine, right?”

“Of course I’ll be fine. I’m not a baby,” she snapped. Mista raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” she sighed after a moment. “I will be fine, though. Tell him I said hi.”

As she made her way out of the hall, Mista remembered something.

“Ay, put my tapes back by the way. Living room’s all messed up now.”

“Tapes?” Trish replied flatly, a finger to her chin as if in thought. “Was that me? I don’t really remember.”

“You—!” was the only word Mista got out as he watched Trish sway her hips and escape into her—his—room, leaving him to tidy everything up. Typical.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, because with every clamshell cover he snapped closed and every door on the TV display he shut, he became a little more distracted from the pounding of his heart that came in anticipation of tomorrow.

♡

Mista found himself standing in front of a dilapidated mansion in the misty early hours of the morning. He couldn’t say he felt particularly well rested, but he could at least stand without feeling nauseous for once. That was a win in his book. 

Giorno greeted him out front, his posture as prim and proper as ever.

“Mista,” Giorno greeted him, more strained than usual, “You came to see me.”

Mista shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

Giorno smiled tightly, and Mista suspected it was only to disarm the tension.

“Shall we?” Giorno gestured to head inside, and they walked to some sort of fancy office as Giorno caught him up with what’s gone on the past few days. Mista took in his surroundings indifferently — The place was definitely spacious, but truth be told, the whole wild, abandoned look wasn’t really doing it for him.

Giorno stood in front of his desk, looking mildly uncomfortable. 

“How are you doing?” He asked after a second.

Mista really didn’t have an answer for that. He fumbled a bit while Giorno eyed him tugging on the sleeve of his sweater, a nervous tic.

“Could be better,” was the response he ended up settling on. Turns out crying so hard it felt like your soul was being ripped from your body wasn’t a pleasant way to spend a weekend. And, well, Mista could literally confirm that having your soul being ripped out from your body was indeed more pleasant, if only marginally.

Giorno didn’t need to know that though, of course.

“What about you, Giorno?”

“Mm.” He thought for a moment. “Same as you, I guess. Could be better.” He leaned on the desk, too calculated and angular to appear relaxed. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Was it back at the hotel?”

“It’s fine, Mista. As soon as I take care of a few things, I’ll be able to rest. Just not yet.”

“Giorno, you’re going to kill yourself like this, seriously! Passione’s not going anywhere if you get a few hours of shuteye.”

“I have slept a bit,” Giorno insisted. He gave a small pout. The expression looked out of place on him, a little cute, Mista thought. “Polnareff would nag me otherwise.”

Mista sighed, running a hand down his face. Giorno’s nothing if not stubborn.

He lifted himself off the chair he was leaning against, taking some measured steps around the office, drinking in the air of the place. 

“This place is fancy as hell, huh? Shame about the painting though,” drawled Mista, gesturing towards the ruined portrait. “Diavolo do that?”

“Most likely. I didn’t think he was the petty type.”

“Dunno, guy seemed real petty to me,” Mista joked, punctuating this with a half-hearted kick to an armchair. “So that was the rival boss, La Forza or whatever?” he continued, still looking at the painting. “You’re right though, there’s no way this place could be Diavolo’s. Seeing how that guy dressed, his digs would look more like the inside of a strip club than The Godfather.”

An unexpected laugh bubbled out of Giorno at that. 

“What gave it away? The lace top or the lipstick?”

Mista chuckled, feeling rather pleased with himself.

Giorno suddenly perked up, remembering something. “Oh—I have something for you.” 

Mista’s heart raced as he watched Giorno make his way to the windowsill and hold a hand out to the butterfly perched on it. When it hopped onto his outstretched palm, colourful wings gave way to the familiar shape of cylinder, barrel, trigger. He offered the gun to Mista, who took it with a wavering hand.

“You kept it, huh?” 

“I thought you would want it back.”

Mista examined the gun cautiously, expecting it to fall apart when it exchanged hands. To his surprise though, the pistol was as good as new. Better, almost. The barrel King Crimson had destroyed was in complete working condition, as if nothing had ever happened. Mista clicked it open and closed a few times, his face instantly brightening.

“Hey, it’s not broken anymore!” Mista exclaimed, running his hand along it and letting his newly-manifested Sex Pistols hang off the edges. “You got it fixed?”

“Yeah,” answered Giorno. “It was the least I could do.”

Mista grinned and the gun was tucked ungracefully back into its usual spot down the front of Mista’s pants. Frankly, the first day he’d forgotten all about it but by the second day he was missing his gun acutely, feeling like one of his limbs had been severed, a phantom in its place. A pleasant warmth reached his chest when he thought about Giorno caring enough to not only go back for it, but to fix it as well. As usual, the young boss never ceased to amaze him with his thoughtfulness.

Unfortunately, he lacked the words as well as the courage to fully voice that sentiment, and so settled on a curt yet heartfelt “thanks.”

“It’s no problem.”

Silence collapsed on them, and for all of Giorno’s social graces, Mista hadn’t seen him look quite as uncomfortable as he did now. As he looked on, Mista thought that he should get something off his chest.

“That day… At the colosseum…”

“Yes?”

Mista sighed heavily, hand on the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t going to shoot you, Giorno. I just got angry. Needed someone to blame. Sorry.”

Giorno nodded. “I know.”

“And it wasn’t your fault.”

Giorno said nothing. 

“It wasn’t, Giorno. Seriously.” He put a hand to his chest in a wide arc, brash but earnest in the way that Mista usually was. “I’m blaming myself for it too, but we all know deep down it was that bastard Diavolo’s fault! He’s the one who killed them!”

Giorno gave a sad smile in lieu of an answer.

“Have you thought about it?” He said after some time. “About what you want to do now?”

Mista opened his mouth, closed it. He slowly nodded.

“Yeah.”

“And what are you thinking?” 

The softness of his friend’s eyes, apprehension and curiosity swirling within them, spoke to Mista so intimately that he wondered how he ever felt lost in the first place. Like every other time, Giorno provided light where Mista saw darkness, even if his immediate instinct wasn’t always to trust him so blindly. Maybe this was the opportunity to change that.

Right now, he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“I’ll do it.”

“Sorry?”

“Be your underboss, bodyguard, whatever. You need someone like that now, right? I’ll do it,” he said seriously. “You said I should think about it and that’s the decision I came to.”

Giorno kept quiet, looking slightly taken aback.

Mista swallowed. “And… We’re kinda in it together now, right?”

“Mista, you don’t need to—”

“I want to. I promise - I want to help you with your dream.”

If there’s one thing he can do to be better, to make up for all the things he’s done and all the things he hasn’t, aiding Giorno would be the way to do it. And if it meant he would stay right by his side, all the better. 

Giorno let himself smile. “Thank you. I… I’m glad you want to do this with me.”

“No problem, boss.” Mista grinned. He straightened himself out, deciding that it was time to stop with the heavy tone of the conversation. They’ve had way too much of that recently. “Now! I gotta swear allegiance to you or some shit right? Make it all official?” 

Giorno blanched. “Please, there’s no need. We’re friends, I don’t need you to do any of that—”

“Come on, let me,” Mista implored, taking hold of Giorno’s hand. “This is what you do, right?”

They both went quiet as Giorno stared down at their hands. Mista waited patiently for a sign. 

“If you insist… But don’t kneel,” insisted Giorno. He nudged his hand upwards, allowing Mista to bring it up to his face, brush against it with his lips. Mista felt an involuntary shiver trail up his spine, and it only intensified under the piercing gaze of Giorno’s eyes.

“Do it like this, as equals,” Giorno finished, his voice low.

Mista nodded. 

When his lips made contact with his knuckles, something in Giorno ached. His touch was the swaying of wild daisies grazing against his bare skin, hesitant, gentle.

Giorno swallowed thickly when Mista looked back up at him, and Mista took the opportunity to take in the sight before him. The world seemed to break apart and coalesce around the jewels of his eyes and the honeyed backlit curls of his hair.

It wasn’t the first time Mista saw Giorno and it would be far from the last, but for some reason it felt like the first time it really mattered.

Chapter Text

“God, this place is filthy though.”

“It does need a little rejuvenation, that’s true.”

Moments later, the pair found themselves escaping the tensions of their earlier conversation by finding Polnareff. Giorno strode out of the office, Mista shuffling behind him, and they walked down the dusty corridor making idle chitchat like nothing happened. 

Still, Giorno couldn’t help but overthink Mista’s pledge to him made just minutes ago. The hesitant kiss against his knuckles, the soft eye contact, the lingering sensation of both that weighed on Giorno’s heart. 

He thought about how to describe it, but for all of his usual eloquence his mind failed to comprehend it beyond “weird.” It was a weird feeling, one he hadn’t felt before, and trying to find an apt word for his feelings was like trying to describe a colour he couldn’t see.

He stole a look at Mista, and at a glance nothing looked out of place, expression mostly neutral. Maybe he was the only one freaking out over nothing.

So, Giorno came to an executive decision. Whatever that feeling he got was nothing — An aftereffect of all the adrenaline he’s gone through recently. Nothing more.

He’ll simply forget about it.

They soon arrived at the area where he left Coco Jumbo last, placed on a windowsill in one of the second-floor corridors. 

“He’s in here,” Giorno explained. He turned to Mista, who’s face turned notably sour.

“Man, what I would give to never have to be in this goddamn turtle again.” 

Giorno didn’t manage a reply before Mista stepped into the turtle first. He followed without fanfare. They dropped into the room, Mista landing solidly albeit without Giorno’s grace, who landed more like a cat, and the first thing Giorno saw was Polnareff upright on the sofa with his laptop, a sight much unchanged from the last few days. It stung, a little. After all this guy went through and here he was, a turtle, his ball and chain. Maybe once they were settled Giorno could help bring some books or something for him.

“You finished briefing Mista on everything?” Polnareff asked, sparing a brief look at them.

Giorno cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Yep, all briefed, Mr Polnareff, sir,” Mista added hastily.

“Super. Then let’s bust our asses and get this thing started.” He emphasised this assertion with some loud clacks on his keyboard, a fire in his eyes, and Giorno had to wonder if this was how he usually was or if it was a symptom of ghost-originated madness.

“Wait, wait!” Mista exclaimed before Giorno could. “Start by doing what? What’s the plan here?”

Polnareff finally looks them in the eye, his gaze darting between them. He smiled then, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“We have to clean this place up, of course! Based on what Giorno told me, it’s a complete dump, non? I can only hope there are no pigs in the toilets!” He laughed heartily, throwing his head back.

Mista stared. 

“What?”

“So!” Polnareff continued, ignoring him, “We’ll start by whipping this place into shape, then comes all the serious stuff, speaking to Capos, taking care of any traitors or what-have-you, and so on and so forth.” He waved a hand like it was easy. 

Giorno furrowed his brow. Okay, one step at a time.

“We can’t possibly clean this place on our own,” he argued. “We’re lacking not only in manpower, but materials too. We need to find help first. Not to mention help we can trust.”

But Polnareff simply waved off his concerns with a loose hand gesture and a chuckle.

“Not to worry!” Polnareff announced with confidence, reaching for his cellular phone. “There’s a place I can call. They owe me some favours.”

Giorno and Mista shared a curious glance with one another, and with that, Giorno could sense Mista was antsy. As carefree as he usually appeared, there must be some part of him that liked to keep useful, and perhaps another part of him that simply couldn’t sit still waiting around for phone calls.

“Mista, how about you get started on clearing one of the rooms?” Giorno asked with finesse. “We’ll need to figure out what to keep and what to throw away.”

“Aight,” he sighed, already preparing to exit, “I don’t mind gettin’ a headstart on that. Whatever to get me outta this room already.”

“That’d be a great help,” Giorno said.

“Won’t be long. Don’t miss us too much,” Polnareff added.

“As if,” Mista shot back, and with that, disappeared from the turtle room.

Giorno hung back, feeling like he needed to be a part of the conversation. Luckily, Polnareff seemed to agree, cracking a smile at him and beckoning Giorno to take a seat. He did so, taking the armchair across from him.

“A buddy of mine,” Polnareff clarified, like he could read Giorno’s thoughts. He punched in a few numbers, and waited for the call to connect through an operator, an international call. The dial tone rang and set Giorno alight with curious anticipation as Polnareff waited with an easygoing smile on his lips.

A dull click sounded throughout the room. Someone picked up.

“Hello, Norman!” Polnareff boomed in English in his telltale French accent, an almost musical lilt to his non-native tongue. Giorno wouldn’t say his own English was great, but he was sure he could follow the ensuing conversation well enough, having picked up a lot of casual English spoken around the Naples airport.

But Polnareff’s greeting was met with silence. Giorno leaned in a little, waiting, before he heard a voice with an English accent finally crackle through the line.

“Mr Polnareff? Is that really you, Mr Polnareff?!” 

“Oui, c’est moi, mon Norman,” Polnareff replied easily, “How are you?”

More silence. Static.

Polnareff pressed closer to the receiver. 

“…Norman?” 

“Pol, you motherfucker, you—!” 

Polnareff’s arm snapped in front of him on reflex, making a wrinkled face at the noise. Giorno didn’t need to strain to listen anymore with how loud it was. ‘A buddy of mine’ indeed.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to us?” The man on the phone shouted. “Where the hell have you been all these years?! And now you’re just calling out of the blue with… With a casual fucking ‘how are you?’

Polnareff leaned back and bellowed out a loud laugh, right from the belly. 

“I know, I know, Je suis terrible. Forgive me.”

“Fuck outta here, Pol. We all thought you were dead.”

“I really made you mad, huh?” Polnareff crossed one leg over the other, setting an arm on his knee and relaxing his posture. Inwardly, Giorno marvelled at how comfortable he looked, and how even though he’d seen hints of Polnareff’s true nature, it was still hard to connect this persona to the man he’d met at the colosseum. 

Polnareff clicked his tongue. “What’ll it take to make it up to you, ay?”

“Literally not a single thing.”

“Come now, there’s gotta be something.” He peered around the room as if in thought. “I’m in Italy right now. Naples. Come up here and let me treat you to some good pizza! I know you English haven’t even set eyes on proper Italian pizza, none of that Domino’s shit, I promise. Sound good, non?”

“…Did you need something from the Foundation, Sir?”

“Oh, c’mon, Norman, don’t “Sir” me! Seriously, man, what do you want from me?” He shrieked across the line. “You want me to beg like a dog for forgiveness?!”

“And what if I do? Might knock you down a peg or ten.”

As Polnareff scrambled and whined on the phone with this Norman character, Giorno couldn’t help but stare. Who was this? Was this really Polnareff? At a point when Giorno had already mildly dismissed him as a weathered mentor, here he comes out and shows a side to himself that is playful, witty, and fully genuine. It would be jarring if it wasn’t relieving to see this man act genuinely happy for once.

Giorno continued listening curiously as eventually Polnareff calmed down and cleared his throat, adopting a more weighty tone.

“Listen, Norman, real talk for a second.” He sat back, folding an arm across his chest. “It’s a bit long to explain over the phone, not to mention there’s a possibility, minuscule as it is, of taps—”

“Taps?” Norman hissed over the line. “What on earth have you gotten yourself into now, Polnareff?”

“Where do I even begin?” He mumbled under his breath, because, of course, there was no easy place to begin. “You know Passione?”

“Of course. It’s what you were involved with when you disappeared, and knowing what I know, it’s an absolute miracle that you’re even alive right now.”

Polnareff chuckled darkly, a cast over his eyes.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid that’s why I couldn’t get you or the Foundation involved all those years ago. Too much risk involved.”

“So you went to deal with it on your own like an asshole?” Norman sighed irritably, emotions boiling over into his voice. “We’re not some non-profit, we have resources to help you! Why would you go and—!”

“Because your resources helped so much back in ‘89, didn’t it, Norman?” Polnareff snapped bitterly.

A not-so-unfamiliar silence filled the air, and even Giorno was taken aback by Polnareff’s outburst. He tensed, waiting for a response.

”Pol—” Norman started, but the Frenchman quickly cuts him off.

“Sorry, sorry. That was uncalled for,” he said quietly, obviously apologetic. “But you know I can’t involve more people like that. I just can’t. Not in something this dangerous.”

Giorno heard silence prevail the line again before Norman mumbled something he couldn’t hear. Something like acknowledgement.

Polnareff took it in stride. He cleared his throat. Rolled the tension from his shoulders. 

“About Passione,” he continued. “I’m involved much more intimately with them now, and… Well, I can’t really say much more on that.”

“Wait, before that, Polnareff. You didn’t catch up with Dr Kujo on any of this?”

“Jotaro?”

Giorno’s shoulder ached, where his birthmark was. He absentmindedly placed a hand over it and felt an acute sense of disquietude roll over him.

“No,” Polnareff continued, confused. “Is he in Italy?”

“No, but a few weeks ago he was inquiring about a person there…”

“Who?”

The air grew fat and heavy around them, an uneasy atmosphere suddenly weighing them down. The pair waited with baited breath for the answer.

“…He believed them to be Dio’s son.”

A chill flooded Giorno’s veins all of a sudden, and he didn’t know why. 

“…Dio?”

Suddenly, that unease he felt melted into dread, but before he could begin to process it he watched Polnareff sit up suddenly, like he felt the exact same sensation. A grim expression swept over his face and in an instant, whatever Polnareff was there in the room with Giorno before was replaced with the man he met at the Colosseum, grave and unyielding.

“That Dio?” He asked again.

“Pol—”

“Norman, you have to tell me. Dio, as in Dio Brando? His son?”

“Yes.” 

The word hung precariously in the air, sinking into the atrium of Giorno’s mind.

Dio. Dio Brando. 

What was it about that name?

“Look,” Norman started, “I know this is a shock—” 

“Understatement of the fucking century, my friend.” Polnareff sighed heavily, the initial shock wearing out as he anxiously pushed back hair that wasn’t out of place. That same hand went to tap an agitated rhythm on his knee. “And Jotaro? What happened to him? He began an investigation?”

“Well, yes, that is, until, all of a sudden Dr Kujo called back and told us his investigation was over, that there was nothing conclusive. I don’t know if he ever found him or not, but we in the department all figured he wasn’t letting on to something. Now that you’re calling, I’m thinking maybe there’s a connection between the son and Passione. I mean, it feels like too much of a coincidence, right?”

Polnareff paled. His grip iron tight on the receiver, he huddled up on the corner of the couch. 

A few seconds of silence passed before Norman spoke up again, his voice softer than before.

“You really didn’t hear anything, Pol?”

“No. No, I didn’t know any of this.” 

“…I think it’s worth looking into. We’ll get into a call with Dr Kujo as well, hopefully press him for answers. It was a while ago but I can relay to you the general details of what happened. If I remember correctly, he was looking for a Har—”

It was then that Giorno finally managed eye contact with Polnareff across the room.

“Just one moment, Norman!” Polnareff suddenly cut him off. He rushed to stand up and meet Giorno, a stiff hand on his shoulder and just as stiff of a smile on his lips.

“I think this call will take longer than I thought, mon Giorno. How about you go on up and help out Mista? I’ll call you when I’m done.” The hard lines set in his expression warned Giorno not to argue.

“Yes… Sure, Polnareff,” Giorno said uncertainly. “See you later.”

A little shaken by what had gotten Polnareff so worked up and a lingering queasiness high in his throat, Giorno decided to push the feeling aside for the time being and look for Mista. It didn’t take long to find him, mostly by following the tinny voices of a certain Stand like it was a yellow brick road.

“C’mon, Mista, we’re tired! We want food!” One such cry came. Giorno couldn’t distinguish which Pistol it was but he could tell it wasn’t No. 5 at least.

“First off, I’m the one moving shit around. Second, it’s nine! You just had breakfast. Quit whinin’.”

Mista had apparently started with an offshoot study room. He’d pushed around some shelves, revealing dirt build-up along the skirting board and fat dust bunnies in the corners. Some books lay open on the floor, Giorno guessing that Mista flipped through them before getting bored. 

“Seriously… No one else feeds their Stand but me…” Mista grumbled, shoving some paperwork on a desk to the side. When Mista finally noticed Giorno in the doorway, he greeted him with a loose wave of his hand. 

“Oi, you done already?” The Pistols shared a similar look of surprise. It was kind of funny. 

“Polnareff told me to come help you while he called some associates.” Giorno stepped into the room fully, cataloguing the rest of its contents out of vague interest.

“So you got kicked out?” asked Mista, raising an eyebrow. 

Giorno shrugged a shoulder. “It seemed serious.”

“Ah well.” Mista snorted. “Forget that old fart, come help me instead.”

“Don’t call him that,” Giorno chided softly, making his way across the room. Mista simply grinned. 

“You need help moving that?” Giorno pointed at the mahogany display case Mista had his hands on.

“This old thing? Nah, I got it,” Mista puffed his chest out, trying to appear big. “Piece o’ cake for a guy like me.”

Giorno smirked. “Sure.”

Mista gripped the underside of the case and pulled. It scraped forward a few measly inches. 

Mista’s mouth turned downward. That was clearly not what he expected.

“Let me lend you a hand. It won’t hurt, I promise,” Giorno laughed, already in position to push it from the other side.

Mista huffed a little, and said, “I told ya I got it. I’m a man, I can do this myself.”

Giorno raised an eyebrow, amused. “Am I not a man?” 

“I didn’t say that—” Mista instantly recoiled, waving an arm in a side-to-side motion, but Giorno stopped him with a pat on the display case.

“It’s okay to have help, Mista,” Giorno spoke, looking him right in the eye. “Now don’t be a baby. On three, okay?” 

Mista grumbled something, but relented. The pair eventually settled into a relatively slow-going routine, moving aside furniture, checking off what damage, if any, had occurred in the space, listing through strewn-about documents and files for anything useful. In the back of his mind, Giorno hoped that whatever trouble Polnareff was having with his “associates” would be resolved quickly so they could actually get help for the rest of the property. Doing this themselves for the rest of the house would be a logistical nightmare.

“Hey Giorno,” Mista called out to him after some time.

“Hm?” He looked up from a book he was skimming absentmindedly.

“I just thought about it,” Mista started, setting aside the papers he was rifling through. “But don’t you have school? And, like…” He suddenly paused, rethinking his words. He thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I dunno, just, what were you up to before all this?”

Giorno pursed his lips, wondering how best to answer. He wasn’t quite sure how much information would be enough to satisfy his curiosity - no one had ever really asked him upfront about his background. 

“If you’re wondering about family,” and from the look on Mista’s face, Giorno knew he was spot on, “I have a mother. And a step-father, I guess. You could say we don’t really get along,” said Giorno matter-of-factly. “So they don’t care about what I’m up to.”

Mista hummed, his tone indecipherable. 

“School is admittedly more of a problem,” Giorno confessed, the thought only just occurring to him. “Had I not been a boarding student it would’ve been easier for them to hand-wave it off, but my disappearance is likely a legitimate concern at this point.” 

“Wait, you go to boarding school?”

Giorno nodded before he could get lost wondering about it. “Yes.”

“I thought those were only a thing in books,” Mista admitted, folding his arms and leaning against a writing desk, obviously more interested in the conversation than in moving stuff around. “What’s it like?”

Giorno hummed. “Not that different from any other secondary school. Not everyone boards there, only a small percentage of the students do. Other than that, it’s honestly pretty boring.”

“What, too smart for your own good?” asked Mista knowingly.

The corners of Giorno’s lips curled upwards, not being able to resist a little smirk.

“Maybe. School’s always been easy for me.”

“What a smartass. Hardly surprisin’ though.” Mista sat up on the desk with a grunt, fully settling in to not do more manual labour. “So okay, you’re acing all your exams and shit. What about friends? Had any buddies who copied your homework?”

“Not really.” Giorno replied. He did let people copy his homework, but none of them were friends. “No one close, anyway. I mostly kept to myself.”

Mista’s eyebrows pinched together. “That’s kinda sad, man.”

Giorno shrugged. When he thought about it, it felt like Mista and the rest of the gang were the first proper friends he’d made in his life. Had they had more time together, he imagined it would have blossomed into a deeper friendship, something more like brotherhood. Some part of Giorno wanted to be protective of this thought, not quite sure of what Mista would say to that. 

Maybe he was being presumptuous. Maybe Mista and the others didn’t feel the same at all towards him.

“It’s not like I was unpopular or anything,” Giorno continued, letting that thought dissipate. “Girls and teachers liked me well enough. I just think that everyone knew I was too much of a troublemaker to get involved with me and I was fine with that.”

“Troublemaker? You? What’d you do?”

“My mother spared me enough money to live, gracious as she was,” he said with an air of sarcasm, “But if I wanted anything more than that I’d need to get it myself. I’d usually scam tourists at the airport or pickpocket.” Giorno smirked. “Wouldn’t you know it, it was quite lucrative.”

Mista’s jaw dropped.

“What?! You crook,” he chided affectionately. “No wonder you got involved with the gang so easily. You were just waiting to jump into organised crime, weren’t you?”

Giorno laughed musically at that. “Maybe.”

“So you always wanted to do this? Be in a gang, run all of Italy?” Mista laughed, obviously teasing, but Giorno could only answer, “yes, I guess so,” half serious about it. He thought earnestly of the gangster that saved him as a child and when he really thought about it, he doubted there was any other path for him.

“When I was still at school, some part of me did think I wanted to be a lawyer,” he mused, recalling some talks he had with career counsellors and classmates. “But my heart was never in it, and I’d already realised by then that you can’t be a part of the system to fight the corruption within the system.” 

He smiled at Mista, a teasing glint in his eye. “Mafia boss seems a little more appropriate for me, don’t you think?”

Mista only laughed at that, half in disbelief and half out of pure amusement.

“Shit. You really had it all planned out, huh,” said Mista, almost sounding wistful. Upon some self reflection, it was true. Ever since his encounter with the gangster from his youth, Giorno’s ran on an internal motor, always striving forward, always thinking, always learning. It’s become second nature for him to be steadfast in his goals. You don’t take over the mafia at fifteen for that to not be the case, after all. 

Mista, on the other hand, was different — Giorno could see that plainly. He imagined him to be a free spirit, not having any kind of particular goal, just getting by as he pleased. 

But something stopped Giorno from evaluating him as just that. Mista was undeniably loyal, and as stubborn as Giorno when he wanted to be. He wondered how he could draw more of that out, understand him better. 

“How about you, Mista?” Giorno asked, attention shifting back to their conversation. “What were you up to before Passione?”

“That’s a pretty loaded question,” Mista chuckled, almost reluctantly. “Dropped out of school and then uhh… This and that happened, and I got into Passione. That was ‘bout a year ago.”

Giorno nodded, intrigued by what went unspoken. He’d already guessed that all of the members of Bucciarati’s gang had a coloured past, something dark in their lives that led them to be here. He was the same way, after all. 

“Family?”

Mista shrugged. 

“I didn’t bother going back home once I got into Passione so I dunno what my folks are up to. Wouldn’t exactly be proud of me I bet,” he said with a nervous huff of laughter that Giorno could only read as well-practiced deflection. He decided not to press further. 

“There’s some things I still miss about home though,” Mista piped up, expression more jovial as he slipped into a reminiscence. “The cinema where I grew up was the best, dunno what it was about the place but there was just a vibe, you know? Even if I did have to fight off some guys because they didn’t like Pulp Fiction once or twice. Bastards.”

“You what? You beat up someone because they didn’t like a movie?” Giorno laughed, incredulous.

“It’s Pulp fuckin’ Fiction, man!” Mista boasted with a swing of his arm. “They had it coming, saying they didn’t get it and shit. What’s there not to get? It’s a modern classic!”

“…Maybe. I haven’t seen it,” Giorno had to admit. It’s not like he didn’t watch films at all — Sometimes he enjoyed spending the odd change he’d pickpocket on a movie ticket, and sugary popcorn was always a nice treat, but he definitely preferred reading overall. Even more so if he could read outdoors. He’s already realised that it was a bit of an old-fashioned pastime compared to his peers.

Mista, who Giorno had gathered was obviously a bit of a film buff, threw a hand over his heart, face rendered in so much disgust Giorno was concerned that he might’ve actually been offended. 

“Dude! What? You can’t just say that to me.”

Giorno smiled. “Maybe when we get the projector room fixed, you could show it to me.”

“Alright, alright, it’s not too late for you to reform,” Mista laughed, his expression wandering a bit as something else came to mind. “There was also this bakery in our neighbourhood, and never tell my ma this or she’ll bite my head off, but! They made the best cakes in the world, rum babà and millefoglie… I’d always ask to get one for my birthday but ma would usually make it herself.” He paused, then rapidly backtracked. “Not that hers wasn’t good or anything! It was the best!”

“I’m sure it was,” Giorno replied, not being able to relate but relieved to see that Mista was in higher spirits again.

“Yeah…” Mista sighed nostalgically, trailing off. “Damn it, thinkin’ about it’s got me wishing it was my birthday again. I didn’t even get a cake last year. Narancia managed to fuckin’ drop it on the floor before I even got a good look at it. We all got so mad about it…”

Mista went silent. Giorno allowed him some space, quietly packing up some books into a wooden chest until Mista piped up again, another question on his tongue:

“Hey, when’s your birthday, Giorno?”

“What’s the date today?” Giorno asked, not looking up from his sorting.

Mista searched for his watch, checked it. “The fourteenth.”

“Ahh, is it that time already?” He dropped the lid of the chest with a loud thump. “The sixteenth.”

Mista blinked. “Wait, seriously?” He asked, disbelieving. “Why didn’t ya say anything?”

Giorno glanced at him. “It doesn’t quite feel like the right time for that, Mista.”

The meaning of his words were clear, but Mista just shrugged, hopping off the table. “I dunno. I think we should celebrate while we’re still here, you know?” He caught his eye, and Giorno couldn’t help but soften at his sentiment.

“I suppose so,” he managed with some reluctance. 

Mista brightened up, a shine in his eyes. “We should have a party or something, what do ya think?”

“Oh. No, it’s fine, Mista,” Giorno protested automatically. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble. C’mon, we can get cake! What’s your favourite kinda cake?”

“It’s really fine. We’re so busy as it is,” he replied, gesturing around the room. 

“Come on, Giorno! The day only comes once a year, right?” Mista slung an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “It can be just us and Trish. Polnareff too, if you want.”

Giorno thought about this. He’s never celebrated his birthday before, and truth be told he’d probably prefer to eat worms. The thought of setting aside an entire day to just… celebrate himself seemed painfully alien. It reminded him of something his mother would always say to him on the day, if she was somehow sober enough or bored enough to remember.

“What, Haruno? Why are you looking at me like that?” His mother whined, not looking up from her morning coffee. She was skimming a magazine, already worn and doggy-eared as she flipped back and forth.

Giorno was six. His classmate’s birthday was last week, and he didn’t understand why he got a birthday at home as well as a party at school, while Giorno didn’t get anything. Some aching part of him probably already knew, and warned him from asking, from getting hurt again, but the words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them:

“Mama, why don’t I get a birthday like the other kids?”

He stood waiting, hands clenched into awkward fists at his side. He wanted to stand his ground, needed to. His mother slowly raised her head and looked up at him from the kitchen table, bloodshot eyes boring into his own sleepy ones. 

“Because you haven’t done anything to deserve it.” Her tone was stone-cold. She went back to her required reading of some trashy tabloid magazine, not into the habit of looking into her son’s eyes for too long. “All those little boys and girls are good boys and girls, that’s why they get birthdays. Stop upsetting Papa so much and maybe next year, Haruno.”

So that was her answer. 

Giorno went about his day as usual. It was becoming easier and easier to tune his mother’s words out, but for some reason, his brain latched onto those particular words, mulled them, ground them into dust in his head until he internalised it. Over time, he learnt to not bother with his birthday. It didn’t seem all that, anyway. And his sixteenth? He hadn’t even taken control of Passione properly yet, not to mention how many mistakes he’d made over the past week, the friends he’s lost along the way. How could he celebrate?

But before he moved to object again, he felt Mista press him to his side, a warmth to him that Giorno could feel even through his sleeve. 

“You deserve a break, don’t you think, Giorno?” Mista’s voice was never quiet, not really, but even Giorno could recognise a note of sensitivity to the way he spoke, a genuine sense of consideration for him. He realised with some surprise that Mista sounded… worried about him.

“…You really are determined, Mista,” Giorno conceded.

“Ain’t I?” He spun around to face him again and grinned. “And that’s only one of my many great qualities, if ya could believe it.”

Giorno gazed at him for a moment, then softly sighed, turning back to the room. Maybe he didn’t think he earned the right to celebrate, but with the hardships his friends had faced recently, surely they deserved something to ease their minds. And if Mista was so adamant about it, then who was he to say no? 

“…Alright, if you insist. But not too much fanfare, please.” He paused. “And I like chocolate,” he added quietly.

“Chocolate cake?” Mista repeated. “I can work with that. I can definitely work with that.” Giorno knew there was still a smile on his face.

They went back to work in a comfortable silence, and even though Giorno knew it was useless, his heart beat a little faster at the anticipation of having a friend so eager to celebrate his birthday with.

They got through a decent number of rooms, the two of them eventually splitting up to get the job done faster, but thankfully just as they got too tired to do anymore, their saviour in the form of a small group of uniformed people arrived at the mansion in the evening. Giorno greeted them with some uncertainty, but clung to Polnareff’s assurance that they were trustworthy. 

The leader in front was of an impressive height, with cropped auburn hair and a mole on his right cheek, and Giorno could almost feel a rumble in the air when he spoke.

“You’re Giorno Giovanna… Yes?”

Giorno nodded.

“Mr Polnareff?”

Giorno held out the turtle, and before he could answer what would’ve likely been a whirlwind of questions and collective bewilderment, Polnareff popped out of the shell with a hearty Hello!

The man’s eyes snapped his movement, and after a moment of evaluation grunted something out that sounded like approval. He called over the rest of his team, about twenty others, and Giorno was finally able to read the logo on their uniforms.

“Speedwagon Foundation?” Giorno gaped as the Foundation people sped past him into the property. “Polnareff, those associates of yours are from the Speedwagon Foundation?”

Polnareff smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a long story. Don’t worry, they’re not aware of our operations here. Not these guys, at least.”

Giorno made a face, not quite convinced, but Polnareff quickly reassured him with the promise that he would tell him more later. 

A mass of questions spun a web in Giorno’s mind. He’d been quietly studying Polnareff for a while now, but this new development just complicated every one of his major evaluations of the man. What possible ties did Polnareff have with the world-renowned Speedwagon Foundation? 

Ultimately, Giorno elected to put this concern onto his mental back burner. Suspicious as it was, he knew he’d get the information out of Polnareff soon, and truth be told, there was nothing else that suggested he wasn’t to be trusted, not with how much he’s helped them so far. The man possessed an unexplainable quality, something that drew Giorno to a sense of comfort with him, and so, albeit begrudgingly, it seemed safe to let this go for the time being.

Leaving Polnareff on a table in the main foyer, Giorno walked off to meet Mista, and did so with one lasting thought in his head:

Who exactly are you, Jean-Pierre Polnareff?

♡

While Polnareff’s team were busy rummaging around the mansion with the ferocity of a thunderstorm over the Tyrrhenian Sea, Giorno and Mista sat themselves in the main office to prepare the next stage of the Passione takeover. 

Giorno absently expressed that he didn’t feel like he’s truly staked his claim of the space yet, but Mista told him with insistent alacrity that he looked exactly the part, the spitting image of a Vito Corleone type. Giorno, unfortunately, didn’t look very convinced. Well, can’t blame a guy for trying.

Mista took a stroll around the office, only having had a cursory scan when he was in there earlier. His eyes swept along the walls, following the lines of all the hard-edged furniture, the towering bookstands, all of the little trinkets and books stuffed onto the shelves. His hands drifted towards a jewel-encrusted faberge egg, needing to throw it around in his palm as soon as he saw how it glittered in the light. It was pretty heavy. Probably expensive. Better give it a toss toward the ceiling.

“So, what’s the next stage of your big, not-so-evil plan, Boss?” He caught the egg one-handed and threw it again. Giorno eyed the motion, mildly amused.

“When you’re done,” Mista heard a page being flipped over, “We can go through this list and begin our point of contact.”

“Hm?” Catch. Throw. “Contact who?”

“The Passione caporegimes,” answered Giorno with more patience than Mista was usually granted by others.

He turned to his friend. “Wait, we’re doing— Oh fuck—” 

The egg smashed to the ground, crystal shards and stones alike lying in its fragmented wake. They both took a second to stare at it. Mista awkwardly pushed it aside with his foot. 

“We’re doing that now? Talking to all the capos?”

“What better time than now, Mista?” Giorno presented the page to him to look over. “The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to fully take control over the organisation.”

Mista took the list from him, eyes roving over all of the names, some he knew, some he heard once or twice, some from departments within Passione he hadn’t even heard of. He looked up at Giorno, who maintained his true-to-form resoluteness. Powerful as he was, more so with his newfound Requiem potential, even Mista was sceptical of their collective ability to persuade all these hardened criminals to suddenly start listening to some kids as their superiors. Of course, Giorno Giovanna was rarely a man unprepared.

“You got some crazy plan up your sleeve, huh?” Mista asked, already knowing the answer.

Giorno cocked his head, expression thoughtful. Mista observed him, how his eyes were a partition to his real thoughts, always two steps ahead and beyond the fullness of any one person’s understanding. “I wouldn’t say it’s so crazy, but yes, I have a plan. You’ll have to help me execute it, of course.”

Mista flashed a grin and said, “What else would I be here for?”

They devised a more or less airtight plan, revising each aspect of the capo’s backgrounds, information they could use to course-correct, and mapping out areas they could take advantage of if they needed to escape a dangerous situation. The likelihood of any of them being Stand users were low, but not unaccounted for. Mista had to admit to himself that he didn’t do much as it seemed that the bulk of the plan was already formulated in Giorno’s head, but he was never the thinker of the group anyway. The date was the seventeenth — The day after Giorno’s birthday. 

“You ready, Giorno? It’s probably gonna get messy, all these power-hungry maniacs in the one room.” Mista asked the question lightheartedly enough, but he himself was feeling a bit nervous about the whole thing. Obviously it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle, but still. Call him a little trigger-happy, but negotiations were never Mista’s strong suit. 

“I’d wager we’ve gone through harder battles,” Giorno said with confidence, and honestly, that was good enough for Mista.

“S’long as I don’t get shot eighteen times again, I’m good.” 

“I won’t let that happen again,” said Giorno seriously, with a weight that had Mista wondering if he regretted some of the choices he made during their fight with White Album. So maybe driving the car into the canal wasn’t the best idea, but it worked out in the end, right? It was nice knowing Giorno always had his back, at least.

“Besides,” he continued, “I can heal you. I believe we’re adequately prepared.”

Mista failed to suppress a shudder crawling up his spine, recalling the last time he got healed. “Yeah, I’m real antsy for another healing session with you, Boss…” he mumbled.

Giorno raised his eyebrows. “You know, Mista, no one else complained nearly as much as you did when I healed them. I would think that as a gangster you would—” 

“Oi, some people are just sensitive, man!” He complained, crossing his arms and sticking his bottom lip out in a pout. “And maybe you could be a lil gentler, like I kept saying, instead of prodding me all the damn time…”

Giorno’s face recast into a smirk. “Then do your best to not get shot, then.”

Mista scowled, but it didn’t last long. Giorno was kind of like his lucky charm, after all. Things had a way of working themselves out in his presence.

In the evening, Mista returned to his apartment complex, stopping along the way to gather some food for dinner and snacks for the Pistols. His Stand was much more manageable when they were at home. He’d devised a system for separating their food in a way where they won’t beg him for his own meal and they were able to keep to themselves. Sure, sometimes he let them go wild in the pantry when he really couldn’t be bothered, but otherwise, they had a pretty good thing going. These past few weeks though, they’ve been way too boisterous and greedy for Mista’s liking, and a batshit Sex Pistols on top of everything else was more than he could handle at the moment. Out of all the stuff on his priority list, getting his Stand back to his routine was definitely up there.

And also Trish will probably murder him for real if Sex Pistols woke her up in the middle of the night again.

He trudged up the stairs to his flat, silently mulling over the events of the day. He knew that the next week or so was going to be absolutely crucial in gathering momentum within Passione; They fuck this up, and they could fuck up the entire future of the organisation, and then what was the point of all this? He couldn’t help but overthink it. Having Giorno on his side made things easier, but—

Actually, speaking of Giorno. That moment in his office was definitely a bit weird, right? Mista didn’t know why he was so stupidly insistent on doing the whole pledge thing, maybe he’s watched too many movies, but it was definitely weird, right? He didn’t even mean anything by it, he just sorta got swept up in the moment. Whatever. Giorno didn’t care. He’s probably already forgotten about it. Mista is just gonna move on, he’s definitely not going to overthink—

Wait, why wasn’t his house key getting into the lock? He wiggled the key again to no avail. His eyes narrowed as he pressed his palm onto the door and… yep, it got Spice Girl’d.

“Trish!” Mista called. “Let me in.”

Some footsteps sounded and in a moment, The door solidified, and opened to reveal a rueful-looking Trish. 

“Tell me why Spice Girl had to tenderise my door?” Mista sighed, dumping all of his things onto the floor while he kicked off his shoes.

“Your creepy landlord was about to kick it in to get the rent, so I did what I had to do.” Trish sucked the inside of her cheek, looking downright murderous. Mista blinked, before a quiet laugh bubbled out of him. He couldn’t believe Narancia was worried at one point that she wasn’t capable. 

“Congratulations, you fit right in,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort him out soon.” So maybe Mista’s had to flash his gun once or twice to fix a rent issue. Like Trish, sometimes he did what he had to do, and if his landlord was stomping around kicking doors in then it was only karma in Mista’s eyes.

Beside him, Trish relaxed, her face sliding into something more apathetic. She loitered around the hallway, looking like she wanted to say something. Eventually, she seemed to settle on an internal decision by the way she flicked a piece of hair back, and asked Mista nonchalantly, “So. What were you guys up to?”

Mista took a look at her, and smirked. “What? You missed me that much?”

“Urgh, no!” she exclaimed, scrunching up her face. “I just wanted to know. It’s boring sitting around here all day. Your dumb landlord was the only exciting thing that happened.”

Mista softened, realising with a sting that she probably felt left out. It made sense. It’s not like she wanted any part of this gang stuff, but it’s true, doing nothing in Mista’s apartment was no real alternative. With this in mind, he straightened up, beckoning her into the kitchen as he started to put his groceries away and prep for dinner.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Giorno’s birthday is coming up the day after tomorrow, and I was thinkin’ we should do something.”

Trish instantly lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Wait, really?! We should have a big party, get balloons and streamers and music—” she started spouting off, gazing into the distance dreamily like the scene was right in front of her.

“Hey, hey, calm down! I can’t even make rent, what makes you think we can get all that?” Mista interrupts her. “I was thinkin’ we do something small, you know, just something chill.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, why not.” 

“But…” Trish wrinkled her nose, peering around the room. “Your place isn’t like… No offence, birthday worthy.”

“You know, Trish, I can kick you out anytime I want so if I were you, I’d cool it with the trash talk,” Mista complained, jabbing at her with a box of spaghetti noodles, which to Trish’s credit, undermined his threat severely.

“Okay, okay, fine, we’ll do something… chill.” She said the word like it was literally sour. Mista shook his head and wondered what kind of extravagant birthdays she was used to. Well, for a girl so uptight over mineral water and blush, that’s probably to be expected.

Late the next day, Mista made his pilgrimage through the Naples city centre, on the hunt for something to give as a birthday gift. Embarrassed as he was to admit it, he wasn’t planning to do gifts at all but Trish talked his ear off about social etiquette and friendship and also just not being a dick, and so, here he was.

Mista fumbled about, really not having any ideas. It’s not like he didn’t want to give Giorno something, it’s just that… What do you get someone you’ve only known for two weeks? Bizarrely, they’d gone through absolute hell together, knowing things about each other no one else knew, working in sync with one another as easily as taking a breath, and Mista still didn’t even know what Giorno’s favourite colour was.

He thought for a second. Probably pink. 

Right?

Why, because his suit is pink? Are you really gonna hinge his entire gift on that? No. 3’s voice echoed somewhere from the back-alleys of his mind.

He shook his head. Alright, so that strategy wasn’t gonna work.

Mista wandered in and out of various department and novelty stores, nothing catching his eye. He was starting to get antsy. The shadows of evening gradually etched their way onto the open shopping plaza, and there wasn’t much time left until the shops closed for the day. He didn't even have an idea of what to get Giorno.

Now that he was here though, it’s not like he could get him nothing. Maybe it was a little naive, but there was a sense of normalcy that surrounded celebrating a birthday that Mista desperately wanted to cling on to. Every other aspect of his life was… God, nothing could describe it better than fucked up, and something like a birthday felt so stupidly mundane that he just had to make it work, for his own sanity. It would be like glueing that stupid faberge egg back together, Mista thought — It didn’t matter if you could see the seams and cracks, as long as it still resembled the thing.

So even though Trish had to talk him into it, she was right, loathe as he was to say it. The gift was absolutely necessary; If only he could find one.

He drifted into some shop, already disinterested in its catalogue, until… Wait, was that…?

His eyes settled on it and he knew it was the one. It just had to be. And also he was pretty tired of looking around.

He popped the gift onto the counter, passing along a scrunched up note and some coins to the cashier. 

God, it’s so dumb. Giorno better like it.

The day of the sixteenth, Mista and Giorno worked tirelessly with Polnareff and the Speedwagon Foundation to gather resources for and coordinate their operation, as well as continuing the search for Diavolo’s wealth. With a lot of extra hands and supplies on board, things were starting to look up, Mista felt for the first time that their mission was finally bearing fruit, as unripe as it was. It was difficult not giving away certain… criminal details, and he had to catch his tongue from blabbing more than a few times, but they managed somehow. By the end of the day, all of the pieces were in place, and Mista awaited the initiation of the plan the next day with heady anticipation and only slightly sweaty palms. 

Luckily for him, the perfect distraction came along in the form of Giorno’s birthday. The man himself seemed impassive about it, hyperfocusing on their priorities for the day, which even though was about as Mista expected, still made him a little nervous about their get-together later. He at least received a polite smile and thank you when Mista wished him a happy birthday, but the only thought he could summon afterwards was that he didn’t think he’d met anyone before who was this straight-faced about their own birthday. Maybe he hated celebrating with those parents of his, and grew a distaste for the day. Mista found it hard to imagine, coveted as his own birthday was in his family household, but everyone had different circumstances, he supposed.

The two made their way to Mista’s apartment, making surface-level small talk as they walked. It was kind of awkward, spending the entire day with each other day in and day out and still not really having anything to talk about. Mista was certainly a loudmouth and it was easy to fill the air with useless bullshit, but it just wasn’t as relaxed as it was with someone like Narancia or even Fugo. Mista had gotten so used to their easy companionship that it was difficult to connect with someone as closed off as Giorno. But there was something about him that made him want to try, and when he got that victory, that small triumph that edged him closer to the Giorno beneath the politeness and the stoicism, Mista couldn’t help but want even more.

They arrived at the apartment in the evening. Mista opened the door and let himself in, kicking off his boots next to Trish’s. Giorno followed suit, setting his loafers down carefully before allowing himself to peer around the apartment. 

“Neat place, huh?” 

“You have so much stuff,” Giorno couldn’t help pointing out. Mista held back a bewildered comment, because to him, he really only had the essentials. Maybe Giorno is more of a minimalist.

“You’re lucky you’re seeing it now, it was a complete pigsty before!” The voice rounded from around the corner, brighter than Mista’s telltale baritone.

“It wasn’t that bad!” Mista immediately shot back, even if he was a little glad Giorno didn’t see it.

Trish popped out from the hallway, her pink updo bouncing with her movements. “Ciao, Giorno,” she greeted.

“Ciao, Trish. You look good,” Giorno greeted her with a small wave.

She laughed behind her hand. “The wonders of having a good night’s sleep without the mafia trying to kill you, I guess.” She strode towards the pair, a knowing smile on her face as she approached Giorno.

“Heard it’s someone’s birthday today…”

“Ah, well…” Giorno started with a tight-lipped smile, but Trish didn’t have any of that, stepping towards him with unabashed enthusiasm. 

“Aww, don’t be shy about it!” Trish lifted his hands in hers. “Tanti auguri, Giorno! Come on, sit, we’ve got gifts! We’ll order food, too.” She tugged him over to the sofa, Mista following along.

“What do ya feel like for dinner, Giorno?” asked Mista.

Giorno seated himself, thinking for a moment.

“You know, I’ve been craving margarita pizza for a while now.”

Mista grinned. “Perfetto. I know the best pizzeria around here,” he said, already getting the house phone. He had the number memorised, of course. 

The trio settled on dinner, difficult as it was with Trish amending her order one too many times and Mista having to shush her as the waiter on the phone got more and more impatient. 

“I’m a regular here, they’ll never let me order again if you don’t shut up!” Mista hissed, to which Trish stuck her tongue out in defiance and Giorno laughed at.

While they waited, Mista let Giorno do some laundry. As convenient as Coco Jumbo’s Stand was, even it didn’t come with a washing machine. Mista proffered some clothes for him, though not without some grumbling at how he’s running out clothes to give. Giorno took it lightly, and stepped out of the bathroom some time later in Mista’s only pair of plain coloured sweatpants (as hilarious as it would’ve been handing him one of his animal prints, they were all in the wash) and one of his cropped jumpers, which managed to be big enough to fit Giorno like a normal sweater.

They chatted for a bit, mostly dancing around the topic of Passione. Trish provided some unsolicited opinions on some of the movies she watched that day, and Mista had to stop himself from getting into an argument about how she thought She’s All That wasn’t actually all that. So, great. He had to live with a psychopath. Good to know.

At some point, before Mista had the chance to fully lose his sanity, Trish reminded him to show Giorno his gift. Oh, right.

“You really got presents for me?” Giorno asked like he was surprised about it.

“Don’t get your hopes up or anythin’, it’s not much.” Mista shrugged, feeling a little shy now that he actually had to gift it.

Trish pinched his arm. “Mista! Who says shit like that right before you’re going to give someone a birthday present?”

“It’s true!” Mista rubbed his arm, making a face. “Lemme go get it,” he said and walked off to retrieve it from the kitchen.

“Did you get me something too, Trish?” Giorno asked.

“Of course! I picked out the cake for you.” Trish grinned. “Mista told me you liked chocolate, so you better like it. We’ll take it out once we’re done with pizza.”

Mista returned, hand behind his back.

“Buon compleanno,” he said, revealing a small object wrapped in a washed out grey paper, sellotape neat on its edges. Giorno took it gratefully, weighing it in his hand before undoing the bits of tape to unravel it. He pulled out a white mug, gleaming slightly yellow under the ceiling light. Mista licked his lips nervously as Giorno examined it, emotions unreadable. He continued spinning it around in his hand until the letters finally rotated into view.

“…‘World’s Best Boss’?” He read aloud, a smirk slowly growing on his face.

Mista nodded stoutly, suddenly refusing to feel stupid about it. “You better believe it.”

Giorno’s expression melted into fondness as he said, almost bashfully, “I haven’t even done anything to deserve such a title yet.” It was endearing to watch him cradle it in his hands. Giorno seemed like a person who cherished all of his possessions, but something about his expression told Mista that he was genuinely charmed.

Mista sniffed, trying to push down the feeling of praise that bloomed in his chest. “Then you better prove it to me, right?”

Mista exchanged a look with him then, a message without words that he hoped Giorno would understand, a feeling privy only to them. The weight of a difficult but a necessary future ahead of them, building it together. And by the way Giorno’s eyes searched his, it seemed that he understood.

“Mista, seriously? That’s the best you could come up with?”

The moment passed, and Mista’s gaze flicked over to Trish, who was sending him a very pointed glare his way, her eyebrows angled up like ticks.

“If you were really that low on ideas, you could’ve consulted me!” 

“What?! C’mon, he likes it, right?!” Mista squawked.

Giorno nodded, the smile back in place, mug in his lap. 

“I do like it,” he assured with a light laugh. “Don’t worry Trish, I will use it dutifully.” 

Mista let go of a breath of relief he didn’t even know he was holding. Giorno liked it. Great. Why he cared so much about Giorno’s opinion in particular was a question he decided to examine for another day. 

“Well, whatever. My gift is a whole lot better.” Trish grinned and toddled off to the fridge.

She brought out the cake with gusto, placing it in the centre of the table. Giorno leaned in to take a better look at it, and Mista did too. It was a velvety Sachertorte with a glaze over the top, and a few decorative flowers arranged neatly around the bottom. The patissier had piped a message in a thin vanilla cream: Buon Compleanno! with some love hearts and a ladybug on the outer edges, as requested by Trish. Sixteen multicoloured candles dotted the rim, completing the dessert.

Mista watched Giorno, trying to gauge his reaction. He stared at it for a beat too long, before asking quietly, sounding a little lost, “is this really all for me?”

Trish startled, her eyes wide. “You like it, right? I made sure to get a chocolate one so—!” She said hurriedly, suddenly just as nervous as Mista was.

Mista himself couldn’t quite decipher the reaction, but before he could think twice about it Giorno looked up at Trish and gave a warm smile, the tension in his voice melted away. “It’s beautiful, Trish. The ladybug is an exceptionally cute touch.”

Pleased, Trish hopped up to grab a knife, and ordered Mista to grab the plates. Of course, before Giorno could even think about lifting the knife to cut the cake, in true Mista fashion he waved his arms in panic and demanded it be cut into equal thirds — no quarters or otherwise. Trish complained about not being able to eat that much but Giorno did as he asked, and all three were indeed served hefty portions of rich chocolate cake. Mista assured that the Sex Pistols could polish it off but Giorno knew there wouldn’t be a crumb left on his own plate.

What had started as a slightly awkward get-together at the beginning of the evening transformed into a night of banter and good food, a getaway from the world that was sorely needed. 

It was weird, Mista noted to himself, how he ended up here with two people he barely knew. Here he was, pretty much living with one of them, and building an extensive work relationship with the other. It was an awfully bittersweet feeling, having to accept the absence of his old friends whilst still looking forward to building a bond with his new ones. Everything was terrible, but he wasn’t in it alone, and… That was kind of nice. It was the first moment he felt sort of okay since Rome. And by the looks of it, Giorno and Trish seemed to be enjoying themselves too.

“I know this isn’t, like, the most eventful birthday ever, but hopefully ya had some fun anyway,” he said.

Giorno smiled in a way Mista could only describe as radiant, the heat of the tea they were having bringing out a light flush to his cheeks. “No, this is great. The best birthday I’ve ever had,” Giorno chuckled. “Kind of the only one, but that’s beside the point.”

He carried on spooning cake into his mouth, oblivious to the way Mista and Trish were staring at him. 

“Giorno,” Trish half-whispered, “You’ve never celebrated your birthday before?”

“Not really.” He set his fork down and shrugged, speaking as though he was recounting his times tables and not admitting a devastating fact about his childhood. “My mother didn’t exactly make it a tradition in our household. I got used to not celebrating.”

Mista pursed his lips, letting those words sink in. Suddenly all of those stunted reactions Giorno had pieced themselves together in Mista’s mind, alongside the small tidbits he heard about his family before, and it created a pretty clear picture of the kind of life Giorno’s led up until now. He didn’t hate spending the day with his parents, he grew up not celebrating at all, like it wasn’t even worth doing so. It stung Mista so much he could almost feel it burn across his skin. No kid should go through that, and especially not someone like Giorno.

Trish sat unmoving for a few moments, looking at Giorno with a bespoke heartache in her eyes. She didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it, she really didn’t, but before her brain caught up with her actions she was already hugging her friend tightly, face buried into his shoulder.

“Next year, we’ll give you everything, Giorno. The biggest and best birthday ever, with a big fancy dinner, and drinks, and dancing… Everything you deserve.” 

Giorno’s initially stunned expression gave way into a soft smile, and he brought an arm around her.

“Thanks Trish,” he said genuinely. “But just this is already perfect. I don’t need anything else.”

At that, she squeezed tighter and said nothing more. Giorno exchanged a glance with Mista, who was still seated, awkwardly pushing a crumbed off piece of cake around his plate. 

Giorno smiled even wider. “And thank you too, Mista. I know this was your idea, of course.”

“Oh, yeah.” He sat back, a lazy smile on his lips. “I’m just glad you liked everything.”

“Of course I did.”

Mista ducked his head and nodded, a little awkwardly. Giorno was so heartfelt in his compliments that he just didn’t know how to take it. It reminded him of Bucciarati somewhat. Maybe that’s why he felt so delicate about it.

“Would it be selfish of me to ask to do this every year from now on?” Giorno asked quietly, and Mista had to wonder if this is what shyness looked like on him.

“It’s your birthday, of course we’re doing this every year!” Trish piped up, her voice still muffled from Giorno’s embrace.

Giorno looked up at Mista, his eyes asking a question he didn’t dare say out loud.

“What Trish said. You’re never missing a birthday again if I have something to say about it,” he said, and he really meant it.

Chapter Text

Enzo Minestrone woke up with a lump of dread in his stomach.

It was supposed to be a typical weekday for him. Usually, he would wake up and bathe, before going downstairs to have breakfast with his family. He’d send his children to school with a kiss on the cheek (even though they were in secondary school now, dad, but he couldn’t help himself), and not long after depart for his own errands for the day once his wife left for work. Sometimes he’d stroll around his neighbourhood, not quite patrolling but keeping an eye on things, and other times he would walk into establishments he knew and chat to friends. He’d go to the park, if he felt like it, and he’d always purchase an espresso at two o’clock before he headed to a meeting.

Today, however, would unfortunately not be his usual. 

Still, sweaty and sore as he was, Enzo dragged the bedcovers to the side, careful not to wake his wife and interrupt the stream of soft snores that served as his typical morning ambience. He hovered near the window, absently stretching his muscles. As dawn broke, blazing sunlight smattered the sky like blood, and Enzo tried to not think too hard about how it felt like an omen for things to come.

He showered. It was a slow recovery from his sleepless night, his eyelids peeling themselves open as Enzo registered his surroundings a little less faintly than before. Afterwards, he warmed his palms with an orange blossom and honey lotion and got dressed for the day. For this time of year, he’d like to throw on a casual blazer in a light fabric and some slacks, and a sensible pair of loafers he didn’t need to bother lacing. Today though, he decided he needed to look much more presentable. First impressions mattered, after all. 

“Good morning, dear. You’re awfully spruced up today,” his wife cooed when he entered the kitchen. She was chopping something, strawberries, he thought. She nodded approvingly at his suit – a tanned brown with a faint pinstripe, complete with a fitted waistcoat, a cream handkerchief and his most prized gold pocket watch tucked into his inner breast pocket. “When was the last time I saw you like this? Our first anniversary, maybe?” She joked.

“It’s a rather important day at work. I wanted to look good.” A chuckle tumbled out of his lips, but it came out too forced, too high in his throat. His wife gave him a look, and the rhythmic knocking of the knife against the cutting board slowed down. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, love, it’s just…” he rested his hand on a kitchen chair, thinking. Giana was no fool, of course. She understood the nature of his work, definitely not the intricate details, but enough to know not to ask about it. They had a quiet understanding between them to not bring it up unless things got serious, but there’s never been a need. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “I have a meeting with the boss. Big day.”

“The boss? Did something happen?” The chopping stopped now. “Are you okay? Are we…” she trailed off, expression morphing into something deeper than just concern, and the way it looked on her was uncanny, like a shadow at the end of your bed at night. Something that was not quite right.

“Hey, hey,” Enzo rushed to her, brushing a gentle hand across her jaw, down to her shoulder. He gave a comforting squeeze. “Nothing’s wrong, Giana, nothing at all. I promise.”

She shook her head, mouth twisting. “I know when you’re nervous, carino, you’re shaking like a leaf!”

“Well, I…” he started, but one look into her eyes and he crumbled easily. He saw no point in lying. She knew him too well. “I am,” he admitted uneasily, “but it’s just a formality, I haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be fine.”

She searched his eyes, trying to uncover something, but Enzo couldn’t promise her anymore than that. He just had to hope it would be okay. Giana sighed as she came to the same conclusion, and slowly, anxiety unspooled from her shoulders. She leaned into his touch, and softly assured him with three words: “I trust you.”

They dropped the subject when his two daughters came into the room, and after a breakfast he was sure to remember every detail of, he left the house. Outside, the air thrummed with unease, and the sky, now vast and grey, boxed him in until his throat tightened. He had to wrench his feet from the front door in order to make his way to the car.

“Signore Minestrone,” his chauffeur greeted. He tipped his hat, and Enzo returned the gesture with a nod of his head.

“Good morning, Romano.”

Enzo climbed into the backseat, his anxiety like dead weight strapped to his feet. He tapped his foot nervously, caught himself, then tapped his hand on the side of the car door instead. No matter what he did, the restlessness bubbled and sparked in his chest, and nothing would make it go away. 

The car started with a liberal groaning of the engine and before long, set off, propelling itself onto the main highway. Enzo pressed himself into his seat and let his consciousness slip away into the droning of the road passing by beneath them. His mind left unattended, it wandered back to the same thought he’d been milling over and over for the past couple of days.

A few mornings ago, Enzo had received a peculiar letter to his home. 

He carried this letter with him now, retrieved from his inner breast pocket some moments ago. He worried the envelope in his hands, crumpling its edges even more. It was milky white, sealed with a royal gold wax, and if the envelope was creased, the letter inside was all but ruined. Read over and over, it was creased to the point it was about to tear. 

As for the contents of the letter? A request to visit a mansion just outside of Naples, penned with hairline strokes and swooping capital letters, signed by a peculiar G.G, supposed Boss of Passione, revealing themself for the first time since the organisation’s foundation. 

And Enzo was terrified.

The car rounded smoothly into a turn and up a slope, and Enzo watched as the trees gradually fell away and colourful terrain rose to take its place. But, appreciating the flowering bougainvillaea were far down on his priority list, and his mind raced endlessly to outpace the speed of the car he was in. After ten years, Enzo will finally meet the head of the organisation, and for what purpose? For what reason was he invited here? Was he the only one? Would it be worse if he were? For all he knew, he was barrelling towards probable death, but if he didn’t show up it would end that way for certain.

Terraced tops of towers bobbed into his field of vision, and when the car ascended the hill fully, Enzo realised with a start that he actually recognised the house he’d been invited to. It was the former property of a bygone rival gang, their name now smothered by the pages of the history books and hardly remembered. All Enzo knew was that every last one of them were eradicated by the time he was absorbed into Passione, and the only ones left who knew any details were notoriously tight-lipped about it.

None of that old guard was left. Pericolo was the last one, maybe, but he was dead now too.

So then, Enzo wondered, was this where the Boss had been holed up this entire time? Some ways outside of Naples, right under their noses?

His driver tried and failed to make some idle conversation with Enzo through the partition. Enzo hummed some uncommitted answers before resigning himself to watching the house rumble ever closer into his view.

He was lucky that he got involved with Passione in its early days. Somehow, he managed to slip under the radar and establish himself. He was a fool. A lucky one, but still a fool. He had no place in the organisation, nor the heart - he was walking right into the bullpen wrapped in red. His only hope was that his family could get out of this unscathed.

When Romano opened the passenger door for him, it took everything within Enzo not to plead him to leave, save himself. No, he couldn’t do that. Instead, he smiled and calmly requested he watch the car until he came back, and with those parting words, arrived at the front door.

He breathed steadily. A small but insistent part of him wished that he hadn't given up smoking. He gathered his courage and hovered his fist above the door to knock. It waited until the last second, right before his fist made contact, to suddenly swing open. The motion barely gave him a second to process the burst of colour that stormed his field of vision. 

A young man stood in the entryway, all angles and dark features - full eyebrows, a keen jawline and eyes that swirled like ink. He sported a youthful outfit, a belladonic haze of violet hues and criss-cross patterns, and when Enzo flashed his eyes downwards he saw what he recognised as a revolver tucked casually into the front of his trousers. 

No words from his mouth. Only a cool stare. 

He hung back as the teen abruptly jerked his head in the direction of the foyer, and wordlessly, cautiously, Enzo followed. He was in unmarked territory now; He marched to the beat of the Boss’s drum and not a step out of tempo, lest he get his head lopped off… or worse.

The interior of the mansion was sleek, swathed in ambers, browns and golds. It was surprisingly warm. In his anxiety-slurred mind, Enzo had pictured the Alcatraz equivalent of a mafia headquarters, but this wasn’t that. Far from it.

He ended up in some corridor, at the far end of the house. The young man in front knocked once on a door and Enzo was suddenly escorted into an office space. It was grand, all high-end leather and tall ceilings. Enzo could’ve spent the entire day admiring it but it was what, or rather who was present in the centre of the room that demanded, more than asked, for his immediate attention. 

A young man sat poised in a chair. He modelled a sleek black suit with intricate floral embellishments, with a cutout that curved to show off glittering ladybug brooches. What drew Enzo’s eye more than the expensive dress however, was the man's own natural features - blonde hair stark as the white sands of Capri and eyes sharp as the winter’s morning, sculpted on a face tailormade by Adonis.

He, very strangely, held the aura of a king, his own field of gravity he possessed like the universe owed it to him. A presence too big to fit in any one room. 

When he managed to recall his social graces, Enzo blinked to realise that this person wasn’t a man so much as he was a teenager. One who looked close in age to his own beloved Anna. Could he possibly be the boss’s son? And if he was, what would he be doing here, greeting them? 

“Capo Enzo Minestrone.” The blonde spoke authoritatively, flipping the name over like an antique object of curiosity. Enzo was caught off guard by such a direct addressal by someone so much younger than him, but collected himself enough to answer.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a pleasure,” he stuttered. “And, forgive me, you are...?”

“We will have time for more formal introductions soon,” the teen replied curtly. The other teen stalked his way to stand behind the blonde one, settling an arm on the back of the chair and monitoring Enzo with a sharp eye.

“In the meantime,” the blonde boy continued, “I must thank you for your timeliness. I hope for the remaining Caporegimes to arrive soon.”

His eyes sparkled in such a way when it caught the sunlight that convinced Enzo that he was being studied, body and soul. He felt exposed. Surely, he had to have a connection to the Boss. No other teenager could possibly have such a strong temperament. He smiled weakly, lest that was all he could manage, and forced his attention around the room. Perhaps something could gather his attention, something to steer a conversation with this man and give him something to latch onto.

His eyes landed onto a portrait on the wall. It was disfigured beyond recognition, slashed at the face. Why was that there? He eyed the teen, who was watching him quietly, hoping for some clue, but the boy’s eyes were unreadable, and still too piercing. He looked away. The rolling wave of the curtains from the breeze outside beckoned Enzo’s attention instead, and he settled his gaze upon a row of objects lined along the windowsill. A slightly out of place collection of mementos, it seemed - a wine bottle, the label obscured, a flower in a glass, what looked like a zipper. Most curious of all was a beady-eyed turtle sitting among them.

“I see my trusted companion has piqued your interest.”

Enzo turned to the boy again, feeling caught. 

“I was simply thinking what a fascinating creature it is.”

The boy nodded imperceptibly. “I agree. Intelligent animals, although often misunderstood.”

“Yes,” Enzo found himself agreeing, “I suppose they are. You’re the first person I’ve met with one as a pet.”

“Not quite a pet,” the teen corrected him with a chuckle. “But yes, I suppose I have more of an affinity for reptiles than most. And you? Any pets?” 

He offered the question like he knew the answer already, though not in a condescending way. Something in between genuine interest and simply humouring a reply out of him. The Capo answered, a little proudly, “A dog.” He loved that dear little Scottish Terrier.

“Lovely. Very kind animals.” The teen almost smiled. “Great judges of character too, might I add.” 

“Yes, you’re quite right about that.” Enzo chuckled despite himself. “He would probably like you,” he added, not even knowing why. He just met him, but why did he feel that way? It suddenly hit him how disarmed he was by this teenager. Despite being the Boss’s son, this kid actually seemed quite good-natured. 

He clammed right back up again when the gunslinger next to the blonde shot Enzo a cutthroat look. He supposed that was for the best. He had to remember what he was doing here. A Capo meeting the Boss. No time for chit-chat.

Over the next half hour, the rest of the Capos slowly trickled in, one after the other. Some were familiar company, Enzo had either worked with or at the very least shared a drink with, others not so much, just names he’d heard and faces he might’ve seen. All were a little too young, a little too out of his social reach.

The tension in the room was deafening as each Capo kept quiet. Enzo twiddled his fingers, trying to wet his mouth so it wouldn’t be so damn dry. 

When the guest list was satisfied, the blonde nodded to his friend. He straightened up in his seat, his resolute expression unwavering as he began to address the room. 

“It appears that everyone has arrived. I thank you all for taking the time to meet me. We have a lot to get through but I trust you all will bear with me.”

“Wait…” one Capo interrupted slowly, “Meet you? So where’s the boss?”

The teen’s eyes narrowed.

“If you would allow me to get to that, I will explain.” 

“Go on then!” Someone grunted, emboldened now that someone else has spoken. “Where’s this Giovanna guy? And who’re you two brats anyway?” 

“It has to be the boss’s son, obviously…” Enzo heard someone chime in quietly from his right side.

Another caporegime cracked a sharp laugh. “Son, eh? Why don’t ya run along then and grab yer pops for us, eh, boy? Leave the talk for the grownups.”

When Enzo looked over to the teen, his eyes were stiff and unyielding, his body language tense.

“No such thing can be done.”

That same Capo clicked his tongue, irritated now. “Don’t make me tell ya again. This isn’t the school playground, boy, this ain't a place for kids like you two.”

“Is that so?” The blonde cocked his head to the side, almost amused. “Because it was in fact me who brought you all here today. I am the new Boss of Passione. I am Giorno Giovanna.”

Silence collapsed in on the room. After a few seconds, slowly, then all at once, the room exploded in peals of laughter and confused exclamations. 

“You? You? The Boss of Passione?!”

“Yeah, and pigs can fly!”

“Looks like someone wants to be a comedian when he grows up!”

Enzo stood there, dazed. 

This was Giorno Giovanna? The ruthless leader of the largest organised crime syndicate in Italy? Some teenager?

But no, Enzo intuitively knew he wasn’t just “some” teenager. Something was off, but he wasn’t quite sure how. 

He watched as Giovanna shared a look with his unnamed subordinate, whose fingers twitched dangerously against the handle of his gun. As if to assuage him, Giovanna turned his attention back to the room and slowly brought a hand up. Enzo wasn’t sure how but a threatening air surged into the room, not unlike the grave stillness that precedes natural disaster, and he wasn’t the only one who felt it as the rest of the Capos barks and snorts died down as they were similarly struck by that feeling. 

“Humorous though it may be, although I personally fail to see the comedy in it, it’s the truth.” His jaw tightened minutely as he spoke the words. “I have succeeded the former boss, and I have proof of that fact.”

The room remained quiet as the teen, the Boss, reached into his suit pocket to retrieve a small, silver object.

This ring,” Giovanna presented it with a graceful wave of his hand, “belonged to the former Don. I killed him, and took this as my trophy.” 

He pointed upwards to the portrait Enzo had his eye on before. The Capos all leaned in with interest and scepticism, but sure enough, they could see the ring matched the portrait. On top of that, it was tainted with dried blood. On all accounts, it seemed real. And, surely, no teenager would be this stupid enough to tell a barefaced lie to a group of dangerous mafiosos - so Enzo thought, anyway. 

“And you killed him?” Someone asked, still disbelieving.

“I did. I suggest you don’t make me have to say it again.”

There was something strange about the whole situation, beyond Giovanna being a teenager. Why the scratched up portrait? What’s the connection to this other gang? How much of this could be believed?

Another Capo snorted. “Who’s believing that if we don’t even have a body?”

The Don leaned back slowly, his gaze calculating.

“I have this ring. It matches what you see in the former Boss’s portrait. I have this mansion. I have the land around it. I have control of every branch of the organisation and all of its funds. I have access to every one of your files, and I have every detail of your lives. I know the routes you take to your favourite restaurants, the time you go to bed, down to the second, and the pattern of the wrapping paper you chose for your partner’s birthday gift. Tell me, would the addition of a body really change your mind if you’ve already made the choice to reject the truth?”

Disdain hissed through every word, but his confidence told Enzo he was right. That’s when he realised that whatever Giovanna was lying about, whatever he wasn’t revealing about the true nature of his succession, didn’t matter at all. He was ultimately in control, and the room was at his full mercy.

“I have big plans for the organisation. I want to rebuild Naples, make it a place worth living in again. It is my dream.” His eyes hardened. “Nobody will get in the way of that. Everyone who’s tried is already dead.”

The message rang loud and clear. No one said a word. The tension hung so heavily in the air Enzo could feel it practically push the sweat on his brow. 

A rustle of a coat. A click of Bottega Veneta on the hardwood floor as one capo approached the Don.

“So- So, what, I’m supposed ta start takin’ orders from a snot-nosed brat? Are ya fucking kiddin’?!” The man spat. “Nice party trick, but I know for a goddamn fact ya didn’t kill anyone. Two seconds outta the birth canal and suddenly ya think yer hot shit, huh? Maybe these other chucklefucks will hang onto yer every word like a dog, but I sure as fuck ain’t about to take this lyin’ down!”

His hand slipped into his blazer. 

“Don’t even try it,” the gunslinger next to the Don growled, his first words of the day. His hand immediately tightened on his pistol.

The man swung in a wide arc, revealing his own handgun like an idiot.

“What’s stopping me from killing you and takin’ over, huh? Huh?!"

"For one, my underboss here.” Giovanna replied calmly. “Quite frankly, you wouldn’t stand a chance against him even in your wildest dreams. For another, your own arrogance. You know it as well as I do - you wouldn’t last a single minute in my position. I suggest you stop wasting everyone’s time with such brazen foolishness.”

“Fuck you!”

The bullet blazed through the air, trajectory aimed straight at the mobster’s head, right between the eyes. There was no mistaking anyone in the room - that bullet could not miss. 

And yet, something peculiar happened.

Without a single movement made by either the boss or the consigliere, not even a twitch of their fingertips or a blink of an eye, the bullet stopped right in the air. 

It launched backwards with a bright ping!, clinking against the floor by the Capo’s feet.

“What the-”

“Had your fun yet?” asked the underboss lowly.

His eyes flicked desperately between the two gangsters. What just happened?

The capo composed himself and with a roar, fired five more shots at the boss, but the result was the same. Each and every bullet dropped in mid-air or abruptly changed trajectory.

The gunshots were quickly accompanied by the consigliere’s own, bullets singing through the air as the first one shot his right hand, cleanly knocking his handgun away. The second bullet lodged itself into his knee, sending him careening with all of his weight onto the floor. 

“Testa…di cazzo… ”

The Capo attempted to heave himself up, slipping on his own blood. His hand reached outwards. 

Then, he gasped.

He turned his hand slowly towards him.

A single white flower breached his skin, nestled in between junctions of milky bone.

“W-What the fuck!” He flapped his hand hysterically, straining to shake loose the bloody petals but it was useless. They stubbornly clung to him like egg white does to yolk.

The Don looked on at the display with unyielding coldness as the entire room erupted into a drone of shouts and confused whimpers.

“G-Get this offa me!” The caporegime continued to wail, scratching and scraping his hand manically onto the wooden floor. It only drove the flower in further, the pain shocking him into letting loose another guttural scream.

Enzo’s knees buckled at the sight. How? was the only word pumping through his brain as he scrambled to understand what he was witnessing.

That’s when another throaty howl ripped through the room. The disabled capo was writhing on the ground, spasming in agony as something wrapped python-tight around his calf. It was a thick, gnarled jungle vine, haemorrhaging from the open wound in his leg.

It was baffling and horrifying in equal measure. A nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

“Please…” the capo rasped, each breath a death rattle. “Help me…” 

The light in his eyes had dimmed, and Enzo was certain he was dead when-

The vines were gone, and the flower too. The capo’s injuries had disappeared, and the only evidence any conflict had occurred were the spots of blood on the floor and the rips on his clothes. The capo whined in disbelief, running his hands over his healed leg again and again.

It was then that Don Giovanna finally rose from his seat, calmly and gracefully. He stood, head tilted towards the capo still on the floor, eyes keen and hawk-like. 

“Never say I wasn’t merciful,” he threatened.

His eyesight snapped upwards, ignoring the man’s frenzied blubbering of gratitude beneath him. The Don spoke, and there wasn’t a need to project his voice. Everyone was paying attention.

“All of you will decide now what path you choose to walk. You either follow me, or you don’t. After seeing the kind of power we hold,” he gestured briefly to his companion, “it would not be in your best interest to oppose us. I suggest you choose wisely.”

It was here, when Enzo chose to look up at Giorno Giovanna, that he finally saw him. Not just the man, but something greater. Despite what he had just seen, he knew that Don Giovanna was not unreasonable - No, what Enzo had seen today contradicted that entirely. He was young, sure, and certainly ruthless, but in the game that they were playing, you had to be ruthless. It was how he spoke to him when he arrived, how he deflected insults to his character, and how he spared his opponent that made Enzo understand that Giorno Giovanna had a good heart. It was clearer to him than anything. 

The sky, which he swore was a deathly grey just seconds ago, parted to make way for the sun to slink into the room, its elastic light catching the edges of the Don’s face and the outline of his hair. The greens of his eyes glittered, and the stones on his suit with it. 

It was holy - Enzo could find no other word to describe it when he finally kneeled to take the Don’s hand.

Chapter Text

The lavender was starting to bloom. Its blossoms were fluffy, the petals taking on a healthy, pearly sheen. Bees settled lazily on the buds. It was an encouraging sight, even if the rest of the garden was still far from finished. The view from this angle missed the grandeur of the baroque garden arches and the flowering walkway to the fountain, but it was enough to put Giorno at peace for the timebeing. He had little time to work on the space, but he did what he could. Looking at it now, Giorno couldn’t help but notice that some of the roses looked glum.Their leaves drooped a little, the petals not as rich in colour as they should be. The compulsion to help them along with his Stand power was there, but he knew that that would muddy the point of it. Tending to the garden was one of the only things keeping Giorno grounded nowadays, after all.

He had escaped to the kitchen for his third refill of coffee, knowing it’s not healthy, and stood by the window to nature-watch a little before he returned to his office. This was the first moment of peace he’s had all day. He still couldn’t relax. The tick-tocking of the wall clock taunted him from the other end of the room.

He took a sip of his drink and let the bitter flavour wash down his throat. 

It had been forty minutes since Mista was scheduled to come back from his current mission. His tardiness didn’t worry Giorno - not yet anyway. Over the last two or so months, Mista had made a healthy reputation for himself as being late to most things, and Giorno suspected he was always like this, even under Bucciarati’s leadership. So, forty minutes wasn’t a big deal. He knew it, and yet-

“Don Giovanna?”

Giorno turned to the voice. When did the door open?

“Yes?” He called to the subordinate lingering by the doorframe. The man entered, carrying a folder in his hands. Giorno glanced at it expectantly, prompting the man to scramble together an explanation.

“Progress report on the clearance of heroin in the downtown area.” He cleared his throat, adding, “and what we could find about the Valentino family in Florence who’ve requested a meeting with you.” The man flipped to the back of the binder, quickly unfolding doggy ears and sliding in misplaced bookmarks.

“Ah. Yes,” Giorno affirmed. The man waited for something else, but whatever it was never came. He nervously licked his lips.

“Shall I drop this off to your office, then…?”

“No need, I’ll be heading there soon. Just put it here. Thank you.” Giorno turned back to the window, mug at his lips. He heard a thump on the kitchen counter, then some footsteps, and he was alone again. 

Giorno still couldn’t get used to being feared like that. It was unsurprising of course, considering what was undoubtedly passed onto the Passione cavalry by the capos. A strange teenager that rose the ranks out of nowhere, with stranger powers and a penchant for being immune to bullets. It was easy to forget sometimes that now he was the Boss - He wasn’t just… Giorno anymore. He represented a lot more than that now, not just to his Passione underlings, but to Naples, too. How did Bucciarati handle even a fraction of this responsibility? Giorno spent many a night mulling that question over, wondering how he could live up to him, how he could honour his dream. Giorno felt the strain of that responsibility, tasted it, turned it over in his mouth until it coated his throat slick with anxiety. If he wasn’t careful the pressure would strangle him.

It wouldn’t be even five minutes - Giorno dangerously close to taking another sip of his coffee - until someone else came in to interrupt him about something. He forgot about his troubles for now, settling into his usual routine as new people spilled into the kitchen, breathless from trying to find the Don to pour their questions and findings onto. More reports, more assignments. Sometimes victories. More often bodies. 

Giorno managed to catch a breath again, and looked at the clock. Sixty minutes now. 

Once again, the door to the kitchen slipped open, a soft click exhaling from the lock as it was released - but this time, Giorno knew exactly who it was. He turned, and watched carefully as Coco Jumbo rounded the corner of the kitchen. The animal toddled about, shuffling over to him, step by painfully slow step. Polnareff had made great strides in piloting the turtle, namely by attaching an apple wedge or a strawberry to the end of a stick and guiding it through the corridor between Giorno’s office and the nearby communal areas. It was risky, and not strictly necessary, but a petty outburst from Polnareff one day had him admitting that being forced to call people via his mobile phone was driving him up the wall. He needed to wrest back some agency over his life, talk to people face to face, walk wherever he pleased. Giorno could understand the sentiment.

The turtle came to a stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with Giorno’s shoes.

“Giorno?” Polnareff extended up and outwards from the key, like a swan stretching its neck. He had forgone his hand-waves, Giorno had noticed a while ago. “It’s time for your meeting with Capo Dolce and Minestrone.”

Giorno, of course, knew this already. “I want to wait until Mista comes back,” he explained. “He may have injuries I need to tend to. You know how those last few missions went.”

“I understand, but…” Polnareff made a concerned face, then must’ve conjured up some willpower as he quickly steeled his expression. “It’s just that I worry the Capos will use any excuse to disrespect you, including being late. This is the most crucial time to continue gathering good will among your subordinates. Mista’s more than capable, and if it’s something serious, he’ll let you know when he returns.”

Giorno closed his eyes. He inhaled, letting the air sink into his lungs, letting himself meditate on the thought. He knew that Polnareff was right. He knew that Mista would be fine. He knew that this was what he signed up for. He opened his eyes.

“You’re right. This will be a short meeting, anyway.” He turned back to the garden. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Polnareff said nothing. After a beat, he bowed his head in a nod and left the room. 

Giorno thumbed the rim of his mug, trying not to lose himself in his worry. It was a familiar feeling, although one he thought he long since outgrew - that anxiety over someone’s absence. A part of him hated the vulnerability of it. A bigger part of him was comforted by how human it was. He hadn’t cared for someone like that in a long time. 

Giorno raised the mug to his lips, pausing when he caught the lettering on the side. He knew what it said but read it anyway. He sighed softly through his nose.

“‘World’s Best Boss’, huh…” he mumbled to himself. His mind recalled Mista, recalled his birthday. Giorno’s heart blossomed with warmth every time he thought about it. Never in his life did he think he’d have such a celebration, and yet here he finally did, all thanks to Mista and Trish. It was a small thing, maybe slightly stupid, but reading that reminded him of Mista’s trust in him. Mista was doing his job, and so should he. So, with a new resolve, he headed back to his office. The coffee had long since become cold anyway. 

The meeting itself was fairly rote. Giorno was more or less accustomed to it now, and these caporegimes were at least pleasant to work with. It became a lot easier to ignore the hands on the clock that jutted by with every minute, and every minute that Mista didn’t return. There were sweeping discussions of objectives, of reworking plans, of shifting timelines and goals. The end wasn’t in sight, and wouldn’t be for a long time, but Giorno was optimistic. He had to be.

“I must say…” Capo Minestrone turned to Giorno before he left the room. He was dressed in a derby hat and a billowing suit jacket, droll in an old-fashioned way. “It’s incredibly heartening to see a young person like yourself who wants change like this. I was beginning to lose hope for this town.”

“Thank you,” Giorno said. “Despite the rather strange circumstances of our relationship, I hope you continue to be patient with me. It’s a long and difficult road to our goals.”

“Indeed.” Minestrone dropped his gaze, pensive. “I can only hope that in time, our casualty numbers can lower as well. It’s a damn shame what some people in the organisation think they can get away with, especially now with so much change happening.”

Giorno swallowed. “Yes. I agree.”

Minestrone tipped his head, putting on his hat. “Tell your pet turtle hello from me,” he called as he left.

Giorno checked the clock. An hour and a half had passed, and no sign of Mista. He took out his phone, traced out Mista’s number on the buttons, dialled. No answer. Before he knew it, his body had exited the room and began to look for him.

It was actually easy to locate Mista. Red droplets, occasionally smears, stood out on the glossy hardwood floors that Giorno followed like a breadcrumb trail. Fresh. He’d just come back. The sight shook him into urgency, picking up his pace through the winding corridors of the manor. 

The door to a medicinal supply closet was ajar. Giorno pushed it open to find Mista cross-legged on the floor, pinching the ends of some gauze wrapped around his stomach. The shelves looked rummaged — a box of bandages was ripped open and safety pins were scattered everywhere, sharp and open-mouthed.

“Mista—” Giorno started, lowering himself to the floor, but Mista just shook his head.

“I got it, don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, putting pressure on the shoddily-wrapped tourniquet. His clothes were bloodied, as was the floor, and his breathing was ragged. Mista’s protest went ignored as Giorno quickly moved, nimble fingers already tracing the seams of the bandage.

“What is this? A gunshot wound?”

Mista stared at the floor. “Not just one…” he confessed, almost embarrassed.

Alarmed, Giorno motioned for him to show the rest of his injuries. Three gunshots. Mista nursed the more serious one on his abdomen, while the two other ones were closer to just shallow grazes. A gear in Giorno’s brain shifted, clicked into place, and suddenly the only thing he could concentrate on was healing him. He pulled Mista’s hands away from his stomach, investigating the severity of it. Blood stuck to his hands but he ignored it easily. Gold Experience appeared, serene and dignified, and gently laid its hands over the wound. It didn’t hesitate when Mista flinched. The Stand began to operate, and the cotton dressing slowly twisted into sinew, braided thread into veins.

“You should’ve come straight to me,” Giorno said quietly.

Mista sniffed. “You were in some meeting… What was I supposed to do, just barge in? ‘Ahhh, help me, I can’t even put a bandaid on by myself’?” 

“Yes.” Giorno levelled his gaze, unimpressed. “Obviously this is more serious than that.”

Mista rolled his eyes. “And then deal with all those pissed off capos, yeah? I’m sure they’d be real cool about being interrupted for no reason.”

“I would’ve managed. And three gunshot wounds is not no reason. Each time you return from an assignment, you come back with more serious injuries than before. Do you need to behave so recklessly?” Giorno admonished, squeezing his hands around Mista’s abdomen, watching the last strands of bandage disappear into his skin.

“It’s not like I wanna,” Mista replied. Irritably, Giorno noted. He didn’t immediately respond and instead moved to inspect the rest of Mista. He slid some safety pins into his hand.

“How was the mission? Did something happen?”

“No. It was fine.”

Giorno furrowed his brow. “Well, are the Pistols okay? They’ve been quiet recently.”

“You think…?” Mista moved to his side when Giorno gave him a forceful nudge. He pulled his trouser waistline down just enough to show his hip, the second injury of the lot.

“I haven’t seen them nagging you for food nearly as much as usual,” Giorno continued, gently settling a pin over the torn skin. He felt Mista’s whole body tense again. Gold Experience shimmered once more, and the steel melted into tissue, seamless. 

Mista just shrugged. “That can only be a good thing in my books.”

Giorno meditated on his answer. It was, quite frankly, bizarre to him that Mista was this harmed after the mission. Against non-Stand users, he shouldn’t be having any issues. It was a simple incapacitation task, one target. He had to wonder if the Pistols were underperforming in battle. It would be unusual of course, but it was a possibility that he couldn’t rule out. 

“How have they been in battle?” He asked. 

“Fine.”

“I see.” A beat. “Mista, are you sure that nothing—”

“Look, they’re fine, I’m fine, it was just a tight situation, yeah?” Mista snapped. Upon the look on Giorno’s face, a fraction of surprise on his usual pragmatic, Mista course-corrected, shoulders slumping. He looked apologetic. “It was him or me, Giorno. I’m lucky I got off this lightly. Really.”

The pause that followed was strained, churned thick with words said and unsaid. Giorno pursed his lips. “I need you here, Mista,” he said. It wasn’t sentimental, just factual — he thought.

“Well, you can relax,” Mista sighed, resting his head on the back wall. “I ain’t dying anytime soon.”

“You sound sure about that.” 

“Didn’t I say? I’m a lucky guy. Always have been,” Mista said. Something flashed in his memory about stones and fate. “Pisses people off when I say that, but it’s what I think. It’s not my time yet.” 

Giorno didn’t answer. He still didn't know what to make of Mista’s confidence in his luck. The circumstances of their newfound roles, as teens navigating an adult world, as gangsters, but most of all as Stand users, meant that they were always in danger — they both learned the hard way that this was the case. How Mista was not more cautious eluded Giorno’s understanding. As it was, he had to accept that this was part of Mista’s resolve.

A small sigh escaped Giorno’s lips. “Just be more careful next time.” 

“That an order?” Mista grumbled. He looked at Giorno expectantly. Waiting for something.

“No,” Giorno said simply. “Just a request. From a friend.”

Mista met Giorno’s eyes for a second and they weren’t pleading, but something adjacent. Mista dropped his gaze to their hands, where Giorno absently ran a thumb over his knuckle. He watched his skin break out in a shiver.

“You got it, Boss,” Mista ended up saying. Giorno rewarded him with a small smile, and though the gunman didn’t return it, his expression lifted in silent acknowledgement. 

The rest of their time went by quietly, Giorno patching up every cut and scrape until he was satisfied, much to Mista’s half-hearted insistence that he was overdoing it. It was relaxing, at least compared to the hectic day in and out of the rest of his life. He’d lay a compress on one of Mista’s bruises, and think that it was nice to take care of someone, to know that they’re around for another day. The thought struck a high pitched anxiety in his heart. He pushed it down.

When Giorno was done, he released his hold on Mista and let him stealthily wipe a few stray tears from his cheeks. Still not used to the Gold Experience healing. Mista wobbled a bit as he stood up, flexing his arm. There was always that stiffness that was left behind after Giorno’s healing, like a rusty hinge that needs oiling. Mista seemed satisfied though, and nodded at Giorno gratefully.

“Thanks, Boss. Worked like a charm.” He paused. “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll just…”

“No, that was all for today. But did you eat anything?” Giorno, after clearing up the scattered supplies on the floor, rose to Mista’s level. “If you don’t mind waiting a little bit, we can have dinner together.”

Mista made a bashful face. “Ah, I’m just… I’m tired, you know? Not all that hungry.”

“I see.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“…Right. See you tomorrow.”

He reluctantly let him go, and when Mista finally left, Giorno couldn’t help but feel an acute sense of emptiness well up in his chest again. Back to his endless paperwork, alone. He was too used to the feeling to admonish himself for it anymore. Being alone never used to be so hard, he thought, but for some reason that’s changed.

Dusk had arrived by the time Giorno returned to his office. The outside world was dipped in a smoking spectrum of indigos and magentas, the Italian cypresses waifish under the vibrancy of the sky. Giorno tapped the light switch and the room came to life, warm light bouncing off of the collection of furniture that hasn’t been broken in yet. The antiquated look of the manor that they first saw two months ago had been done away with. Giorno had done the same with his room, but now it just seemed empty. Giorno never had much in the way of things, and growing up in a stream of ever-changing flats and school dormitories primed him to never get into the habit of decorating. Despite that, he didn’t think he would miss his old dorm room so much. The spaciousness of everything was nice but it always felt too much. Too opulent. Mista laughed at him once when he said that. He didn’t take offence to it, he knew it was weird. Yet another thing to adjust to, he guessed.

Giorno settled into his chair, sweeping some leftover papers from his table and into carefully organised folders into the drawer. As he was organising, he allowed himself to reflect on the day. On Mista. He was worried about him. Something was off.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Giorno listened in.

“Don Giovanna, a new intel report arrived.”

“Come in,” Giorno spoke easily. The subordinate dropped off a wide envelope with a file code in red and the date on it. He humbly bid the Don a good night before leaving. Giorno pulled the new report out, separating the pages, laying them flat. A photo was paperclipped to the side of one page, inks glossy and wet from the printer. Giorno already knew what it was. He pulled it closer to inspect.

Pannacotta Fugo.

The picture of him was recent. Slightly hunched over, walking somewhere, characteristic green suit. His face was obscured by his hair, but there was a mournful expression on his face. It pained Giorno to see. It pained him further that he had to monitor a friend of his like this. It was unavoidable, unfortunately — he was still a Stand user, and his departure from the group left an open-ended question on his alliance within Passione. By this point, he had to have heard that there was a new Don. He was far too intelligent to not realise who this new Don was. Yet, he hadn’t made a reappearance nor any kind of move on Passione turf. From Giorno’s sources, he drifted like fog, snaked through the endless narrow alleys of Naples, lost and aimless, weighed down by his own existence. It was written all over him, in the fine lines between his sunken brows, between the spaces of the strawberries marked on his tie.

Fugo’s path was his own to take. He had made that clear in Venice. Still, the necessity of spying on him turned his stomach a bit. Fugo was still a former teammate of his. It didn't feel just. He wondered, if he could reach out to him, offer a hand. Giorno mentioned this to Mista, two months ago. The reaction he got out of him was surprisingly callous, obviously feeling betrayed, but Giorno never shook the idea off. There had to be a way to help him.

As he was dwelling over the details, he heard his office door open for the second time that night.

“Giorno, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Giorno looked downwards to see Polnareff again. 

“You were gone for a while.” He tapped his fingers on Coco Jumbo’s shell. “Did you forget you have a meeting with the Santa Lucia caporegime at nine?”

“I was tending to Mista. He was quite injured,” Giorno settled on saying. He wasn’t sorry about taking his time.

“Well, I’m relieved that he’s safe, but Giorno, you understand that you have other obligations you need to take care of now. It’s not just the meeting, we also need to catch up on—”

“I’ll phone Santa Lucia and push it to tomorrow. He’ll deal with it.” 

Polnareff sighed roughly, rubbing his temples. “You heard what I said earlier—”

“And I said, that he will deal with it,” Giorno shot back icily.

The pause that followed was pregnant. Giorno wondered why it felt like all of his conversations were full of silences lately.

“Giorno, I have to remind you that you signed up for this. You need to take this more seriously.”

“Polnareff, all I’m doing is taking this seriously!” Giorno said, exasperated. He rose from the table, circling to look at Polnareff directly. “And I’d like to remind you that I’ve been asking for your aid in getting the Speedwagon Foundation to work with us for the past two months, but you’ve completely rejected that idea. You know how much it would benefit our cause, and even just bringing it up with them would be a great help.” 

Giorno had been thinking about it for a while. With their resources, it would be easier to accomplish what Giorno was after. Yet, for some reason, Polnareff was remarkably tight-lipped about his involvement with them. Giorno wasn’t being told something and his patience was wearing very thin.

Polnareff’s expression dimmed. “Giorno, it’s not that I don’t want to ask. It’s a lot more complicated, and… well, there’s many factors that you don’t know about. It’s just not that simple.”

Before Giorno could retort, a shrill ringtone wailed throughout the room. Giorno watched as Polnareff reached for his mobile from within the turtle.

“I need to take this. We’ll continue this later.” He hesitated before picking up, giving him a rueful look. “I’m sorry for getting short with you. Good night.” He slipped into the Stand’s pocket dimension and that was that.

Giorno fell back into his office chair with a rattle. It felt like every relationship in his life was one short fuse away from bursting. He held it gingerly, a machine with slipping cogs. Giorno thought about how to keep it from falling apart in his hands. 

Chapter Text

“C’mon, you bastard, come out already…”

Mista readjusted the grip on his pistol, eyes glued onto the warehouse door below him. He’d situated himself on a mezzanine inside the building, hiding among a pile of miscellaneous crates and plastic-wrapped packages. The June heat wasn’t unbearable, yet, but the lack of ventilation bred a sultry air within the warehouse and Mista couldn’t help swiping a layer of sweat off his face again. The action gave little relief. He sighed, a puff of air brushing the underside of his nose. He hated working in the summer. The colder seasons in Naples were just right — the temperatures kept his brain cool and his wits sharp, and, maybe more importantly, he was free to wear all of his sweaters, no problem. Still, he was a professional. He was going to pull through, just like every other time.  

Mista flicked his eyes around the area again, but he was already watching the one door, the only way in. Leave it up to this guy to be late to his own hit. Mista couldn’t even remember the poor bastard’s name. It was on the report, Giorno had pointed it out, but by the time the briefing was over, it had gone in one ear and out the other. There was a stray phone call ringing in Mista’s memory, tangled up with his other thoughts like sunlight in water: Someone who tipped them off on the target’s location and his involvement in a prominent drug operation down south — Capri and the nearby shores. The job was to incapacitate and bring him back for questioning. Part of Mista was thirsty for contact, a scrappy fight that ended in blood curling around his fingertips and a heavy bruise around his eye. The more rational part of him knew that he should keep this mission clean, quick and easy. Giorno preferred it that way anyway. If the Don said jump, he’d ask how high. That’s how it was now.

Something shifted in the scene below him. Mista tensed, the grip on his revolver tightening. He searched the shadows for his prey. The warehouse doors scraped open. Light piled into the room as a bulky figure walked in. 

“Looks like somebody’s finally made their five o’clock reservation…” Mista couldn’t resist quipping under his breath. He readied his shot. “Let’s serve him something he won’t forget the taste of, eh?”

Up and down, Mista scanned the man, looking for obvious weapons or anything suspicious. Seemed clear. The trajectory was the target’s leg, his right one. Mista’s line of sight traced down his body: first down the V-neckline of his mesh shirt, then to the gaudy ring of Versace leather around his waist, and finally down to his knee peeking through ripped skater jeans. Right there, Mista decided. He squeezed the trigger, the bullet flew through the air and—

Missed.

It smacked the warehouse door spectacularly, the noise of its fire erupting throughout the building. The target immediately ducked, and Mista stared blankly for a second before his misfire caught up to him.

“Fuck! Get a fucking grip!” Mista hissed to himself as he haphazardly realigned his position. The heat must’ve been frying his brain. He lined the shot up again but the target had already escaped into the innards of the warehouse, no doubt closing in on Mista’s proximity. He had to move — Now.

Mista thrust himself from the ground and vaulted beneath the mezzanine staircase, landing hastily on his feet. He scanned his surroundings, whipping his head around before he lunged at the closest wall of crates he spotted. He could feel every grain of the concrete scorching his bare skin where his sweater had ridden up, but he grit his teeth and managed to stumble into a defensive position. Metal groaned in the background, footsteps echoed, and Mista strained his ears to follow the sound to the source. 

“Where the…”

Before he could poke his head out to get a better view, his answer came in the form of a resounding bang! and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder in his nostrils. He spun around and stared down the bullet hole embedded in the wall behind him. The shot had missed him by a significant margin, but the fact that he didn’t anticipate it at all was a bad sign. A very bad sign. He really needed to get it fucking together. 

“Playin’ dirty, huh? Shooting at me without even coming outta your little hiding spot!” shouted Mista. 

“Could say the same for you, fuckwit! You shot first!” Yelled out his adversary.

“Kinda part of the job, man,” Mista replied, slowly inching out of his hiding spot. Better keep him talking. “You signed up for this, right? Should’ve expected a gunfight every once in a while…”

“Ain’t you Passione? They’re the only ones who know what we got goin’ on here, so what the fuck are you shooting at for me for? We got a deal!” 

“Change in upper management, buddy,” Mista answered with finality, and with a swift movement reappeared in the main landing of the warehouse. He ran to the aisle he thought he heard the man’s voice coming from, revolver pointed right in front of him, and then—

“Urk—!” Mista snapped his eyes down to where a bolt of pain shot through him — his right hip, clipped by a bullet. He spun around and caught a glimpse of the target flash by down one of the aisles, out of sight again. 

“Oh, you piece of shit…” Seriously, what was Mista doing here? Getting outclassed like this in some amateur cat and mouse game? 

Mista tailed him again, trapping the gangster in his sights and chasing him into an overcrowded nook around the back of the warehouse. Another stray gunshot echoed and Mista felt it before he saw it—a bullet skimming across his bicep—except this time he had a short window to retaliate and managed to shoot his assailant’s left shoulder. He screamed, clawing desperately at himself, legs still pumping to get away, but Mista took aim at a support beam and knocked down a tower of crates to block his route.

Finally cornered, the gangster scuttled backwards. “Drop the gun!” He sputtered, and clumsily adjusted his pistol, aiming dead centre at Mista. “You don’t wanna do this!”

Mista answered, but not in the form of a sentence. He shot the man’s knee, just like he’d fucking wanted to in the first place, and watched with great schadenfreude as his legs gave out and he tumbled to the floor.

It was unfortunate that at the height of Mista’s amusement a bullet split his skin, ripped through his torso, burning a hole where his stomach was. 

He hacked up blood. Blinked. Looked down. Crimson leaked out in lethargic spurts from his abdomen. 

“Shit.”

The felled gangster eked out a throaty snicker at his handiwork. 

Mista sucked in a broken breath and bit out another curse, already knowing that any wound near the vitals is always a bitch and a half to heal up. Then he cursed again for getting himself into this mess in the first place. 

Fuck it. He drained the blood that welled up in his mouth, spitting it out over his shoulder. With well-practised ease, he readied his revolver and aimed at his target’s head. 

“Hey man, don’t you fucking dare—!” 

Mista squeezed the trigger. 

In the instant he watched the shot connect, he realised with regrettable delay that his opponent had aimed again. As Mista’s bullet disappeared into the gangster’s head, so too did the bullet towards him. Right between the eyes. Perfect shot.

Number four. The fourth bullet.

He couldn’t believe it. After surviving fucking King Crimson, he was going to be taken out by some dumbass he forgot the name of. He screwed up this entire mission, and his luck finally ran dry, and now his life ended here. 

What was more surprising was how calm he felt about it. 

He shut his eyes. 

Number four. 

It was always four.

Always four—

Always—

“Miiistaaa…” 

Mista’s renewed vision was a blur of gold. He knew instantly what it was. He reached up to pluck No. 5 from its suspended position in front of Mista’s face. He cradled the Pistol in his hand, watching it woefully drop the bullet. It blinked back some tears before disappearing, and Mista was left alone. 

Alive again. Should he even be surprised at this point?

He stood quietly in the new stillness of the warehouse. This shouldn’t have happened this way. This should’ve been clean and easy, just like he wanted. Just like Giorno would want. He shouldn’t have almost died here.

Slowly, Mista wrapped his fingers around the leftover bullet, squeezed it, committed its form to the memory of his palm until it dug into his skin like teeth.

Suddenly his stomach crunched, intestines unscrewing and twisting into itself. Mista dropped to his knees, shakily putting a palm over the gunshot. His fingers were wet with his blood. Fuck. He needed to take care of this before it became a real problem. 

Mista threw a glance at the gangster lying some metres away from him.

“Damn it…” he huffed, “that bastard better still be breathin’…” If Mista killed the guy he was supposed to haul in for questioning, on top of almost dying on the easiest job ever, he would really be mad at himself. Mista dragged himself over to the body, and inspected his chest — up, down. He gave a sigh of relief. He really was lucky.

Mista stepped aside, limply, and catalogued his injuries. Three total wounds. Some cuts, some scrapes, and a concrete burn to boot. Looks like he ended up having that scrappy fight he wanted, but the adrenaline was long dead and he didn’t remember other fights—even the petty ones—feeling this empty in the wake of their conclusions. 

Mista blinked that thought away, letting its thread hang loose and unexplored until he picked it back up again, if he ever would. He plucked his Nokia handset out of his boot, squinting at the time. Over an hour late. 

He should call Giorno. He didn’t.

He put his phone away. “Alright. Let’s get your ass to the car,” Mista muttered to the human heap at his feet. He pulled at him and managed to sling him around his shoulders, sluggishly exiting the warehouse into a dusty lot where the car was parked. The getaway driver spotted him from the window, jumping out of the car to assist Mista and take the dead weight of the gangster off of him. 

“Dump him in the back,” Mista ordered, rounding the rear of the vehicle to get into the boot. He clicked open the med kit — empty. He forgot he cleaned it out last mission. The door slammed with indignance and Mista climbed into the back, not giving a shit about the blood he was getting over the leather seating. He pushed the gangster away to make room for himself, watching his head loll. “Hit the gas. I’m dyin’ over here.” 

The driver grunted and they pulled out of the empty lot, making haste back to the manor.

“Should I call the Don?” The driver asked.

Mista considered it. Remembered something in Giorno’s timetable about a meeting around this time.

“Don’t. He’s busy.” 

Mista and Giorno have slipped into an amiable, if a bit rigid, friendship and partnership. It was comfortable when they got the opportunity to talk as themselves, but duty called and it left Mista feeling rather isolated most of the time. It wasn’t Giorno’s fault — Mista was sympathetic enough to know that he had enough on his plate and wasn’t able to entertain Mista on his every whim. He didn’t want to add onto that with his own problems. He’s handled himself for ages now, even before joining Bucciarati’s gang, and he didn’t see why that needed to change. If it was easier on Giorno, he could shoulder the burden. 

For the rest of the journey home, Mista just concentrated on breathing and not throwing up his lunch all over the fancy leather. 

When they finally got back, Mista slithered out of the backseat, leaving behind the driver to bring the target into the house. A few security guards ran to Mista’s aid but he brushed them off. If he was honest with himself, he could barely hear whatever they were saying. His mind was a slur of indiscernible vocals and his own heart beating itself against his skull.

Slowly and feverishly, Mista inched his way over to wherever he could fix himself up. Was this the right way? He thought he remembered a supply closet around here. Maybe there was one that was closer. He couldn’t think.

“Thank God…” he breathed when he reached his destination. He practically fell through the door to get at the medical supplies inside. He didn’t know how much time had passed when Giorno showed up. The Don, of course, immediately tended to him. It shouldn’t have surprised Mista. The healing process bit and burned, but every time it happened it became a little easier to bear it. Mista was adjusting to a lot of new things in his life, and this was just another adjustment. He wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or not.

He was relieved when he was able to escape Giorno. It was a bizarre tension — A push and pull between Mista’s desire for his presence, and a stronger impulse to not be bothered, to resist giving up any answers to questions he didn’t want to be asked. Giorno didn’t need to know just how much he fucked up.

Mista wandered through the mansion, his legs taking him to his bedroom before he realised that was where he was going. It was the room opposite Giorno’s, the idea being that he could access it quickly if the boss was in danger. For the first paranoia-stricken week in the new space, Mista sent the Pistols in at intermittent times in the night to make sure he was still alive and not kidnapped or murdered or something worse. Mista’s calmed down a little now but a new source of dread has unlocked for him, a rising fever he couldn’t sweat out.

His room was sparse. He decided to keep all of his stuff back at his apartment, although he was never a keen decorator anyway. Still, the plain walls and paisley bedcover didn’t do much to alleviate the profound numbness he felt in the mansion. It was too cold, even now in the summer, and the floors creaked too much. Nothing was quite right.

Mista fell onto his bed in a heap, bouncing a little on the mattress. He closed his eyes, out of habit more than anything else. Sleep was something Mista wasn’t getting a lot of recently. Giorno didn’t feel like sleeping either so they’d spend most nights of the first month or so going through administrative duties together, filing paperwork and sorting the finances and contacting the appropriate departments within Passione to redirect their efforts into something more aligned with Giorno’s plan. It was nice spending time with Giorno in his office, even if the actual things they were doing were mind-numbing at best. Now that they were done with that, Mista didn’t have nearly as much to distract him from his tiredness. When he still lived at home with Trish, they mutually agreed to keep the TV on at night and usually fell asleep on the couch together. Trish got it. She couldn’t sleep either. 

Mista wouldn’t mind watching TV with Giorno either but he was still at it in his office, always working. Maybe it was his own method of warding off the thoughts. Maybe he didn’t think about that stuff at all. It didn’t help Mista either way. 

The lack of sleep and the endless stream of thoughts was wearing him down now. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him that he couldn’t keep going like this, but the events of each passing day helped him outrun it. He had to outrun it. 

Mista absentmindedly got his phone from his nightstand - a shitty Nokia burner that Bucciarati got him way back when. He has a new one now, but he couldn’t get rid of this one no matter how much Polnareff nagged about it being a security risk. Mista pushed the worn down buttons, working his way down his contacts list at a snail’s pace. The selection lingered over Narancia’s name, then slowly rolled over to the next line.

Fugo. He remembered the day he bestowed his dumb nickname for him in his phone - they got into some argument, Fugo taking it way too seriously as usual, and Mista had to lock himself in Libecchio’s bathroom so that Fugo didn’t destroy his phone. It was all fun and games back then, Mista realised. No matter how serious things got, they were always back at Libecchio’s the next day, sipping on espresso, talking about some bullshit. 

Mista didn’t hold it against Fugo when he didn’t get on the boat. He really didn’t. It wasn’t until the deaths of his friends did he ever start holding a grudge against him. Staring at Fugo’s name on the screen, he’s surprised to realise how much resentment has been simmering within him. Some friend he turned out to be, going on about how loyal he is to Bucciarati and then just-

He screwed his eyes shut. Can’t keep thinking about that guy now. He’s gone now, and whatever they had is gone. It’s time to adjust to that, just like everything else.

He resumed his listless scrolling when he got to Trish’s name - or rather, his landline number. She was still living at his apartment but since he lived at the mansion now, he tried not to call her much. He couldn’t put her at risk again, not while they were still consolidating power within the organisation.

She went back to school for the time being. She still didn’t know where she wanted to head in life, but Mista was just glad she wasn’t sitting alone in his apartment anymore. At least someone was happy.

Mista sighed. He shouldn’t call her. He sat up, stretching his body to relieve the tension that came with the healing. There was one other thing he could do.

They had a gun range built shortly after the acquisition of the property and when they had some money coming in. Giorno had expressed some desire to learn how to handle a firearm, predicting its use being head of the mafia, but really it was primarily Mista’s haunt as Giorno was too busy to do any of that. Over the last few weeks, Mista’s found himself seeking refuge there more often than not, and he headed there now, needing some excuse to exercise his freshly healed arm, but most of all, rattle some gunshot noise in his head. 

He readied his pistol, aiming dead centre and… bang!

He was good. Really good. 

He continued on like that, shooting in different directions, setting the moving targets, incorporating a run to distant positions. 

Mista ran, ran until his blood burned acid in his veins and his ears rang from the rampant gunfire.

Bang!

Another target obliterated.

Bang! 

Two in a row.

Bang! 

Three. 

But it wasn’t enough. Because, if it was enough-

Another one.

Then maybe- 

One more.

Maybe Mista wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be trapped in this shallow grave of a mansion, wiping away the remains of his sanity by pushing his body to its limit because everytime he closes his eyes, all he sees is the dead bodies of the friends he couldn’t save. Maybe, just maybe, if he could be better, not miss his shots like he stupidly did earlier today, he could protect Giorno and Trish from the same fate.

And that’s what all of this went back to, didn’t it? Fate. He thought he spared Bucciarati. He was wrong. Maybe none of this had a point at all.

Every last target destroyed, he collapsed onto the ground. The air thrummed with the echoes of bullets and the chill of the concrete floor seeped into the fine lines of his bare hands.

He thought he was fine. Most days, he didn’t even feel anything. Those days were okay. He survived those.

But it was isolated moments like these, where he felt everything so intensely, so deeply that it felt like his heart was going to cave in like the rot of a sick fruit, until he was nothing but dust.

He cried a little, still on the floor. A few minutes passed before he hatefully pinched himself to stop, crookedly getting back up again.

There was a tingling feeling in his head, the rumbling of an anxious Sex Pistols. It’s been two weeks since they stopped showing up. Today was the first day they didn’t show up in battle. Mista didn’t realise how accustomed to their absence he’s become until he came that close to death - and what a stupid, stupid way to go if he didn’t get lucky at the last second.

So, no Stand either anymore. Bet Fugo would get a good laugh out of that. Mista wasn’t about to tell Giorno, couldn’t. He had to find a way to fix this mess himself.

Mista exited with a slam of the door, and within moments the gun range returned to a state of heavy silence.

Chapter Text

“…How did the assignment go today?”

The low voice hooked Mista away from his thoughts, reeled him back into Giorno’s office on a clear afternoon. The words were immediately succeeded by an electric bite on his arm, reminding him of why he was here, and Mista finally trailed his sight away from the view out the window to meet the Don’s expectant gaze. Gold Experience, who rested at Giorno’s side, somehow seemed to echo his sentiment within the glossiness of its vacant eyes. 

“Not bad.” Mista sniffed, shrugging off another jolt of pain. “Even got back on time today.”

Today was a trip to the city, taking care of a large-scale business owner that Giorno hadn’t authorised to operate within the gang’s territory. Strictly speaking, Mista didn't think that his involvement was necessary, but he managed to bestow a valuable teaching moment upon the two Passione grunts that tagged along with him - though how valuable a tip of waving your gun around until you get what you want was varied pretty widely by mileage. Mista would know. Still, the job went much better than last time, and it was nice to not receive another earful from the cleaners about his blood staining the back of the famiglia’s Mercedez-Benz.

Of course, it was Giorno who was the most pleased at the outcome.

“So you did.” Giorno squeezed his hand where he was now healing a cut. “And you don’t have any serious injuries this time. I’m glad.” 

Mista hummed something indifferent, eyes dropping from his face.

“And how have Sex Pistols been?”

Even for all of Giorno’s graces, the question bumbled out into the open space between them like a newborn fawn tripping over itself and Mista couldn’t help but grimace. He hated the question but it was only natural that Giorno would ask it again. He was worried. Mista was too. Sex Pistols still haven’t made an appearance since the last mission and he didn’t know what to do. A small note escaped his throat, beckoning, and for a second even Mista thought he would tell the truth until he swallowed it, offering up a hollow fine instead, and that was that.

A troubled expression passed over Giorno’s features but he ultimately said nothing. He swiped a thumb over the torn skin on the back of Mista’s hand and it disappeared, porcelain smooth. As Giorno dismissed his Stand and hesitated to wipe some blood off of himself, Mista stood up unceremoniously, ready to head to his room as usual. He opened his mouth to impart a quick word of gratitude but a steady touch on his wrist stopped him dead in his tracks. 

“Mista,” said Giorno firmly, “Stay here for a minute.” His expression betrayed an intense seriousness - the face reserved for talking about his dream or maybe when a subordinate doesn’t use the right highlighter colour on his reports. It was a little unnerving to be at the receiving end of it.

“What? Why?” Mista rushed to reply. “You need something else?”

“No. I just want to talk.”

Mista moved to break away from his hold, but Giorno clung on in a pseudo-vice grip. Trapped.

“There’s nothing much to talk about. I’m just tired.” He cringed a little as he said it. He knew Giorno hadn’t been buying it for days now.

Giorno appraised him carefully, lips forming a line. Eventually, he took a breath and asked, “Take a walk with me? It won’t take long, I promise.”

Mista glanced at Giorno again, at his hand around his wrist, and though he wasn’t one to be easily pressured into things he didn’t feel like doing, Mista already knew he couldn’t say no. He sighed from his nose and waved his hand for Giorno to lead the way. Might as well get this over with. He sullenly followed, head down, hands in pockets, scraping his feet behind him like a schoolkid plodding to detention. He clamped his mouth shut but a quiet flame of irritation licked at him, wanting to break free. Was it so hard to be left alone? Was Giorno expecting a conversation to fix everything? Might as well let Mista balance the Passione cheque-books for all the good it’ll do - that is to say, absolutely none.

As the two continued down some hallways, Mista realised with some belated surprise that his surroundings were totally unfamiliar to him. Giorno stopped in front of an ornate metal door, Mista stretched his neck a little to see better, mildly curious about what part of the mansion they’d ended up in. Giorno retrieved a key from his trouser pocket and the lock churned open. He flipped the latch, then gestured for Mista to step outside into what he finally understood to be the sun-soaked outdoors of the manor’s estate.

Mista’s only coherent thought in his head was wow.

Giorno slowed, allowing himself to walk in tandem with his friend. The garden was constructed in such a way that it revealed more of itself with each spellbound step, undressing itself ardently as the pair moved down the tiled walkway, stripping away petticoats of foliage until it was completely unveiled, lush and opulent, flowers and thicket bursting out of every seam and crevice. The distinct smell of mulch snuck up on the nostrils, but it wasn’t unpleasant - rather, earthy, verdant. The fountain in its heart was working again, flanked by a ribcage of thorned rose-bushes. It was an extravagant thing made out of marble, bearing the image of some Roman goddess - Venus, Mista thought. There was a pond with koi fish darting about playfully and frogs singing their tunes of wetland modus vivendi, perched upon stages of log and moss. The trees rustled a tango as a breeze swept through them and birds crowded eagerly around the water.

Mista stopped to marvel at it. Somehow, his route within the mansion had gradually watered down to just three things: Giorno’s office, the gun range and his room. Sometimes he went to the kitchen to feed the Pistols, but otherwise he couldn’t find the motivation to venture outside of this bubble he made for himself. To think that such a lively place, one that Giorno had obviously poured such passion and care into, was here this whole time made him regret that it took him so long to see it.

“So, do you like it?” asked Giorno hopefully, trying to coax something out of him. “The garden.”

“Like it? Giorno, how could you not tell me this was here?”

Giorno tucked his hands behind his back, suddenly a little cautious. “Well, if someone didn’t spend so much time sulking in their room…”

Upon hearing that, Mista’s brief expression of contentedness slid into something more sour, too sensitive to the topic to shoulder the comment as he normally would. Giorno stood for a second, let Mista collect himself, then tilted his head towards the direction of a bench that perched underneath the shade. He made his way over and sat, patting the spot next to him in silent invitation. Mista huffed, but the watchful look on Giorno’s face made it difficult not to surrender to it. He joined him reluctantly, slumping in his seat and the pair tiptoed back into an awkward quietude. A few minutes passed like that, the only sound to ornament their surroundings the spirited chirps of birds and the engine of a distant plane overhead. 

Giorno spoke first.

“You know, you’re the first one who’s seen this place other than me,” he said quietly.

Mista turned to him, but Giorno just stared straight ahead. 

“Wait, really? Why?”

Giorno shrugged, his expression unreadable. “I guess it feels like an invasion of privacy if anyone else comes in. Call that selfish maybe, but it’s nice to have a space of my own to just think.” 

Mista snorted. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea letting in the biggest loudmouth you know in here.”

“You’re always welcome here, Mista.”  

He blinked, a little taken aback, and the few centimetres of pollen-laced air that hung between them seemed to grow heavier, although not in an unpleasant way for once. Indeed, Giorno’s mind worked in mysterious ways that Mista just couldn’t figure out. 

“Mista.” Giorno was still watching the garden. “I think we both know you’re avoiding something.”

Mista sighed roughly. For a traitorous two minutes he thought he could avoid this. He threw his head back onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. “You about to lecture me or what?”

“No. I was honest when I said I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I just don’t think there's anything to talk about,” he said again, that same tired argument.

“Come on, Mista, humour me.” Giorno angled his body to face him, his attention shifting towards him, only on him. He had that captivated look in his eyes - it almost had a physical presence within his irises, fluxing and waning with the reflection of the greenery around them. “I’m not letting you go until we figure something out. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” He said it before he thought it. Mista knew he was being stubborn, he knew, but he didn’t want to confront what was going on in his head. He wanted to confront it with Giorno even less.

Giorno then sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and for all Mista knew about being a mafia don, it probably was. A wave of guilt crept over him and he went to backtrack. 

“Okay, okay. Sorry. I know,” he huffed. “Just haven’t felt like myself lately. But it’s not, like, a big deal or anything. I’ll be fine eventually.”

Giorno’s eyebrow quirked up just a fraction, but it still made him look too judgemental for Mista’s taste. “It’s already been a while.”

“That’s why I said eventually, didn’t I?” He fought himself not to snap, but too much feeling dripped from his words anyway. Giorno didn’t respond, didn’t reprimand, but Mista watched his mind ticking behind the curtain of his eyes, approaching the situation from a different angle.

“So then… Sex Pistols…” murmured Giorno, “They haven’t appeared in some time, right?”

At the mention of them, Mista deflated, and any energy he had left to argue escaped him. As much as Mista could attempt to deflect his own mental state, there weren’t any pacifying words to be said about his Stand. He bowed his head, feeling caught. 

“Yeah.”

“How long?” 

“Like… two weeks I guess.” He shrugged limply. He paused, then, weighing whether he should voice this next part. “No. 5 came out last week. Saved me. That’s it.”

Giorno nodded in understanding, seeming to read between the lines of what really happened.

“I want you to tell me these things, Mista,” Giorno said, his voice softer than before. “We can figure out a solution together. You don’t need to do this alone.”

“But there isn’t a solution.” Mista scrunched up his face, all of his dumb worries scurrying back and worming themselves into him again. “They’re just gone, Giorno. What if they never come back?”

“I don’t think so. I think they’re still there, watching over you. I don’t believe a Stand can ever fully go away,” he reassured. “When I was young, long before I awakened it, Gold Experience helped me when I needed it. I think the Pistols are the same. They just need some help to come out again.” 

Mista didn’t say anything to that, just fidgeted with the end of the sleeve of his jumper, thinking.

“In any case, it might be best if you stay here for a little while,” Giorno said. “It’s dangerous not to have your Stand active in battle.”

“Giorno, no one else can do what I can, Stand or not,” argued Mista matter-of-factly. “I can’t just sit around.” 

“I could go in your place,” he mused.

“No way, you got so much other shit going on. And it’s dangerous for you, going out like that. Don of Passione out in the open? They’ll have a fuckin’ free for all. Goodbye to that pretty blond head o’ yours.” 

Giorno didn’t deny it, still thinking. 

“‘Sides, assignments keep me busy,” Mista murmured. The lethargic warmth from the afternoon sun was getting to him. Or maybe it was something else. “Stops me thinking.” 

“Thinking about what?” Giorno asked, but the exertion he stressed on his voice implied that he already knew the answer. And Mista thought he could escape talking about his feelings.

“C’mon. You know. Things.” He hesitated. “People.” 

“You’re hurting,” Giorno expressed sympathetically. “I understand how you feel. At least a bit.”

“Do you?” Mista bit back without thinking. The tension of his heartstring snapped, suddenly. Maybe it was a long time coming. 

Giorno froze.

“You barely even knew them. What would you know about how I’m feeling?”

The words came out lumbering and twisted, malformed from a lack of real belief in them, and the pause that followed seemed to collapse under its own weight. It crushed them both and Giorno didn’t look at him.

“…That’s not fair, Mista.”

It was soft-spoken, not accusative. Mista’s heart sped up and colour ruddied his cheeks in embarrassment.

“I won’t take it personally,” Giorno spoke carefully, toying with the brooch on his suit. “But it’s wrong for you to say I’m not hurting just because I hadn’t known them for long.”

“I-I know, I just-“

“I know.” 

Mista’s searched his mind for a way to apologise, a way to keep Giorno from being mad at him, but he came up empty and Giorno simply marched forward, same as always.

“My duties as Don have kept me busy but the nights are still long. I can still smell the blood.” Giorno gave a wearied glance at him, throat working as he fought the shadows cast by his own memories. “You know, right?”

“I do,” Mista answered hoarsely. Giorno looked back to the estate, contemplative.

“…It’s my fault.” 

Mista stayed silent as Giorno continued to stare back into the garden. Then, the words caught up to him and he went to say, “Giorno, you’re-”

“I should’ve been more diligent. When you started to distance yourself I should’ve done something. I’m sorry.” He locked his fingers together in a tender gesture of defeat, looking genuinely guilty. Mista suddenly wished he was better at comforting people. Especially Giorno.

… Look, it’s not that easy.” Mista scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed now that he feels he caused so much trouble. “Maybe you could’ve done something but I’m still responsible for my own actions. It’s my fault too. And… I’m sorry for not telling you anything.”

“It’s okay,” Giorno said, lighter now, “I’m just glad we talked it out.” 

Mista thought that was the end of that but once again, the Don was never so predictable. Giorno pulled at the ladybug on his chest again, tracing the jewel on its eye, looking off somewhere. 

“To be honest…” he paused, considering his next words carefully. “If you weren’t here, Mista, everything would be so much harder.”

Mista widened his eyes at the confession, surprised to hear Giorno express this feeling so candidly - and maybe it wasn’t conscious, but Giorno pressed his knee just a little against Mista’s, as if seeking comfort or some confirmation that he was still present. That he hadn’t left him. 

“That’s why… I’d like you to let me help you. It’s a selfish request but… just talk to me. Tell me everything that’s bothering you. I’ll help as best as I can.”

Mista stared dejectedly at the floor. He was so caught up in his own emotions that he really didn’t realise what Giorno was going through - or at least not to the extent that he thought. 

“I just- I feel like…” he started to say. Giorno nodded imperceptibly, patient as ever. It gave Mista some newfound courage, and he continued to search for the right words, but before long he threw his hands down with a sigh.

“I just feel like… we’re doing all of this stuff, right? Building Passione and all that, and… it feels like the more the days go on, the more I focus on work, the more I’m going to forget them. And I don’t want that. But I also can’t forget them. Or… I dunno. It’s all just too much.”

A beat.

“So…” Giorno eventually said, “What do you want to do about that?”

Mista turned towards him, defensive, but Giorno was looking at him with a softened expression, a small upturn of his lips at the corners. Mista relaxed, realising Giorno was genuinely asking.

“I guess…” He turned it over in his head for a moment. “I think I just want to talk about them, just for a bit.”

“Tell me about them. Whatever comes to mind.”

“You sure...? Once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop,” Mista laughed nervously.

Giorno just smiled. “That’s okay. I want to hear everything.”

Mista furrowed his brow in reflection, and before long his mouth started to move without his own input.

“Well… don’t judge me for this, okay? But… I’m so angry at him. Bucciarati told him he wasn’t cut out for this, but Narancia, he-" Mista steeled his eyes shut, shaking his head. “But… he did so good, Giorno. He used to be such a brat,” he barked out an unexpected laugh, continuing, “but throughout this whole time I’ve never seen him so determined, and strong, and… I just wish he had another chance.” 

Giorno’s eyes softened and so too did his body language, leaning in closer to listen. Mista opened his eyes again and he wished he could see his best friend but all he could see was the cobblestone path beneath his feet. He feared one day he’ll forget what he looked like completely.

“Makes me think about what I did to deserve to live.”

“I understand, Mista,” Giorno whispered, “I really understand.”

Mista gave a sideways glance, and he couldn’t see much out of his blurred vision, but he swore Giorno was misty-eyed too, and the sight simultaneously calmed him and gave him the intrepidity to keep speaking.

“And Bucciarati… Fuck, Giorno, there’s just too much to say about him. He saved me, you know? And I never got to repay him.” A tremor shook his jaw as he spoke. “Abbacchio too… Well, actually he was kind of a dick-" but he couldn’t keep the joke going, his face breaking and his voice giving out, too breathless to hold his usual timbre. “Shit… he taught me so much too… I…” 

What were coherent sentences quickly morphed into a thoughtless stream-of-consciousness babble of every thought that materialised in Mista’s head - some of the highlights but a lot more of the mundane moments they shared, a lot of the random details he came to learn about his friends over the course of a year. He mumbled something about the stone and Scolippi but he didn’t even know if he remembered the whole thing right anymore, if all of it was some bizarre fever dream that never even happened. It became harder and harder to keep his cool, and at one point he forgot that Giorno was even there.

It was at that moment that he felt a touch, a shy arm on his shoulder, and Mista remembered again, where he was, who he was with. The sensation caught up to his brain and he realised that Giorno was weighing the decision whether to hug him or not. It was awkward, like he hadn’t done it before, but eventually he seemed to gather some courage and put his arms around him in a loose hold. Mista didn’t reciprocate, embarrassed - but Giorno’s warmth and the smell of wood and roses that was so natural to him drew him closer and Mista didn’t need it but he wanted it, wanted to be held and he let himself give into that instinct, that once in a lifetime spur of child-like neediness. He pushed his face into Giorno’s shoulder and let his sobs roll through his body like the tide coming in.

Neither of them knew how much time passed - realistically it was only a few minutes but in this flowering sanctum time didn’t exist and nothing mattered. Nothing mattered but Giorno’s embrace and the parasitic weight that unstuck its claws little by little from Mista’s soul.

Then- Oxygen. He needed oxygen. 

Mista quickly pulled away from Giorno. He sucked in a long breath, deep enough that it sparked a fire behind his eyes, but it felt like he could finally feel the inner lining of his lungs, the tremor of his heart thumping, the acidity that whet his throat from the pollen in the air. It felt good. It felt real. He wiped his tear-stricken face and he felt that he was finally doing it for the last time. 

“Fuck,” he laughed, “Sorry. I got snot all over your expensive as shit suit.”

Giorno made a noise to accompany him, not quite a laugh but something close to it. “You act as though dry cleaning doesn’t exist.”

Mista smiled and looked off to the side. 

“God. What would they say… me blubbering over them like this. Narancia’s probably laughing at me from Hell,” Mista added dryly. 

He stopped rubbing his eyes, too sore. His head was pounding and he looked like a wreck but he could finally breathe again. He could finally breathe.

“I just miss them,” he concluded - with finality.

Giorno gave an affirming hum. “I do too. Even though I didn’t know them for long, I…” he closed his eyes, losing the words, or maybe protecting them instead; his feelings still too fragile. 

Mista bumped him with his shoulder. “They made a strong impression, right?” 

“They sure did,” Giorno laughed. “Nothing quite like drinking a man’s piss to remember the guy.”

Mista burst out laughing, immediately questioning his sanity for somehow forgetting that happened. 

“You did, huh! Hey, please don’t say you actually did, right Giorno?” Mista grinned. “C’mon, lemme guess, you did something with Gold Experience, right? What was it?”

Giorno shrugged. “I’ll never tell. It’s more fun that way.” 

“C’mon! You can tell me, can’t you? Lil old me?” Mista batted his eyelashes for extra effect, but Giorno just smiled, wider than Mista thinks he’s ever seen him. 

“Maybe one day.” 

“I’ll hold ya to that,” Mista chimed. He settled down, a sober expression blanketing over his features. “Abbacchio, that son of a bitch…” he commented - with mirth, of course. 

A sombre quiet drifted over them, awash with memories once again. Giorno took the moment to pick up a rock from the ground. With a shimmer, Gold Experience came and went with the breeze and a purple hydrangea flourished from his hand. He twirled it in his fingers before shyly handing it to Mista. 

“It’s not much, but perhaps this can cheer you up a little.”

Mista accepted it gratefully, his gaze falling onto the velvety petals. He always loved seeing what Giorno could conjure with his power.

Something like nostalgia swept over him - it wasn’t so long ago that he lived simply, able to appreciate all the little things in life most people didn’t think twice about. Whether it was an autumnal breeze passing through his kitchen window, or the sharpness of the cheddar cheese he had for lunch, life just seemed so much easier to enjoy back then. When had he become such an overthinker?

His eyes flitted up to Giorno. Perhaps that was a symptom of having a purpose, something to strive for. Someone to live for. Once Bucciarati, now Giorno.

Maybe it was worth trying to enjoy things again.

“Worked like a charm, Boss. Promise I’ll take good care of it,” Mista assured with a grin.

Giorno smiled again.

“It’s time for me to get back to the office.” He stood and Mista followed, but Giorno stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Stay as long as you want. You seem much more relaxed here.” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Mista chuckled, eagerly splaying himself over the bench, prepared to take a good, long nap.

Giorno paused. “And… I’m glad to see you smile again. It feels natural on you.” 

Mista grinned. He always gave the Boss what he wanted. 

He carefully placed the hydrangea on his chest, resting it between his fingers, and if he hadn’t closed his eyes he would’ve caught the fond look Giorno gave him.

It was the best sleep he had in a long time.

Chapter Text

Mista mussed his hair, unused to being without his hat. It had grown out a bit, maybe not to the point of having a shag-do but definitely to where it was annoying to swipe it from his forehead all the time. He really needed a haircut. The vision impairment was bad for his work and—Well, honestly he just liked to stay fashionable. See, he internally confirmed to himself, this is exactly why I wear hats in the first place. Just extra decision-making that he doesn’t need.

It was also weird to wear cargo pants again. Plenty of pockets to keep his bullets in though. He made the decision to tuck his gun behind his waistband as usual, his button-up concealing it well enough. Hopefully he won’t need to use it.

The garden was quiet, as it always was, though it wasn’t as warm today as the rest of the week had been. Mista briefly examined the hour on his watch, idly passing time until Giorno was done with his work.

Speaking of Giorno, he ended up being right. Well, it’s not like Mista was surprised. 

No. Five and Two buzzed around his lunch, eager to lay their tiny lands on it. Mista found an eatery around their area that specialises in American deli sandwiches, alongside the same old Italian style ones he was familiar with. How accurate the flavour was he couldn’t say, but whatever a Reuben was was pretty damn good. The dressing packed a punch and the pastrami was perfectly seasoned. The Pistols seemed to think so too; Mista couldn’t help but give a good-natured eye roll when he saw tiny bites out of it made while he wasn’t looking. 

The Sex Pistols had come back. The six hadn’t appeared together yet, but they all began to make intermittent appearances once Mista started feeling better. He wouldn’t have thought that Stands could be tied to their user’s mental state like that, but when he considered that the Pistols were a manifestation of his soul—No matter how independent they seemed—it made sense. Not that any of those explanations mattered. He was just pleased they were back, with their lovingly annoying quirks and all. 

“Give me more meat! I want meat!” No. Two persisted, tugging Mista’s ear. 

“Oi, oi, where’d your manners go while you were hibernating?” 

“What manners?” No. Two answered, its face skewing to the side in genuine confusion. Mista just laughed and obeyed, ripping off a piece of smoked beef and tossing it over. No. Two caught it in one go, and so did No. Five afterward.

“You guys are good at that. Maybe I could make a career change into doing dog shows?” Mista wondered aloud, looking into the sky dreamily. 

“Sadly I don’t think you’d be a good fit for it. How would you ever fit into the tunnel?”

Mista didn’t need to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. 

“Giorno, you little shit,” Mista cursed, but there was far too much mirth in his voice for him to ever take the insult to heart. Giorno laughed to himself, rounding the bench where Mista sat to face him with a smirk. 

“Maybe just stick to the jump poles.” 

Once in full view, Mista’s brain stuttered, completely sidestepping Giorno’s teasing. He gave him a once-over, then a twice-over as he processed what Giorno was wearing. “You goin’ out like that?” He laughed.

Giorno looked himself over. “You don’t like it?”

Mista cocked an eyebrow, taking a moment to digest his outfit. Giorno had picked out a distressed tee, something similar in colour to his old suit, and paired it with loose-fitting slacks in a plaid pattern; a knick-knack collection of chains were attached to his belt and a plain necklace with a ladybug charm hung off his neck. The look was finished with a pair of Converse-looking sneakers.

Mista concluded his scrutiny with a very eloquent “I don’t even know.”

“I’ve never seen you in much of anything but suits,” he said. “It’s weird.” He didn’t even know what clothes he slept in. With as many all-nighters Giorno pulled he wouldn’t be surprised if the damn things served as pyjamas too. That being said, he thought he liked the outfit overall. 

“It is,” Giorno conceded, pulling at the hem of his top like he’d never seen a T-shirt before. “But I suppose we’re meant to look like average teens. You fit the look better than me though.” 

“‘Cos it ain’t much different than what I used to wear.”

“Giorno!” No. Five flew over to him, hugging the side of his finger as Giorno lifted his hand up. No. Two followed soon after, offering a hello of its own via an energetic wave. Mista suspected they had grown a bit of a soft spot for the Don now. 

“Five, Two,” Giorno greeted. “I missed you little guys. How have you been?”

“Mista won’t share his lunch with us!” No. Two cried.

“That’s such bullshit,” Mista wailed immediately. “You’ve eaten at least half!” 

“You deserve more than just half, don’t you?” Giorno cooed at the Pistols, immediately sneaking a smug look at Mista afterwards.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh!” The Stand squeaked.

“What is this? Everyone’s turned against me!” Mista whined, dramatically throwing his hand up to his face, the spitting image of a heartbroken protagonist of some shitty daytime soap opera.

Giorno just chuckled, letting the Pistols buzz back to Mista’s food. 

As though not of his own volition, Mista’s eyes fluttered back up at Giorno again, and he realised that he was so preoccupied with his outfit before that he hadn’t even noticed that Giorno’s hair was down. The trademark victory rolls were gone and the braid was undone, unspooled into soft locks of hair that cascaded just slightly over his shoulders. For a moment he was allured by the sheer gold of it, the sunlight caught in its strands spiralling his senses into an acute deja vu. It was a weird thought, but he liked how it looked. 

Almost like he knew what he was thinking, Giorno pulled at a lock of hair in front of his face, sighing.

“I hate having my hair like this. It just keeps getting in the way.” 

“Yeah, totally,” Mista coughed. He fidgeted with his own hair again, twisting it this way and that way but it still didn’t feel right. It was then that Giorno reached out a hand, hovering in the air. He promptly seemed to think better of it, as he withdrew quickly.

“Hm?” 

“Oh.” Giorno clammed up uncharacteristically. Then, overriding his second thoughts, he lightly put his hand on Mista’s hair, tousling it carefully. “Just that maybe it’ll look better like this.” 

“Huh. I can’t really see but—”

Giorno untucked a pocket mirror from his trousers and wordlessly handed it over. Mista took it, huffing a laugh because of course the guy with the perfect hair has a mirror on him at all times. He checked himself, first his face, and… yep, still got it, then his sight trailed upwards to his hair and he was pleasantly surprised that it did look good. He supposed that Giorno just had a knack for that sort of thing.

“Thanks, Boss.” He handed the mirror back and motioned for Giorno to sit. “Lemme finish this up and then we’ll leave.”

Giorno nodded, relaxing in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. “Is it good?” He asked, loosely pointing to Mista’s sandwich.

“Real good. Want a bite?” 

Giorno abstained with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine. I can wait until dinner.” 

“Suit yourself.” He took another bite. “You know, I thought I’d be the one to suggest sneaking out. Didn’t expect it from you.”

“Why not?” Giorno leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “This is the first free evening you and I have shared in a while. Might as well make the most of it.”

“You’re a man married to your work, you know? Didn’t think I’d see ya out of that damn office again.” Mista grinned. “Polnareff’s gonna be pissed, though. You know how he is, all worried about enemies gettin’ to us.”

“That’s why we’re disguised. If we do our job properly, no-one will have to know.”

At the mention of Polnareff though, Giorno’s face dimmed just a little. It was an easy cue to miss, but Mista was starting to know what to look for.

“Something on your mind?” 

Giorno perked up a little, surprised that Mista read him so accurately. 

“Ah…” Giorno shrugged a shoulder. “There’s one thing at the back of my mind but it’s not a big deal.”

“Come on,” Mista nudged him with his elbow. “After all we’ve been through? You wound me, man.” He clutched his chest for extra melodramatic emphasis.

“Well…” Giorno relented, his expression melting into something more wistful. “You’re right.” 

Mista preened like a bird. He wasn’t really sure why, but it was satisfying to have Giorno open up. It felt as though he was adding to a mosaic — collecting little pieces of Giorno, each thing bringing him to being able to fashion all of it together to etch a better understanding of him. He didn’t know why he wanted it, but he did.

“So?” Mista encouraged him, “What’s up?”

Giorno turned to him, and the upbeat mood twisted into something else. His eyes hardened, cast iron and molten hot.

“It’s about my father,” he said. “My birth father.”

♡

The day after his heart-to-heart with Mista, Giorno knew there was one other person he needed to have a talk with. It was long overdue. 

There was a lull in office activity for the occupants of Giorno’s office; Coco Jumbo was sleeping on Giorno’s desk as Polnareff looked some documents over, while the Boss was stuck drafting a letter to a government official in regards to an upcoming local election. He flicked his eyes up to Polnareff, and decided this would be as good a time as any to strike up this particular discussion.

“Hey, Polnareff.”

“Wrong address,” Polnareff muttered, squinting at a piece of paperwork. “We already know they don’t operate out of there anymore…”

“Polnareff,” Giorno tried again. 

His head jerked upwards, finally hearing him, and his face lit up, as if he was suddenly relieved to see someone competent. He probably was. “Giorno, tell that grey-eyed kid to get it together. You know who I mean.”

He knew.

“This is the second time he’s gotten the wrong address for an operation! We can’t afford incorrect intel,” he said, punctuating his frustration by jamming the paper back into its folder. 

“I’ll be sure he doesn’t do it again. Before that though—”

“The Valentino thing, right?” Polnareff scoffed, off in his own world. “How many times do we need to assuage them? You’ll go to Florence when the time is right, but for now there’s too much for you to do here in Naples. Why can’t they understand that? You’ve barely been Don for three months.”

Giorno frowned. “Well, actually, I was planning a trip as soon as I’m free for a weekend,” he politely disagreed. “I believe this is one of those matters that I should attend to quickly if we’re to establish a decent alliance.”

Polnareff sighed. “It’s not that I disagree with you. It’s just probably not the highest priority at the moment.”

Giorno shook his head free of the argument that was already conjuring in his head, not even wanting to get into that right now.

“Polnareff—”

“But what can you do, eh?” His voice petered out as he lost himself in his tower of documents again. “Mafia’s tough business…”

“Dio.”

A glacial silence befell the room — quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Polnareff stilled, whatever paper he had in his hands forgotten. He shakily turned around. 

Giorno met him with blazing conviction in his eyes.

“What does that name mean to you?”

Polnareff paled, a spark of fear ghosting over his face. “Giorno, you—”

“I know you’re keeping something from me,” Giorno expressed. “And that name… I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been thinking about it since that phone call two months ago. And your behaviour has been different ever since. Colder, if ever so slightly.” His eyes narrowed. “I also suspect it’s related to why you refuse to let me speak to the Foundation.”

Polnareff watched him carefully.

“I want you to tell me everything,” Giorno urged. “From the beginning.”

The hard lines on Polnareff’s face splintered suddenly, breaking apart into a series of defeated expressions until he collected them with a heavy sigh, an apologetic crease between his brow.

“Astute as always, mon Giorno.” He smiled, just a little. “You two couldn’t be more different, but there’s something about you that’s the same.”

Giorno blinked. His curiosity piqued, Giorno leaned forward in his chair, his focus entirely rerouted to the man in front of him. “Polnareff. Tell me,” he repeated, an uncharacteristically cloying note to his words. 

“I was going to tell you about Dio, Jotaro. Everything. It’s just, ah…” He scratched his chin, sheepish all of a sudden. “Well, it’s difficult to get a conversational ball like this rolling, you know?”

Giorno was patient as Polnareff continued to hum and ahh, mulling over what would be the best starting point. Eventually, he seemed to gather his thoughts, clasping his hands together and meeting Giorno’s eyes with a firm expression.

“Remember I told you the story of how I came across Diavolo?”

“You were investigating the arrows,” Giorno recalled easily. “You were brought to Italy while your friend was in America and Asia.” 

Polnareff nodded. “That’s right. It was that friend, Jotaro, who I fought alongside to defeat him. Dio.”

Right. 1989. Giorno recalled that from the phone call. 

“And by defeat… You killed him, correct?”

Polnareff peered at him with a heavy gaze. The bags that sagged beneath his eyes seemed to age him in real time, too heavy for a man in his thirties to carry.

“Yes.”

Giorno understood, or at least felt like he did. He carried that weight too. He wondered if in twenty years it’ll grow blacker, stain his heart with guilt, if he’d feel any differently from Polnareff who he had already realised wasn’t remorseful.

In the background of his musings, Giorno simultaneously chewed on Jotaro’s name — He’s definitely heard it before. As for the when or where, he couldn’t pinpoint it just yet.

“It wasn’t just Jotaro, there were others too…” Polnareff mumbled, pensive. “But, ah, I digress…”

Another thing Giorno understood without words. His stomach lurched again at the thought of them.

“After travelling for many days, we finally faced Dio in Egypt,” Polnareff continued. “All of us were hurt by him, all of us seeking some form of vengeance. That was our collective goal. Our motivation.” 

“So then…? Who was he? What did he do?”

Polnareff grimaced, the crease in his forehead deepening as the memories snowballed. 

“He…” Polnareff swallowed, trepidation creeping into his voice. The words struggled and died on his tongue because at the end of the day, this was a potentially fatal truth for Giorno. Polnareff had heard how much of a tough childhood he had, and despite how vehemently he hates Dio, it brings him no satisfaction whatsoever to relay this information to him. 

“That man, if you could even call him that…” he snuck in underneath his breath, momentarily collecting  his emotions. With weary eyes, he met Giorno’s gaze. “…was your birth father.” 

Giorno’s heart might’ve stopped. 

“What?” 

The words hung in the air dangerously, precariously. 

“I’m afraid so.”

Father. His real father. 

“That’s…” Giorno suddenly remembered something, grabbing his wallet at lightning speed from his inner pocket. He flipped it open; carefully pulled out a creased photo. He ironed the edges of it with his hand, flicking the image back to Polnareff. “That’s him, isn’t it? Dio.”

The Frenchman quickly skimmed his eyes over it, like he physically couldn’t look at it for longer than a second. He gave a confirming nod. “It is. How did you come across that?”

“I took it from my mother. She never told me who it was, just that this photo suddenly materialised on an empty polaroid one day. I kept it because…”

His eyes traced the star on Dio’s back. Same as his, just a different placement. For some reason, he knew it meant something beyond just their relation.

“Maybe I had a feeling that I knew him.” 

He stared at the photo now, the image he’s seen so many times over the years animated with a whole new meaning. His hand automatically trailed up to his hair, tugging his braid towards his face and Giorno was struck by how the colour of it was the same. Faded as the photo was, he knew it was the same. So many other things started sticking out to him now, the curvature of his facial structure and the low brow-bone. The spectral green eyes that sharpened an uncomfortably perceptive wound into your soul - like he knew you in your entirety just from a solitary glance. Giorno felt an eerie sense of familiarity just as much as he felt unnerved by it.

“From what I heard, your mother met him in Egypt,” Polnareff said, his voice notably softer. Polnareff always had a strong temperament in the way that he spoke, his voice clear and resonant like church bells, but even he understood when to read the room. He continued, “How she survived his clutches, one may never know, but she returned to Japan and had you. I’m sure you know the rest.”

Giorno frowned at that wording. He unstuck his eyes from the photo, his mind wandering to a new internal curiosity of his.

“And this Jotaro person?” 

“Ah… Well, if I have the story straight, then he’s a distant relative of yours... But I’m not the best person to ask about the family tree,” answered Polnareff cryptically.

Giorno narrowed his eyes in consternation. Jotaro? A distant relative? What does that mean? 

The Frenchman cleared his throat. “He was looking to find you since you were Dio’s son.”

“Koichi…” Giorno sat back in his seat, finally remembering. “So that wasn’t a chance meeting.”

Polnareff nodded sagely. “Indeed. Makes you think about fate and all that, huh?” 

Giorno didn’t say anything. 

“But what did Dio do?” asked Giorno again. There was still too much unexplained, and for what was meant to be a conversation clearing things up, it left more questions in its wake than answers. ”Why are you still so afraid of him? And… Why is me being his son so important?”

Polnareff remained quiet.

“Why was Jotaro looking for me?” His cool demeanour shed, Giorno’s voice had raised with a growing sense urgency swelling inside his chest. “What is this mark on my shoulder?”

But Polnareff just shook his head.

“I can’t tell you anymore, Giorno.”

“Polnareff, I know it’s painful for you, but I have to—”

“It’s not that. I just don’t believe you should know any more.”

“What?” Giorno blurted out, incredulous. “Why?”

“It’s too much detail for you. I don’t want to add to your current stress with it, that’s all.”

“I’m the Boss of an entire criminal organisation,” Giorno baulked, not believing what he was hearing. “I think I can handle it.”

Polnareff smiled, melancholy. “But you shouldn’t be, Giorno,” he said gently, “That’s the problem.”

Giorno frowned.

“You know what I was doing at your age? Cutting class. Going out with girls. Sneaking into the cinema to watch R-rated movies.” Polnareff huffed a strained laugh, resting his hand on his chin. “You think I haven’t read your file? What kind of life you’ve led up to this point?”

“What are you saying?” Giorno demanded, an uncomfortable feeling prickled over his skin, that sickly flavour of anxiety that comes from your privacy being invaded.

“I’m saying that you shouldn’t be dealing with any of this. You should be living a normal life.” Polnareff spoke calmly but his know-it-all tone was grating on Giorno’s nerves now. “Unfortunately it’s too late for that, but if I can at least protect you from some of life’s mistreatments, then I’d be satisfied.”

“Polnareff, I never asked you to coddle me. I simply want the truth.” Giorno’s suddenly never wanted anything more. Suddenly, a once muzzled hunger’s let loose inside of him, a need to devour every ounce of detail that finally explained his existence, that rebound the missing pages of a book that fell apart years before Giorno was even born. “It’s about my father.”

“I’ll tell you one day if you’re still so worried about it. But I’m not willing to do that right now.”

“Polnareff!”

But he lifted the long forgotten document he was reading back to his face and turned away. 

“I’m sorry, but this conversation is over.” His voice sounded pained. “I’m really trying to do what I think is best, Giorno.”

Giorno didn’t respond.

“I’ll talk to Jotaro,” Polnareff continued. “I don’t want you to get any big expectations, Passione is still a criminal organisation after all, but it’s possible the Foundation will at least hear you out. It’s the least I can do for you.”

Giorno settled awkwardly back in his chair and he thought. He thought until he burned holes in his head. All this time pretending like his real father didn’t matter, like he didn’t feel a crushing longing to know where was from, like he never doomed himself to sleepless nights as a kid trying to justify his place in a world where no one wanted him, even his own family… and now he was being denied even this, by someone with no stakes in his family affairs. No way to even find his father, ask him personally. 

He never stood a chance.

“…Do as you please,” he finally said. Giorno returned to his work, loudly scratching out what he’d jotted down before. 

Back to the drawing board. 

Polnareff noticeably wavered. “Giorno, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, face unmoving. “Our conversation’s over, isn’t it?”

♡

“Huh.” 

Mista didn’t really know what to make of that story. He knew even less what to make of Giorno’s reaction — and he thought he was finally starting to read the guy. 

“So that's why you wanted to sneak out,” he eventually settled on saying. “Feeling petty, huh?”

Giorno’s gaze darkened. “Maybe a little.”

They both allowed the quietness between them to rest, the strange circumstances of Giorno’s patrimony sinking into Mista’s brain. What was the piece that was missing?

Mista scrambled for something to say. What would someone who’s paid to listen to people’s problems say? Something introspective sounding?

“So, uh… How do you feel about it?” He tried.

Giorno glanced oddly at him. “About what?”

“Uhh… Your family? I guess.”

The blond shrugged, a little too casually. “Not much differently than I did before.”

“…Really?”

He nodded. 

Mista frowned. “But it’s to do with your folks, you know? Family’s pretty important.”

“My father’s dead. And Jotaro…” Giorno contemplated the idea for a second, then shrugged again. “As long as I get what I need from him, then it doesn’t really matter.”

Mista blinked, surprised at the reaction. What do you even say to something like that?

“That’s kinda cold, man.” 

“Is it? I didn’t have them in my life before, so I don’t see why that needs to change.” 

Mista’s frown deepened. He really didn’t think Giorno could think that way. It was a weird situation but for as stoic as Giorno could be, even this seemed too cold for him. Mista couldn’t imagine having the chance to meet his family and missing it. Before he could convince Giorno otherwise though, he spoke. 

“Isn’t it time we head off? I’ve been looking forward to this all week,” Giorno said with a smile, as if the previous thread of conversation had never unravelled. If Giorno was lying about his feelings, he was damn good at it. Mista could definitely learn a thing or two from him. And if he wasn’t, then what could Mista do about it? He was already well-acquainted with Giorno’s stubbornness - when he had a certain idea stuck in his head, it was hard to force it out. 

So, Mista shrugged it off, scooping up the remains of his sandwich and stuffing it in his mouth before rising from his spot. If there was something else bothering Giorno, he’d come to him about it.

“Aight, let’s get outta here,” he said, mouth half-full.

Giorno rolled his eyes. “Chew and swallow, then speak.”

He did so, then made a face. “Dunno much about swallowing, Giorno. I’m not that kinda guy.”

Giorno shot him a look so flat a musician would need to tune it.

“Actually, don’t speak at all. Just walk.” He slapped him on the back to get going while Mista just cracked a loud laugh. 

Chapter Text

Summer in Naples was a special time.

The city was buzzing with activity, tourists and locals alike enjoying the evening. Children bobbed and weaved through crowds with ice-creams they only narrowly avoided mucking people’s clothes with, and street musicians set the plazas alight with folksy guitar strumming and drum beats. Mosquitos were out in swarms to bite at any and all unsuspecting passer-by’s, but even that which was a nuisance to most people only endeared Giorno more to the city. This was his home, and this was what he fought so hard to protect. It was so easy to forget while he lived at the stuffy mansion but when he drank in the city air, he inhaled the aroma of fresh pizza and the fumes from motorbikes and something so uniquely Napoli that he couldn’t describe. Even Diavolo’s corruption wasn’t enough to quash the city’s spirit — In fact, it seemed to shine brighter than ever.

“Mista! Giorno!”

A bright voice broke him out of his reverie and out of the corner of his eye, Giorno spotted a girl, all pink, skipping towards them. His mouth reflexively curled into a smile. 

“Look who it is!” Mista shouted back, grinning.

Giorno waved as she bounced over to them, a little out of breath.

“Trish. It’s been a while.” How long has it been since his birthday? Three months? He hadn’t realised just how much time slipped past him.

“It has! I’m glad you suggested this,” Trish said. She looked him over. “You look so different! I like it though.” She smiled from ear to ear, pleased to see him again. Giorno gave a little bow to play off of her compliment, feeling flattered.

“How about me, how do I look?” Mista spun around, wanting the spotlight.

“Same as always.”

“How?!”

“Because, what about this is a disguise?” Trish complained. “Giorno looks completely different but I could spot you from a mile away.” 

“Oh come on. No love for the hair? I don’t even remember the last time I went out without a hat.”

She stared at him, assessing him with the baleful intensity of a father sizing up his daughter’s new boyfriend. A few moments later, she reached her deadpanned verdict.

“You need a haircut.”

Mista deflated. “Gee, thanks.” His hands floated up to his head, clearly half-tempted to mess around with it again but he dropped them, probably knowing that Giorno made it look the best it possibly could.

“Whatever. What about you, huh? Somebody’s been spending their dad’s money well,” Mista ribbed. “What is this, Chanel?” He gawked, taking the sleeve of her dress and rubbing the fabric between his fingers. 

It was Chanel. It was an item from an older collection, a short sleeved sundress that hugged her waist and dripped in a girlish pattern, hearts and rouged lips all over. 

“Damn right it is. If there’s one thing my asshole of a father could do for me from beyond the grave is at least buy me designer clothes.” She thought for a moment. “Or whatever it was that Giorno did to him.” She quickly held up her bag, crowding Mista’s face with it. “Look at this though! I made it!”

“Ohhh.” Mista took it from her, flipping it over. “That’s why it looks so shoddy. Just look at that seam,” he joked.

“What?!” She immediately ripped it from his hands, cradling it to her chest. She shot a pointed look at Giorno. “Tell him to stop being mean to me!”

“You're taking up sewing classes, Trish?” He asked instead.

“…Yeah,” she replied, suddenly a little bashful. “I think I want to take it up seriously.”

Giorno smiled. “It suits you.”

The friends chatted some more about that as they leisurely made their way to where they were going to have dinner. Trish aired out all of her complaints about her classes, speaking in whispers about one of the teachers she hates and an assignment she had to redo. She talked about how she missed her friends but felt distant from them, how she couldn’t answer their questions about where she had gone in April. 

Giorno listened to Trish’s school-stories with a sympathetic ear but he couldn’t help reflecting on himself. He could have been in her position, returning to school like nothing had happened, or worse, having never gone through any of it at all. How much easier would that have been? How much pain could he have avoided? It shamed him to admit it but there were moments when he wished he was still alone, when he questioned if what he got was worth the sacrifices that have been made. 

But he was working towards his dream. It had to be worth it.

When Giorno listened in on the conversation again, Trish was chiding Mista about something.

“You stopped calling me, dick.” Trish attempted to pinch his arm but Mista slipped out of her trajectory.

“Sorry, sorry!” He held his hands up defensively, looking sheepish. “It’s a security thing, you know? Too risky.”

“Oh, and meeting me here isn’t a risk? Just say you don’t care about me anymore,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“It’s not that! Just…” 

Trish’s stony face didn’t relent, but her tone was gentler when she asked, “You okay?”

Mista’s expression grew forlorn, mind wandering astray. There was a small but not insignificant moment when Mista locked eyes with Giorno, and there was something… knowing exchanged between them. 

No, Giorno suddenly thought, he was glad he wasn’t alone anymore.

Mista promptly looked away, back at Trish.

“I’m doing better.” He playfully nudged her shoulder. “Missed me that badly, huh? Are you sure you’re not in love with me?”

She grimaced.

“You. Are so. Stupid.” She stepped closer to Giorno, plucking his arm and linking it with hers. “C’mon, Giorno. Let’s enjoy dinner, just the two of us.”

The corners of Giorno’s mouth curled upwards involuntarily. Something about the warmth of the evening and the value of his company emboldened him. He twisted off a ring from his finger and grew it into a pale, yellow tulip — His token of friendship. He offered it to Trish, who giggled and took it between her thumb and index finger. 

“I never realised you were such a charmer,” she said, surprised.

“I can be if there’s someone worth charming,” he replied smoothly. His Stand power would be even more valuable if he were the type to toss roses at whatever girl glanced in his direction. He supposed that’s what made these moments more special — After all, he didn’t choose to be friends with just anyone.

Somewhere in the background, Mista made an unimpressed noise.

“What am I, chopped liver?” He muttered.

“Oh, I forgot you were here. Jealous, much?” Trish said. 

“No,” he pouted. “Giorno gave me a flower way before you anyway.”

“…Did he now?”

Giorno watched Trish’s eyebrows raise and he fought to keep his cheeks from burning. Why did it sound so suggestive when they talked about it? 

Seeming to read his mind, Mista walked off and said loudly, “Whatever. My jealousy’s gonna be the last of your worries if we don’t get to this restaurant. I’m fucking starving.”

Giorno laughed, saying something about him just having lunch, and he abandoned that line of thought as they set off towards the restaurant again.

He ended up choosing a place that was nice but not too upscale, somewhere that would be normal for three teenagers to hang out. No nice view or ornate interior design but it felt homey, tables cramped lovingly together and what was clearly a personal collection of decorative plates lined the walls. There was a charming courtyard in the back and that’s where they were seated, a waiter splashing some water into their glasses before leaving the friends to decide their orders. They settled in, Giorno automatically drawing a napkin over his lap while Mista dove headfirst into the menus. Trish tucked her flower into the mini vase at the centre of the table. A few moments later, a few of the Pistols appeared to warble their orders in Mista’s ears and if at one point in time he would’ve shooed them, he instead listened and nodded, adding to his growing mental list of food.

“Mineral for the table?” Giorno asked, but Trish shook her head. 

“I want the orange juice. It’s freshly squeezed, apparently.” 

Mista glanced up from his menu, almost impressed.

“Look at you, graduating to juice.”

“If it’s not too sweet, then I like it just as much as mineral.” Trish closed her own menu with a breezy swipe of her hand. “And I’m trying to do new things nowadays.”

Giorno and Mista ended up agreeing on a bottle of Prosecco, although Giorno kept strict to his one glass. It was important not to dull his edge by drinking too much. 

A different server came over this time, dutifully keeping track of everything with her scrappy pen and notebook. One she jotted it all down, she smiled pleasantly, packed up the menus and left. When she was out of earshot, Mista leaned over the table, eyes bright.

“Woah, she was cute, huh?”

“Ugh, Mista.” Trish rolled her eyes, making a revolted face. “Keep it in your pants.”

“C’mon, Giorno, you think so too, right?” 

Giorno blinked. Looked over at the waitress again. When he studied her face, he supposed she wasn’t bad-looking. She was a natural brunette, with hazel eyes and pink, pouty lips. No, he thought, she’s probably pretty. It’s not like Giorno couldn’t appreciate a girl’s beauty whatsoever. Trish, for example, was cute and fashionable. Her facial features were striking in an uncommon but not intimidating way and her pink hair lit up under the sun. See? Giorno said to himself, as if he was trying to prove something. He just wasn’t sure what.

Somehow though, he knew that Mista didn’t mean it in only an appreciative manner. He also didn’t know what to make of the murkiness that formed a pit in his stomach when he thought about it. There was a weird stream of thoughts that swelled from that feeling: Did Mista mean it or was it just cheap flirting? Did he have a lot of experience with relationships? And above all, why did Giorno even give any of this a second thought? 

“Yeah, she’s cute,” Giorno ended up parroting just to be polite. He camouflaged his discomfort with a sip of his water and hoped the two would just drop the topic.

He’s never had any particular interest in girls in the dating sense. Any attempts by shy admirers to ask him out always ended in some flavour of polite rejection, the same words shuffled around in a slightly different order that tired Giorno out to have to repeat, like chewing gum that’s long outlived its taste. 

He had already considered that maybe something was wrong with him. The one time he’d caved in going out with a girl was so painfully awkward that it’d be kinder to throw him off the roof of the Passione manor than to make him go through that again. It’s not like he couldn’t talk to girls, it was as easy as talking to anyone else, but for some reason when they were re-contextualised as dates, as potential girlfriends, Giorno’s natural wit and charms fizzled out and all that was left of him was a disinterested teenage boy with blond hair and a nasty habit of slipping bills out of people’s wallets. Turns out girls weren’t into that as much.

Trish raised an eyebrow at Giorno’s peculiar reaction. When the waitress came over again and Mista began sweet-talking her, she leaned over to Giorno, her face unexpectedly secretive.

“You don’t need to go along with everything he says, you know.”

If Giorno was the type of person to blush, he might’ve. As it was, he coolly replied, “It’s just easier. It’s not like I know much about that kind of thing.”

Trish smiled then, seeming to understand.

“Don’t worry. I know how you feel.” She patted his hand before pulling away. 

Giorno relaxed, and wondered again about beauty and girls. Trish was so much more than just her looks. She was fiery and witty and genuinely kind. Perhaps Mista’s shallow drooling over fresh-faced women was an aspect of teenage boyhood that Giorno won’t ever get. That didn’t seem like a bad thing.

“What are you two whispering about?” Mista suddenly asked. Speak of the devil.

“Nothing,” Trish responded airily. “Just girl talk.”

“Giorno’s not a girl though.”

“He’s not, I just like excluding you.” Trish stuck out her tongue at him. “And leave that poor girl alone! She’s probably not even making a living wage and here you are, harassing her at work.”

Mista grinned boyishly. He waved his napkin, which had a suspiciously wet patch of ink in the shape of a phone number on it. “She didn’t seem harassed when she said she wanted to see me next week!”

Trish’s jaw dropped but before she had the chance to call him a pig, Giorno surprised himself by speaking up over the rim of his glass.

“You can’t. Remember your position, Mista. It’s far too dangerous to involve a civilian in our affairs.”

Mista tensed, immediately opening his mouth to retaliate. “It’s not like I’m dating her or anything, I just—!”

“No. Would you forgive yourself if she ended up in the crosshairs of violent gang activity? Just by being here we’re running that risk.” It was true but Giorno couldn’t shake the feeling that he said this less in a bid to dissuade Mista’s rashness and more to serve his own murky self-interests. It shouldn’t matter if Mista went out with some girl, but it did and he wasn’t sure why, nor proud of himself for such an overreaction.

Mista mulled over the thought, then slumped in his chair like the air had been sucked out of him, mutely accepting defeat. Trish watched the back and forth unfold with interest, paying specific attention to Giorno. There was a glint in her eye, like she caught onto something Giorno himself hadn’t. He didn’t squirm, but he did take another sip of his water. It didn’t go down his throat as easily as the last drink had. Before long, Trish laughed in Mista’s direction.

“I think watching you get cockblocked is my new favourite hobby!” 

“Shut up,” he groaned, kicking the leg of her chair. “She actually seemed cool.”

Giorno fidgeted with his glass, a feeling of guilt gnawing at him. He jumped at the chance to engage in a new topic when Trish offered it, and he was thankfully able to put aside the whole thing. 

The rest of the evening flew by and it was better than Giorno’s birthday, if he could even believe it. There was an intimacy between the trio that wasn’t there before, none of that awkward baggage that came with not really knowing each other. Between all of the jokes and insults they hurled at each other it was comfortable, affectionate. Giorno’s head swam with contentment.

Plates polished and glasses drained, they left the restaurant with their stomachs full and a newly blossomed appetite not for more food, but a movie instead. There was a cinema close to them and there was a bustle of people in the lobby and the clicks of fresh popcorn cooking and cash registers trilling filled the air. The group approached the wall of film posters, but were ultimately disappointed at its offerings.

“There’s absolutely nothing interesting on,” Giorno commented. “July’s the worst time of year for films. Everything good has already screened or is coming out later in the year.” 

“Damn it!” Trish exclaimed. “And to think I was looking forward to this…” She stomped over to the wall of posters, inspecting it again. “How about The Mummy Returns 2? I liked the first one.”

Mista shook his head grimly. 

“Nah, I read the reviews. That movie sucks ass.” 

“How about we go to Trish’s place and watch something there?” Giorno suggested, talking over Trish’s quiet growls of frustration. She instantly lit up at hearing that. 

“Yes! Let’s go to mine! There’s tons of tapes at home, I’m sure we can find something.” She strode past them in a flounce of skirts, swinging open the lobby door with renewed fervour.

“I’m totally down and all, but what’s all this Trish’s place stuff?” Mista said, running to catch up with her. “It’s my apartment and I still pay for it!”

The home wasn’t actually too much of a trek from the cinema, and when they arrived Trish strolled inside like she owned the place, and in her mind she did, with Giorno and Mista following on her heels. Mista looked almost giddy, probably excited to stave off his homesickness for an evening. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the hallway into the main room, jubilant.

“Ahhh, I’ve missed this place, it’s—”

Mista suddenly clamped his mouth shut, and Giorno realised with a cursory glance that this was not the same apartment he saw three months ago. First of all, he noticed, there was a lot more stuff: Pastel-coloured vases, a generous fruit basket on the counter, rugs and throw pillows in a varying spectrum of patterns. Then, the old band posters had been replaced with poppy paintings and street photography, in actual picture frames no less. There was a mannequin in the corner, some half finished dress hanging off of it, and a box of scrap fabric and sewing supplies tucked beside it. It was cute, but definitely not the scrappy, boyish aesthetic it used to be.

“You!” Mista pointed at Trish. “What did you do?!”

Trish shrugged, the shadow of a smirk on her face. “I just tidied the place up a little, that’s all.”

“TIDY? This ain’t even the same damn house anymore! And where’s all my stuff?!”

Trish scowled. “I didn’t throw it out. It’s all in your room. I’m not that heartless, come on.”

Mista ignored her, his eyes flailing in all different directions. He went to check one of the picture frames, hooking his fingers underneath it to reveal a pair of two small holes in the wall.

“Did you drill this?!”

“You have gunshots in the plaster, Mista,” justified Trish. “I don’t think a couple of drill holes make a difference. The picture, however, does. Look how much it livens up the space,” she said proudly.

But Mista just made a face, not inviting her excuses. The crease between Trish’s eyebrows softened suddenly and she looked legitimately concerned. 

“Are you that mad…? ‘Cause I can put everything back if you…”

Mista blinked, then seemed to settle on something as his face slid back into his usual carefree expression. 

“Nah. The mansion’s way better anyway. Way more space than this crummy old apartment.”

Trish sobered up, sensing Mista’s apprehensiveness. Then, she lightly tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Well, soon you won’t have to worry about it. Once I move out, it’s all yours again.”

“You’re moving out?” asked Giorno.

“I’ve been thinking about it. I feel bad mooching off of him for so long.”

“No, just stay here,” said Mista quickly. “No rush, right? And drill as many holes as you want, whatever.”

Trish blinked in surprise, flushing a little as she uttered some grateful words. Giorno watched Mista in fascination, wondering if maybe that was his way of keeping Trish close. It was a sweet gesture.

Trish ended up pulling out a bunch of tapes from the entertainment centre, the same ones she dug through months ago. While they sifted through the generous amount of plastic and cardboard sleeves, Giorno began to see a certain pattern emerge.

“Which one of you is into all the romcoms?” He asked, amused. His initial assumption was wrong, however, when Trish immediately pointed to Mista without even looking up.

“Oh.”

“You judging me?” Mista asked, defensive.

Giorno shook his head.

“No, I’m just surprised.” He ran his hand along a collection of them, soaking in the brightly coloured covers. He hasn’t seen any of them. “What makes you like them so much?”

Mista’s eyes widened, obviously not expecting the question. 

“Well…” he scratched his head. “Uh… Guess I’m just a romantic at heart, ya know?” 

It was a genuine answer, Giorno could feel. It surprised him that he thought it was kinda cute, considering how much of a hard-edged mafia guy he usually was on the outside. The contrast was strangely endearing.

“Okay,” Giorno said, reaching for the tapes and pushing them toward Mista. “Choose your favourite.”

Mista answered with a grin and he reached for Pretty Woman, completely ignoring Trish’s wails about not wanting to watch it for the millionth time.

Although it was a tight squeeze, they all managed to fit on the couch somehow. The TV blazed to life, an eye-searing blue screen and then a minute or so of whirring from the VCR as it spun the tape back, and then they settled in to watch. 

The movie was good, at least for the first twenty minutes or so when Giorno felt his eyelids being pulled closed, drowsiness blanketing over him. It wasn’t the movie, more so a cocktail of general malaise and warmth from the weather but most of all the ease he felt being in the company of his friends. He felt bad missing Mista’s favourite film but he let sleep take him, the atmosphere too comfortable not to. Before long, Giorno’s surroundings melted away into the background hum of the movie and the fading banter of his friends. 

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he caught some snippets of conversation, spoken in hushed tones.

“…He’s so cute… I didn’t know he was an early sleeper.”

“It’s not that surprising. He’s tired a lot.”

“Poor thing! He works too hard.”

“Unlike me, heh. I tell him to take it easy but you know how he is.”

“Yeah. He’s always so serious when we talk.”

“He’s actually loosened up more than you’d think.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see it.” A pause. “You guys have gotten kind of close, huh?”

“Ah… You think?”

“Oh right. You don’t care about my opinions.”

A laugh, its force rumbling through Giorno.

“I care, I care. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let’s let him sleep, eh?”

Everything faded away again. Giorno nuzzled his face a little more into his pillow and relished his few more minutes of sleep, thinking about how much nicer this was than his bed at the manor. It was only when he felt a tremor shake his body, another laugh, did he realise with horror and embarrassment that he actually fell asleep on Mista’s shoulder.

He wrenched his eyes open and jerked his body upright, missing Mista’s odd look of… surprise, or disappointment. It was difficult to tell.

“Did I fall asleep?” asked Giorno hurriedly, rubbing his face. A horrible thought struck him. God, what if he drooled on him? How embarrassing would that be? Sure, Mista was his closest friend, but he was still a Don. How unbecoming. 

“Oh, I guess you did,” said Mista nonchalantly. 

Giorno discreetly checked his shirt. Drool free. Giorno didn’t really believe in a God but he found himself thanking them anyway. 

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry Mista, I didn’t mean to—”

“Eh?” He smiled. “I didn’t even realise this whole time! Don’t worry about it, man.”

Giorno exhaled a breath of relief. Of course Mista realised it, but he appreciated the discretion. 

“My hair’s probably all messed up now,” he mumbled to himself. His hand absently tracked through his hair, feeling for any weird tangles or knots.

Mista scoffed. “Are you kidding, Gio? Your hair’s always perfect.” He reached over to lightly flick a piece of hair along his friend’s forehead. “I think I miss the donuts though.”

Giorno stopped. Gio. Was that his first nickname? No, there were others, but none of them were nearly as nice as this one. He didn’t say anything, and by the look on Mista’s face it was clear he didn’t even think about it, but Giorno knew he wasn’t going to forget this moment for a long time. 

He still ended up retrieving his mirror out to check himself — Mista was wrong, unfortunately. He teased his hair as best he could, tidying up the front bit when his bangs lay. In the past, Giorno didn’t care so much about his looks as long as he was clean and presentable. It was only when the blond hair grew out that he suddenly felt an urge to maintain an image, and over time it evolved into only a slight obsession with his appearance. 

When he was satisfied, him and Mista concluded that it was time for them to head off. It was probably for the best that they didn’t spend the night at Trish’s, no matter how much Giorno had secretly endeared himself to the idea. Mista called their chauffeur and after a long goodbye to Trish, who borderline threatened them to visit again (jokingly, of course), they climbed into the car and drove back to the manor. Him and Mista made some tired chit chat about the night, how they had fun, and then they each settled quietly into their sides of the vehicle.

Giorno, obeying some gut instinct, decided to check his mobile phone. He hadn’t checked it all night and he wished he didn't have to think about work until the next morning, but duty called. He idly pulled it out, the bottle green of its screen waning harsh light against his face. 

it wasn’t the brightness, however, that had Giorno narrow his eyes in concern. 

Inbox (2)

Unknown Sender ID

The mansion will be attacked tonight. They want to execute you.

Capo Dolce is the traitor. 

Chapter Text

“Mista.”

“Hm?” Mista pulled his gaze away from out the window. Giorno wordlessly showed him the text message. 

“What the hell?” He instantly straightened up, untucking his gun from behind his waistband and clicking open the barrel to load it. “Who’s it from?” 

“Unknown.” Giorno leaned forward and slid open the partition, giving a firm word to their chauffeur. Whatever tiredness Giorno was feeling disappeared and he was fully awake now, mind stirring with anxiety. “Who knows whether it’s true or not, but what we do know is—” He ripped out the battery from the phone and cracked the SIM card in the palm of his hand, “—Our line of communication has been compromised.” 

Yet another headache. Giorno worried the shards of plastic in his hand, staring hard out of the window. He thought of the staff at the manor, about Polnareff who he left behind. If he hadn’t gone out, would they be in more or less danger?

“Mista,” Giorno beckoned with a stiff hand towards him. “Your phone. Please.” 

Mista proffered it to him with no questions asked and Giorno automatically pressed some numbers into the keypad before hesitating. Who should he call? He felt that he had to warn someone, but they were almost back the house anyway and what if the call only attracted the intruders’ further attention? Polnareff, then, but Giorno shook that thought immediately. He wouldn’t be able to do anything. 

He immediately stamped out his worries and placed a call to the security guards stationed at the mansion entrance. It rang — One shrill tone, then another. One more. Two more. No one picked up. 

A heavy weight bore down on Giorno’s chest. He dialled again.

“This is bad…” Mista murmured somewhere in the background. “An assassination plot’s serious business. Who knows how many guys they have posted there?” He bounced his knee nervously, pistol clenched tight in his fist.

“All I’m surprised about is that it took this long,” Giorno responded dryly. The call dropped a second time.

“Don’t worry, Boss. The Pistols needed to stretch their legs anyway.” Mista said self-assuredly and at long last all six of the Sex Pistols made their grand reappearance, popping up one by one. Their impish smiles seemed to shine even in the dark. “We’ll make quick work of ‘em.”

“Your optimism always soothes me so.” Giorno half-smiled.

“‘Course. What else am I here for other than my charming good looks?” returned Mista with a wink. 

His heart a little lighter knowing that Mista was right beside him, Giorno reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a hair tie, abandoning his effort to call security. Something bad definitely happened. Their only saving grace is that they arrive in less than a minute. Whatever it was, they were going to get to it now.

Giorno quickly assembled his hair into his usual plait and snuck some hair pins in to stop his bangs from falling into his face. He was going to have to do without the signature victory rolls for tonight. 

They reached their neighbourhood, the trees that lined the boulevard stripping away any sense of ease left within Giorno’s heart as they towered over them, oppressive, foreboding. The car crawled to the bottom of the hill and cut its engine, Giorno and Mista carefully climbing out. Above was the starless sky and below the paved road; the summer wind carried the croaks of cicadas and the air smelt of campfire. Everything seemed eerily calm.

Giorno abruptly stopped a few steps outside of the car, prompting Mista to look back at him with a quizzical tilt of the head. Giorno felt his unease picking up speed in his heart and looking into the dark, rich pools of Mista’s eyes made him realise with striking clarity how much he was worried about him.

Be careful, Giorno mouthed. The words felt small, too small to communicate the breadth of his feelings. Too juvenile considering everything they’ve already gone through. He wished he could offer something more but Mista gave a determined nod in return and to Giorno’s satisfaction, it seemed like he understood.

They began to trek up the slope, considerate with their footsteps, careful with their breathing. As the manor emerged into view, they ducked behind a wall of squat hedges to survey the area. From the outside, it was clear that the house hadn’t been attacked yet. No visible forced entry, no broken windows. There was no one on the scene, or at least not in plain view. The thick cloud-cover made it difficult to discern much of anything in the dark. Several rooms glowed with yellow light, presumably mansion staff still up working or the few advisors Giorno had permitted to stay overnight.

Mista and Giorno exchanged an affirming look with each other and crept up to the front gate.

“What the…” Mista mumbled under his breath, seeming to spot something.

Giorno squinted, trying to see what was there. As they approached, he could make out two large shadows laying by the bottom of the gate. He scanned upwards, and saw that the two most middle bars of the gate itself had been wrenched apart, just enough space for an adult to pass through. When Giorno and Mista finally got close, the shadows spilled away to reveal bodies — the corpses of the two security guards, garrotted with sleek, silver wire around their necks. Fresh blood leaked out of their flesh, hands frozen where they struggled to keep their windpipes from being crushed.

“Shit, they’ve already gotten in—!” Mista hissed.

“I’ll find them,” Giorno said darkly. “You line up the Pistols and shoot to kill.” It went without saying of course, but it never hurt to reiterate. 

Giorno crouched down and placed his palm on the grass, allowing Gold Experience to ghost through him. A faint aura glowed from his skin as he concentrated his ability. Lately, it seemed like its ability to sense life energy had strengthened, and within seconds an image was starting to form in his mind: pulsating rings, brighter the closer they were, one by the entrance of the mansion, two more further away. Those ones were much less distinct, likely further into the estate.

Mista waited patiently beside him, knuckles almost white around the handle of his pistol as he waited for a confirmation. 

“Three people, spread out.” Giorno provided. “One of them is close to the front door, the other two on the outer perimeters.”

Mista nodded. “Got it. Sex Pistols! Find where those bastards are hidin’.”

The Stand bounced into existence, determination on their tiny faces as all of them were together again. 

“Leave it to us!” They chimed before zooming off, with the exception of No. 5 who stayed by Mista’s side to relay info. 

Giorno was getting antsy. He knew he could only wait for Sex Pistols to find them but his mind just wouldn’t shut up thinking about all the people that were in danger, not to mention berating himself for being caught so off guard. 

Mista seemed to sense his unease, because within a second probed No. 5 to give an update.

“So? Anything?”

No. 5 huddled closer to him.

“No. 6 and 7 said they found the man at the front door… with a big g-gun,” 5 gulped. 

“And the other two?” asked Mista, seemingly unfazed by this statement. 

“They’re still looking—”

“Mista,” Giorno cut in, “Take out the man at the door first.”

Not a second was wasted as Mista lined up the shot, finger on the trigger, but before he could squeeze it—

Screams.

Lead rocketing through chambers. A rainfall of glass. Endless and endless thunder.

The entire row of the second-story windows were decimated in seconds. A full-bodied shout came from one of the men and the next assault started. The row of first-story windows disappeared too.

Blood roaring in his head, Giorno’s body sprang into motion. A series of gunshots echoed somewhere behind him. Mista yelled something but he just ran, sprinted toward the man at the door. He tore a ring off of one of his fingers and swung his arm back like a pitcher, hurling it at the assassin. The metal jutted and twisted, screaming as it corkscrewed into slippery grey skin, fins, and a long, needle-like bill. Within seconds the swordfish skewered through the assailant’s neck, flapping uselessly as a magnificent spurt of blood painted the grass and the man fell to the ground. The ring rolled out from under him. He was dead.

Giorno whipped around to check on Mista when he saw another man lunge towards him out of nowhere, orc-like and huge, a giant crowbar in his grasp. He threw the weight above his head, bellowing out a roar as he prepared to strike Giorno down. 

“Time to finish you off for good, you fuckin’ roach!”

“Gold Experience!”

The Stand manifested, arms in front to defend itself against the attack—

Until the man’s brains splattered over Giorno’s shoes. 

The body slumped to the grass, the crowbar slamming into its back with a bone-splitting crack. Giorno looked over and saw Mista, pistol elegantly poised. He should’ve expected no less.

Another gunshot sounded and Giorno could tell by now that it didn’t come from Mista’s revolver. He crouched to the ground, trying to scout where it came from when he heard a high-pitched sound near his head.

“I got it, I got it!” Giorno turned to see No. 6 floating by him, a glinting bullet in its tiny hands. 

“Thanks, No. 6,” breathed Giorno, “You did well.” He rose to his feet, getting up just in time to watch Mista being thrown to the ground by a much bigger man, gun cast aside in exchange for crude, unfiltered violence as his meaty hands seized Mista’s neck.

“Fuck, Mista—!”

Giorno immediately sprang to his feet but he was far, all the way across the grounds. Mista wrestled to aim his pistol at the assailant’s head, probing it uselessly against his ear, the side of his nose.

“S…ex… Pistol…s…” Mista strained to get the words out but he couldn’t even pull the trigger, arm hanging awkwardly in the air as his fingers slowly unwrapped, one by one, from the handle of his revolver. It clattered to the ground.

“Giorno! Please!” No. 6 squeaked as the other Pistols screamed an unholy cacophony, watching the attacker grind his thumbs against the tendons of Mista’s neck, grunting and growling and eager to snuff the life out of him. Mista’s face went crimson, his legs at first flailing wildly, then weakening in protest as he struggled to get air. 

His body gave out. Limbs slack. Puppet-like.

Giorno saw red. 

It was at this moment, this fragile moment, that Giorno felt an extravagant feeling of dread, of fury. So powerful he could conquer an empire. So scared he could be knocked over by a breeze.

He couldn’t remember what happened next.

“MUDA!”

The shout was urgent, sonorous. It echoed. Did he just do that? Giorno blinked to see Gold Experience’s fist flying into the man’s head. He flew halfway across the lawn. Giorno could feel he was knocked out but that didn’t even matter because he immediately threw his attention onto Mista. 

“Gio…rno—” Mista heaved out, immediately swallowing huge gulps of air.

“Don’t talk.” Giorno helped him sit up, waiting for him to calm down. The Pistols all gathered by his side, yelping and crying in relief. 

“Fuck,” Mista coughed out. He rubbed his neck, wincing. “My voice is gonna be shot now.” 

Giorno could’ve made a follow up joke about that, quipping something about how he’d finally hear less of his babble, but any humour he could possibly squeeze from the situation evaded him as all he could do was stare at the heavy bruises forming on Mista’s neck. 

“Gold Experience can’t heal things like bruises… If I could, I—“

“You saved me. That’s more than enough.”

It wasn’t, but Giorno kept his mouth shut. 

They heard a groan coming from the other side of the estate. Once Mista collected himself, he stalked over to his assailant, easily shooting him in the kneecaps. A piercing scream cut through the silence but as far as Giorno was concerned it was music to his ears. Mista seized the man by the scruff of the neck, holding him up like a misbehaving dog. His other hand frisked him, checking for a phone or anything else important. The man continued to howl in pain, barking empty obscenities about Giorno amidst a stream of incoherent babble. He looked pathetic now. If Giorno were a lesser man he would’ve spat on him.

“Gag him, will you?” Giorno asked. “I can’t form a cohesive thought in my head with all of his whining.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” Mista proceeded to rip the man’s jacket and fix it around his mouth, jaw shaking. He really did look like a dog now.

Before Giorno even had to ask, Mista continued to rifle through the captive’s pockets, finally fishing out a beat up burner phone. The man protested through his gag of course, but the pair ignored him as Mista sifted through the phone’s call log, stopping on a very familiar looking phone number. 

“Dolce?” Giorno asked.

“Yep. Snake.” Mista scoffed, muttering under his breath. “At least wipe your call history, asshole. That’s, like, Mafia 101.”

Giorno grunted. “Let’s not rouse her suspicion and make sure she doesn’t know the plot failed. Tomorrow, we make an example out of her.” 

Mista nodded. 

“Oi,” he addressed the gangster, his voice rough as gravel but maybe that made him sound even more intimidating. “You hear that? It’s your job to let Dolce know that everything went as smooth as a dolphin’s back tonight. Don’t sound scared and don’t sound stupid.” He jammed the end of his revolver further into the guy’s head. “One wrong move and I blow your brains out like your friend over there. Got it?”

The man made an affirmative-sounding noise.

“When I take the gag off, you won’t do anything. Right?”

Another noise. 

“Or I blow your brains out.”

Another noise, more desperate this time.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Mista punched in Dolce’s number in and let it dial. He tore off the gag and thrust the phone to the man’s ear, still holding an unrelenting grip on his gun. 

“…Well?” A stern voice crackled from the other end. “It’s been done?”

Giorno and Mista shared a look.

The captive sputtered some words, more convincingly when Mista drove his gun deeper into the side of the guy’s head. It would have to do. The call successfully completed, Giorno gave a small nod. Mista squeezed the trigger and the man fell limp. Giorno wondered for a brief moment if he should’ve said something, punish him for almost murdering his underboss, but ultimately a man that foul didn’t deserve any parting words.

The gunshot echoed for what felt like hours. Then, slowly, Giorno’s hearing adjusted to the low murmur of the troubled staff who’d started to congregate outside, his adrenaline waning. He straightened up, knowing he needed to address his audience.

“The intruders have been dealt with. We’re going to need some time to settle the situation, so I ask you all to be patient. I apologise for the unrest.”

As Giorno turned away, he heard Mista trying to assuage some other people in the crowd. What a mess. Giorno continued to the bodies of the security guards, crouching down and contemplating their expressions. Petrified. Giorno silently reached out his hand and pulled the eyelids of the two men closed.

The commotion from the people inside the estate had climaxed, and by now people were rushing out to help, some bringing stretchers for the bodies while others examined the damage on the property. A car pulled into the driveway, quickly called in to take the corpses away to be disposed of. Giorno was still at the guards’ sides, his eyes tracing the wire around their necks. The action seemed needlessly cruel. When it was time to take them away, Giorno tried to help, ignoring the things people were saying about him — that this was too dirty for the Don to do, that he didn’t need to concern himself with it. But Giorno insisted and the body was heavy, the fat in the man’s arms like putty as Giorno helped drag him into the car. He tried to maintain as much dignity as he could but he wasn’t physically strong like Mista was, and his heels dug fiercely into the grass as he pulled. 

It was only Mista pulling him away, saying something about taking it easy that Giorno managed to blink out his mental fog and assess the severity of what had just occurred.

Someone tried to kill him. Of course, this wasn’t the first time, nor was the fight nearly as difficult as the Stand users he faced in April, but something about the idea of being specifically targeted for his position didn’t sit right with him. This would be far from the last time, and if his own residence wasn’t safe then nowhere was. 

And Mista… Giorno didn’t know what he would’ve done if Mista had died there. The rage had almost swallowed him entirely.

Just an hour ago, he was in Mista’s apartment, pretending to live a normal life, with normal clothes, a normal house and normal friends. It hurt his heart a little too much to see the facade crumble so fast and so easily. He knew he couldn’t allow himself that again.

In the wake of his reflections, a bleary eyed assistant crept up to him.

“There’s people asking about where to stay for tonight… Do you…?” She trailed off, tapping her fingers nervously against her thigh.

Giorno turned to her, pushing back a creeping feeling of nausea.

“Ah… Yes, there’s a hotel we own around here… the Azure.” He gave a moment of pause to let the assistant take note. “Let them gather whatever they need from their rooms and relocate everyone there for the night. I’ll post security there so they’ll be safe. We’ll send some people over to fix the windows and add extra security tomorrow. Tell them two nights, at most.”

“I’ll get on that,” the assistant said, nodding tightly. She stirred on the spot, still agitated. “And you, Don Giovanna?”

“I’ll… figure it out. Please, tend to the staff. I’ll be fine.” 

She quietly left. Mista, still at his side, moved to say something.

“Hey Giorno…” Mista put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “Are you okay?”

Giorno blinked, looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time. 

“Yes. I’m okay. I’m just… Feeling a bit shocked, now that the adrenaline's worn off.” 

“It was… Yeah, that was…” Mista shook his head, exasperated. His hand was warm. Mista was always warm, Giorno’s noticed. It was comforting. “I get it. Just… If you’re feeling some kinda way, I’m here, alright?”

“I appreciate it.” 

The silence was dour despite the pretty words. Giorno’s eyes caught the lesions on Mista’s neck again and a heavy sense of guilt pressed on his chest again. Mista noticed him staring and tactfully pulled his shirt up to hide it. It didn’t really work.

“It’s not your fault, Gio.” He laughed a little, eager to satiate the tension. “Good thing I wear turtlenecks, right?”

Giorno didn’t laugh. 

“Hey… Can you call Trish?” He said after some silence. “I don’t think she would be in trouble, but just for ease of mind. We were just with her.”

“Yeah?” Mista released his hold, eyes wide. Giorno found himself missing the contact a little. “Shit, you’re right.”

Trish was thankfully okay, if a bit irritated she was woken up. Giorno decided it’d be best to have people check in on her for the next week, to make sure nothing suspicious happened. Three months out and Trish still needed protection from gangsters. He would laugh if it all wasn’t so bleak.

Giorno separated from Mista, promising to meet up once he secured Polnareff and the turtle. He searched the hallway to the office, where he remembered he left him but ended up finding Coco Jumbo wandering the halls near the door to the garden, a weary-looking Polnareff half-out of the shell, looking around.

“Giorno! Merde, you’re alive!” He cried out, exhaling a long, shaky breath. Fingers twitched by his lips, itching for a cigarette that didn’t exist. “Where were you?” He asked desperately. “I thought for sure that—!”

“I’m glad that you’re safe,” Giorno replied matter-of-factly. He was extremely relieved to see Polnareff in one piece, although the current state of their relationship dampened the feeling a little. “We already know who the orchestrator is. We’ll be settling the matter tomorrow.” 

“Where were you?” Polnareff asked again.

“In my office,” replied the Don automatically, reaching down to scoop the turtle into his hands, but Polnareff’s icy voice interrupted him.

“No, Giorno. You don’t get to bullshit me. Where were you?”

Giorno paused.

“What was it you had said about being my age? Cutting class and whatnot?” 

The words came out more sour than he intended and Polnareff rightly looked appalled at the attitude, before a list of complicated emotions flittered over his expression. His face settled on something like defeat or regret.

“Okay,” he sighed, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. “I got it, I got the message. I would just rather you be honest with me about what you’re doing. I don’t like this sneaking around, making me the butt of the joke.”

“Why? So you can lecture me about not taking anything seriously?” Giorno couldn’t do this right now. Especially not after what just happened.

“I’m sorry, Giorno, I really am, but you just, you have to…” Polnareff dropped his hand, defeated. “You can’t go and do what you want. You don’t have that luxury anymore. And I… I worry about you. We just had an attempt on your life. I mean, all of this mafia business, it’s—”

“Then stop worrying. You’re not my father. Be an advisor as you’re supposed to be and don’t worry about me at all.”

Giorno expected Polnareff to retaliate, but all he got was a painful look in his eyes before throwing his head in his hands.

“You let one thing slip and it’s over. That’s the harsh truth of this world.” Polnareff said quietly. He glanced back up at him, looking exhausted. “I can’t see another kid taken away in a body bag. Not again. That’s all, Giorno.”

Giorno was taken aback by Polnareff’s honesty. Some moments passed, Giorno trying and failing to muster a competent answer to that. 

“It’s time to get some rest. Lots to do tomorrow,” commented Polnareff, slicing through the uncomfortable silence. He wasn’t looking at him. Giorno never found an answer and instead placed the turtle in his hands, walking back to Mista. 

Neither said another word to each other. 

The worst part was that Polnareff was right. Giorno could see that clearer than anything.

He was right and Giorno didn’t know how to handle it.

Chapter Text

Dolce’s house was small. That was the first thing Mista noticed. The second thing he noticed was that Giorno was already at the front, tapping the brass door knocker back and forth, three times. Mista caught up with him, shielding his eyes from the morning light with his arm and feeling that the upbeat sunshine struggled to fit the mood.

Giorno walked back a step, hands in front of him. Mista studied him a little. He was put together as ever, fine at a glance but he was tense, as tightly wound as the three victory rolls across his forehead. 

They’d barely slept the night before. The pair ended up sleeping at a hotel after the shooting, separate rooms this time, but Mista might as well have slummed it at the manor because he couldn’t sleep a wink. He very quickly figured out just how much of a bitch his neck injury was. Turning his head without stabs of pain shredding across his temple was impossible, and the occasional spots in his vision didn’t help assuage his nerves. Their live-in doctor had checked him out, and although he was optimistic, the reality was that it was going to take weeks for Mista’s vocal cords to fully recover, let alone the bruising.

With these thoughts festering in the back of his mind, Mista found himself wishing he and Giorno could’ve shared a room. He found it harder these days to be totally alone. 

All in all, the night was miserable. Though shameful, Mista was a little relieved to see that Giorno seemed to feel the same when he stepped out of his room for breakfast, darkness under his eyes. They shared a light meal, Mista gulping down an espresso as Giorno nibbled on a boiled egg. 

The first item on the day’s agenda was this: a confrontation with Dolce.

Before Mista had a chance to think of something to say to Giorno, the door opened. In the doorway was Dolce, already up and dressed, her perfectly straightened hair curtaining the severe expression on her face. The lines around her mouth deepened considerably as she realised who exactly was on the doorstep.

“Don Giovanna.” 

Mista had to stifle a giggle at the look on her face. Like a goose shitting a house brick.

“Capo Dolce, good morning,” Giorno greeted. Mista said nothing. “I apologise for the early visit. I know you weren’t expecting to see me until Wednesday.”

Or at all, Mista wanted to say.

“No, I certainly wasn’t.” She shuffled on the spot, a hand coming up to swipe her hair behind her ear. Her eyes flicked back and forth between them, settling on the dark blue bruises on Mista’s neck. She looked away. “Did you need something? Perhaps you’d like to come in for a coffee?”

“That would be great.”

With a smile, Giorno invited himself in, pushing aside the door with just enough restraint so as to not be rude. Mista followed in close proximity, on the hunt for anything suspicious. It bugged him to almost a childish degree that her home was actually perfectly normal. Suspiciously normal, Mista attempted to rationalise. It was cosy, all wooden materials and woven rugs in primary colours. A bit Scandinavian for an Italian caporegime and certainly not Mista’s style, but nothing out of the ordinary.

They passed the kitchen, where Mista saw an abandoned mug and half-eaten bowl of chunky slop that was probably oatmeal. Good, he thought, they caught her unaware, but any positivity he could glean from that was dampened by the utterly infuriating fact that anyone could possibly eat the morning after murdering their own boss. Guilt just doesn’t taste as sweet, he supposed. 

Mista pulled the collar of his sweater up.

Dolce finally directed them to the living room where Giorno made himself comfortable on the settee, crossing one leg over the other. Mista opted to stand. Coffee was eventually served but their cups sat untouched. He watched Dolce sit across from them, hands in front of her stomach, knitting her nerves between her fingers.

“So. How may I be of service to you, Don Giovanna?” 

Giorno appraised her, watching carefully. He doesn’t move an inch. Mista always found his emotional restraint impressive.

“You know…” He started after a breath, “I had to send my shoes to be professionally cleaned this morning. Nice pair of… Hm, remind me again, Mista?”

“Rick Owens.”

“Rick Owens,” Giorno confirmed. “Good shoes. Comfortable. Exclusive. Vogue just featured them in the new issue. They were quite difficult to acquire.”

Dolce didn’t say a word, watching him carefully, but Mista knew this routine. He enjoyed it.

“You can only imagine my disappointment, then, when last night they got so dirty I’m not sure I can even wear them again. So much… blood is difficult to get off. You understand, don’t you?”

Dolce blinked, a minuscule crack in composure. Her lips pressed into a line. 

“No,” she said slowly, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Giorno hummed. He shifted forward on the sofa, clasping his hands together.

“Well, I think you do. And I also think that you know I prefer not to play this game.”

“Game?” Dolce parroted, with the inanity of a circus losing all of its clowns. Mista barely managed not to roll his eyes. “I can’t help but think that we’re not reading from the same book here, Don Giovanna. What game are you talking about, exactly?”

Giorno smiled stiffly.

“Oh, come on. Humor me. You can sit here and bat your eyelashes at me all you want but it’s useless, and you know I hate useless things.” 

“…That you do.”

“So, let’s cut the bullshit.” Giorno’s smile dropped, his eyes darkening. The facade was broken. “You betrayed Passione. You tried to have me killed. You failed. Now we’re here.”

“And now we’re here,” quietly repeated Dolce. “What now?”

“What now? Do you mean to play stupid as well as innocent?” 

The Capo remained quiet.

“I want to know why.”

“Why?” Fired back Dolce. “Why do you think?” 

“Answer the question,” Mista cut in, “Or my gun will answer it for you.” He jostled the grip of his pistol as a warning, but Dolce smiled primly, unintimidated. It was irritating. Sex Pistols stirred restlessly on the fringes of his mind.

“It was, clearly—” She gestured towards Giorno, “—An unsuccessful gamble for power. What else would you like to know?” 

“Why make an attempt on my life now? Who else is involved?” Giorno pressed. “And may I remind you that we have methods beyond gunfire to make you talk, so if you value your life at all, I suggest you play nice.”

Mista kept his eyes trained on Dolce, like the good bodyguard he was, but he found himself unable to ignore the rising unease that coloured Giorno’s voice. The sooner this interrogation was over the better — No matter how it ended.

“Fine,” Dolce sighed, obviously unhappy. “I must admit that I was impatient. Last night was… spontaneous, as far as assassinations go.”

“Seemed pretty planned to me,” Mista interrupted, remembering flashes of garrotte wire and endless bullet casings on the lawn.

“I wouldn’t worry. There’ll be more, and they’ll be better than my little hack job, I can promise you that.”

“Oi,” Mista eased his gun out of his waistband and into his hand, “Is that a threat?”

“Who else?” Giorno wrenched himself back into control, his voice commanding a new sense of presence. Mista instinctively backed down, lowering his pistol. “Who else is involved? Who are you working with?”

Dolce directed her focus back on the Don. She tilted her head, seemingly wondering how little she could say and still get away with.

“An… Individual. A benefactor, of sorts.”

“Who?”

The corners of Dolce’s mouth twisted upwards. Snake-like. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”

“We’ll squeeze it outta you soon enough,” Mista hissed. 

“And what did they promise you that I couldn’t possibly have provided?” The Don asked.

“Power. More profits, more control. Simple as that.” 

Mista snorted. “What, your trough ain’t big enough? Greedy little piglet, huh?” 

“Mista.”

“What? Like it ain’t true?” 

Dolce shrugged a little. 

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe the trough is too small,” she said. “Mafia is just simple economics these days. All of us greedy fucks just want to see the number go up.”

“Obviously more profit is what we want.” Giorno wrinkled his nose, eyebrows furrowing as he processed her words. “Killing me seems antithetical to that.”

It was then that Dolce relaxed into the settee, the leather creaking. She had a hard look in her eyes, more determined than before.

“They talk a lot about you, you know, Giorno Giovanna,” she said, his name dripping from her lips as tar does. Slow. Poisonous. “The other Capos. They like to act all tough, sling around geriatric bullshit about how you’re too young, how you’re full of shit, how you never earned your stripes. Meanwhile, they’re all rats who’ve gotten too fat to find food anymore. They fuck, sleep, and gorge themselves on whatever scraps the cockroaches find them, and you want to know what I think? I think rats who’ve forgotten how to fight for the last scrap are useless.”

Mista tightened his hold on his gun.

“But you… You’re not like them. You fight for something. You have resolve. I respected that—I honestly still do. On some level, I actually like you. But simply put?” Dolce eked out a defeated laugh, shaking her head. “It’s been three months without results, and I. Need. Results.” She punctuated this with a jab to the coffee table with her index finger.

“You should understand that three months is not enough,” Giorno argued. “It’s a probationary period at best.”

“Sure. But look at what you went and did.” She snapped her fingers. “No drugs, you said. And there goes every meth-addled teenager propping up our organisation on their grease-slicked backs. I won’t deny that it’s a good thing, in a way, but Passione is a business first and foremost. So, let me ask you: Who do we profit off of now? The aspirin-dependent nonnas at our restaurants or the average blue-collar shirt who waltzes into our casinos with lint in his wallet? Because neither sound good to me.”

The air crackled uncomfortably.

“…The drugs are non-negotiable,” Giorno said after some time. “I made that very clear.”

“You did.”

And that’s why she had to kill him, Mista thought.

“Who are you working with?” Giorno tried again. “If someone is making moves against me, then I need to take countermeasures.”

But Dolce just shook her head, her expression slipping into something more sober.

“I won’t talk. I… can’t.”

“Then you know what comes next.” Giorno stood up and Mista followed his lead, stepping forward toward the Capo. She’ll cough up the info in a day or two. They always do. Mista was well-practised at this.

But before he could make any moves to restrain her, there was movement. Leather creaking. The Sex Pistols whistled alarm bells in his head.

In a split second, Dolce forced her hand between the sofa cushions and there was a flash of stainless steel. She swiped at Mista’s throat first but he threw himself backwards, slamming his back into a shelf full of fine china. Dishes rattled and wailed as Mista’s hand flew to his gun and he aimed, right as Dolce pounced onto Giorno, launching the entire sofa backwards. She stabbed at him in repeated, jerky motions as Giorno wrestled her wrists, twisted himself to narrowly avoid the edge of her blade.

Mista pressed the trigger.

A second later, lukewarm coffee painted the carpet as red sprayed the wall. A scream rippled throughout the house. 

Then, silence.

Chapter Text

“Oh fuck.”

Mista stared down the barrel of his gun at the body of Dolce, limp and bleeding out and Giorno, who was scrambling to find an item to heal her with.

“Shit, Boss, I didn’t—” Mista wavered, not wanting to get in the way. “I panicked, I didn’t mean to shoot her in the… head.”

“It’s fine,” Giorno mumbled, waving him off. Mista tried not to be bothered by it.

The Don swiped a random decoration off a shelf, some wooden statuette of an owl and proceeded to operate. Mista pulled up a chair and sat down, knowing it was best to be quiet and leave Giorno to it. 

Eventually, Giorno pulled in close, leaning his ear over her nose, one hand pinpointing the pulse on her neck.

“Alive?” Mista asked.

“Alive.” He stood, looking over to Mista. “She won’t come to for a while, but I still suggest we restrain her. She tends to be unpredictable.” 

Mista grunted affirmatively. They rooted around for something suitable, their search eventually leading to a three-metre extension cord. Good enough. For a few minutes it was silent, save for the rubber squeaking around Dolce’s wrists and legs. He contemplated her head injury; he traced her face where blood had been streaking from a bullet hole just a minute ago, gone now, seamless as Giorno’s healings always were. But there was something gnawing at Mista — The sheer panic he felt when Giorno went down. He could have shot her in the arm, where she held the knife, but something came over him and…

Fuck. Did he really just try to kill her? Interrogation be damned? If he compromised the job because of some spur-of-the-moment feelings, then who knows how much worse this entire situation could get.

“She’ll be fine,” Giorno said suddenly. “We’ll get the info out of her.” Mista glanced up, startled. He nodded, rolling the tension from his shoulders. He needed to look more alive. He couldn’t have Giorno worrying about him on top of everything else.

The pair completed a search of the house, trying to find any useful documentation or leads but irritatingly enough there was nothing. Mista made a mental note to go and sniff out Dolce’s other properties, see if there was anything stashed away there.

Dolce looked slight but as an unconscious body she was a deadweight, and the two teens heaved her into the car like hawks bringing food back to the nest. Their driver looked entirely unbothered as he sucked on a cigarette, marking off numbers on his sudoku workbook and occasionally flicking to a different radio station. Once, he glanced in the rear view mirror but the proceedings weren’t nearly interesting enough to capture his attention for more than a second.

Mista was already twisting his limbs in the backseat and trying to get comfortable, expecting them to leave, but Giorno had other ideas. He watched as his friend wandered into the garden. 

“Gio?” Mista called uncertainly, clambering out and slamming the car door. He followed him, batting away the bushes and bramble that seeped onto the pathway.

Giorno stood on the suspended overhang, looking over the city, hands in his pockets. Silence was always a bit scary on Giorno, especially at times like this. He’d normally crack a joke or comment but unable to quite read the mood, Mista instead decided to join him quietly, slotting in next to him by the railing.

They stared at the scenery a bit together, neither of them really taking it in. 

It was strange. Over the past few months, Mista’s noticed a fierce, protective urge developing within him. He’s always been loyal, sure, but the degree to which Giorno made him feel this way felt like encroaching onto entirely new territory. He was always willing to die for Bucciarati, but Giorno… It felt different, that’s all he could understand. Giorno had seen him cry, had seen him laugh, had seen him so angry he was ready to tear the world apart. 

Mista remembered how Giorno reacted when he was being strangled. It was a blur of shouts for him, more mangled vocals than coherent words, but what he could make out was the unmitigated rage. He’d never heard Giorno sound like that. 

So they were the same, Mista thought. This weird protectiveness they shared for each other… It was comforting just as much as it was terrifying. The way they could both become undone without the other. 

Mista almost laughed. What was this job doing to the pair of them? But they chose this, he supposed.

After some time, Giorno shook his head.

“I feel so stupid.” 

Mista turned to look at him, almost recoiling from the words.

“What? Why?”

Giorno had that look, that contemplative expression that was tipping over into something a lot more brooding. He turned his back to the city, kicking up a rock with his shoe and punting it across the garden. He shifted his weight against the railing, eyes burning holes in the ground.

“I should’ve anticipated she was going to betray me. I didn’t think she was a saint, but to leave this all to some prophetic text message… I’m just disappointed in myself.”

“Seriously?” Mista scoffed, maybe more unkindly than he intended. “Cut yourself some slack, Giorno. Okay, so we got kinda lucky there, but fuck, man, you have so much on your plate already. We gotta celebrate our wins as we get ‘em.” 

“You almost died yesterday, Mista.” Giorno looked pained as he mulled on those words.

He just shrugged. “We’re both still here, ain’t we?”

“…Bucciarati wouldn’t have let it happen this way.”

Mista snorted. “That’s not true. The guy was amazing in a lotta ways but he made mistakes too, trust me.”

Giorno stayed quiet. He was always so hard on himself. Mista cleared his throat, adjusting his tone a bit. 

“Are you thinkin’ about all the stuff she said?” He asked, making a concentrated effort to sound softer. His voice still being gravel didn’t make it easy but he was trying, damn it.

“How can I not?” Giorno sighed. “I’m beginning to think all of this is well beyond my pay grade.”

“…You knew it wasn’t gonna be easy.”

“Obviously.”

“But it’s still your dream, right?”

“Of course,” returned Giorno emphatically, maybe even offended.

That’s all Mista wanted to hear. 

“Then you’ll figure it out.” He shrugged. “I think you’re doing pretty good so far. And no one ever really knows what they’re doing. Bucciarati, he told me when he first got the team together…” he trailed off a little. “Just… that was hard on him too. Leading people and making all the decisions.”

“Right.”

“And I’ve seen enough shit to know that every day we’re still alive means we’re doing a decent job. So… that’s that. You’re doing good. Promise.”

He threw up a thumbs up, hoping that would get a better reaction, but Giorno just nodded, still not looking at him. God, Mista was so bad at this.

He blew out a resigned sigh, placing his hands on his hips. “Or maybe I’m stupid for ever trying to convince you of anything,” he muttered, more to himself.

Giorno turned to him. He looked apologetic, verdant green eyes studying his own. Mista swallowed. The scrutiny almost became too much when Giorno’s face finally broke into a small smile. 

“No, Mista. I appreciate it. Really.” He lightly clapped his shoulder, touch lingering for just a second too long, starting to walk. “Let’s go. Plenty more work to be done today.”

“C’mon, we don’t even have time to get an espresso or somethin’? Still too early to work,” Mista complained, catching up to him.

“Fine,” Giorno chuckled. “We’ll make it quick.”

Chapter Text

Almost a week has trickled by since the assassination attempt. Things were settling back into the way they were, just with a layer of bullet-proof glass and a fresh new security unit.

Dolce had awoken, although was about as useful as a vegetable and enjoyed burning the match of Mista’s patience to cinders by utterly refusing to talk. Each attempted interrogation had ended with him cursing and abandoning her to the confinement of her room. 

As for whoever contacted them via Giorno’s mobile, they hadn’t found a culprit. Whoever did it buried their tracks, clearly someone with experience, and there wasn’t anyone under Passione’s employ tech-savvy enough to unearth them. In Mista’s humble, second-in-command opinion, they should all be sacked and taken off the payroll, and while that idea was entertained by Giorno, nothing had come of it yet.

Mista suspected that Giorno had a hunch. He was, unfortunately, tight-lipped about it. It hurt Mista’s feelings a little, but he tried not to think about it too hard. Giorno was just like that. Wants to be sure before he plays his hand.

Meanwhile, Mista’s vocal cords were still recovering. The worst of it was over, but he was still embarrassed when he had to speak and the first sounds that came out of his mouth conjured the image of a rusty motorcycle labouring to start its engine. It was easy to blow it off and act like it didn’t bother him, but when Giorno wasn’t looking, he’d soothe the bruises on his neck with his fingertips and scrutinise them in the mirror. They still looked dark and painful. They were dark and painful. Giorno let Mista raid his makeup bag and helped dab concealer onto him, but when Mista caught the guilty look in his friend’s eye, he quietly abandoned the idea and opted to pull his shirts up higher instead - summer weather be damned.

Mista was honestly more worried about how Giorno was holding up after the whole affair, but the golden boy himself just wouldn’t stop fretting over him instead. He shouldn’t be though, as protecting Giorno was kind of Mista’s job, after all. Honestly at this point, Mista basically had a contractual obligation to get fucked up at least once a week. He was used to it.

Used to it as he was though, it was a nasty injury to have. Whether he needed to speak or even just turn his head at night, it hurt. Worst of all, it fucked with his mobility during missions so he’s been demoted to doing the easy, assistant-y stuff for Giorno and he hated it. He hated not being useful. 

“The doctor said you can’t be under stress while you’re recovering from the worst of it,” Giorno had said in that knowing tone of his, “Thankfully you didn’t sustain any brain injuries, but I would still feel a lot better if you took some time off.”

Although he appreciated the consideration, it was a mind-numbing state of affairs for Mista to find himself wallowing in. 

On a lowly Wednesday, Mista announced his presence in Giorno’s office by slapping some papers on his desk. 

“Passione’s quarterly,” he explained.

“Oh?” Giorno glanced over the papers with interest. He frowned. “Hm.”

“So… Dolce wasn’t kiddin’ about our numbers.”

“No, she was not.”

Mista nodded awkwardly.

“Turns out Diavolo relied pretty heavily on the drug trade, and since we’ve stopped doin’ all that, some of Passione’s sponsors backed out, which isn’t great obviously, and…” 

Shit, that sounded really bad. Giorno spent a few more moments looking over the spreadsheet, looking less than pleased. 

Mista cleared his throat with less subtlety than he intended. “Let’s not worry about it, eh? We got plenty of time to pick up our earnings.”

Giorno nodded, not fully convinced.

“Right. We just have to be patient.” 

“The casino deal with the Alfredo family went over well, didn’t it? Bumped our numbers up.”

“It did,” he reluctantly agreed.

“See?”

Giorno nodded again, resolutely this time. 

“You’re right.” 

Satisfied, Mista moved to the next item on his agenda.

“I also got some, uh, correspondence from the Valentino family today.”

Giorno snorted. “Yeah? How mad were they that I couldn’t go up to Florence?”

“Well, with the whole Dolce tryna, you know…” he mimed slitting his throat, “kill you thing, Valentino was pretty chill about the meeting. Said some shit about you needing stability at home right now so not to worry about it. When you feel the time is right, then you can go up there and talk shop.” He paused. “They did say he wanted to talk to you directly though.”

Giorno made a satisfied noise. 

“Alright. I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks for letting me know.” He looked up. “I suspect we’ll have to make arrangements to meet with them when we can though.” 

“Like a vacation?” Asked Mista, perking up. “I’m in!”

Giorno smiled. “It is technically for business… but we can make a trip out of it.”

“Sweet.”

“Have you ever been up there?”

Mista shook his head. He recalled their train to Florence getting derailed back in April, and somewhere between hotwiring their car and getting his face frozen on the expressway to Venice was probably as close as he’s ever gotten to the place. 

“Nah. I’m lookin’ forward to seeing all the sights with ya, Boss.”

Giorno smiled warmly. His expression shifted a little, accommodating for a change in topic. 

“Also, Mista. I know you’re out of sorts right now playing assistant for me. Once you’re all healed up it’ll be business as usual but for now…  I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” was all that Mista provided, flopping down on the sofa, but something warm fluttered in his chest at Giorno’s words. A sense of recognition, maybe.

“Anyway. I need to make some calls so I’m sorry if I can’t entertain your every whim today,” said Giorno with a teasing intonation.

“Call away, call away,” Mista assured. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, ready to take a nap. “I’m right here if ya need me.”

Giorno hummed, satisfied, and picked up the phone to run down his list of contacts. The next hour or so was filled with arrangements, disagreements and the occasional waiting line -  although whoever would put the Don of Naples’ biggest gang on hold was a question Mista would gladly find the answer to if he had nothing better to do later.

Mista fell in and out of his nap, eventually being stirred by Giorno mumbling something.

“It should be safe to call him now…” 

Mista lifted the flap of his hat to see what the Don was doing. Giorno had retrieved a piece of paper, copying a number from it onto the dialpad. A few minutes passed as the operator connected the call. 

And then-

“O~ssu. Hirose Residence.”

Giorno raised his eyebrows. This was definitely not Koichi, but he planned for this scenario.

“Is this Koichi Hirose?” He asked in his best Japanese, straining to hit the correct pitch accents of the words. He realised too late that he slipped up on the order of the names. Force of habit, he supposed.

The answerer seemed to pick up on that, because there was a small pause before they responded, “Nah.” The rest of his sentence went by in a blur as there was no way Giorno could process that speed of Japanese, but he caught a shuffling through the phone and a far away voice.

“What are you doing, picking up my family phone? Jeez…” The receiver was picked up, and Giorno heard the voice much more clearly.

“Hello? Who’s this?”

That was more like it.

“Koichi-kun,” Giorno greeted brightly, switching back to tried and true Italian. “It’s been a while.”

“Eh…” Koichi panicked, before suddenly the realisation of who this was crashed into him. “Is this…?!”

“Giorno Giovanna,” Giorno supplied. “We met in Italy back in April.”

“Wha... W-what are you doing calling me?!” 

“OHHH! That Italian guy?!” Giorno suddenly heard in the background. There was a scuffle over the phone, some brief interference, then some heavy breathing, then a throaty squawk as Koichi apparently wrenched it out of his assailant’s hand.

“S-sorry, Josuke was-“

“I don’t have time to entertain your friends, Koichi-kun,” Giorno said impatiently. As a kid he was gawked at for being Japanese, now he was being gawked at for being Italian. How exhausting. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Eh? Why me? And why now?” He prompted with rising suspicion.

Giorno held back a sigh. He asked too many questions. 

“Something’s happened on my end and I need more information about it. I recall that the reason you were looking for me was for the Speedwagon Foundation. I’d like to talk about that.”

“What? I can’t give away details like that! And I did what you asked, I didn’t tell Jotaro anything about your organisation. Shouldn’t you be a little grateful?” A brief pause. “Also, I know you don’t know much Japanese, but I’m not a -kun if I’m your senior!”

Giorno’s eyebrow twitched in growing irritation. “Koichi-kun, I’m afraid I don’t have the patience to do this back and forth with you. I want to know everything about your mission back then, and about this Jotaro person too.”

“I can’t do that!”

“You can and you will. I’ll be finding out this information in any case. It will just be easier if I get it from you.” 

There was a heavy, resigned sigh. 

“Maybe I was wrong about you… you’re so pushy…”

Giorno smiled. Hook, line, sinker.

“Well? What will it be?” 

“Fine, I’ll give you what you want. Only because I know you’re a good person… mostly. But I’m telling Jotaro about this conversation!”

Giorno leaned back in his chair. “Sure. I can’t stop you.” 

“You-“ Whatever Koichi wanted to say died on the line. Another sigh. “Let’s arrange a time for a proper call. I don’t have the time for this right now. I just wanted to enjoy my afternoon…”

Giorno finally relaxed. “Great.” He paused. “I would also recommend not to call this number from your family phone. I am careful but I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if someone unsavoury was able to trace this line back to you.”

“W-What?! Giorno Giovanna, what have you-!”

“How about…” Giorno looked over his schedule. He tapped a date with his pen. “…this coming Saturday? What time would work for you?"

“...Two o’clock...”

“Mm-hmm. That’s…” Giorno did the timezone conversion in his head. “Okay, great. That works for me. I’ll leave you to it then. Have a nice day, Koichi-kun.”

“Ah… you too…”

Click.

With the fallout of Koichi’s dejected voice over the phone, Giorno was finally satisfied to have a lead on his case. Mista, on the other hand, couldn’t help but bark out a laugh as soon as Giorno placed the phone back into its cradle.

“God, Gio! You really don’t take no for an answer, huh?”

Giorno shrugged, only a little sheepish.

“What the hell was that about anyway?”

Giorno’s smile faded a little, his expression melting into something more cryptic.

“I’m trying to find out more information about my late father. If Polnareff won’t give me what I ask, then I just need to do it myself.”

Mista chuckled. “Figures. You’re not someone who gives up if you want something.”

Afternoon seeped into the evening, and eventually, the day dwindled to a close. Mista got up, ready to go get some dinner and feed the Pistols, but was interrupted by Giorno, who spoke up for the first time in hours.

“I want to talk to Dolce again.”

Mista blinked, turning to Giorno. To his utter dismay, he looked completely serious.

“Really?” He snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Giorno laughed a little, already well aware of Mista’s various failed attempts.

“Join me? Two is better than one, after all.”

He shrugged. “Sure, we can tag-team. But don’t complain to me if we don’t get anything outta her. Shit is liking pullin’ teeth with a chainsaw. I don’t think she’ll ever talk.” 

“Have you ever heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy, Mista?” Giorno teased, herding his friend out of the room.

The pair journeyed their way to where Dolce was holed up - a not so generous way of putting it, because for someone who’s tried murdering Giorno not once but twice, she was being treated well above her means. Twenty-four hour guard watch was a must, of course, but she was being fed and she had a place to sleep. Some of Mista’s interrogation tactics were certainly not pleasant, but he still couldn’t bring himself to treat her the way he would a man. All things considered, Dolce wasn't doing poorly for someone who should’ve had a bullet in their brain days ago - and this time, not healed by Gold Experience.

Mista ushered the guards away, and hands in his pockets, all nonchalant, he stepped into the room. 

The space was dark; furniture was cramped to one side. There was one window, small and latched firmly closed, but advantageously placed so that it could let in the sun during the day. 

Capo Dolce, looking not so powerful anymore, cowered in the corner, a bleeding animal wrapped in chains.

“Oi, oi, had a change of heart?” Mista drawled. “Wanna tell us what you know now?” 

She said nothing.

Mista made a face at Giorno, the “I told ya so” face that he’s oh-so-perfected, before stalking his way over to her.

“Persistent.” 

“Evening,” Giorno greeted, following close behind. 

Mista frowned when he got a good look at her. She was looking much frailer than yesterday, and while she wasn’t young, her face was sunken in what Mista could only describe as a sick way. Her skin was waxy, streaks of shine running along her forehead. She was not looking well. Mista glanced over to the table where her plate was - full, and the cup of water, too. No appetite.

Dolce refused to greet Giorno either. Her eyes skipped between the two of them like a flea, back and forth, back and forth. 

Giorno’s expression sunk into something more serious. He also sensed something was wrong. Mista swallowed back the lump that was forming in his throat.

“I know you don’t want to talk, that much is clear. How about we just chat? About anything.”

Dolce sniffed. 

“No?”

No. Nothing. She turned her gaze to the floor.

“Mista told me you complained about pains yesterday. I can help you; you know I have that power.” He crouched down to her level. “How about you give us just one lead, somewhere to start.” 

The mafioso kept staring at the floor.

“Come on,” Giorno said, in a manner that would’ve been a plea had it come from anyone else. “Anything. How much more time do you want to waste doing this?” 

Silence.

Then… Dolce opened her mouth. 

“She did something to me…”

She? Mista and Giorno shared a look. 

Dolce curled up on herself. Her gangster front shed, she looked smaller than ever. 

“She’s like you,” she said, voice hollow, “That power you people have…” 

An air of urgency rushed into the room.

“Who? Who did what to you?” Giorno urged.

Dolce’s head rattled around her shoulders.

“I don’t know… I… I can’t think…”

“H-Hey, isn’t she looking kinda…?” Mista reached to look at the skin on her face, but Giorno pinched his wrist back, forcing distance between them.

“Don’t. If it’s a Stand, it might not be safe to touch her.”

“She looks bad, Boss! What if-!”

A squelching noise pulsated throughout the room. They smelt it before they saw it.

A mass of skin-coloured goop oozed outwards on the floor, like chewed-up wallpaper paste. There was something strange wedged in it, something bony and-

“Is…” Mista started, “Is that…?”

Fingers. Five fingers pointed out at odd angles. 

“My hand!” Dolce wailed. “It…! It fell off!”

“Shit, where is it?! Where’s the Stand?!” Mista pushed Giorno behind him, retrieving his gun.

“Wait! Let’s think first!” Giorno cut in. “She must’ve triggered it somehow. Let’s not make any rash moves until we figure it out!” 

“Help me! You can help me!” Dolce crawled over to them. “Help me!”

When Mista looked down at her, his heart dropped - her skin was already dripping in the same way, jaw hanging off one side, and patches of her other hand had already run off of her.

“Gold Experience!” Giorno called, but there was no target, and it sensed no presence other than them in the room. He quickly tore off one of his brooches, sculpting it into Dolce’s hand, but then she needed her earlobe, then her shoulder, then her nose, and within seconds Giorno couldn’t keep up with what body parts she needed because everything was melting, everything was dripping.

“Help… Help…”

Dolce’s final words were completely garbled as her body distilled into nondescript ooze, and with a whimper, everything- suddenly-

Stopped. 

A few seconds of silence passed.

“What the fuck?” Mista couldn’t help blurting out. “Did you see a Stand, Giorno? Or anything?”

“…No.”

The coast seemingly clear, Mista reluctantly lowered his gun, but firmly kept Giorno behind him. God, Mista hated this. He hated the insecurity that flooded him when he had to protect Giorno now. He drew a breath and held it, then breathed out.

“There’s not much of a body, but should we take a look at it? It’s the only thing we have to go on.”

Giorno just stared at the mess on the floor, brow furrowed.

“Giorno?”

“Sorry. Just thinking.” He walked over, Mista reluctantly letting him pass. He gingerly stepped around the melted skin, careful not to touch it. 

“It’s like Cioccolata’s Stand,” he breathed. There was fire in his eyes. “It’s horrific.”

Mista felt a shiver crawl up his spine at the name of that bastard.

“Yeah.” 

He began to think, rewinding the last five minutes in his head. There was a correlation between Dolce looking ill and dying from a Stand attack. Neither of them had been targeted, nor did they feel any sort of presence, so it doesn’t seem like there was an intruder. Logically, if there was, it should be safe to assume Giorno would’ve been attacked, as the Don - especially with something so fast-acting and effective. 

“This… This reminds me of something,” Giorno suddenly said.

“What?”

“Did you ever encounter Polpo’s Stand?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mista said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nodded. “It was an automatic Stand with an object that triggered it - the lighter. It’s possible this Stand works the same.”

“Automatic Stand, huh? That’s what I was thinking too. If someone were here, we would’ve been attacked by now.”

“Right.”

“But hang on, Giorno, it doesn’t have to be an object. Notorious B.I.G got triggered by me killing the user, right? So it could be an action that triggered it too.”

“Mm.” The scowl on Giorno’s face deepened. “And that makes it a lot more dangerous.”

“Fuck. What can we do?”

They thought for a moment. 

“…Let’s consult Polnareff about it,” said Giorno, if a little begrudgingly. “He knows more about Stands than we do. At the very least, it seems like Dolce was their only target for now. We shouldn’t need to worry.”

All Mista did was worry, but he swallowed it down for Giorno’s sake. 

Polnareff was in Giorno’s office, Coco Jumbo having wandered in there out of familiarity for the space. The Frenchman spent a lot less time there than he used to, still not on good terms with Giorno. He spent the majority of his time taking mysterious phone calls and other… ghostly activities, Mista had to assume.

“A tracker Stand,” Polnareff confirmed once they explained the situation. “I’ve come across a few of them in my day. It pinpoints a target’s location and attacks them until they’ve accomplished their mission. Usually, this is a sub-ability that the Stand user can deploy as an extension of their main Stand.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mista complained. “People shouldn’t be able to have multiple abilities like that! As if we didn’t have enough trouble with Diavolo…”

“Indeed.” Polnareff paused, eyeing Giorno. “And you noticed nothing else unusual?”

“No,” Giorno supplied. “Mista told me she had been deteriorating in health the past few days, but neither of us thought it could be linked to a Stand attack.”

Polnareff hummed. “Then you’re probably right. Dolce was attacked before her capture, and the Stand only finished her off days later. In that case, it’s basically impossible to find its user now. They could be anywhere.”

“Great.” Mista sighed roughly, flopping down on one of the armchairs. 

“Did you manage to glean any information from her before she…” Polnareff trailed off, because just how delicately could you phrase that a person melted to an untimely demise?

“Just one thing,” said Giorno. “It’s a female Stand user.”

Polnareff raised his eyebrows. 

“Interesting.”

“How?” Mista asked.

“Don’t misunderstand, I don’t mean that women wouldn’t be capable of something like this.” Polnareff stroked a hand on his chin in thought. “It’s just that I don’t know any women in prominent positions within the other famiglias. Why would they assassinate Dolce of all people?”

“Bit of a sexist industry, huh?” Mista commented. “Then it’s gotta be someone that’s working for the real mastermind.”

“Or a third party, like a contractor who does dirty jobs,” Polnareff mused. “Perhaps that would be more beneficial for them, harder to be traced.”

Giorno reflected on this. 

“Dolce mentioned working for someone to kill me. It couldn’t make sense that this person and the Stand user are the same, right?”

“Maybe it was punishment for not finishing the job,” Mista wondered.

“Unfortunately, there’s just too little information to go on,” Polnareff said. “We’ll have to keep vigilant.”

The conclusion of their discussion slowly sank in, leaving the trio to quietly dissect the problem individually. In time, Giorno and Mista readied themselves to leave, unable to do anything else about the unfolding situation but to at the very least finally have dinner.

“Well, thanks… Polnareff.” Giorno stalled by the door before exiting.

“What he said,” Mista said, primed to follow Giorno, “Thanks for the help.” 

Polnareff looked away. “Come to me anytime.”

Mista had one hand on the door when Polnareff stopped him.

“Wait! Just one last thing, Mista.”

“Hm?” Mista didn’t usually find himself in conversations with just himself and Polnareff. He pointed with his thumb outside. “Should I get Giorno?”

“No. I wanted to speak to you alone.”

Mista obliged, curious. He walked back over, squatting next to the turtle to get a better view of their mentor. Polnareff met his eyes, a somber look in them.

“Mista… Could you take care of Giorno for me?” 

He frowned. “Uhh, everything cool down there in ghost-land? Something you need’a tell me?”

Polnareff shook his head.

“I’m fine. Not leaving this mortal coil just yet. But Giorno, he…” He bit his lip, a sorrowful look crossing his face. “We’ve had a falling out.”

“I heard.”

“If you knew, Mista, then you’d understand why I don’t want to tell him about his father.”

Mista raised an eyebrow. He recalled Giorno’s phone call from earlier today.

“He’s already plotting against you, old man. Callin’ people and finding things out himself.”

Polnareff took a beat, digesting this information. He shrugged helplessly. “Nothing I can do about that. I tried my best. But… whatever happens, whatever he learns… just look out for him, will you?”

“‘Course I will. I don’t need you to tell me that.” Mista found himself weirdly defensive, offended on Giorno’s behalf.

“I just want to know there’s at least one person in his corner.”

“…You seem paranoid, don’t ya think?” Asked Mista sceptically.

“No, Mista,” huffed Polnareff with frustration. “I told you, didn’t I? About what happened during my confrontation with Diavolo. How I was isolated for years, how I was always, always running… I barely survived that-“ He chuckled suddenly. “Or I guess I didn’t.”

Mista kept quiet.

“As extraordinary as Giorno is, he’s still in constant danger. Today is yet further proof of that. I just need to know you’re there for him.”

Mista swallowed. It was a heavy responsibility, but not one he was going to shy away from. He’d already promised it.

“Alright, Mr Polnareff. You can trust me.”

Polnareff smiled a little. 

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The last person on Mista’s list of potential female Stand users was definitely not their culprit.

“Hey! Let me go!”

No, there was no way that this ten-year-old who Mista just caught syphoning his wallet with her pipsqueak of a Stand was the one that finished off Dolce.

“I’m eleven in six days! So I’m basically eleven, not ten!”

Oops.

To be fair, they only had her name on record, with only barebones information on a potential Stand. As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered to investigate. 

Mista let go of the kid’s arm and pulled his wallet from her hands, quickly checking his IDs. His bills had been swiped but he wasn’t about to get fussy over it. 

He sighed. “Listen, kid, go home and do your homework, eh? This area’s no place to be for someone your age.”

“Don’t wanna!” The girl huffed, then mumbled under her breath, “School’s bullshit.”

“Oi, language!” Mista gave her a small shove. “Go on, get. Sure your mother’s lookin’ for ya.” 

The girl looked embarrassed then, her face dimming as she remembered her curfew.

“Hey, just one thing,” Mista called to the kid before she ran off. “Promise me you’ll be careful using your power, okay?”

“You mean the ghost thing that follows me?”

“Yeah,” Mista said, nodding along. “Most people can’t see it but some can, like me. Problem is, not everyone’s gonna be as nice as me, got it? You could get into trouble - ‘Specially if you keep nicking people’s wallets.”

The girl looked concerned at first - then stuck her tongue out at him.

“Whatever you say, mister! Ciao!” She bellowed, waving his money around - her money now - before scampering off like a flighty deer.

Mista rolled his eyes, though the interaction had his heart aching a little. He missed his sister, not to mention all of his cousins. How long has it been? Almost three years since he’d seen them? But he swallowed the angst down, knowing that he accepted long ago that it would be this way as a gangster.

With his list exhausted, Mista could confirm that none of the Stand users was the one that killed Dolce. He collapsed against a wall, deep in thought. They officially had no more leads. Their guys up in Rome had nothing either, and with that, Mista had to accept there was nothing else he could do. 

Mista flipped that thought in his mind, forcing himself to turn it into a positive one. Maybe this meant Giorno really wasn’t their target, or at the very least she wasn’t in Naples anymore. Not everything had to have the worst outcome, right?

He returned to the main road. Leaves drifted in a wave of ochre, the first sign of autumn. 

Mista drew a breath. Held it. Exhaled. 

He camouflaged into the colours of the evening crowd and walked back to the car.

The next few weeks slinked by and before they knew it, the enormity of their work had snuck up on them. Reestablishment of stability within Passione, new deals, new partnerships, new ventures. Giorno was persistent in throwing ideas at the wall and seeing what stuck, but expenses were still outrunning profits and their numbers still weren’t high enough. Nothing could replace the billion-dollar drug trade Diavolo had established, and the organisation was really feeling the strain of that fact.

On the brighter side, Mista was back to his regular assignments, more-or-less recovered from his injury. He was just counting down the days to his birthday and his first well earned break since all of this started. 

He drifted along the corridors of the manor to one specific place, like always. He found himself being drawn to Giorno often, surprising less-so for work reasons, but for just about everything else too, and if there was one place where he could find Giorno, it was the garden.

Orange foliage fell in feathers and the air sang with the crisp, crystalline whistles of the wind. Giorno sat on the bench, their bench now, head buried in a book. 

There was something about the ephemerality of the scene in front of him that made Mista stop and watch him a little. Giorno had grown a bit since they met, his face a little fuller and his hair a little longer. Mista secretly loved his hair - the way it caught the light, the way it framed his face. Maybe it was cheesy, but it reminded him of knights and queens from the fairy-tales he was obsessed with as a kid. His mannerisms too - like now, when Giorno curled a stray lock of hair around his ear or the care he’d take when turning a page.

Mista stopped himself. These were weird details to be noticing about someone. He admired Giorno a lot, it’s been that way since they met, but all of a sudden he desperately tried to not think about how he sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush on the popular boy in class. 

The hell was wrong with him? They were friends. He squashed those thoughts down and banished them to the back of his mind.

“Mista!” 

He caught Giorno waving, a smile on his face, and those weird thoughts melted away.

“Sit with me.”

“In this cold?” Mista walked over, making a big show of rubbing his hands together and shaking. “Hell no.”

Giorno smirked. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, giving him a pleasing flush to his face. 

“Maybe if you weren’t so dedicated to your crop tops, you wouldn’t be so cold,” he said, tugging on the end of his sweater. His cold fingers brushed against his stomach and Mista recoiled.

“Hey, the crop tops are non-negotiable! How else are people gonna know I got abs? I ain’t doing all this working out for nothing.” 

He flashed a roguish smile at Giorno, obviously teasing, but he just made a confusing face, like he didn’t know how to respond. Sheepish, Mista accepted he probably said something weird and plopped down next to Giorno on the bench. 

“Whatcha readin’?”

Giorno flicked the book-cover over to show him. 

“Anna Karenina.”

“Oh sure. Just some light afternoon reading, right?”

Giorno laughed. “It’s good! A little weird to read, but I’ll chalk that up to the Russian-to-Italian translation.”

“Yeah?” Mista leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Tell me about it.”

Had anyone told Mista one year ago that he’d be interested in the plot of some stuffy old Russian novel, he’d laugh right in their face. 

Giorno, of all people, just had that effect on him.

His friend’s face brightened. He lifted one leg onto the bench, turning to face Mista and began to explain the plot of the book. 

Mista listened, or at least tried, but before he could control himself he became completely distracted by Giorno. It wasn’t weird, he rationalised to himself, it was just that… every chance Giorno had to be happy was a nice thing to see. Ever since they met, there’s always been something that caused him worry. Right now, there was no Don of Passione, no Stand users or gangsters, no nothing - just two friends hanging out.

Giorno shut up all of a sudden. 

Shit! Mista panicked, breaking out of his reminisce. Did he notice I wasn’t listening? 

“What’s wrong?” Giorno asked. A mysterious smile grew on his face.

“Nothing,” said Mista too quickly. 

“Hmm.” 

The blond pulled away, that smile still on his lips. He relaxed back in his seat, picking up a new thread of conversation.

“I’ve managed to set a date for the Florence trip.”

Mista breathed a small sigh of relief, secretly relieved that they were on a different topic now. He straightened himself out.

“To meet with the Valentino family?”

“Yeah. Next week.”

“Huh. That’s soon.”

Giorno nodded. “It is. Unfortunately, all this instability is making me worried about how things will go here while we’re away…” 

“Yeah, but you know you need someone with you. Especially if there’s a dangerous Stand user running around.”

Giorno looked away. “Right.” He sighed. “I did offer for them to come visit us, but Valentino was insistent. Either it’s a way to show off to me or he’s trying to lure me out of home territory.” He wrinkled his nose. “Definitely both.”

“Even more reason why you need me with you.”

“I appreciate it, Mista. I’m sure things will be fine for a few days. I’m just worried,” Giorno murmured. “But if we succeed in an alliance with them…”

“Then we can expand into Florence, right?” Mista said. “And the Passione arm in Rome will get more freedom to make moves.”

“Exactly.” Giorno smiled. He leaned in a little, a teasing smile dancing on his lips. “You’re so astute.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Mm.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. From that angle, Mista’s traitorous gaze fell onto the rosy skin peeking out from the cut-out of Giorno’s suit. He quickly drew his eyes back up, realising with a hot flash of embarrassment that Giorno was, like… weirdly close to him. 

Mista’s mind went haywire. Why?

He swallowed. Hard. Then-

Riiing!

Giorno’s phone. It very rarely rang, so its shrill tone was an unexpected surprise, and an unpleasant one at that. It only ever rang during emergencies.

Giorno took the call.

“Don Giovanna, I sincerely apologise for interrupting you with this…”

The Don stood, taking some steps to take the call out of earshot. Mista tried to listen in but the conversation was little more than a few words before it was over. 

“What’s up?” Mista asked, brow furrowing.

“One of the guards called me. I’m going to quickly run over and see what’s wrong,” said Giorno hurriedly. He paused. “You should stay here.”

Mista watched Giorno leave. He waited a second, tapping his foot nervously. 

Wait. 

Just wait here.

He couldn’t resist. He got up and chased after him.

Mista arrived to the manor lobby just in time to see Giorno approach to get a word from one of the security guards. Giorno listened carefully, his eyebrows furrowing. “He absolutely refused to leave without seeing you, Don Giovanna…” Mista managed to catch in a hushed tone.

Who? Who is it?

Giorno stole a glance at Mista, realising he was there, then quickly looked away. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Oi, Giorno…” Mista rushed over to his side. “What’s going on? Something I should know?”

“Ah…” He swapped a look with the security guard. “Well…”

“Seriously, Giorno, what the fuck is going on?’

Giorno elected to push some stray hairs back from his eyes than answer. God, Mista hated when he did that.

“Answer me, man, come on.”

The Don steeled himself. He stood up straighter, meeting his sight. 

“It seems that we have an unexpected guest.”

“Who?” Mista had to ask, but he didn’t get an answer.

The guard swept his arm over the door, slowly pulling it open. 

Mista bundled himself closer to the entranceway, his curiosity overwhelming him.

He had to know, he to see- 

What he saw first was a green suit. Then, a head of strawberry blond hair. 

And then he met them. That all too familiar set of indigo-coloured eyes. 

His heart dropped to his stomach.

Fugo. 

Chapter Text

“Seriously Mista, what’s with you? You’re acting so strange.”

Jaws of glass sunk into his skin. The shrieking bell of an elevator reaching its floor. The smell of dust after it’s rained.

Mista blinked out of his daze like he’s woken up for the second time today. What happened? Now that he thought about it, that was a really great question he didn’t think he’d ever have the answer to.

Two fingers snapped in front of his face.

“Hello? Earth to Mista?”

Fugo cocked his head, looking expectantly at him.

“I’m listenin’.”

They were back at Libecchio’s now, reunited with Abbacchio who was too busy flipping his cassette tape to its B-side than to say a greeting word to either of them. Narancia had fucked off somewhere, no doubt trying to avoid homeschool sessions with Fugo, although he always came back when his stomach was empty. Bucciarati was still out.

For the past hour, Fugo’s been trying to extract something comprehensive about the sculptor from Mista, but his notebook was filled with sparse details, a crudely drawn diagram (for whatever reason) and lots of scratched out nonsense. A stone shaped like Bucciarati? What did that even mean? Fugo decided to take a break to see if Mista could sort himself out, but he was still off somewhere in the water, a boat drifting untied from its tether.

Fugo pursed his lips. He ducked behind his book, spoon clinking against the sides of his teacup as he stirred.

“That car is coming out of your pay, you know.”

“What?!” Mista jerked his head over to Fugo, already winding up the same, tired tune he’s played ever since they returned. “It wasn’t my fault! I told you!”

“Told me what, exactly? I still haven’t made any sense of that story you told me. Weird rocks and… and fate, or something. Not sure why you needed to land on top of our car…”

“Like I said, all you need to know is that I was protecting Bucciarati. That’s what matters.”

Fugo sighed, completely defeated. “You’re impossible.”

“I wouldn’t lie about something like that! If I say it was dangerous, then it was dangerous! You think I’d make that kinda shit up for a laugh?” He fell back into his seat, upset now. “Is that really how little you think of me?”

“Mista, I honestly don’t know what to think.”

“Fuck you, Fugo,” he snapped.

“Fuck y–” He stopped himself, directing his anger to the tightening grip on his book.

“Okay,” he went shakily, “Why don’t we both calm down? I still don’t understand, but…”

Fugo looked to Mista once more, who still looked like a toddler who had just been told “No.” It was kind of pitiful. He began to feel somewhat apologetic.

“Fine. If you insist so much, then clearly it was something worth that reaction. I’ll believe you.”

Mista made a resigned noise of acknowledgment.

“But what do we tell the florist? We can’t exactly say that a Stand was responsible.”

“We tell him it was a suicide. That’s all.”

Fugo nodded, face sliding into a pensive expression. Another innocent person taken from this Earth too early, too cruelly. For everything Fugo’s seen in his life up until this point, it only seemed par for the course. He only wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn’t feel so helpless underneath the weight of it all.

With at least something to tell Bucciarati, the conversation died and the two settled in to do their own thing while they waited for new orders. Abbacchio was still listening to his tape while Mista absently flipped through the pages of a magazine just for something to do.

Fugo fidgeted with his book. Like Mista, he was also not reading, eyes skipping back to repeat the start of the page for the third time in a row. After a few fruitless minutes he sighed, putting it down.

“I wonder if Bucciarati caught the person who attacked Luca yet,” he mumbled.

Mista looked up.

“Fuck Luca. Whoever did him in is a hero in my books.”

“Quiet, dumbass,” Fugo hissed. “Maybe that’s true, but like Bucciarati said, it’s not smart to advertise it to everyone.”

“Narancia said the same damn thing, we’re all thinkin’ it.”

Fugo did too. He knew they all still struggled sometimes with the morality of their jobs, of the people they had to work with.

Mista shrugged. “I’m sure Bucciarati’s already put down the bastard. What, you worried?”

“No…” Fugo dropped his eyes to the table. “I just have a strange feeling about it.”

Mista didn’t want to admit that he did, too.

“C’mon. Shut up that big ol’ brain of yours and worry more about that brat Narancia skipping class.”

“You’re right… Where’d he run off to? Honestly!” Fugo huffed and puffed.

“Yo, you guys are back!”

Speak of the devil.

“Oi, Narancia,” Mista greeted in his own way.

“Ehh…” Narancia scanned the table, looking annoyed. “No one’s ordered lunch yet?”

Fugo straightened up, eyebrows crossed.

“Narancia. You weren’t thinking of missing our lesson today, were you?”

“What?! No!” Narancia’s movements grew more animated and frenetic as he talked. “I just saw some people I knew and went to say hi! C’mon, Fugo, you know I wouldn’t do that! ‘Specially not to you, you’d beat my ass if I didn’t show up!”

“Relax,” Mista drawled. “Sit already, you’re causing trouble. I’m gonna order cake, want any?”

“Ehhh, cake?” Narancia scraped a chair back and plunked himself into it. “I kinda wanted real food, but…” He thought about it for just a second before his eyes sparkled with excitement. “What kind?”

“Strawberry, duh.”

“You always get strawberry! Can’t we get chocolate for once?”

“You’re not getting strawberry or chocolate until you finish your exercises,” Fugo hastily cut in.

“What?! Fugo, you piece of shit, c’mon!”

“No buts. You want to finish your grade school education, right? You’ve been doing really well recently. Maths could use some work, of course, but we’ll study that tomorrow, hm?”

Narancia hung his head solemnly. “Who cares? I’d rather have cake than education.”

“Good lord, not this argument again…” Fugo muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

As Fugo began his usual routine of nagging (although he preferred to call it motivational speaking), Abbacchio had stirred, staring out the window like the world owed him money.

“You bastards are always so loud,” he grumbled.

“Want cake?” Mista asked, ignoring him. “I’m ordering.”

Abbacchio removed one ear of his headphones.

“I’m fine.” He paused, then tapped the top of the teapot. “Order a refill though.”

“You bet.” Mista thought for a moment. “Mm, Bucciarati will probably want lunch first when he comes back.” He turned to Fugo. “Cake?”

Fugo blinked up at him.

“…Sure, Mista. I’ll have some.” He gave a sideways glance at Narancia, who was burning holes into his reading comprehension book. His eyes softened. “Narancia too.”

Mista held back a smile.

♡

“You…”

Mista barely got the word out, eyes wide, shell-shocked. Fugo said nothing.

The teenager was thrust forward by the security detail, head rolling on his shoulders like it didn’t belong to him. Giorno got a better look at his pale face — A thick stream of blood dribbled down his nose; badger-like circles smudged his under-eyes. Fugo’s eyesight wobbled upwards to meet Giorno’s, and his only thought was that he looked very, very tired.

“O-Oi,” Mista shouted when he got his voice back. His body jerked forward to take a ragged step. “What is he doing here?!”

“Mista–” Giorno started.

“What, came back to beg for forgiveness?” Mista hissed. “Or maybe you got some kinda plan up your sleeve? Take out Purple Haze, kill us all. Am I right?”

“You need to calm down.”

“Calm down?! He’s probably working for that damn traitor! It wouldn’t be the first time he’s–!”

“Mista!” Giorno yelled, sharper in tone than he’d ever heard him. “I’ll handle it! Go cool off. We’ll get nowhere with you like this.”

“Giorno, seriously? But–!”

“Yes, Mista, seriously. Go.”

The room plunged into frigid silence. Mista’s face broke and what emotion flickered over it could only be described as betrayal.

“Giorno…”

The Don didn’t waver, though the discomfort that crept up on him was tangible. He hated getting upset at Mista. They’ve had some minor disagreements over the months, but neither of them had ever devolved into shouting at each other. It just wasn’t how their partnership worked.

But right now, Giorno knew that he needed to do right by Fugo. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said, gentler this time, but in Mista’s eyes he met only a wall of unsurmountable bitterness. Giorno quickly understood that his attempt at diplomacy would not be reasoned with. 

With one final, haughty look at Fugo, Mista bit out a curse and left the entrance hall. 

Giorno couldn’t resist a frustrated sigh. Shit. He desperately didn’t want this to snowball into a drama between them. Still, he was confident that he was right — allowing Mista’s emotions to run berserk would only upset things more.

Giorno caught eyes with Fugo. 

“You won’t do anything stupid, will you?” 

“No,” said Fugo slowly. He was too smart to try something. Giorno knew this too.

The Don made a gesture to the security detail and they released Fugo without further commotion – allowing the teen to stretch his shoulder, wipe blood off onto his sleeve. They re-established eye contact.

“Follow me,” ordered Giorno.

Fugo quietly followed suit, joining him in the quiet cover of Giorno’s office. He stood in the long shadow of a bookcase, watching the boss with guarded eyes. 

A lesser man would look upon Fugo and boast self-righteousness – How he had won and how Fugo, a coward, had lost everything. A procession of egotism for the victor, the king who never let fear sway him, who never gave up resolve.

Giorno, however, felt only sincere pity. He knew that it should have never turned out like this.

“I apologise for the treatment you received at the hands of our guards,” he chose to say. “Let me take a look at your injuries.” 

Giorno reached for him but the teen ducked out of his way. 

“No, I’m fine.” Fugo proffered a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his nose, looking uneasy.

“Sit down, at least.”

He obeyed, and then there was silence.

“I presume you’ve already heard?” asked Giorno, making an assumption on his part. “About Bucciarati and the others.”

“Yes. Word travels fast in the famiglia.” Fugo fidgeted with his hands, melancholy clouding his eyes. “Tell me… Was it the Boss who…?”

Killed them? Giorno swallowed back the feeling welling in his throat. He still couldn’t think about it without all those emotions flooding back.

“Yes.”

“…Were they buried?” 

A nod.

“I can show you later. You can pay your respects.”

But Fugo just choked out a pained laugh.

“No, I don’t think they’d want me there. Especially not him…”

Giorno let some seconds pass between them. Then, with as much delicacy as he could conjure, he asked:

“Fugo, what are you really here for?”

The words were a bucket of ice water down Fugo’s back and he froze. Slowly, his mouth twisted and his eyes welled with something hopeless.

“I…” 

“Don’t doubt yourself,” encouraged the Don. “Speak freely.”

“Giorno, I…” Meeting Giorno’s eyes again, he gathered some momentum and continued– “I always thought that I should be alone in life… That was, until Bucciarati saved me. He gave someone like me a place to belong. To spit in the face of his kindness and throw all of that away… The guilt is unbearable.”

Fugo bit his lip, looking down at his shoes.

“I don’t deserve it but… I hope I can have a second chance. You were the last person he believed in. He saw greatness in you. I want to see it too.”

Greatness, huh…

That aside, the confession drew sympathy from Giorno. He remembered the breadth of Fugo’s emotion the last time he saw him – how true it was that his demeanour had been dulled, ebbed away by the waters of grief and loss. Emptiness where there was once spirit. The past year had taken a toll on him just as it had Giorno.

There was just one thing that still bothered him.

“Fugo… Would you be able to confirm something for me first?”

“…Yes?”

“It was you who warned me, wasn’t it? The text messages about Dolce.” 

Fugo made a face, at first surprised, then simply impressed.

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” He eventually said.

So, he was right. He had a hunch for a while now, but to have it confirmed gave him relief that he wasn’t completely losing his edge. He also couldn’t help but feel impressed that Fugo came to ask for forgiveness and didn’t even mention trying to help them. It was surprisingly honourable.

“How did you figure out she betrayed me?”

The teen paused, looking embarrassed.

“Truthfully, it was just a coincidence. I happened to overhear her on the phone with someone, that’s all. After what happened, I thought I should at least repay you in some way.”

No, there were no coincidences. The universe didn’t work that way. 

Giorno weighed his options.

He wanted Fugo back. If he followed what his heart told him then it was as simple as that. On top of being a former teammate, he was deeply intelligent – a genius if Giorno could glean anything from his academic record – and highly skilled across a spectrum of technical areas despite his young age. Not to mention, a deadly-effective Stand user. The proposal to take him back was tempting on those points alone.

But if he consulted his brain, then he knew that allowing Fugo back was a risk. Giorno wasn’t certain he could rely on him when he needed him. Whether it be an emotional outburst, or not being able to make efficient use of his Stand, or for simple lack of willpower, there was simply not enough evidence of his resolve. But if he wasn’t allowed refuge in Passione, where would he go? He couldn’t leave him like this.

Was there a way to test him? A way for Fugo to show Giorno how much he wanted to be here? Would that be too cruel considering the guilt he’s already suffered?

He might’ve lingered too long on his decision-making as the concern on Fugo’s face grew deeper on his face in the minutes that ticked by.

“I believe I understand why you made your decision back in Venice,” Giorno eventually said. “You weighed your options and came to the most logical one for you. If anything, it was the only sane choice to make in that situation. For that, I don’t fault you.”

Fugo looked ashamed anyway.

“I’ll be straight with you, Fugo,” Giorno sighed. “I want you back. Call me a bleeding heart but you were my teammate, no matter how briefly, and I would like you with us again. I know you’re a good person. You’re capable, and you’re strong, but… Ultimately, you lack resolve. To come back here took courage, and I commend you for it, but there’s no guarantee I can count on you when I really need it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do. I know all too well.”

“Before we continue, I’d like more information about your encounter with Dolce.”

“Sure.”

“In as much detail as possible, would you be able to describe your run-in with her? Was there anything recognizable about the person she was speaking with?” Giorno crossed his arms, looking ponderous. “We have basically no intel on this person. Any clues you might have would be incredibly helpful.”

The day the attack happened, Fugo had gotten to the last section of his panini when it crumbled in his hand. He examined it – burnt to a toasty coal-black. He’d slipped behind the sandwich shop to stuff his face; uncouth though it was, he hadn’t eaten in two days. His savings were almost dry and there were only so many odd jobs he could take on. Still, he had the presence of mind to at the very least do so away from prying eyes.

Needless to say it was a destitute affair, all too similar to his early teenagehood, and the emotions that came with those memories made him eat with even more vigour – and of course, he just happened to pay his last few lire for a sandwich that was burnt. He tossed it away, his heart too deadened to even get upset about it. He decided to focus instead on his stomach being full and it helped, if only a little.

That was when the backdoor of the ristorante swung open. Some combination of shame and ego had Fugo scrambling to make himself scarce until suddenly, he recognised who had come strolling through the entryway.

Dolce. 

Though she was a Capo he’d never met, he could recognise her rat-face from anywhere. Her cell phone glued to her ear, she spoke to a voice Fugo couldn’t make out. He decided to listen in.

“Regrettably, I never got the name of who she was speaking with. I accidentally bumped into her as I was leaving but she didn’t say a word to me, and it’s not like I could interrogate her. After that, I didn’t do any more digging.”

“I see.” Giorno could barely contain his disappointment, though he had expected as much.

“To be honest,” continued Fugo, “I didn’t want to get involved any more than I had to. That was back in July, wasn’t it? I haven’t heard anything about Dolce since then, so… I figured you took care of it.”

Giorno hummed.

“Dolce actually died while in our care shortly after the attempt.”

“What? She did?”

“Yes. Attacked by a Stand. We have reason to believe this was the doing of the woman she conspired with to kill me.”

“...I see.” Fugo stood up. His eyes seemed more alive now. “Describe the Stand to me. Perhaps I can help.”

Giorno doubted it, but catching Fugo up to speed with the situation couldn’t hurt. Two brains were better than one anyway.

He described the week of events that led up to her death, including all the little details they had recorded in their archives. When it came to Stands, any meaningless detail could be relevant. Fugo listened intently but nothing seemed to ring any bells.

“What were the effects of the Stand?”

The image of it still stained the forefront of Giorno’s mind – her skin simmering, plasma and blood and muscle fizzing away until all that was left of her was a puddle of sinewy froth.

“As I mentioned, Dolce was already looking sick a day or two before she died. When we began our interrogation, she was erratic, not making any sense. Then, before we realised it… Her hand melted off.”

“...What?”

“Mm. Within the span of maybe thirty seconds, her whole body bubbled up and melted into a clump.”

Fugo turned pale. He jerked out of his seat, standing upright. 

“Giorno, that’s–!”

“What is it? Do you know?”

“Fuck!” Fugo folded in on himself, his hands scrunching at his hair. “Purple Haze, it’s uncontrollable! That piece of shit!”

“Purple Haze?” 

How was that possible? 

Giorno rushed to Fugo’s side. “That Stand was Purple Haze? How?”

“I was wrong. I should’ve never come back,” Fugo hissed. “I tried so hard, I was so careful… and look at what it went and did anyway! This fucking Stand is a curse, it’s-!”

“Fugo, calm down!

Giorno took him by the shoulders. 

“Breathe. I need you to breathe.”

Fugo let out a shattered breath, sucking in quick puffs of air. 

“Dolce told us a woman did this to her,” said Giorno firmly. “It’s not possible that it was Purple Haze.”

“It was!” Fugo snapped. “Just think about what you saw Giorno… You’ve seen the effects of my Stand firsthand! You should know better than anyone!”

Giorno ran through the events in his head. The fight against Man in the Mirror was so long ago, but he pressured himself to remember it right, how his own symptoms did look very similar to what Dolce suffered… He also recalled her room, four walls with just one small window to let the light in. Purple Haze’s virus evaporated in the sun – Was it possible the sunlight regulated her condition? She died in the nighttime, after all. Could that possibly have anything to do with it? Was that anything?

It could be plausible, but he was still missing something.

“Fugo. It was a remote activated ability. As far as I know, Purple Haze doesn’t work that way. Could you help me understand why you think it was your Stand?”

He trembled, speaking up again in a small voice.

“That day, I saw her… I overheard her on the phone… I told you, there was a moment when…”

They had passed each other. They exchanged a hurried “mi scusi” to one another and that was when he felt it – a flicker of anger. 

A clenched fist. A rumble in his heart. That telltale flame of his Stand stirred to life, but he doused it. Or so he thought. 

“I accidentally touched her hand when I walked past… Purple Haze, it must’ve… Fuck…”

Her hand. That’s where Dolce’s symptoms began first.

Giorno frowned. Was this really a power Purple Haze possessed?

“Have you always had a remote ability like this?”

“Giorno, you don’t understand! I don’t let Purple Haze out. Ask anyone, ask Mista! The number of times he’s seen it can be counted on one hand! And after Venice, I never brought it out again… I couldn’t. I… I wouldn’t know about a remote ability.”

Giorno chewed on that thought. Perhaps his Stand had gone berserk, unable to be contained. The implication of that worried him. An underdeveloped ability would be the best outcome, even if it didn’t bring them closer to Dolce’s accomplice.

“Dolce was never a Stand user…” Fugo murmured. “She must’ve confused herself into thinking it was that woman she was working with when in reality… it was me. She couldn’t have known.”

There wasn’t enough information to make a solid judgement on what happened, but Fugo would be able to make sense of his own Stand better than anyone else. The effects really were the same when he thought about it. He couldn’t deny that.

Then if this was some hidden ability of Fugo’s? What were the limits of his Stand now? How much more potential could he wring from it? Giorno knew how much Stands could evolve. His ‘healing’ abilities as well as Requiem were just examples of that.

And if Purple Haze went berserk? Then Fugo needed guidance to help control it. It was an unbelievably powerful Stand, and in the right hands it could be something even beyond that.

Selfishly, Giorno’s mind raced – If he could nurture Fugo’s innate talent, not just his Stand but also his intelligence, then Giorno could have two finely-tuned weapons at his disposal — Mista, his right hand; strong, tenacious, reliable in high-stress situations, and Fugo, a Queen piece who can be manoeuvred in political battles; capable and analytical.

Passione was in a difficult position. Giorno needed someone like Fugo now more than ever. 

A small voice broke the fragile silence.

“Giorno… Do you see now? Do you see how I destroy everything I touch? I can’t join you. I can’t.”

Giorno snapped out of his inner ramblings, looking towards Fugo again who had curled in on himself, his hands shaking. He immediately regretted thinking of his friend in such a self-centred way. His Stand was too dangerous, not just for others - but more importantly, for Fugo himself. The way it was now, it was destroying him, eating him from the inside. 

His friend needed his help, first and foremost.

“Fugo, you will not blame yourself for Dolce’s death,” Giorno assured him. “She still tried to kill me. She… almost killed Mista. I was never going to allow her to keep living.” 

“But I didn’t mean to… I never wanted to get involved… And still, I…”

“You helped save us. Without you, we wouldn’t have been prepared for the attack. And Dolce might not have slipped up and given us a hint to who she was working for.”

Fugo said nothing.

Giorno fought hard to find something else to say, something that could help…

“We had an incident here, earlier in the year…” He found himself saying. He bit his lip, not wanting to give concrete details. “A Stand wasn’t able to manifest due to the user’s emotional distress. I think… I think your Stand might be the opposite. You try so hard to keep it caged that it tries to break out.” 

“It deserves to be caged,” said Fugo miserably.

“I understand. You dislike your anger. You dislike yourself.” Giorno sobered, speaking softly. “I’ve felt that way too, long ago… But suppressing yourself isn’t the way to heal.”

“I’ll kill you,” Fugo suddenly choked out, his voice thick. “I’ll kill you if you let me join you.”

“Fugo…”

“Bucciarati saved me and I repaid him by leaving him to die! Do you understand? You’ll die because of me, Giorno! Why can’t you see that? Why do you still insist on helping me…?”

“Because you came here for a reason,” said Giorno. “You don’t want to choose loneliness anymore. How can I turn you away when you’ve already come so far? What kind of friend would I be?” 

Fugo made a helpless noise, trying to breathe. He struggled to keep his tears from coming out.

Before, Bucciarati was the one who saved him. Giorno realised that it was up to him to save him this time.

“If you really can’t trust yourself… Then trust in me. Bucciarati put his faith in you and so will I. I’ll help carry your burden.”

His hands came forth, and gently, he allowed Gold Experience to glimmer into being. The cuts on Fugo’s face filled in with tissue, the grazes on his hands smoothed over. He gave Fugo his hands and his fingers stretched out to cling to them. His voice quivered and in a wave of unquantifiable grief he cried, no longer able to hold his tears back. But Giorno didn’t judge, could never judge, and crouched beside him to comfort him. 

Neither were sure how much time passed before Fugo’s sobs faded away. He stopped, gathering the fragile pieces of his ego and wiping his face, rising to sit on the edge of the armchair.

“…Sorry,” he mumbled, picking out his handkerchief again. “I’ve completely embarrassed myself.”

“There’s no need to apologise for your emotions.”

“Tch… You’re too sympathetic. We're still gangsters, you know?”

“I can’t help it. You’re my friend.”

“Friend, huh…” Fugo stared down at the floor. He clenched a fist, then released it. “Maybe one day I can become worthy of that.”

Giorno didn’t have a response.

“What about Mista? Is it really fine to let me work with him again? That guy pisses me off, but… It doesn’t feel right to leave it like this.”

What about Mista indeed. Giorno knew for certain he was going to be unhappy about this outcome. Made without his presence, no less. He knew he needed to have a conversation with him.

“I’ll talk to him. He can be hotheaded, but he’ll come around.” Giorno put a hand to his chin in thought. “I hate to force my hand like this, but it’s the only way. We’ll just have to find a way to work together.”

Fugo scoffed. 

“He’s always so damn emotional… Not like I’m any better, though,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was your relationship like before? Were you close?”

The gangster shrugged. 

“Dealing with him can be a pain in the ass, but… I think we were friends. Never particularly close, but… friends,” he said hollowly.

Giorno nodded.

“Let’s get you settled in here. Get as much rest as you can. Tomorrow we’ll hit the ground running.”

Fugo perked, seemingly pleased at having something to do.

“Got it.”

Before he left Fugo to the house attendants to show him to his new room, Giorno was surprised to find him standing rigidly, hands by his sides, soldier-straight.

“I’ll show you that I’ve changed. You won’t regret me joining you. You can count on me.”

He bowed as deeply as he could.

“I promise you!”

Giorno let a smile slip. What was it about his friends and their extravagant pledges to him? 

“Rise, Fugo,” Giorno nudged him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “None of that.”

Fugo made an embarrassed face, but nodded. 

“I’m really glad to have you with us again.”

Fugo’s face softened.

“Yeah, I feel the same. Thank you, Giorno.”

Once Fugo left, Giorno carried on with the rest of his day as planned. He kept an eye out for a familiar patterned sweater, but to no avail. He called his cellphone, but there was no answer. 

He didn’t see Mista at all for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

“You’re not serious, Giorno. Tell me you’re not serious.”

It was over breakfast that Giorno had decided to tell Mista that he’d granted Fugo reentry into Passione. He’d hoped the pile of brioche on the table would help cushion the news.

He took a calculated sip from his mug. 

“I know you’re not happy about it, but that’s the decision I’ve made.”

“Equals,” Mista growled, throwing the word out like it was a piece of dirty laundry. “That’s what you said to me back then. That we’re equals.”

Giorno recalled it easily. Back when they pledged their loyalty to each other.

Mista stabbed a biscotti into his coffee, splashing it over the table runner. Giorno eyed the brown slowly sink into the fabric. 

“You’d think I’d get a say in shit like this, but hey,” he said in between obnoxious bites of his biscuit, “I’m just a brainless human-shield for you, right? What would I know?”

Giorno pulled a face. 

“Stop trying to get a rise out of me. You know that’s not how I think of you.”

“But I’m still the last to know about Fugo, becauuuse?”

“Because,” he sighed, “You were absolutely unreasonable yesterday. There’d be no amiable discussion with the two of you in the same room. And, like it or not, I’m still the Boss. Sometimes I need to make decisions that benefit the organisation – not necessarily you.”

“Taking that traitor back is a benefit? Since when? Explain that to me, oh-so-wise Don Giovanna.”

“Can you at least try to see this from my perspective? We’ve lost a prominent Capo, some secret adversary wants me dead, and Passione is haemorrhaging more money by the day. We need all the help we can get right now.”

“And Fugo isn’t that! He can’t help himself, let alone Passione! You act so smart but you can’t even see that?”

Giorno’s fork resonated a metallic clang as it knocked against his plate. God, was it tempting to submit to that ugly impulse sitting in his gut, one to jab at Mista’s weak spots and snatch underhanded victory over this dumb argument. It lurched, black and sludge-like, but no, Giorno grabbed a hold of his slipping composure. He knew he could never let himself give into it.

Yes, Mista should've been included. After what they've been through together, there's no wonder Mista feels hurt. Still, Giorno saw no way that the situation with Fugo wouldn’t have been agitated further with his presence. No matter the outcome, Mista was never going to be happy. 

“Fugo is a fine strategist, incredibly intelligent and has one of the most powerful Stands we’ve ever encountered,” said Giorno, calm as anything. “I believe that’s reason enough to have him on our side, don’t you?”

Blood could be drawn from the daggers Mista stared at Giorno with. 

“More importantly, he’s regretful. We need to give him a chance. He’s our friend.”

“No. Not mine. Not anymore.” Mista shook his head, exasperated. “He left us to die, Giorno. It’s like you’re just forgetting that. How do we know he won’t turn around and stab us in the back again?”

“Bucciarati gave him a way out. He took it. It wasn’t a betrayal by any means.”

“Oh come on Giorno! We were a team, right? Us versus Diavolo, the whole world against us… A real man doesn't walk away from something like that!” He paused, sizing up his next words. “Have you ever thought that if he came with us, the others would still be here? Hm?”

Giorno stopped.

“Well, Mista, maybe the others would still be here if I never came with you guys. Have you ever thought about that?”

Discomfiting silence. 

“That’s—” Mista stuttered, dropping his gaze from Giorno’s. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter. My point is that we can’t change the past, and Fugo’s eager to work with us again. He wants to correct his mistakes. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t offer him the chance to do so?”

Shuffling of house staff came from the corridor; The steam puffing from Giorno’s cup of coffee had already come and gone. Mista followed the call of the brioche plate, reaching a hand for it – but whatever appetite he tried to muster in spite of the tension didn’t manifest and he dropped it, sullenly shaking his head. 

“You, Giorno… You’re too soft for your own good.” 

Both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“I know he was your friend,” said Giorno softly. “And I know that you still feel a sense of loyalty to Bucciarati. I get it. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but… Could you at least try getting along with him?”

No answer.

“…For me?”

A horrible scraping sound marred the room. Mista stood from his chair, dropping his napkin on the table. 

“Thanks for the food.”

The door slammed closed and Giorno sat still in the newfound solitude of the dining room, staring hard at his coffee mug.

The words “World’s Best Boss” burnt into his vision until he could still see them when he closed his eyes.

♡

With each passing second of the clock, Naples turned colder as it slowly chugged its way into the winter season. Usually Mista welcomed the change, always enthusiastic to flex his cashmere wardrobe, but watching the trees strip themselves of their leaves and the flowers die left Mista feeling hollow. Memories buried under snow, the viscera from loss fading like dying light from the winter sun – a reminder that the passage of time was always the cruellest fate of all. 

The thing was, Mista trusted Giorno. Of course he did. 

There was no way to do what they did for a living without trust. Fuck, even Mista knew that his decision to take Fugo back was probably right, no matter how irritated he was about it — but to not even be asked about his opinion was just downright insulting. 

He didn’t want to work with Fugo again. He couldn’t just get along with him. If things had gone differently, if his friends had survived, maybe it’d be easier to patch things up between them. Maybe they could have an awkward laugh about it.

Mista was always one of the more sensitive members on the team; Narancia too. Fugo and Abbacchio were never sentimental like that. But was he completely out of his mind? Was he really so in the wrong for feeling so resentful, so betrayed? 

The way it was now, Mista wasn’t sure he could ever forgive him.

And Giorno… He couldn’t help but stick his nose in, could he? Fugo was Mista’s teammate first, a whole year before Giorno came along; He didn’t know the first thing about their relationship! Giorno had a habit of making dramatic entrances and sweeping changes and whether that was good or not depended on who you asked, but even this felt too far.

For a long time, Mista had been more or less satisfied just doing what he was told. With Bucciarati at their side, it was only natural to follow him. It was mostly the same now, except… Being with Giorno made him feel differently, stronger somehow. Like he could take on so much more than what he ever thought before. He felt it back in April, and it’s stayed with him ever since. Giorno was the Boss and he was damn good at it, but Mista wanted to grow alongside him, not be relegated to his dumb sidekick. 

It felt like all he was good for was pumping lead into idiots’ brains… But even someone like him should be able to have aspirations, right? To be allowed the grace of helping to make an important decision?

His phone buzzed. 

WHAT Trish had said. FUGO’S BACK??

Mista typed a reply. 

Yep

Another buzz.

Is Gio losing it? U can tell me

Mista held back a laugh. His fingers quickly punched in an answer and the device retreated back into his pocket. At least someone knew how he was feeling. 

He paced his way through the house, rounding the corridor and— Aw fuck. 

Looks like Mista’s underbaked plan of avoiding Fugo forever was already a failure. There he was, skulking around the foyer. Mista eyed him from the second floor landing, trying to get a read on him. He couldn’t tell whether he looked suspicious or just pathetic, but at least he’d cleaned himself up since yesterday. Nothing grosser than staring at some punk’s nosebleed.

Apprehension roiled in Mista’s gut, torn between going to confront him or actually listening to what Giorno had asked of him. Then, of course, he remembered that Giorno didn’t tell him about any of this shit, nor seemed to respect him enough to clue him into his decision-making, and it was that righteous spite that propelled him to dive headfirst into what was an unequivocally bad decision.

“So, you’re back now?”

His naturally loud voice boomed in the open space of the lobby and Fugo startled, looking upwards. His face dimmed.

“Mista.”

“Fugo,” he returned. 

“…How have you been?”

The corner of Mista’s mouth rose. The sheer nerve.

“…Just great.”

He descended down the stairs, coming to a stop right in front of him. Fugo nodded awkwardly. In the backdrop of the luxurious mansion, he looked very out of place. 

“Good. I’m glad,” he managed to force out. He turned to walk away. “I’ll see you around, then.”

But Mista wasn’t one to let go of his prey that easily. 

“Woah, woah, woah, we just started talking! Don’t leave so soon,” Mista drawled. “Or do you really hate me that much?”

Fugo took a deep breath through his nose. The other gangster slowly turned around, looking up at him from under his brow.

Good. He was getting to him. Mista tried not to relish in the feeling too much. 

“I haven’t even asked how you are, Fugo!” He tacked on a plastic smile, crossing his arms.

“…I’ve been fine.”

“Yeah? ‘Cos I thought you looked pretty lonely back there. Am I wrong?” 

Fugo didn’t respond.

“Is that why you decided to slink your way back in here and grovel to Giorno to keep you off the streets?” Mista scoffed, holding his nose up in the air. “Snakes like to do that too, you know. Go where it’s warm.”

“Save it, Mista,” sighed Fugo, rolling his eyes. “No matter what I say, you’re going to feel a certain way towards me, so I’d rather not say anything at all. Stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you.”

But Mista didn’t like that answer. Didn’t find it satisfying. Like a child picking a fresh wound, Mista decided to bleed the words out of him instead.

“We’re just having a chat here. Don’t get so mad.”  A dramatic gasp. “Oh sorry, I forgot you’re incapable of that.”

“God, you’re always like this, you can never just let anything be!” Fugo snapped, vitriol rising in his voice. “I’m giving you a chance to back off. Leave me the fuck alone.”

It was just like old times. Mista provoking him for no reason, Fugo snapping in half. Familiar. Nostalgic. 

He wanted more blood. 

“I don't want to. I want to know why you came back.”

“No. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Yeah?” Mista snorted. “Sure. Guess you didn’t owe us anything back in Venice either, right?”

Fugo stilled.

“Guess you didn’t owe Bucciarati anything.”

“...”

“Go on. Say it. You didn’t owe him anything. Fucking say it!”

“Mista, don’t you dare–!”

“You weren’t there when Abbacchio died. You weren’t there when we had to figure out where to bury Bucciarati. You weren’t there when Narancia–!”

“Fuck you, Mista, I know! ” Fugo shouted.

"No, you don't fucking know! You have no fucking idea what it was like! You can't even begin to imagine how much blood there was, how their faces looked... Every day I have to live with that!"

"And you think I don’t regret that?”

“No,” said Mista before he could stop himself. “Not enough.”

Fugo was stunned. 

“Mista…”  He gritted through his teeth. “You fucking piece of dirt.”

It stung. 

“I’m done with this conversation.”

But Mista couldn't allow Fugo to get away unscathed.

“You wanna know what Narancia’s last words were?”

Time stopped.

Shakily, Fugo turned around. His stare was venomous. 

“Don’t.”

“He wanted to see you.”

Fugo’s eyes were a cold, piercing abyss.

“God knows why, but he did. He talked about you, he wanted you. You, Fugo, you fucking…”

“Go on then. Say it.” 

Mista opened his mouth–

“Traitor.”

–And Fugo pounced on him. 

Mista felt the dull collision of his fist connect with his face and a shameful catharsis broke over him like a wave.

There he was. 

The Fugo he’s always known.

The fight was animalistic, driven by something dark and raw and spiteful. No Stands — in all honesty, the two forgot they even had them. 

A shriek erupted from one of the nearby maids, muffled in the high-pitched whistle that was Mista’s hearing. His focus honed instead on the crunch of Fugo’s jaw as his fist smashed into it, adrenaline flooding his whole system. For all of his relative scrawniness, the other teen recovered quickly and reared back to hurl a glob of spit at his face, and Mista swore he felt one of Fugo’s molars ricochet against his cheek.

“Fuck! That’s so fucking gro—”

The other teen took advantage of the moment to push him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him as his back slammed into the hardwood. Fugo’s eyes flashed and the next few seconds were an onslaught of knuckles beating Mista’s face, then a particularly deep strike to his ribcage. 

He coughed, spat out blood, raised his fist again. He threw another successful punch to Fugo’s face. Bullseye.

“Mista? Mista!”

Mista was in the middle of pulling at Fugo’s hair when he was blinded by a flash of gold and a whirl of ladybug-spangled fists. The two were ripped apart from each other and Giorno ran to Fugo first, who looked much worse for wear. 

“What are you two doing?” Giorno whipped his head over to Mista, looking pissed.

He grabbed a hold of Fugo’s arm, bloodied and bruised, ready to let Gold Experience work its magic.

“It’s fine, you don’t need to bother with me–”

“I didn’t ask for your input, Fugo.” 

Fugo shut up instantly, looking ashamed down at the floor. When his minor injuries were closed over, Giorno’s hand traced over his nose. 

“Ow, fuck!” Fugo hissed. “That motherfucker, what he’d do to me…”

“It’s broken,” said Giorno flatly. He hauled him upwards to his feet. “I’m going to need a little more time to fix it. I assume you don’t want it crooked.”

He looked over to Mista.

“Come on. I’ll take care of you first.” Giorno stepped towards him and Mista silently offered him his hand. He already knew he wasn’t going to get away from Giorno’s scrutiny.

“Mista–”

“Don’t start,” he grumbled.

“Don’t start?” Giorno shot back, incensed. “Are you serious? I expected you to be resistant, but this is ridiculous! You’re acting like a child.”

“He started it.”

“Oh, fuck off! You deserved it!” Came Fugo’s nasally shout. 

“Yeah? Want another round? Maybe I’ll break something else this time!”

“Alright, enough, both of you!” Giorno yelled. “It doesn’t matter who started it. I just… I asked you to get along with him and what’s the first thing you do?”

“What the fuck? Why is it only my fault?”

“Because–!” Giorno sighed roughly. “Because I expect better from you. That’s all.”

It was Mista’s turn to look down at the floor. Giorno tilted Mista’s chin to examine the wounds on his cheek, but his touch was uncharacteristically cold and medical. In a few seconds, Mista was all fixed up. Giorno let go of him without fanfare.

“I have to go. I’ll see you at the meeting later.”

“…Right.” Mista couldn’t help but feel disappointed; at what, he couldn’t quite tell.

“And I better see you there. I know you’ve been trying to avoid me.”

“Gee, wonder why?”

Giorno chose not to respond. 

“Careful,” he directed towards Fugo. “Sit here while I…”

He returned to operate on Fugo’s nose and Mista realised he couldn’t stand being in that room for another fucking second. 

When Mista crossed paths with Fugo later in the afternoon, he couldn’t help throwing a spiteful comment towards him.

“Well? Got your little boo-boo fixed?”

Fugo stopped. He looked completely defeated.

“Know this, Mista.” He irritably raked his hands through his hair. They were shaking. “The only reason I didn’t beat the shit out of you is because I care about Giorno, and I want to earn his trust. Understand? I have no feelings toward you.”

“You’re a fucking liar and you know it,” Mista spat. 

“Think what you want. I’m done with you.”

♡

Giorno and Fugo found themselves in the office later, steeping in the discomfort of the day’s earlier events. Giorno had been eerily silent for a while, and Fugo had gathered that it could only be because of Mista. It was strange, he'd been thinking, how close they seemed even despite how little time they’ve actually been around each other. Fugo wasn't sure he'd ever seen Mista act in the same manner toward his other teammates before.

“Hey, Giorno,” Fugo tried, “I don’t want you and Mista to be fighting because of me–”

But the blond just raised his hand, urging for him to stop.

“I don’t want to talk about Mista right now.”

“...Sorry.”

Giorno quieted, thinking again about how he handled this whole thing terribly. How could he salvage this? How can he win Mista back?

Fugo shuffled on the spot. 

“Giorno, I…” He waved his hand, not making eye contact. “I actually talked to some of the people around here, your advisors, I think. They told me some interesting things about what’s going on in the gang right now.”

“Good things?” asked Giorno with some humour, thankful for the change in topic.

“You don’t mind if I speak frankly?”

“Of course not.”

Fugo nodded hesitantly. “Well, just so you know, I’m not an expert or anything, but back when…” he mimed a little with his hands, then sighed. “Back when it was just us, Bucciarati showed me some of the inner workings of Passione at the time. The structure and hierarchy, all the different businesses and units, that sort of thing. It was interesting so I kept track of what was happening within the organisation, whatever information I could find out.”

“So you’re familiar with how things should be run.”

“Yes, to some extent.”

“Fugo.” Giorno stepped closer to him, eyeing him. “We have a serious issue with stability right now. After the attack a few months ago and Dolce’s passing, other Capos are starting to lose faith in me. Whatever guidance you could offer us would be tremendous.”

Fugo looked conflicted. 

“Listen, Giorno, I–”

“If you don’t want to do this, that's one thing, but if you’re sabotaging yourself then that’s another. Do you think you can help me?”

Fugo nodded slowly.

“Honestly, yes. But after Venice, I… I don’t want you putting trust in me. Not like that.”

“What did I tell you? I want you to put faith in me.”

Before Fugo could give a response, a knock came on the door. A suited man shuffled into the room, bearing in his arms a thick, golden envelope.

“Don Giovanna, this is the last of those intel reports you ordered.”

“Oh.” Giorno straightened up, accepting the file. He ghosted his fingertips over it, only registering the significance of the words written in it now that it was a physical weight in his hands. “You didn’t look, did you?”

“Absolutely not, sir.” 

“Thank you. I appreciate the discretion. You can turn in for today.”

The man left. Fugo raised an eyebrow, obviously curious.

“Sorry Fugo, I need to look this over on my own.” Giorno gave him a stiff smile, hoping his uneasiness didn't show. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Sure,” said Fugo. He approached the door, hesitant. “Have a good night, Giorno.”

Giorno waved a hand at him, already too absorbed in the file. When he was sure he was alone, he set it down on his desk and took a breath to calm his racing heart. 

This was it. What he’s been waiting for.

He tore into the pages.

At first he read every word, inhaling every bit of detail, absorbing every element from the collection of low-resolution photographs. But the more he read, the more dread he felt curdle in the pit of his stomach. 

Blood, torn limbs, piles and piles of bodies… A destructive trail left from the most obscure corners of the world to capital cities. 

And this, this was his—? 

Giorno couldn’t stop himself from throwing up in the wastepaper bin. 

Chapter Text

Mista hovered in front of Giorno’s office door. He could hear Fugo’s prickly voice resonating through the wood. A report from one of the finance guys tucked under his arm, he wondered if he could just slide it under the door and leave it at that.

God no, that’d be pathetic. Still, there was something holding Mista back from barging in confidently like he usually did. Giorno never minded, or at least didn’t show it, but with all that’s happened recently, Mista wasn’t sure what the right move would be.

The handle turned under his grip and the door gave way.

“Yo.”

Silence rushed into the room like a burst of cold air. Fugo shut up, not looking pleased but he graciously held back any passive-aggressive commentary. Mista called that a win.

A full five seconds after his initial greeting, Giorno looked up at him, the scratches of his pen abruptly coming to a stop. It was like he only just noticed him coming in. He cocked his head, waiting for the reason for Mista’s intrusion.

Mista waved the paper.

“Earnings report from the Alfredo casinos.”

Giorno nodded.

“Just place it here, Mista. Thanks.”

The report was slipped onto his desk without further deliberation. Mista could sense Fugo’s eyes crawling all over him with each centimetre of movement.

“Leo wanted you to give him a call, by the way,” Mista added, electing to ignore the increased tension in the room. “There were some complaints downtown about protection money and he wanted some advice.”

“I’ll take care of that for you, Giorno,” piped up Fugo before the boss had a chance to speak. “One less thing on your plate.”

Mista raised his eyebrows, barely able to contain himself. Holy shit, what a brown-noser. Even around Bucciarati he wasn’t this obvious.

“Oh. That’s generous of you. Thank you.”

They caught each other’s gaze and Giorno cast him a sympathetic look, soft around the eyes. Mista stupidly felt his heart flutter.

“Was there anything else?”

Mista took a beat to study him. The Don looked even more exhausted than usual. He already had a guilty habit of working past his schedule and sacrificing sleep, but nowadays he honestly looked like a wreck. Mista wasn’t great at telling apart what was or wasn’t makeup, but even he could tell how much concealer Giorno had under his eyes, and the worst part was that it was barely pulling its weight.

The heartstring in Mista’s heart tugged. With the surrounding hostility of Fugo’s return, they hadn’t talked at all outside of work-related matters. Mista felt so conflicted but the longer he contemplated those eyes of his, the closer he felt to him, and the more nostalgic he felt for his presence.

He wanted to say something so badly, and yet—

“Nah. That’s it.”

He could practically hear Fugo’s sigh of relief as he walked out the door.

♡

A particularly sharp punch to the cheek courtesy of No. 3 was all the reminder Mista needed to get started on lunch. Stuck in a meandering call with Trish, he begrudgingly rolled up his sleeves and began prepping something.

“And then she was like, ‘Oh yeah I don’t even care anyway,’ which I called bullshit on immediately…” Trish was still trilling on.

“Uh huh.”

“I mean, obviously she cares or she wouldn’t be making all this drama, right?”

“Right.”

“Ugh, I’m so sick of her holier-than-thou attitude! Who does she think she is, anyway?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Mista.”

The sudden drop in Trish’s voice had him automatically straightening his back.

“What?”

“I know you aren’t listening to me.”

Busted.

Mista sighed, apologetic. He fixed the phone properly to his ear again.

“Yeah… I didn’t get any of that.”

“Jerk.”

He chucked a slice of tomato at the Pistols, who swarmed it like ants in midair.

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffed. He swivelled the peeler in his hand and got started on the carrots. “There’s been too much going on recently. Can’t keep my head straight.”

“Fugo?”

“Yeah.”

Trish fell quiet. She often became awkward around the topic of Fugo. Sometimes she would think back on his heroic dialogue about protecting her, his prideful words about following Bucciarati, then afterwards she’d be hit with the sober realisation that he had abandoned her. He’d abandoned all of them. Too weak-of-heart to act on his resolve, too cowardly to mean what he had so boldly said.

It was only later that Trish understood that Fugo was in the position she was desperate to be in herself — a bystander with the benefit of choice and the audacious luck to make it out alive.

Was it fair to blame him when she would’ve done the exact same?

“Have you talked to him yet?”

Mista hummed.

“If by ‘talk’ you mean broke his nose, then yeah. We ‘talked.’”

“…Christ.”

“He hit me first! Don’t get all judgy on me.”

Trish didn’t say anything. Mista squirmed a little under the prolonged silence.

“Oi, Trish…” He began to hopelessly justify. “Did ya forget that we’re gangsters? He’s been through way worse, trust me. A broken nose is like Christmas in our line of work.”

She did forget that fact more than she liked to admit.

“Still…” she muttered. “Kinda harsh.”

“Yeah, well, if you heard the shit he was spouting then you’d punch him too. And you should see how he acts around Giorno!” Mista’s nose wrinkled just thinking about it. “He practically licks his shoes. It’s gross.”

“You sure you’re not just jealous?” Trish bounced back with some mirth.

Mista almost belched. Jealous of Fugo? Please.

“Shut up. I’m not jealous, it’s just a fact.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That sassy ‘mm-hmm’ thing. Don’t.”

“Hmph. You’re no fun these days.”

Mista scoffed, but maybe there was something to that.

“What’s going on with Giorno, anyway? You’ve barely mentioned him.”

The question broke a frown on Mista’s face. What, did she think he was attached to his hip?

“He’s fine,” he chose to say.

“Really?” She chirped back. The word dripped with that trademark Trish scepticism. “Because every time we call you’re always, ‘Giorno’ this and ‘Giorno’ that—“

“No I’m not!“

Mista’s face grew hot. What was she talking about? He talked about Giorno a completely normal amount. Most of Mista’s meaningful social interaction was with him, so of course that’s what most of their conversations would end up about. It wasn’t weird. Why was she making him sound like a complete freak?

“God, you don’t even realise it… Whatever. How’s he really?”

“He’s…”

Mista grappled for the right words, recalling their meeting in Giorno’s office that morning. He looked totally checked out. Actually, now that Mista thought about it, he’d been looking like that for a few days — at least since his fight with Fugo. Other than for work, Giorno hadn’t approached him at all. To strike such a connection would be selfish, but Mista couldn’t help but think Giorno’s bad mood was because of him nonetheless. After all, what else could it be?

“I dunno, he’s been in a mood. Haven’t really been talking.”

“Oh,” came Trish’s crackled response from the phone.

“Yeah. It’s been weird.”

A beat.

“Don’t you think you’re worrying too much? If it was your fault, he’d talk to you instead of ignoring you. That’s the kind of person he is.”

Maybe, Mista thought. Or maybe Giorno was so sick of him by this point he’d rather not deal with him at all.

“I dunno,” he echoed.

He shoved all of the chopped vegetables to the side. The Pistols hissed in his other ear and he wordlessly let them snack on the bundle of carrot sticks.

“That dumb trip’s coming up too…” he mumbled.

“That thing in Florence? With that one crime family?”

Mista raised an eyebrow.

“Should you be saying that so loud?”

”I’m at home, it’s fine.”

“Yeah, Florence,” huffed Mista. “We’re going on Monday but Giorno hasn’t told me anything. I mean, I trust him and all but I dunno... It’d be nice to know something about it.”

He tried not to catastrophize yet again about how Giorno wasn’t telling him anything.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Trish whined. Mista could sense the eye-roll easily. “Giorno’s your best friend, just go ask him. It’s really not that hard.”

Best friend? Those words struck an esoteric chord in Mista’s heart. It’s true that they’d become close over the last few months, but Mista’s feelings about Giorno felt so much more complicated than that, so much deeper. ‘Best friend’ felt… inaccurate.

“Yeah well… It’d be easier if I wasn’t avoiding him…” He said under his breath.

Silence.

“…I’m sorry, you’re complaining about him not telling you anything and yet you’re the one who’s avoiding him? Mista, are you—?”

‘Serious’ was probably the word she withheld, but it just as equally could’ve been ‘stupid’.

Actually, Mista knew better. It was definitely ‘stupid’.

A deep, withering sigh blew through the receiver.

“You know what? It’s pointless talking to you. I’m hanging up.”

Mista’s helpless chuckle went unheard as the phone line went dead.

He returned to the tried-and-true mundanity of cooking his lunch, just about the one thing he had left that made him feel normal. He brought a thick cut of lamb over to his chopping board, marking the cut with his butchers’ knife.

He thought again about Giorno, about what Trish said. He knew he needed to talk to Giorno, he did, but his stubbornness had developed to the unfortunate point where he refused to start that conversation first. Now that Giorno wasn’t really speaking to him either, maybe it was just easier to let the tension fizzle out by itself.

Of course, it was naive to think that things would just go back to normal like that.

Mista’s train of thought disappeared further and further down a track of anxious what-ifs and potential conversation-starters, all the while wrestling with the difficult cut of lamb.

“Stupid thing…” he grumbled as he poked and prodded at the gristle and stubborn fat. He strengthened the grip on his knife, attempting to brute-force his way through the flesh.

Maybe he really did fuck things up with Fugo. If Giorno was really mad with him about that, then maybe it’s worth going to patch things up with him. The idea made his stomach turn, but if there really wasn’t another way, then—

His knife slipped and sliced cleanly, and deeply, down his palm.

“Shhhit—!”

Mista hopped over to the sink to get his hand under cold water. He hissed, trying to get a better look at the wound. It was not pretty.

The Pistols buzzed in concern around him.

“Go find Giorno,” No. 5 urged, shakily eyeing the water as it swirled dark red. “He’ll fix you up!”

Mista paused. He thought about running into Fugo again. He thought about all the complicated feelings he got around Giorno these days. He thought about needing to be taken care of again.

Trish’s words bubbled up to the surface of his mind.

Best friend.

“Nah. Don’t need ‘im. I got it.”

He clumsily slapped on an insufficient strip of plasters on his hand and concentrated on finishing lunch. There were days not so long ago where his gunshots were stapled together, and that was good enough. A cut like this was nothing.

Come nighttime, the situation was still bothering him. His stupid insomnia had returned with full force this past week and the mere sight of his room was irritating him.

He threw a hoodie on and left his room. He eyed Giorno’s door as he passed it. He paused, squeezed his hand to feel the pain from his wound. He felt guilty for some reason.

Reluctantly, he thought better than to wake him up. He looked like hell these days. They could talk some other time.

Mista paced the corridors.

Wasting time at the gun range was tempting. The library might be okay, even though he didn’t really read. He could rifle through the DVDs in the theatre room and watch old sitcoms until his eyes rotted.

His legs brought him to none of those places. Instead, he found himself in the hallway going towards the kitchen, perhaps obeying a subconscious need for tea or a hot glass of something, anything to lull his unease.

As he approached, he noticed a dim light creeping from beneath the gap between the door and the carpet. Gingerly, he pressed a palm to the wood and peered into the room.

Giorno sat at one of the chairs, an unloved mug of tea in his hand and a stack of papers on the table. Who knew how long he’d been there for. He looked up, vaguely registering Mista’s presence.

“Ah. Mista.”

“Jesus, Boss. You look awful!” Mista blurted out, stepping into the room.

Giorno blinked at him, unimpressed.

“Morning to you too.”

“Seriously, how long have you been here for? You need sleep, dude.”

Giorno waved him off. His eyes returned to the table, an empty look clouding his features again.

Mista hovered near the entrance, unsure of what he should do. Carefully, he inched towards an adjacent chair and set a hand on it.

“Is it cool if I sit with you?”

There was a moment of silence before Giorno looked up at him.

“Of course.”

They sat for a while. The monotone hum of the refrigerator provided some backing to the scene, but otherwise they both kept quiet. Mista didn’t know what he could say anyway.

Suddenly, Giorno grimaced, resting his head in his hand.

“You good?”

“Mm... It’s just a headache...” he groaned. It was entirely unconvincing.

Mista sighed, already getting up. He shuffled through some drawers, just shy of making enough noise to wake up the entire household, before he found what he was looking for.

“You’re hopeless, Giorno,” he remarked as he tossed a loose blister pack of painkillers onto the table. Giorno, reluctantly, popped out two pills into his hand and swallowed them down without comment.

“How are ya supposed to be the Boss when you can’t even look after yourself?” Mista chided, returning to his seat. It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, but Giorno kept hanging his head, uncharacteristically dour.

Mista frowned.

“You really should go to sleep,” he tried again.

The blond slowly shook his head.

Mista sat back in his chair with another sigh. Stubborn as usual.

The quiet continued like that for a while longer.

“You want me to make you another tea?” He asked, not able to cope with the tension anymore. “Think I saw some honey in the cupboard.”

“Aren’t you still angry with me about Fugo?”

The question caught Mista off-guard. He honestly wasn’t even thinking about it.

“We’re really talking about that now?”

Giorno shrugged.

“I mean… Yeah. Kinda.” The words rang hollow even as he was saying them. “But it’s not like I’m gonna stop looking out for you or something.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works.”

Before Mista could ask what ‘this’ meant, Giorno looked up at him again.

“Mista, about Fugo—”

“No, Gio, I don’t wanna get into this—”

“I just want you to understand my decision—”

“I already understand.” Mista anxiously rubbed the end of his sleeve. He felt so insecure, so small. He hated it. “I’m not stupid. I know he can help Passione. I get it.”

“So, then…?”

“So then nothing. He’s just a piece of shit and I want nothing to do with him. That what you wanna hear?”

Giorno made a pained face.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, Giorno, I really fucking do. I just can’t forgive him like you can.”

If Giorno even had a problem with Fugo in the first place. Mista gathered that the feeling was much simpler for him than it was for himself.

Giorno sat back, exhaling a long sigh from his nose.

“I think Fugo is precisely the sort of person who needs the most support right now. You’re right — he’s not like you and I. He doesn’t have that resolve. That’s why coming here was so monumental for him. He’s asking for help even though it’s hard. What kind of friends would we be if we didn't try to give him that? If we didn’t try to help uncover that resolve?”

Mista stayed silent. Why is he the one that needs to take responsibility for Fugo? Why is he the one that needs to help find his resolve? Fugo’s shortcomings were his own. After he had run in cowardice, he shouldn’t get any special treatment. Friend or teammate, that was all thrown out the window the second Abbacchio died.

“Giorno, can you listen to me?”

Giorno’s eyes focused on his own, attentive.

“You knew Bucciarati. You know the kind of man he was. There’s things we’ve been through, me, Fugo, everyone… He was the one who pulled us out of some really bad shit.”

It was an unspoken taboo for them, a mutual agreement to not talk about their pasts. There was no need to. None of it mattered anymore. That sentiment grew into solidarity amongst them, implicit in the understanding that each of them were saved, that each of them would owe Bucciarati forever. It wasn’t a debt so easily trashed.

“So when Fugo threw all of that away…” Mista continued, “And for Bucciarati to die like he did… It’s a betrayal to me, Giorno. It’s a betrayal to Bucciarati. I won’t forgive him for that. I can’t.”

He shrugged half-heartedly.

“I’ll work with him if you ask me to, but I won’t be his friend. It’s too late for that.”

“…He regrets it, Mista,” said Giorno eventually. “It’s not my place to relay his feelings to you, but from what he told me… He’s suffered a lot from the guilt.”

“Good,” Mista said, shameless. “He deserves it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, it probably isn’t. But I don’t care.”

“I think if you heard his perspective then you’ll understand,” Giorno insisted. “Is this really the hill you’re willing to die on?”

“Yes,” argued Mista, petulant in all the ways a teenager like him could be. “And I don’t wanna keep talking about it.”

Too tired to argue, the blond settled on a heavy sigh of resignation.

“What‘s up with you, anyway?” Mista grumbled. “You’ve been weird these last couple days.”

A darkness cast over Giorno’s eyes that tempted Mista’s curiosity even more. His voice was composed when he answered, “you don’t need to worry about it. I’m fine.”

Mista quieted.

“It’s not me, is it?”

Giorno’s expression softened.

“No. Mostly.”

The other gangster snorted, assuaged for the time-being.

“So? The hell happened?”

“…It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Well… I was planning to explain everything to you soon,” Giorno conceded. “I guess now is as good a time to tell you as any.”

He sighed and leaned forward to slide over the stack of documents on the table closer to him.

“Do you know what this is, Mista?” Giorno drummed his fingers on top of the cover page.

“Uh… “ Mista pretended to think. “Not a list of every fuck-up I’ve made in a mission in the past year…?”

Giorno chuckled weakly. At least he got something out of him.

“No. I wish.”

He began separating the paper and folders, laying them out meticulously. As the pages stretched themselves over the table, Mista rove his eyes over its contents and saw photos, illustrations, descriptions and retellings of events. Information on Stands he’d never seen before, locations in Egypt, an old-timey photo of a Victorian home, strange-looking artefacts.

Mista frowned. What was all of this?

“What the hell? Did you find out aliens exist or something?” He held a leaflet between his thumb and forefinger in front of him like it was going to bite him. “‘Cos this is intense.”

Giorno smiled, but it was short lived.

“This,” he gestured, “is the culmination of months of research. An investigation into my family.”

“Oh shit,” breathed Mista. “Your dad?”

“Mostly, but not just that. There’s also information here about my other relatives, Polnareff’s relationships with them, and what exactly happened in the late eighties with Dio.”

“Oh,” said Mista again. He picked up the first chronological bundle of pages, more interested now. “Can I take a look?”

Giorno permitted him with a lethargic nod of his head and Mista dove in, hungry for the scoop.

He began to read, scanning his eyes down titles and subtitles, paragraphs upon paragraphs. The corner of each page was stamped, and when Mista looked closer he understood that it was the seal of the Speedwagon Foundation, the name of a research institution he’d heard about but wasn’t overly familiar with. Weird, he thought.

He continued, listing through interspersed pages of historical accounts, photographs and even journal entries.

This first report recorded the timeline of a roughly twenty year period in the late 1800s. There was a lengthy paragraph about someone named George Joestar, some stuffy rich old guy who lived in Victorian England. The article parallel to it wrote of his son, Jonathan and then Mista’s eyes snapped to a familiar sounding name.

Dio Brando.

A chill crept up his spine. That’s right — He remembered Giorno mentioning this name. So this was Giorno’s dad?

There was an old photo attached of the three of them: a stiff, bastardised family portrait draped in sepia tones — George seated in the middle with the two sons at each shoulder. The villainy in Dio’s eyes was difficult to mask even through the antiquated filter of a Victorian camera lens.

Mista swallowed, and kept reading.

It took him about half an hour to dissect the events of what happened over a century ago, from the burning of the family manor to the shipwreck that killed Jonathan Joestar; the highly established account of the Foundation’s namesake, Speedwagon, who detailed such personas as William Zeppelli and Erina Pendleton; the details of a stone mask that possessed the capacity to turn humans into vampires. There were descriptions of battles and undead enemies, disturbingly detailed accounts about how Dio lured innocents to drain them of their blood, sickening rumours of a mother’s stolen dignity as she was forced to eat her own child. It was all too insane for Mista to fully comprehend as real.

Dio lied, manipulated, poisoned, thieved, murdered. Anything to get his hands on what he wanted. Mista stole a glance at Giorno, and wondered how on earth a kind soul like him could be birthed from a man who possessed so little honour that he massacred his own family; sacrificed his own humanity. Hell, if there was any way to describe Giorno, then Mista had to say that his defining virtue was exactly that — his humanity.

It just didn’t make any sense.

The next leaflet was a brief piece of writing on something that happened in the thirties, right before the war, but Mista couldn’t find anything about Dio there and subsequently passed over it.

Mista reached for the next report and he could already tell this account was much more detailed, already far heavier in his hands than the previous. This one chronicled something that was named the “DIO Incident 1983-1989”. Judging by the sheer number of piercing red ‘CLASSIFIED’ stamps all over the pages, Mista had to guess that none of this was public information.

He flicked over the cover page, not knowing how the story could get any worse.

The first article began with an overview of the main participants of the incident. Mista recognised the name Joestar again, attached to a young, surly-looking man named Jotaro—

No, not ‘man’. Mista had to rub his eyes again just to confirm he read that correctly, and indeed, Jotaro was a high schooler at the time, barely a year younger than Mista was. Jeez. Guess they were built differently back in the eighties.

There were a few other people and even a dog, but Mista’s attention was quickly captured by a familiar-looking face and towering haircut. His fingers reached out to grasp a picture of a young Polnareff, smooth-skinned and eyes sparkling with what Mista could only describe as the love of life. There was a short passage on his background, and Mista couldn’t help but take a peek at it. What he hadn’t expected was just how tragic his life had been. Mista shamefully averted his eyes, feeling like he trespassed on something far too personal.

He followed the story of their group, affectionately nicknamed the “Crusaders”, which began in Japan when Jotaro’s mother fell gravely ill, yet another casualty of Dio’s evil. Interestingly, it also included the origins of the Joestar clan’s Stand abilities, and talked extensively of the arrows.

Mista mulled over these connections. Giorno, Dio, the arrows, Diavolo, Polnareff. It was all so intricately woven together that it felt like the result of something cosmic, something fateful, that Mista found himself where he was today.

He finally began to read about the so-called incident. It began the year of 1988 and concluded in 1989, in Cairo.

Within minutes, Mista could already hardly believe what he was reading. According to a personal account from Jotaro, Dio had survived the century-old shipwreck by grafting himself onto Jonathan’s body, removing his head and mutilating his innards via his vampiric appendages.

Mista felt bile crawling up his throat. How disgusting.

The rest of the report recounted the Crusaders' journey across the continent, with breakdowns of the Stand users they came across as well as the Foundation’s various degrees of involvement throughout the whole affair.

When Mista turned to the final pages of the document, he was confused by a long list of words written in Arabic, each line paired by a Latin romanised version. He peered closer, reading the top of the list slowly. They sounded like names.

Then, like a stone dropped in a well, Mista came to the horrifying realisation of what this list was.

The final showdown between Dio and the Crusaders brought immense destruction to the city of Cairo. These names detailed the loss of guileless inhabitants, rows upon rows of hapless slaughter as a symptom of a fight that apparently lasted no more than ten minutes.

And yet, this incident was quickly covered up by the Egyptian government with help from the Foundation. Any evidence of the battle had been carefully erased. Never to be published in history books, never to be reported on by the media, never to be mentioned by those who were there. How could an event like this just happen?

The final few pages covered Dio’s close associates, something about them reminding Mista of Diavolo’s bodyguards. There was also a mention of a teenager, a student of the Catholic Church that Dio apparently had a friendly relationship with. Mista desperately didn’t want to think about the implications of that.

An investigation was launched into Dio’s mansion following his death, and there were photos of what was found there. A library and countless treasure, but what made Mista sick to his stomach was the sheer amount of corpses, drained entirely of their blood. Prostitutes, wayward travellers, anyone who just so happened to be unlucky enough to cross paths with Dio.

It was at this point that Mista couldn’t take anymore.

“Fuck, this is… This is your…?”

He looked up at Giorno, who was frozen in place.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, taking his hand. It was cold. “Giorno. Are you okay?”

Slowly, the teen shook his head.

“No. It’s been days but I still can’t accept it.”

“Of course you can’t. This is just… so fucked up. Of course you can’t accept it yet.”

Mista watched Giorno nod a little, clearly still emotional. Without thinking about it, his hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Giorno’s ear. Their eyes met and a ray of profound sadness struck Mista’s heart.

“…Sorry. I don't want to worry you,” he said, voice vulnerable and thin, like hesitant violin strings missing the backup of its orchestra. Mista had never heard him sound like that. He couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.

“Shut up, Giorno,” Mista laughed a little in a bid to ease the terrible atmosphere. “We’re here for each other.”

Giorno made a glum face, nodding slightly.

“…Did you injure yourself?” He asked suddenly.

Mista blinked. Giorno was eyeing his hand, where he’d cut himself at lunch. Gently, he reached for him, brushed his fingers along his knuckles, turning his palm upwards, tracing the length of the cut. His fingers weren’t calloused like Mista’s were, and his movements were feather-like, treating him with something like reverence, undeserved though it was.

Something in Mista ached. Something burned.

Deep down, he knew exactly what it was.

Uneasy, he pulled his hand back before Giorno could do anything.

“It’s fine. I just nicked it,” he lied. “Let me worry about you for once, okay?”

Giorno said nothing.

“So what are you gonna do with all of… this?” Mista asked, chasing the topic of the documents again. Anything so he didn’t have to linger on the fading ghost of Giorno’s touch.

Giorno took a second to process the question, sitting back in his chair.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just wanted to know the truth. Now I have it, and I… Well. I don’t know what to do with it.”

He sighed.

“Guess Polnareff was right all along.”

Mista kept quiet, eyes trailing over all the pages again. His fingers crept to one particular leaflet, a copy of an abridged family tree.

“The Joestars, huh…” He continued reading it. “Wait, these are your family members?”

“Yeah. A whole litter of them,” added Giorno dryly.

“They don’t look like you at all. Hell, they barely look like each other.” He squinted at a photo. “Although… I dunno, maybe this Jotaro guy? Kind of?”

He listed through some other pictures. There was Jotaro with his mother and grandfather post the incident, some nephew in Japan and his mother, a little girl in Jotaro’s arms.

“Look at this kid, though, she’s adorable, ain’t she?” Mista chuckled. “Uncle Giorno. What would that be like? If it were me, I’d spoil her rotten.”

Mista grinned, and for some reason even though it wasn’t his family, he was giddy at the idea of a big family like this, something about them reminding him of his own that he left behind years ago.

“That’s at least one good thing to come outta this, right? You got a whole family out there, ain’t that great?”

Mista peered at his friend’s face, and somehow he looked more troubled than when they were speaking about his father.

“…Is it bad that I don’t want to see them?” Giorno said quietly.

“Well…” Mista struggled for an answer. “Why not?”

Giorno’s hands clenched.

“Because… Because a part of me is angry. You’re telling me that these Joestars are one big happy family, with all the riches in the world and the Speedwagon Foundation in the palm of their hand and I…” he looked away. “Where were they when I needed them?”

Mista blinked, stricken at the heartbreak in Giorno’s words.

“And I know it’s not fair to blame them, you don’t need to tell me. Dr Kujo was only aware of my existence a few months ago. Maybe if they knew… if they knew, they’d have…”

“Hey, it’s okay. I get it.” He searched for something to say, then decided he should just be honest. “But isn’t this the best time to connect with them? You never know what could happen.”

“No.” Giorno looked down at the table. “No, I don’t want to.”

Mista frowned.

“Are you scared? Because if you are then—“

“I’m not scared,” Giorno snapped. “Is it so hard to believe that I just prefer to be alone? I have my own life now, and so do they. I don’t need them anymore.”

“It’s not about needing anyone, it’s about family,” Mista argued, exasperated that he even needed to explain this. It seemed so obvious to him.

“They’re not my family,” Giorno cut in. “We just happen to share the same coloured patch of skin. It means nothing.”

“How could it mean nothing, Giorno? I mean, look at all this shit!” He gestures towards the pile of paper. “Doesn’t it seem important? Your history goes back literally a hundred years, how could it be nothing to you?”

“It’s not like they would even want me. I’m Dio’s bastard child. I know for a fact that they would want nothing to do with me.”

“Well, according to your own research, you’re more Jonathan’s kid than anything… But it’s not like it matters! That kind of thing doesn’t matter with real family.”

“Why are you pushing so hard for this?” Said Giorno roughly. “It’s because you miss your own relatives, isn’t it? In that case, I’d prefer it if you didn’t project your own desires onto me.”

Mista couldn’t believe the words coming out of his friend’s mouth.

“Uh, yeah, man, believe it or not, I’d give anything to see my family now if I could.”

He fell quiet. Memories he’d long buried sprang to mind: hallways between courtrooms, phone-calls home lost to the answering machine, his mother's face wet from tears. With each passing day, they thought of each other less and less. How many more days needed to pass until they forget about him entirely?

“…I’ve lost too many people I care about,” said Mista quietly. “If a buncha secret relatives fell outta the sky and into my lap of course I’d want to meet them. Isn’t that feeling only natural?”

“…Well, it’s not natural for me.”

The air steeped in uncomfortable silence.

“Whatever. I’m going to sleep. You can stay here if you want,” Mista said dismissively, about to get up.

Giorno didn’t respond. Then—

“One last thing.”

“What?”

“Fugo’s coming with me to Florence.”

Mista’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“…What?”

“On Monday, I will be taking Fugo, and you will take care of things here.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Very.” Giorno began packing up the book, throwing pages back in haphazardly, rougher in temperament than Mista’s seen him before.

“Were you gonna tell me when I already had my bags packed? Or did you decide just now?”

“I wanted to tell you sooner but you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Oh sure, throw it back onto me.”

“Can you just listen for a second?”

“I’m already listening!”

“Taking Fugo with me allows me to assess him,” explained Giorno seriously. “I want to see how he works with me in important situations. Meanwhile, you’re able to assume responsibility here while I’m away. That’s my reasoning.”

Mista scoffed. He didn’t even feel mad. Just strung along.

“Why do you even bother calling me your second-in-command? You always just go and do whatever you want. Go ahead then, take Fugo. None of it means anything and apparently I don’t either.”

“Mista, of course your position means something, of course you mean something, it’s just that… I have to make certain decisions based on my best judgement. I try to be fair but it doesn’t always work out that way.”

He paused.

“At the end of the day, I’m the one who’s responsible for the entire organisation and its members. I have to keep as much control and stability as I can. You’re the only one I trust to keep things going here while I’m away. Don’t you see that this is the most logical option?”

“No… No, Giorno, fuck that! You’ll be out there, in enemy territory with no one on your back! When— not if —something goes wrong during negotiations, you think he’ll protect you? He can’t even use his own Stand!”

“That’s true.”

“What? How can you be so reckless? Was one assassination not enough for you? If you’re that desperate to get killed then just tell me, help save me the trouble!”

“We’re gangsters. We’ve always lived dangerously. Why does that matter all of a sudden?”

“Because looking after you is my job, Giorno!”

Job? It struck Mista then that he wasn’t entirely sure that that was all this really was.

“And I care about you! Is that really so unbelievable? The way you’re acting, it’s like… it’s like you don’t give a shit about me at all.”

Giorno’s face fell, looking hurt.

“I do, Mista. I really do. But that’s not your job. Your job is to help me achieve my dream. That’s why I need you here while I’m away. It’s my job to look after you, and the rest of the organisation in tandem.”

He sighed, shaking his head in defeat.

“We’re equals in so many ways but nothing will change the fact that I’m the Boss. I wish I could keep you happy all the time but I just can’t.”

He looked up, a hardened look in his eyes.

“If that boundary is too difficult for you to bear then maybe you should reconsider what it means to be in your position here in Passione.”

“…What?”

“I’m only saying that it might be something to think about.”

It was these words that broke something.

“…If you wanna talk about boundaries, then maybe apply that to yourself first,” Mista said. “You want to cry on my shoulder about your problems and then talk about boundaries? Make me comfort you one second and then boss me around the next? Is that how that works?”

He dropped his gaze.

“I cried in front of you, Giorno. I told you things I haven’t told anyone else. You can’t pretend like there’s a clean line in the sand here.”

Giorno looked troubled.

“Seriously, Giorno. What is… this?” He asked, gesturing to the two of them.

“…I don’t know,” he finally said. “I can’t answer that. But my priority will always be my dream. You know this.”

Giorno stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. He gathered everything up and left.

Mista sat in the stillness of the kitchen until the seconds melted into minutes, until the two on the clock melted into a three.

He had secretly hoped for a different answer. What the answer was, he didn’t know.

Or maybe that’s just what he told himself.

Chapter Text

Giorno fixed his final brooch onto his chest, checking it in the mirror. The ladybug sparkled enticingly, as if to beckon its observer closer. The Don scrutinised himself once more, smoothing over his sleeves and ironing out any wrinkles with his hands. He tugged on the end of his coat-tails as if to confirm the fabric’s strength, when he knew perfectly well it was high quality. He looked good, he thought. It was the first time he wore this suit since he had it tailor-made a month ago. The morning light washed out the colour but in reality it was a velvety burgundy, with intricate silver detailing around the chest.

Deep down though, Giorno knew that he only liked the outfit so much because of the awed compliment he received from Mista when he caught him wearing it outside of the dressing room. He’d secretly been riding the high from it since; He liked when Mista paid attention to him.

Giorno decided next what accessories to wear, and he gravitated toward one particular watch from the dresser — a slinky, gold little thing that he slipped around his wrist and under his sleeve like he was born with it on. Sometimes, he was tempted to swap it out with a Patek or a Rolex now that he could, but this one was the first thing he’d ever stolen that had any value and he didn’t think he could ever get rid of it now.

What else did he need? His bag had already been packed, meekly waiting at the foot of his bed to be picked up and loaded into the car. In the end, a spritz of perfume was the only other thing he added before he left his room to make preparations.

He stepped outside, the door to Mista’s room a tall shadow in his vision. Giorno thought of him, thought of how they haven’t talked at all since that night. With his next two weeks away in Florence, he wasn’t sure when they’d next have a chance to talk.

The door continued to tease him, rock him into the temptation to knock and say nothing of importance, but he held his tongue and carried forth downstairs.

The next two hours ticked away, a non-stop onslaught of calling people, prepping documents, making sure everything was able to go as smoothly as possible while the Don was away. There was a strain in Giorno’s chest, a build-up of long tucked-away emotion that was tightening in him like a pressure cooker. Horrible scenarios played in his head, every way that something that could go wrong. It was a feeling that he’d long become accustomed to within the last few months, but one that only seemed to worsen with each day. 

At around eight, he was greeted by Fugo.

“Good morning, Giorno.” He looked more fresh-faced than usual. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?” 

“Yes. Although, you’re much more energetic than me this morning.” 

“I like having something to do, I guess.” He nodded in the direction of the dining room. “Breakfast?”

“Go ahead without me. I’ve already eaten.” 

Sometimes even Giorno wished white lies weren’t so easy to tell. 

By nine, the car had been packed. With anxiety in his heart, Giorno finally went down to get going. Of course, the universe wouldn’t let him even a moment’s peace because as soon as he set his hand in the door, it swung open and gave way to Mista, who was looking more surly than ever.

Electricity sparked when their eyes met. 

“Mista.”

“Giorno,” he returned, cold, then side-stepped him to move into the house.

“Wait,” Giorno tried, the word spilling out of his mouth before he could help himself. “Can I talk to you?”

“Talk about what?”

“Just…” He clammed up suddenly, confidence diminishing under the scrutiny of Mista’s countenance. “About that night… Well, I just wanted to say–”

“Giorno,” and the name was spoken with a toughness that didn’t suit it, “Whatever shit you’re about to peddle me, I’m not interested. I mean seriously, what? What else do you wanna say? Haven’t you said enough?”

Giorno’s face fell. He couldn’t muster a word.

“Car’s waiting. You should go.” 

“…I’m not leaving you to go on holiday or something. That’s not what this is,” Giorno bit out. “I’m doing my job, and so are you. Let’s act more like it, shall we?”

Mista didn’t respond. 

“I’ve left you everything you need. Polnareff will help you too,” he said. “If there’s anything else, just call me,” he tacked on, even though Giorno already knew that he wouldn’t. His eyes then trailed down to Mista’s hand, where he’d cut himself a few days ago. It was going to scar badly if he didn’t do something. He reached for it before he was fully aware of himself.

“Will you at least let me heal you before I—”

But Mista flinched, pulling away. With silent acquiescence, Giorno dropped his hands, an acute sense of heartache pulling at him. He stood primly and he gave him a final, hard look of acknowledgement, then turned to get into the car. Fugo was in the backseat already, having watched the whole exchange through the window. 

“Seriously, what’s wrong with that guy? He can’t even be civil with you?”

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” Fugo grumbled. “He’s always like this, always pushing people’s buttons like a—”

“Fugo, stop. Just let it go.” 

Giorno gave a word to their driver and they set off, speeding onto the highway. Giorno shouldered through the ever-increasing discomfort that rolled through him and tried to focus instead on the small pleasantries Fugo was making with him, whittling time away until they eventually arrived at Napoli Centrale.

The first class train car wasn’t full, and Giorno tried to get comfortable in his seat. He watched as the train slowly rolled away from the station and pick up speed into the country, dark clouds overhead.

He rested his head on his hand and watched the world go by.

♡

Giorno was on a boat. It was a rickety old thing, like a fishing boat, plywood aged by seasalt and sun. He felt the presence of people but their faces were smears on a canvas, garbled voices affixed to hollow bodies. 

A rope dangled over the edge. Giorno followed it, watching it bob in the water as it rippled over his reflection. His face looked strange but he couldn’t tell why. His eyes were in the right place, as were his nose and mouth, but it felt foreign, like a wax figure of himself was mirrored back to him.

The rope moved downwards and the boat jerked with the sudden force of it. Giorno’s hand darted out to steady it but the rope kept struggling, like there was something pulling on it from below. Giorno looked closer at the water and was confronted with a dark figure, a human, hands furiously grappling for purchase. He couldn’t make out who it was.

Without hesitation, he dragged the rope back, mustering all of his strength to reel the person in but his hands kept slipping, scorching his palms bloody as the friction proved itself too much. 

“Hey!” He yelled. “There’s someone overboard! Help me pull—”

But when he looked back there was no-one. In a wide, empty sea, he was alone.

Like a final, deathly gasp, the rope slithered from his hands and disappeared into the black of the water. The boat rattled and when Giorno looked back over the boat’s rim, there was no person. There was no reflection.

The only thing he saw were the cold, unyielding eyes of his father.

Giorno…

A symphony of hushed voices repeated his name, low and hypnotic. His arm extended towards the water, towards Dio's image.

Giorno?

His fingertips brushed the surface of the water, dyeing them bloody.

Hey—

The voices screamed, raucous and discordant, twisting and pulsing and knotting into a singular howl of his name, piercing on all sides of his head—

“Giorno, are you feeling okay?”

He started awake.

Rain beat mercilessly on the windows as the train charged down the tracks. He hadn’t realised how the sound of it had lulled him into sleep. As subtly as he could, Giorno rubbed the sleep from his eyes, head heavy and disoriented. It seemed like those unsettling dreams were getting more and more common. He’d rather not sleep at all if it meant avoiding them.

“Sorry, Fugo, were you saying something?”

The other teen frowned. He had a folder drawn over his lap, having spent the whole week pouring over the gang’s analytics, determined not to look stupid for the upcoming negotiations.

“I just wanted to know how you were doing. I know you’re usually quiet, but…”

“I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“Really?” He swallowed, unsure. “You’re not still thinking about Mista, are you?”

Shit. Was it written all over his face or what?

“Well…” Giorno paused, concerned over how much he actually wanted to reveal. “Yes, I just…”

He concentrated his gaze outside the window. There was familiarity in the scene that zipped by him, the same pastures and houses that he saw when they journeyed back from Rome. So much had changed since then. Giorno’s priorities had changed from then. Everything he knew about the mafia suffered a wrecking ball and in its ruination, Giorno had learned that being a good Boss meant compromise. It meant sacrifice.

Mista’s friendship wasn’t something he wanted to sacrifice, but the path was laid painfully bare to him, clear where other routes were mangled in obscurity. The longer Giorno was Boss and the longer Mista was consigliere, the more their friendship suffered. The more Mista suffered. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe it was Giorno’s fault all along. Maybe the day that Mista pledged himself to his cause was the day that their bond drank poison, rotting until it withered and all that would remain of their relationship were work emails and holiday bonuses without even a card attached.

Giorno’s voice found its place again and quietly, he said:

“I think I’ve really fucked things up between us.”

Fugo blinked, taken aback by the sudden display of vulnerability.

“Well… You explained it to him, didn’t you? Why you took me instead?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t like my answer.”

Fugo blew out a sigh, sitting back in his chair. “Yes, well. He was never the type of guy to react well to having his ego wounded.”

Giorno knew that. In fact, it frustrated him that any of this could be boiled down to something as frivolous as ego. He didn’t bring Fugo out of spite, nor out of charity. He brought Fugo because he needed to, because everyone needed to play their parts. Fugo needed to prove himself to Passione, and this seemed the best possible way for him to do so. And Mista too, now having the chance to strengthen his leadership skills. He’s Giorno’s direct second-in-command; He couldn’t be stuck doing grunt work forever. Now was the perfect time for him to start getting that experience. It was all so neat and pretty in Giorno’s head — Why couldn’t Mista see it too?

“Knowing Mista, he’ll get over it. He doesn’t usually hold a grudge.”

Giorno gave a small shrug. Mista forgave him easily, but who knew what the final straw could be for him.

“He broke my nose, beat the shit out of me…” Fugo sighed irritably. “Forgive me for not being able to drum up sympathy for that guy.”

“No, it’s understandable. And it’s understandable that he’s mad at me too.”

“…Give him some space. You guys can talk it out when we get back and he’ll be right as rain. He’s a pretty simple guy.”

Giorno began to lose himself in the outside world again, resting his head in his hand.

“No…” he mumbled. “Not so simple.”

The rain thundered on.

♡

It had been two hours of country monotony before the city of Florence finally breached into view. Even from a distance the city’s skyline was iconic. Giorno recognised the dome of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, and the Palazzo Vecchio that speared through the clouds. As they rolled in closer, Giorno found himself raptured by the beautiful umber colours of the municipality, vibrant no matter how much the cloudy sky laboured to dull it.

They moved to disembark, and Giorno and Fugo, alongside their backup of bodyguards, finally exited the train into the bustling plaza of Santa Maria Novella station.

“Shall we find some lunch?” Asked Fugo. “Or are we on a tight schedule?” 

“Lunch is fine.”

Don Valentino had scheduled to chaperone them to their hotel at two in the afternoon, so the group were free to wander for a while, soaking in the novelty of finding themselves in a new city. They found a casual trattoria and after little consultation on Giorno’s part, Fugo left to get them food. Having shaken himself of his travel weariness, Giorno automatically reached for his phone, primed to respond to messages and send some of his own. He honestly hated it, and becoming Boss pretty much meant that his phone replaced his own brain at this point – or at least it felt that way. 

He paused on the notion of sending a text to Polnareff. It’s only been a few hours; the house probably hasn’t burned down yet.

How are things going? He decided to send.

Well, it’s only been a few hours since you left, but fine, came Polnareff’s swift reply. Giorno cringed a little at himself. Yeah, he knew.

His phone followed up with a second ping.

Mista’s fine too.

Giorno’s heart skipped a beat. Of course Polnareff knew exactly what he was really thinking. He sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead. The hardest part of the trip was yet to come, and Giorno was already exhausted. 

Glad to hear it, he ended up replying. 

“We got water,” Fugo said, breaking Giorno out of his thoughts. One of their security details set down two glass bottles onto the table with a hearty thunk. “Coffee too.” 

Their food arrived quickly, a variety of Florentine dishes that Fugo tried but mostly failed to get Giorno excited about. Giorno picked at it as much as he could, knowing he needed it but still too nervous to finish it all. When lunch concluded and they all quietly sipped at their espressos, Fugo called out to him.

“Giorno? Could you run through the plan with me again?” He had retrieved his leather-bound planner, flipping through it. His leg jumped up and down below the table. He was nervous too. “We have two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Giorno confirmed. “That is, of course, if everything goes well. The first few days will be meaningless posturing, I suspect — We’ll meet with Valentino’s team and they’ll take us around the city, invite us to expensive dinners, and so on and so forth.”

“Anything to butter us up, right?”

“Right. It’ll be after that that the negotiations will begin. This is obviously the most crucial period. It’s unlikely we’ll agree on everything immediately, so there’ll probably be several rounds throughout this first week. A lot of the initial groundwork has already been laid out thanks to our lawyers, but of course, there’s things that we can only finalise in person. Let’s hope it doesn’t end with one of us strangling the other.”

“And if it does, you won’t be the one who’s being strangled.”

Giorno smirked. “They need us as much as we need them, if not more. If they’re smart, they won’t be overly aggressive.”

Valentino’s famiglia had reputation and assets, but was woefully lacking in scope. With the death of his father, the former patriarch of the family, Valentino was jumping at the chance to prove himself and cement their gang’s future – Allying with Passione was his way to establish himself and cultivate the family. Giorno, on the other hand, wanted territory and access to northern trade routes. They had manpower and they had good connections, but they needed to work on developing their presence in Northern Italy. Venice, at the moment, was too disconnected from the rest of the country to do them any favours. Now that they had to scrape their income from non-drug facilitated means, a smuggling network with richer neighbouring countries was the way to go. Taking control of Florence and Milan was vital.

“Next week, we’ll also meet with Valentino’s Capos,” Giorno continued. “A few of our own will be travelling to join us as well. And after that, we can hopefully go home having formed a valuable alliance.”

Fugo hummed. “Alright.”

“One thing, Fugo.” 

“What is it?”

“Don’t let your guard down,” said Giorno seriously. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet. The chance of us encountering Stand users is high.”

Concern pinched Fugo’s face. “But if I need to use Purple Haze… I’m not sure if I’ll be able to.”

“I’m just asking you to be vigilant. Don’t worry about Purple Haze yet. Leave it to me.” 

When the hour finally struck two, Giorno and Fugo were picked up in a sleek black BMW, helmed by a professional-looking chauffeur in a pressed uniform and gloves. The pair were silent the whole car ride over, having no idea what to expect. The car eventually rolled to a stop in front of an opulent-looking resort complex atop a hill, overlooking the city from what had to be the most salacious viewpoint in all of Florence. Fugo whistled a low note of impressed acknowledgement, and Giorno silently agreed that it was remarkable. Hardly a second passed after they got out of the car before they were whisked away by Valentino’s attendants, greeting them by name and accompanying them into the grand lobby of the hotel. 

“The Don will be with you shortly,” spoke the assistant, quickly shepherding the bellboys to deal with the luggage. “We’ll send this up to your rooms. In the meantime, we’ve prepared drinks for your arrival, so please enjoy and relax as you wait.”

The assistant was quickly lost to her phone, speedily talking to someone and walking off somewhere. Giorno sat at one of the chairs, breathing in the spectacle of the interior — elegant archways curved into high ceilings, checkered floors sparkled and artful foliage crawled up stone columns. An intoxicatingly citrusy fragrance spiked the air. He hated to admit that Naples didn’t have anywhere quite like this.

Fugo gingerly sat in the seat next to him, shaking his head ‘no’ at an attendant who offered him sparkling water. He looked pale.

“Are you nervous?” Giorno asked.

He smiled tightly. “I didn’t do so well the last time I was in the presence of a Boss. I don’t want to screw this up for you.”

“You won’t.” Giorno gave him a reassuring look. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you couldn’t handle it.”

Within minutes, a vociferous presence made itself known. From atop the stairs, a young, brunet man spoke briskly with an assistant type, making his way down. He was probably in his early twenties, sporting an all red suit — a blazer over a tiny vest and a floral shirt with the collar popped, with slacks to match. Snakeskin adorned his shoes and a gaudy cross was slung from his neck. Sunglasses combed back his gelled hair. At the sight of Giorno he, loudly, asked to check if that was really “Don Giovanna of Passione.” At the confirmation, he beamed.

“Don Giovanna! Benvenuto!” 

Giorno put on his best smile, getting up.

“Don Valentino. What a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Valentino stretched out a leather-gloved hand and they exchanged a firm handshake. Orso Valentino was tall, taller than Giorno by a good head, and even beneath his clothing it was obvious that he possessed a strong build. He had the type of face you’d find on the cover of a glossy magazine, all masculine edges and a movie-star smile. Were Giorno not himself, he might be intimidated.

“It’s a beautiful hotel you’ve got here.”

“Grazie,” he said, adorning the word with a wink. “Only the finest for you, my friend.” He looked past him to take a view of Fugo. “And this is…?”

“My advisor, Pannacotta Fugo.”

“Welcome signore, welcome to Florence!” Valentino went to shake his hand too. “Sorry for the delay guys, lots going on today. Busy busy busy. How are you guys feeling? We’ve got a really packed couple of weeks ahead of us but I’m excited! Are you guys ready? I get real mean in the negotiating room,” he laughed.

“As do I.”

“Looks like we’ll get along just fine. Now—“ He clapped his hands together, “—Let’s get you all settled in here. I’ve got some things to attend to, you know how it is, but we’ve got a little welcome dinner for you guys today, so why don’t you freshen up, get some rest, and then we’ll meet up later for some food? How does that sound?”

“It sounds great,” Giorno quickly said. Valentino was such a steamroller of a conversationalist that he started to worry if he’ll ever be able to squeeze in more than one sentence around this guy.

“Awesome, awesome, alright then. I’m gonna leave you guys to Andrea, okay?” He gestured towards the black-suited man next to him. “I’ll see you later.”

Giorno and Fugo exchanged a look, but found no freedom to talk as the assistant ushered them to the elevator, guiding them through to their rooms.

“And this one,” the assistant gestured to the door of room number 303, “is all yours. You’ll find all your luggage in there already.”

“It’s a single suite,” Giorno noted with a frown. “I believe we arranged ahead of time that we preferred to share for safety concerns. I don’t mean to offend, but we are in unfamiliar territory. I believe our request is reasonable.”

“Yes, I’m aware. However, Don Valentino urged me to inform you that you are under his care, and therefore have no need to worry about safety. We have plenty of security to ensure your and your teams’ wellbeing. Besides—” 

The assistant approached the door and swung it open to a grand view of the space, enclosed by picturesque views of the city.

“—I’m sure you will agree that the views are quite excellent. I can ensure that you won’t be left dissatisfied during your stay here.”

Giorno exchanged a glance with Fugo, whose face was contorting from increasing consternation. He opened his mouth to argue but Giorno beat him to the punch.

“You’re right. The view is excellent.” He smiled to ease the tension. “Do tell the Don that we’re very grateful for the consideration.”

The assistant returned his expression. “Great! Now, just as a reminder, someone will come and escort the both of you to have dinner with the Don at nine. Please be ready. Until then, relax and enjoy yourselves. Feel free to phone us if you’re in need of anything.”

He bowed, and left.

“Giorno,” Fugo hissed as soon as the man was out of earshot, “I don’t like how they split us up. You think they’re planning something?”

“It’s possible. Unfortunately, we need to be careful for the entirety of our stay. And remember what we talked about.” 

Giorno tapped his mouth and ear in succession, pointing upwards. The possibility of taps was uncomfortably high. It was better to assume the worst. 

They separated, and upon closing the door, Giorno leaned his forehead against it and let out a heavy sigh. 

What a start.

He took a quick look around the room first, not seeing anything suspicious at first glance.

Giorno collapsed backwards on the bed. The room was beautiful and definitely worth a closer inspection but he couldn’t care less about its opulence. Instead, he breathed. He focused on the tension of his muscles, the nervous vibration jumping in his palms. He was a wire, pulled so taut it threatened to snap at any moment. 

He needed to calm down. 

There was a table a couple of metres away, and the placement of a pen and notebook had Giorno drawn toward it. He sat down. Opened the book, pressed the first page flat. The ink was a deep black. Giorno pressed the tip to paper, then began to scribble. Anything, everything that was on his mind. 

Hotels. Exhaustion. Florence. Valentino. Danger. Dreams. Dio. Speedwagon. Polnareff. Home. 

Mista.

Mista Mista Mista.

When he ran out of energy, Giorno ripped out every page and watched as black and white morphed into antennae and feathery wings, stepping out on the balcony to let the butterflies go. He watched them until they became pinpricks in the hazy, twilight sky. 

Giorno didn’t even give the city a passing glance when he went back inside to get ready for dinner.

♡

“Ey! You came!”

Valentino’s voice, already so pronounced in Giorno’s brain, echoed within the space of the dining room. It was, like the rest of the hotel, impeccably decorated, located on the top floor. The table was already full with about eight other people–the assistant that Giorno recognised, as well as other faces he didn’t.

“I’m afraid I didn’t have a choice,” said Giorno wryly, loosely gesturing to the assistant who came to fetch them from their rooms.

“That you didn’t,” Valentino laughed. “Welcome, welcome!”

The Don stood up, greeting Giorno and Fugo eagerly with a hug and a hearty clap on the back. Fugo grimaced, fighting not to get the wind knocked out of him.

“Don Giovanna, please—“ The boss pulled out a chair for Giorno. “Best seat in the house, look at that!” He waved his arm over his city, an ocean of a thousand candles under the black sky. “Just gorgeous, huh?”

“Yes. Firenze is an incredibly beautiful place.” 

“Right? Best city in Italy.” Valentino allowed Giorno to sit before hopping over to Fugo. “Now, I’m afraid Signore Fugo is stuck with the second best seat in the house….” Valentino covered his face in mock shame. “Won’t you ever forgive me?”

Fugo smiled uncomfortably and sat down. “Thank you,” he got out.

“Shy one, huh?” The Don chuckled. “We’ll knock that outta you quick while we’re here.”

The dinner picked up, and the atmosphere quickly rolled into something boisterous as Valentino conversed with his people, making crude jokes and exchanging anecdotes of their recent luxury yacht trips. Aside from brief introductions, Giorno didn’t find himself joining in much.

Concentrating on the food didn’t bring much relief from dry conversation either — it was expertly crafted, but the menu left much to be desired in way of satisfaction. Everything was ostentatious to a comically exaggerated degree, whether it be three drops of caviar on a plate or raw beef tongue obscured by some mystery sauce. Giorno ate just enough not to be rude but couldn’t help turning over angsty thoughts of Mista’s home-cooked food in his head. The wine also flowed with abundance but Giorno didn’t drink that either. Just enough to know how to answer Valentino when he ribbed him on how good it was and how did he like it and did they even have wine this good in Naples? Yes, it’s great , and It’s excellent, and No, not quite like this. 

All of this accompanied by the awful feeling that he was being watched. 

Fugo, though, slipped surprisingly easily into conversation. It was like he memorised the script to a play Giorno had never heard of — line by line, it seemed like he knew exactly what to say.

“I treated my mother’s side of the family to a trip to Japan recently, and they absolutely loved it,” boasted one of the gangsters. “I showed ‘em around, got them to do the tea ceremonies and see the sumo and all that stuff. Kyoto was their favourite spot, hands down.”

“Especially around this time,” Fugo chimed in. “Kiyomizudera temple is a particular favourite of mine. The autumn leaves make for the best pictures.”

“Oh for sure! We’re running out of space for the photo albums.”

“Don Giovanna,” said Valentino through a sip of his drink, “I heard through the grapevine that you’re actually Japanese. That true?”

Giorno masked the surprise on his face. He didn’t think that particular tidbit of info was so easily accessible.

“Why? Is that a problem?” Asked Giorno, smiling through the contempt thickening his voice. He knew some people were very precious about preserving Italian lineage in the mafia, but he didn’t think he would be so directly confronted about it.

“I’m just asking! You want my background, I can lay it all out for ya, ain’t no shame in it. Tuscan, Venetian. I think an uncle’s from Greece.”

“...Yes, I’m technically half-Japanese.”

The revelation sparked some roused murmurs from the other gangsters.

“Wow! So exotic. You go back home often? Have any family there?”

The invasiveness was horribly irritating. For a second, Giorno wondered if he should lie but the prospect of being caught and subsequently humiliated was a much worse consequence.

“No,” he answered firmly. “It’s my birthplace but I don’t know anything about it. Besides, I consider myself Italian through and through.”

“Oh no, of course you are! I was just curious.”

Giorno chuckled through the awkwardness. He couldn’t let it seem like Valentino got to him.

“Asia’s a bit far, huh? Any more luck in Europe? You know, we love to do the ski trip to the Alps every year, we have this lovely complex of cabins up there—"

The table chattered in enthusiastic agreement.

“I think,” piped up Fugo, twisting his fork into a piece of raw Kingfish, “that the Don’s heart belongs in Italy. Wouldn’t you agree, Giorno?”

“Absolutely,” said Giorno. “It’s our home, after all.”

“And besides… Maybe if you spent more time at home and less in the Alps, you wouldn’t be begging for Passione to help your organisation, don’t you think?” 

Fugo popped the fish in his mouth, pure victory on his face.

Silence fell on the table. Then, Valentino’s mouth twisted into a smile, and the rest of the table was able to cough out a few strangled laughs.

“Fair enough. You got me there.”

Giorno exchanged a thankful look with Fugo, relieved. 

The evening continued without any more interrogations, and although never comfortable, the atmosphere eased a little. As the end of the savoury courses neared, the waiters brought around milky-white, porcelain pots to set onto the table. With the timing and grace of choreographed dancers, each waiter set out a fork and knife for each guest, and laid a white cloth perpendicular to the plate. When a white-gloved hand popped the lid off the dish, Giorno was confronted with the image of a small, roasted bird, completely intact from head to tail.

“You know what this is, Don Giovanna? Ortolan,” Valentino stated, not waiting for an answer. “French cuisine. It’s a songbird that’s drowned in Armagnac—it’s a kind of brandy— and then roasted whole.”

With a thumb and index finger, he picked up the bird, holding it up to his face.

“Two years ago it actually became illegal to hunt these little guys, so… Believe me when I say I worked reaaal hard to get one on your plate today.”

Giorno swallowed back the rising nausea in his throat.

“See this?” Valentino pointed to the cloth. “You put this over your head while you eat it. Some say it’s to heighten the pleasure, others say it’s to conceal yourself from God as you disgrace yourself with such a… savage act.”

He smiled with too many teeth. 

“Me though… I don’t mind if God watches.”

He smacked his lips and the head disappeared into the abyss that was his mouth, a perfect set of pearly teeth coming down to snap the bird's neck. The crunch that followed wriggled inside Giorno’s ears in a way he didn’t think he could ever forget. 

Fugo exchanged a shaky look with him. Looking down at his plate, Giorno knew that there was no getting out of this with a Gold Experience-fashioned jellyfish tooth. He took the bird in his hand, his stomach churning as he stared down its beady eyes.

His sight locked on Valentino’s.

“Bon appetit.”

He bit down — and chewed and chewed and chewed until every tiny bone was picked clean.

♡

“Well… That was something.”

Giorno and Fugo stood outside their rooms, trying to digest what just happened, both figuratively and literally.

“They almost ate you alive in there,” Fugo grumbled, not looking pleased. 

Giorno quietly agreed. He was disappointed in himself, to say the least. 

“I knew that Valentino came from money, but I couldn’t have imagined just how wide that gap is between him and I…” He sighed, rocking back to lean against the wall. “I really know nothing about their world. I feel so out of place.”

Fugo nodded, folding his arms. “The world of the rich isn’t for the faint of heart. You did the best you could.”

“You seemed to know how to handle it.”

Embarrassment crossed his face. 

“I grew up wealthy,” he explained. “My whole childhood was spent posturing for my own family, learning piano and three languages at once, having to know what fork goes with what plate and attending stupid fundraisers and galas. All the stereotypical rich people shit you can think of. My university loved me — Or rather, my family’s money. Always willing to give me good scores even though I didn’t need it. It’s all an incestuous, pompous farce . Never what you know, but who you know.”

That’s right , Giorno thought. He remembered reading something like that in Fugo’s background file, months ago. Of course he knew how to handle people like that.

“I was at my lowest when I lost it all, but… That freedom from social confinement is something I wouldn’t trade for the world now.”

Giorno hummed thoughtfully.

“Looks like bringing you here was a better idea than I initially thought. Thanks for looking out for me, Fugo.”

His friend shrugged. “You can thank me when Passione gets a good deal. That’s what we’re here for, after all.”

They agreed to keep a line of contact through their phones, then parted for the night. An immense wall of relief fell on him when Giorno was finally able to retreat to his suite, though not quite enough to fully shake his anxiety.

He took some notes down, committing everything he could about Valentino to memory. Whatever he could glean from that dinner, whatever he could find to exploit a possible weakness. He was a spoiled, rich-kid prick, but Giorno was starting to see how he kept the gang under his hands. No matter what, he needed to keep his cool and gain an advantage.

About an hour later, just as Giorno was about to get ready for bed, he got a knock on the door. He went to take a look through the peephole and saw who else, but Valentino.

He cursed to himself, then opened the door.

“Don Valentino.” A polite smile automatically surfaced. “May I help you with something?”

“Didn’t think you’d see me again so soon, huh?” He chuckled like he could see right through him. “How was the dinner?”

“It was excellent.”

“Good, good!” He looked bashful then, placing a palm to the back of his neck. “Hey, can I apologise for the ortolan thing? It was kind of a dumb, hazing thing. Super immature, I know.”

Giorno just about held back the urge to roll his eyes.

“You’d be surprised to hear that I’m quite used to being hazed.”

“Just something about ya, huh?”

The Don laughed. Giorno didn’t.

“…Did you need something?”

“Ah…” Valentino collected himself, pushing gelled strands of hair back from his forehead. “Look, I don’t want this to sound weird or anything, far from it, buuut… I was actually wondering if you’d join me for a drink?”

Giorno crossed his arms, looking upon him with curiosity.

“Now why on earth would that be weird?”

“Listen, don’t get the wrong idea, alright?” Chuckled the Don. “I just wanna talk a bit, you know? Soon all the negotiations start, the lawyers get involved, the Capos… Ahhh, it’s all so serious! Can’t stand it.” 

He looked up at Giorno with a sly expression.

“I wanna know what makes you tick, Giorno.” He pauses. “Is ‘Giorno’ cool? Am I cool calling you that?”

“It’s fine.”

“See? Getting along already. And you can call me Orso, if you want. So how about it?” He brought up his arms in invitation.

Giorno looked back at his room, then back at Valentino.

Fuck.

“Lead the way.”

Valentino in front, Giorno loosened a brooch from his suit and in the shadow of the corridor quietly transformed it. He quickly caught up to him, cautiously following the rival boss out of the main building and down a set of leafy alleyways until the terrain plateaued into a private yard, revealing a small villa standing among the cypresses.

“This is my permanent place here,” Valentino explained, his key clinking as he plugged it into the lock. “I mostly use it as extra storage for my collection now though.”

“Collection…?”

Giorno’s question was swiftly answered as the door opened and the light switch clicked to illuminate a visual barrage of decorations — from pop culture antiques to retro art pieces. It was tastefully laid out, but still too much for Giorno’s eyes to make proper sense of.  

“Let me show you a couple of my favourites,” said Valentino excitedly, bringing Giorno around the main room. The villa boasted a generous selection of mostly mid-century furniture, warm-tones saturating the main living room. The surrounding shelves were filled with offbeat toys, technology and magazines, random artefacts and jewellery dotting the place. There was a samurai sword sitting on a stand, gleaming brightly under the light. 

Giorno walked around, taking a cursory look at everything. He moved toward the back section of the main room, taking a look through the giant glass display housing what appeared to be signed records and celebrity merchandise. His eyes landed on one shelf, peering closer at a deluxe copy of Prince’s Purple Rain album.

“Oh, that one?” boasted Valentino. “Met him at a party last year in Paris. Nice, huh?”

“Very—”

Time suddenly froze. The temperature dropped. Giorno’s brain screamed and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

His whole body reacted just in time to block a sudden kick to his head.

They locked eyes. Valentino’s smile widened. 

Giorno immediately threw himself to the ground to evade another wide kick, rolling away from him. They stood off against each other, slowly circling the room. Giorno rubbed his fingertips together, a heat tingling in between the tiny grooves of his skin.

Valentino crossed the room, every movement of his body slow, methodical, wolf-like. He lunged, threw some punches that missed, then swung at Giorno’s head. He parried the move, recollecting an old martial arts stance he’d learnt long ago, and redirected Valentino’s strength against him, knocking him over to vault into the coffee table like a bowling pin. It shattered, erupting into a million pieces. Giorno watched as Valentino twitched, hopeful that he wouldn’t get up – But within seconds the man stood, rolling his shoulders back, shaking off the trauma of the fall like it was nothing.

His head then turned to one direction, and Giorno followed it, catching onto what he wanted.

They both dove in the direction of the samurai sword on the mantle, making a mad scramble to grab ahold of it. Valentino managed to make efficient use of his height and stretched himself to catch hold. He threw aside the sheath with vigour, flipping the blade in his hand. 

“Lucky… It’s been a while since I got to play with this.”

It was at this moment that Giorno began to panic.

A burst of stabs came his way, then longer swipes, the sound of the blade whizzing through the air like military planes. One slash caught the seam of his sleeve and the fabric split, revealing a long, thin line of bloodied flesh on his arm.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Giorno's mind was ablaze. He wasn’t a fighter, not like this, and with each furious swipe of the sword his opening for a counterattack tightened. He didn’t want to resort to using Gold Experience for fear of expending his natural advantage, but the way things were going he had to use his Stand, he had to—

Gold sparked the instant that the blade sliced down into Giorno’s palm. He leveraged Gold Experience’s strength to force it back, letting the streak of warm blood snaking down his arm go ignored. It hurt like an absolute bitch but he kept his face straight, not allowing himself to shed emotion in front of Valentino. 

That was until he witnessed what could only be described as absolute delight in the other Boss’s eyes.

“A Stand user.”

His stomach dropped. Suddenly, Giorno understood that this changed things.

With a choked out groan, Giorno managed to throw Valentino backwards with the force of Gold Experience’s thrust, successively striking distance between them. The man slid backwards, slamming into a dresser. He recovered his grip on the sword, and lunged. 

“Show me!” He yelled. “Show me show me show me!”

Giorno was cornered into the bathroom. He shut the door, then—

One, two slams into the wood. 

He spun around the room, casting his eyesight on anything useful, or perhaps something that he can transform. A wave of heat rolled over him as panic spread throughout his body. 

What could he do? Incapacitating him seemed like the best option — Getting a punch in with Gold Experience would destabilise his senses, just like what happened with Bucciarati, then he could easily tie him up. The problem was getting close enough to him for his Stand to connect. Not knowing anything about Valentino’s abilities made it too dangerous to come in close contact…

Wood groaned in his ear and Giorno’s body reacted before his mind did: Right before the third slam into the door, Giorno flung it open and let gravity take care of his assailant, who was thrown headfirst against the rim of the giant bathtub. A howl ripped through him, and Giorno knew this was his chance. 

He reared back his fist, Gold Experience manifesting in full, and let out a cry as he aimed right at Valentino’s head—

“Too slow.”

The blade waned and fluxed as fist collided with metal, the vibration shooting out a metallic shriek throughout the room – Until the sword suddenly curled in on itself and became a copperhead snake, upset and restless. Valentino roared, pushing back and throwing Giorno and the snake alike out of the bathroom. He clattered backwards into the strewn glass, the sharp edges needling his skin to blood.

“Giorno? Giorno?!”

A sparrow suddenly burst into the room and a distressed-looking Fugo followed. With a Gold Experience flourish, the sparrow crumpled to the ground and de-transforming as Giorno’s brooch, pinpointing his location to Fugo.

“Giorno?! What the hell is going on?!”

“Valentino attacked me,” he groaned, getting up. 

“That motherfucker,” He seethed, rage contorting on his expression. Anxious, Giorno made a motion to grab him.

“Fugo, wait—”

“Purple Ha–”

A strangled gasp replaced the last part of his Stand’s name as Fugo suddenly crumpled to the floor, hot ribbons of fire snaking up his arms.

“F-Fugo…!”

“Ah…” Valentino shuffled out of the bathroom, running a hand through his hair. “About time that activated.”

That?

Like clockwork, an intense heat suddenly pulsated in Giorno’s palms, hot as volcanic rock. When he glanced down at them, he watched as a steady flame broke out across each line of his knuckles. Horrified, he blew on them to set the fire out but to his complete dismay it only intensified, scarring his skin in harsh, red marks. 

“You feel that now, don’t you?” 

Giorno screamed, dropping down to the floor as another burst of scorching fire deadened the sensation in his hands. 

“This… This Stand…!”

“In 1951, a woman in Florida was found burnt to death in her home,” Valentino stated nonchalantly, strolling towards them. “No open flames, no gas leaks, nothing. Just a pile of ashes in the living room, with everything around her in perfect condition.

“The mystery was classified as a case of human combustion. No one really knows why it happens, but it’s a phenomenon that’s interested me for a long time.” He smiled. “I guess that’s why God gave me this power.”

“Gold Experience…” Giorno uttered, trying to will his Stand to do something, anything, but the pitiful swipes it made at Valentino were useless, and Giorno knew that without his hands he wasn’t able to do anything. 

“Flesh for Fantasy… That’s the name of my Stand.” 

Giorno looked back at Fugo, who’s sleeves had completely burnt. His arms were crimson, and the fire kept travelling upwards and upwards. He knew that if he didn’t intervene soon then his friend really would be burned alive.

Why was Flesh For Fantasy’s effect so much stronger on Fugo? There just didn’t seem to be enough information yet.

Giorno huffed out staggered breaths, trying to calm himself down. Disabling Valentino so that his Stand deactivated seemed like the plan with the best outcome. If he could just lure him to that place…

That was until a hulking, red figure manifested in the corner of his vision. Valentino’s Stand hovered by his shoulder, muscular and broad-shouldered. He walked toward Fugo, and Giorno panicked.

He heaved himself off the ground, ignoring the rapidly growing band of fire that tightened around his wrists. 

If he could just get Valentino into that spot, just there—

Two meters and a half meters… Just two and a half…

Giorno strengthened his resolve, knowing he needed to put in his all for this.

With full force, he tackled Valentino backwards, but the difference in weight between them was obvious. The man stumbled as Giorno fell to the floor. There was a moment then, when Valentino looked completely stunned down at Giorno, but he had little time to contemplate it because he finally managed to get close enough to use Gold Experience again.

Within seconds, Valentino’s hand flew to the back of his neck. It was too late for him to do anything. His mouth spasmed and his whole body stiffened before, at long last, he collapsed onto the floor.

The flames on his hands died. Breathing a sigh of relief, Giorno immediately ran to Fugo’s aid. He grimaced as Gold Experience’s hands came to him, punching out shallow breaths as his arms were slowly stitched together. It was lucky that the Stand didn’t penetrate the deeper layer of skin, but had the fight gone on for even a couple more minutes, he would’ve suffered much more seriously. As Giorno watched to make sure that Fugo was still conscious, he had the selfish thought that he was immeasurably glad that Mista wasn’t in his place right now.

“T… Thanks…” Fugo groaned as he tried to sit himself up. He glared at Valentino’s stiff body. “Did you kill him?”

Giorno shook his head. “He’s only paralysed.”

The suspect of the bite eventually came slithering out from behind Valentino’s head, sluggishly crawling toward Giorno. He picked it up in his hands, watching the reptile’s tongue flick at him, curious at its handler.

“Heloderma suspectum. A venomous lizard native to North America. It has a nasty bite, but its toxin isn’t lethal to humans.” He looked back at Valentino, a cocky glint in his eyes. “Judging from your size and weight, the paralysis should wear off in a few minutes.”

With a sparkle, the lizard transformed back into the sword that had been discarded earlier.

“I’ll be billing you for the damages made to my suit, by the way.”

“Screw that!” Fugo growled. “I’ll pay for your suit, because I am not letting that piece of shit out of this room alive.”

“No. We’re not killing him.” At Fugo’s bewilderment, he rushed to clarify. “I understand how you feel, but I need him alive. Trust me.”

They dusted off the broken glass from the couch to sit, waiting for Valentino’s paralysis to wear off. It took about seven minutes but eventually they watched as the gangster before them slowly uncrumpled himself, sitting upwards with a groan.

“Why… Why didn’t you kill me?” He coughed out.

“I ask the same to you.” Giorno said. “You had the perfect opening to attack me, but you hesitated. You’re not a good person by any stretch of the imagination… But perhaps you’re not an unreasonable one.” 

Valentino wheezed out a laugh. 

“That lizard…” He stretched his mouth, exercising its atrophy. “Creating animals… That’s your Stand ability?”

“To create life, yes,” Giorno chose to say.

“…Huh.” Valentino wiped his chin where a string of drool had leaked out of his mouth. He grinned. “You’re a more interesting guy than I thought.”

Giorno didn’t respond to that.

“What’s the activation for your Stand? If I’ve shared the secret of my ability, then it’s only fair that I know yours.”

“Stress levels. Cortisol, to be exact. The higher your cortisol, the more you burn.”

Giorno hummed. Then it would make sense why the effect on Fugo was much stronger — He, admittedly, had a weaker grasp on his stress and emotional state than Giorno did. 

“You’ll hafta forgive me, Don,” sighed the boss. “When I saw you for the first time I underestimated you. I mean, the girly hair, the suit, all prim and proper. Thought I needed my ears cleaned when he said you were the Don of Passione.”

“Never in my life have I received such hospitality,” said Giorno flatly. “Only in Florence.” 

Valentino barked out a laugh. “What can I say? You proved me wrong.” 

He crookedly rose, teetering a bit as he struggled not to step directly onto the shards of glass everywhere. His footsteps crunched anyway as he headed toward a surprisingly in-tact cabinet. 

“Drinks?” He asked, clicking the door open and waving a bottle of Cabernet.

“No thank you.”

He smirked. “Knew you were lying about liking the wine.”

He poured himself a glass and joined to sit across the Passione pair, kicking one leg up to rest on his knee.

“Have you heard of the concept of “virtus”, Giorno?”

“Of course. It’s ancient Roman philosophy.” For as much school he skipped, history was one thing he paid attention to.

“So you’re familiar that it’s about strength, and honour.” Valentino took a sip of his wine. “The Romans got it right two thousand years ago. That’s what makes a man. That’s what I had to test you for.”

“One hell of a test,” snapped Fugo. “You’re insane.”

Giorno didn’t disagree. He nursed his hands, still hot to the touch, the pain still simmering in his blood.

“Wouldn’t be a test if it wasn’t difficult.” Valentino shrugged. “And it told me some very interesting things about you guys, so thanks for that.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Fugo shot back, outraged. “You turned us into human fireworks and expect us to be okay with that?!”

“You’re fine, aren’t you? Besides, I’m the same.” Valentino stripped one of his gloves and held up a scarred, pink-ish hand. “Heh. Got a bit too excited when my Stand first awakened, you see.”

So, Flesh For Fantasy affected Valentino too, in some capacity. Giorno tucked away that information for later.

“So what, you only care about power? Not interested in anything up here…” Giorno tapped his temple. “Are you?”

“As long as my brain tells me I’m hungry, that’s all I need. The rest is all brute strength, my friend. That’s what people recognise. They don’t care about morality or intelligence, or god forbid, kindness.” He made a childish face, pretending to vomit. “That kinda thing doesn’t get you anywhere. Especially not in our world. You take what you can and show no mercy.”

“I disagree.”

“How about you then? How did you become Don?” 

Giorno remained quiet.

“We’ve all heard the rumours. The old Passione boss was the most feared man in all of Italy. Even my old man feared him, and he’d wrestle a bear to the ground given the chance,” Valentino laughed. “Then, poof, old boss disappears without a trace. Are you trying to say you sent him to graze the pasture? He’s out there somewhere, living a peaceful life on a farmhouse in backwater Sicily?”

Valentino gave a smirk.

“We all know damn well what happened, don’t we?”

“We do.” Giorno crossed a leg over the other, keeping a sharp eye on Valentino as he got comfortable in his seat. “And while I don’t regret what I did, I still disagree. The previous Boss was an evil that needed to be exorcised. Moving forward, I want to make things better for people, and I’ll forge my own path to do so. That’s why I became Boss.”

He narrowed his eyes. 

“Your idea of strength doesn’t interest me.”

“You’re an idealist. I get it.” Valentino shrugged. “I just wonder how long that will last. A year? Five? You want to change Naples but real change comes at a cost. You’ll realise eventually that you can’t run the gang in the noble way that you want.”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“No, what concerns me is Passione’s posterity. I mean, come on, Giorno. Think a little with that brain of yours that you love so much. Your own Capo put out a hit on you. Profits are down, loyalty to you is tenuous. I want to ally myself with you but the way you run things worries me, Giorno. I refuse to anchor myself to a sinking ship, that’s all. How will you convince me that things can turn around?”

Fugo snorted. “Do you really think we want to listen to someone who’s dad gave him his throne? He died and this was your shitty inheritance. Giorno bled for his position. We all did. What do you know about running a gang?”

A flame spontaneously ignited on Fugo’s collar, clipping his earlobe.

“Ow! Fuck!”

Valentino, sharpness in his eyes, doused the flame with a hand movement. 

“Don’t dare talk about my father like that. You’re men that I think I can do business with. Don’t fuck it up for yourselves.”

Giorno leaned forward. 

“Same goes to you. Touch any of my men again and you won’t live to see another day.”

“You think that scares me, but it only endears me to you.” He blew out a sigh, leaning backwards in his seat. A look of uncharacteristic vulnerability fell on his face. “I wasn’t planning to kill Fugo, you know. When you tackled me to protect him, I was surprised. In a good way. Didn’t I say earlier? Honour is important. Protecting your own is something I value.” 

Something in Giorno’s demeanour softened at that revelation. It seemed like Valentino really meant it. 

“You’re an advisor, right?” Valentino loosely gestured to Fugo. “So who’s your second, Giorno? You have one?”

“My consigliere is taking care of things back in Naples.”

Valentino nodded, hand on his chin.

“Ah… his name was… Guido Mista, right?” He hummed. “Yeah, I think I remember hearing a name like that.”

Giorno remained silent.

“And you trust him?”

“With my life.” 

“You don’t think he’s aching for a chance to succeed you? It’s pre—tty nice being the Boss, after all.”

“I’m not worried.”

Valentino shared an approving look with him, that annoyingly pleased smile still on his lips. 

“You really care about him.”

Of course he did. There was no one in the world he cared for more, no matter what they were going through right now.

“I believe that a man’s real strength comes from his protection of others. Resolve stems from having someone to fight for. That’s what my father taught me. He always said, ‘La famiglia è tutto.’” Something dark suddenly brewed in his eyes, fiery and sinister. “For him, for my sister, I would burn down the entire world.” 

Giorno felt a shiver crawl down his back.

“What about you, Giorno Giovanna? What would you do for the people you love? How far are you willing to go? How much of yourself are you willing to lose?”

Giorno thought about that. He thought about his friends, who cared for him despite everything, despite what he’s put them through. He thought about how they stuck by him no matter what. How they gifted him things he couldn’t have imagined ever having. He thought about those who’ve passed, who made it possible for him to walk the path that he was on. 

For them, Giorno thought that he would be willing to do just about anything. 

♡

He passed Valentino’s test. 

With flying colours, even, because Valentino wouldn’t stop raving about him to his men the whole morning after. Giorno was quite good at getting a read on others, but admittedly he wasn’t quite sure how to assess the other Don just yet. There was definitely something sinister sitting beneath his jubilant personality, but wasn’t that true for Giorno himself? They were mafia, they all had skeletons in their closets. As long as he liked him, Giorno was cautiously optimistic to let things continue as they were.

Besides, the true test of their burgeoning alliance was the upcoming negotiations.

They were to be conducted in the hotel for the Passione team’s convenience, starting early at nine. Giorno and Fugo, along with their battalion of lawyers and other advisors, were escorted into the conference room. The air vibrated with unease. 

“Are you ready, Fugo?” Giorno idly fixed his sleeves. He checked the time. Five minutes to go. “Things are probably going to get heated.”

Fugo nodded with confidence. “I’m ready.”

“If you need to take a time-out, just let me know,” said Giorno, knowing full-well how this could trigger Fugo’s anger.

To his relief, however, Fugo looked calm as water.

“I won’t need it.”

Giorno let himself smile for the first time in a while.

“Good.”

At nine o’clock sharp, their first round of negotiation commenced. Fugo, who Giorno had been anxious about, was performing admirably. He was able to ask the right questions at the right time and analyse each step of the proceedings in an insightful manner. His university background was obvious in this regard. Once or twice he also had the incentive to step in when Valentino’s team was overly confrontational. Giorno was confident that Fugo was only going to improve in the negotiating room.

The rest of the week proceeded more smoothly, and slowly but surely pieces were starting to fall into place. Giorno finally managed to work several advantageous trade deals, and even bag a coveted land development plan just outside of Pisa. 

Giorno’s stay in Florence was also occasionally interrupted by Valentino’s boisterous insistence on taking them around the city, loudly and proudly boasting what he owned, which was pretty much everything save for historic landmarks. Their little tour group was taken to see the Palazzo Vecchio on one such day, with exclusive looks into their tucked-away fine art collections and the web of secret passageways linking the entire complex. Fugo had the gall to correct their private tour guide with facts out of his university textbooks, to the amusement of Giorno and the utter embarrassment of their guide. It was probably Giorno’s least stressful day out of the whole trip, and as such, permitted his brain to carve out space for a worry he hadn’t had for a while.

They all went to have lunch together at some high-end bistro in the middle of the city. 

“They do an awesome fettuccine here,” babbled Valentino excitedly. “Me and my sister Riri come here all the time.”

As they waited for the food to arrive, Giorno took the opportunity to fish out his phone and excuse himself from the table. Fugo threw him a desperate look as he walked away, not wanting to be left alone with Valentino’s mind-numbing banter. Giorno cast him an apologetic smile, then tucked himself in the shadow of a neighbouring building, careful to position himself so that he could keep survey of his surroundings.

He punched Polnareff's number into his phone and let it ring out. Within three rings, he picked up.

“Hello? Giorno?”

“Polnareff. Good afternoon.”

Over the course of the trip, they’d been sending each other periodic updates via messaging, but otherwise kept to themselves. This was the first time Giorno had called. 

“It’s nice to hear your voice. How are you? Good weather over there?”

“Mm. It’s sunny.” Giorno quietly appreciated the lack of prodding at his affairs. “I saw on the weather channel that it’s raining in Naples today.”

Polnareff made an affirmative noise. “Cats and dogs over here.”

“Hopefully it clears up soon.”

“It’s not so bad,” Polnareff chuckled. “Good background noise for my afternoon nap.”

Giorno was tempted to tease about Polnareff not getting any work done, but refrained. Things were still so stilted between them. He had little doubt that Polnareff knew that Giorno had found out about his father. He wasn’t sure how to navigate the rockiness that their relationship had found itself in. As it was, being cordial was the way to go.

“How are things back home?” Giorno asked. He shifted his stance to lean against the wall, hand in his pockets. He passively watched over Fugo, humorously trying to hide his disdain at more of Valentino’s annoying jokes.

“Just fine,” crackled Polnareff’s voice. “Everything is progressing as expected.”

“Oh. Good. That’s good.” He looked down at his shoes. “Are you sure you don’t need any—”

“You know Giorno, I thought the purpose of this whole arrangement was to leave everything in our hands for once.”

The teen sighed, sheepish. “I know. I just worry.”

“You’re spreading yourself too thin. Focus on Valentino. That’s far more important right now.”

“I know.”

Silence continued. 

“Giorno.”

“Hm?”

“Mista is fine. I promise.”

At the name, Giorno’s heart beat faster. He had been trying so hard not to think about Mista at all, and for the most part he’d been so busy that he’d been successful in that feat, but suddenly with just one uttering of his name the wall that Giorno built for himself came crumbling down.

“…I’m glad. I knew he’d be able to handle things.”

“But you’re still worried.”

“Of course I’m worried, I—”

Giorno stopped himself, not knowing where he wanted to go with that thought.

“It’s just… I put this on him so suddenly, and there were some things I had said, and...”

“Don’t you think this is a conversation you should be having with him, not me?”

Giorno quieted. 

“He would be happy to hear from you.”

“…I’ll call if I have the time.” 

He hung up the phone and went to rejoin the group at their table. 

“You excited to see the sun set at Piazzalle Michaelangelo?” Valentino asked Giorno. “I know it’s super touristy but it feels like something you should see when you’re in Florence for the first time.”

Giorno smiled politely, swallowing down the lingering guilt from his phone call.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”

♡

Giorno and Fugo were lounging around in Giorno’s room one night, sharing notes from the day’s earlier meetings. The TV idled in the background, stuck on some local cooking network. Empty takeout containers stained the dining table, the pair sick of being fed pretentious, rich-people lentils and steak and god knows whatever else. Their focus on their work waned as the night dragged on, and slowly their conversation wore itself out, as did they. 

“Can I ask you something strange?” Giorno suddenly asked.

Fugo looked up from his notebook, eyes red from sleeplessness.

“Sure, anything.”

Giorno sat back in his chair, resting his head on the back of the couch. His lips moved to shape words to a thought he’d been mulling over for weeks.

“How important is family?”

A pause. The silence made Giorno question his sanity for even asking such a thing.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… Valentino talks about his father a lot. Family is the most important thing in the world to him. And I… I don’t understand that.” Giorno sighed. “Someone told me recently that having a bond with your family is natural, and that it’s important, but I harbor no such emotions. Do you think that’s bad? Does it make me lesser, somehow?”

About half a minute passed in silence as Fugo chewed on the question. He quietly sighed as he neared an answer.

“No, Giorno,” he said eventually. “I don’t think it makes you lesser. And if it does, then I’m right there with you. I couldn’t care less if I never saw my parents again.”

“I see.” The weight in Giorno’s chest lifted just a bit. 

“And to be honest… Whoever told you that doesn’t understand what a privilege it is to have a family that loves you. To not have that… Well. It’s a struggle unlike anything else. I’m sure you understand.”

Giorno hummed. The conversation died there and he returned to his notes, but for the rest of the night he turned over that thought in his head like water lapping at a pebble.

♡

Three more days remained. 

Giorno stumbled to the dining hall with a distinct heaviness in his gait, his sleep debt catching up to him. He was still getting those disturbing dreams, although nothing as vivid as what he had before. Otherwise, it was the anxiety of the negotiations that was causing him to lose sleep. He was happy with the way things were progressing, but he still couldn’t get out of his own head — As stupid as it felt, he was sure that something was going to ruin it all. After a lifetime of pain and missed opportunity, Giorno wondered if he’d ever be weaned off the predisposition to expect the worst; Each step forward an inevitable obstacle that he’d have to overcome.

“Good morning, Giorno.”

Giorno looked up from his eggs. He’d been on complete autopilot and barely registered that he was already eating. Fugo stood in front of him, looking not even half as tired as he was. 

“Good morning.”

“…You don’t look so good,” confessed Fugo, sitting down. Well, Giorno didn't feel good, so there's that.

“I’ll be fine.”

Consternation broke over Fugo’s face, eyebrows pinched. He pulled a dish over, fiddling with his cutlery. He stabbed his fork into some ham and slid it over onto his plate. He hesitated. 

“You know… The negotiations are almost over. I’m sure no one will mind if you take a day to rest.”

“No. That’s not an option.”

“Giorno, I’m serious,” Fugo hissed, leaning closer. “Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? You look terrible. This whole trip has clearly taken a toll on you, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. You can’t fool me anymore.”

Giorno went quiet, a small wave of guilt washing over him. Clearly he hadn’t done a good enough job of disguising it. 

“I can tell Valentino that you want to stay in today, or do some sightseeing or something, alright? Stay here.”

Fugo got up from his chair but a hand darted out to firmly clamp around his wrist.

“No, Fugo don’t!” Giorno looked imploringly into his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Giorno—“

“Valentino will burn me at the stake if I show a sign of weakness, any at all. If I don’t show up and do exactly what’s expected of me, it’s over. It’s over for Passione. Do you understand?”

In the same manner someone would behave around an agitated animal, Fugo sat back down, eyeing Giorno warily. 

“It’s only for a few more days,” Giorno insisted. “Then once I’m home I can rest as long as I need to.”

Fugo looked sceptical, but did Giorno the favour of not pressing the matter anymore. It was good too, because it was moments after that Valentino’s voice boomed in their direction.

“Morning!”

Giorno almost groaned. He couldn’t deal with his shit today. 

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” muttered Fugo.

“What’s going on here, lovers spat?” 

“No.” Giorno smiled. “We’re just discussing strategy.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less. It’s the home stretch now, eh?”

“Yes.”

Valentino opened his mouth to say something, then got his attention caught by something over at the buffet table. He stretched his neck to look, his eyes wide.

“Shit, the mini muffins are almost gone! I gotta move.”

Without another word, the man bolted, zipping around tables like a wind-up toy. An exasperated snigger came from Fugo and he shot Giorno a smug eyebrow raise, but Giorno was back to picking at his food, already deep in thought about something else. 

Fugo reached for his tea and decided not to disturb him anymore.

By the time they were back at the negotiating table, Giorno was seven caffeine shots deep and back to his usual self, more or less. The room had thinned out a lot over the past few days, leaving them with just Valentino, his consigliere and his primary lawyer as the biggest items on the agenda had been closed. Giorno welcomed the more relaxed environment, having had enough of Valentino’s capos sneering in his ear.

“That should be the end of that,” piped up Valentino, signing off a document with a long flick of his pen.

“About time.” 

“Hey, we could’ve finished up earlier if you guys weren’t such sticklers about Sorrento.”

“It’s our most important port-town, it was obviously non-negotiable.” 

“How about we move down the list? What’s next? The real estate plan in Siena?” Asked Fugo, not risking another argument on this topic.

“Before that…” Valentino gave a word to his lawyer, who deftly exited the room. “There’s a pretty fat elephant in the room that I wanted to talk about.”

Giorno raised an eyebrow, suspicious. 

“And what could that possibly be?”

“Can’t lie, I do love it when you play hard to get.” Valentino crossed a leg over the other. “To be honest, I avoided bringing this up until now because I’ve heard it’s a real sore spot for you, and I needed to make sure we were on the same page first. You get what I’m saying, right?”

“Just spit it out.”

“We want to kickstart the drug production again.

Giorno’s blood ran cold.

“Excuse me?”

“The drugs. We want them back.”

Silence submerged the room, frigid and unforgiving.

“…I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Valentino cocked his head, in either wilful ignorance or, more infuriatingly, genuine ignorance.

“Passione has a narcotics unit, no?”

Giorno’s eyes narrowed, and his mind echoed back to gunfire and blood and the April rain that washed it away.

“It had a narcotics unit.”

“Oh. Well. That doesn’t matter, I know some people who—”

“You misunderstand me.” Giorno leaned in closer, his voice low enough to be a rumble. “It won’t be possible because I will not allow it.”

They stared each other down, neither willing to back down.

“Giorno, this was a deal we had in the works with the old Passione boss,” Valentino explained. “A lot’s changed these past few months, but it’s been a long time coming. If you’d just consider—”

“No.”

“…No?” The other gangster laughed sharply. “Really? Just… No? That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Giorno stood up, motioning for Fugo to do the same. “And I’ll be frank with you — The mere suggestion of this is jeopardising everything we’ve agreed upon so far. I am absolutely willing to sever ties over this.”

“Wait wait, Giorno, wait!” Valentino scrambled from his seat, looking the most panicked Giorno had ever seen him. “Just hang on, will you?!”

Giorno hesitated.

“Look, my father handed me the reins of the famiglia. He was the greatest, most powerful man you could meet, he was…” He tried to grasp the right words, but found none. “Well, I respected him a lot. We all did.”

Giorno knew. Valentino’s eyes shone like beacons.

“And now he’s passed on, and… This deal with the old Passione boss was the last thing he had in the works. It just feels like I need to honour it. For his sake. You get me?” 

“Like I said, I won’t do it. Admirable as your passion is, I will not allow it to sabotage my own principles. I also made a promise to someone.” 

“So you do get me.” Valentino’s expression softened considerably. “That someone isn’t around anymore, right?”

Giorno tensed. 

“I can tell. It’s that look in your eyes. I know it — I see it everyday in the mirror.”

A pause.

“Just consider it, Giorno. Come on. I need this.” 

“It’s still a no.” 

Valentino paused. He shook his head, still unwavering. 

“Look, just— Just give me the night, okay? Let me think about it, I’ll come up with a counter offer and we’ll try again. We can work it out. Yeah? So don’t go yet.”

Valentino was desperate. 

Then again, so was Passione. 

“Make it good,” Giorno agreed, and with that victory he left the room.

♡

Valentino’s team never came up with an adequate counterplan, and so his proposal was put on ice. The atmosphere hadn’t quite recovered between them, but Valentino insisted on carrying on like nothing had transpired, and Giorno was too exhausted to combat that approach.

“I wanted to throw a big celebration tonight!” Valentino had loudly announced at breakfast on their last day. “Nothing urgent back in Naples, right? You’ll stay?”

“Of course.” As if he could say no. Giorno exchanged a tired look with Fugo and knew his sentiment was returned.

“Awesome. We don’t have anything else going on, so just go out and enjoy the city. I have some things to take care of here. Be back by eight!”

So, Giorno and Fugo left to kill time. Neither were particularly interested in any more sightseeing, so the two headed into town to relax and finally do some shopping. Fugo wasn’t interested as much as Giorno, who was drifting in and out of designer stores with something specific very obviously in mind.

“What do you think, Fugo?” He turned around to reveal himself holding up a patterned sweater, bright as a traffic cone. Fugo made a face like he was constipated.

“…I didn’t know you wore that kind of thing,” he said limply.

“You don’t like it?”

“Maybe if I was colourblind.” His eyes suddenly went wide. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not for me, actually,” chuckled Giorno, dropping it.

“…Oh,” said Fugo, catching on.

He handed the item off to a shop assistant, then turned on his heel to look back at Fugo, a knowing look on his face. 

“Do you have any ideas?” He asked. 

Fugo raised his eyebrows, then promptly looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps something red would be good…”

“I thought so too.”

He meandered as Giorno rifled through more clothing, being very meticulous over wear and fabric choice.

“Are you sure you have the right sizes?” Asked Fugo with some doubt.

“I’m positive.” Of course he’d know. He just hoped that he’d picked something good out. He’d never bought a gift for someone before.

About two hours later, Giorno was feeling very pleased with himself. Fugo insisted he carry the bags, but over time he looked like he was about to be brought down like a house of cards from the weight. They ended up passing it along to their bodyguards and the continued wandering the city, stopping by cafes and sampling various kinds of gelato along the way.

As they kept walking, they passed by a church, unassuming as it stood tucked away at the end of a quiet street. Giorno found himself being drawn to it, and hovered around the steps. 

“You want to go in there?” Fugo asked. “I thought you weren’t religious.”

“I’m not.” Giorno looked back at him. “I won’t be long. You can spend your time elsewhere while you wait.”

“…I can’t do that,” he said. “I promised to look after you. I need to stay with you.”

“So protective. You sound just like Mista when you say that.”

As expected, Fugo glowered at the name. 

“Fine. I can wait out here.” He waved toward a bench by the steps, walking over. “If you insist.” 

“I appreciate it. Find me if anything happens.”

Giorno ascended the steps, pushing firmly against the heft of the wooden doors. Light scraped away the immediate darkness, and when the entryway closed Giorno was shrouded by yellow candlelight and the smell of burnt incense. There was a custodian shuffling near the altar and one other person praying near the front. He received a nod of acknowledgment from them and Giorno allowed himself to enter. 

The church was beautiful, magnificent in its stature, exquisite in its ornamentation. Gold licked the edges of paintings and the light that got caught in the stained glass fizzled out into kaleidoscopic speckles onto the floor. Giorno wondered if they had churches like this back home. They probably did, he just never cared to visit. Even now, he wasn’t so sure why he walked in. Something about his father’s name rang in his head — Dio. God. It was absurd. It was absurder still that he thought of himself when he admired a painting of Jesus and his disciplines on the wall; His father, the creator, and himself, the miracle son that shouldn’t have been born. He composed himself enough to hold back a laugh. 

No, his father was no God. His father was a raving, egomaniacal servant of evil, and Giorno himself was no one special, just a boy who was unlucky enough to be carried into the world. A boy with the fear of ending up just like his parents, of succumbing to wickedness, of hurting others.

He forced himself to take a breath. No, don’t think like that.

He ran his hand along the back pew, walking along until he sat in the corner. Under the soft glow of the light, Giorno realised that he didn’t know anything about church. He didn’t know how to light a candle, he didn’t know how to confess, he didn’t know how to sing hymns. His mother didn’t bother attending, being Japanese, and his step-father only visited on Sundays to keep up appearances. With some sadness, Giorno understood that this was yet another norm of society that he was denied. 

Mista knew about this stuff. They’d talked about it a few times. He wasn’t so religious now but as a kid he’d attended mass, had his Sunday best tucked in his wardrobe, memorised all sorts of strange, alien details from the Bible. 

Giorno resented him a little for it. Not about church. About having experiences he had missed out on. It was stupid and selfish and he tried to stamp the thoughts out of his head when he had them, but they came nonetheless. 

Silence enveloped him and the teen just sat there for a while, his senses going blank. 

He missed Mista. He wished he could call him and fix everything. He wished he hadn’t said what he did. 

When he came home, what was going to happen to them? 

Who was Mista to him anymore? Family, friends, colleagues… Giorno’s head swam with uncertainty. It was easy to say they were friends. It was easier to say they were colleagues. But the more he thought about it, the more difficult it was to quantify what they had. With a sinking heart, Giorno realised that Mista was right all along — Giorno had no idea what they were. What could Giorno fix if he didn’t know what was broken in the first place, only that there was a fault line?

Without his friend, it really felt like the whole world was about to grind him down to a pulp.

After a while, when the silence sank into the pores of his bones and his thoughts got too loud, he got up and left. 

♡

The pair returned to the hotel completely dolled up, decorated in ribbon and congratulatory banners. They changed into more presentable outfits, then headed into the main function room. About fifty members of Valentino’s famiglia were there already, mingling and drinking. The few Passione capos that remained in Florence were in their own circle, and Giorno and Fugo went to greet them first, although it wasn’t long until Valentino pulled Giorno away.

“Giorno! Get over here!”

Giorno, to much chagrin, made his way over to Valentino and his pile of girls. 

“Valentino. Having a good time?”

“Hm? You still going on with that? You can call me Orso, you know.” His face was already flushed from the free-flowing alcohol. “C’mere! You gay or something? Come sit with the girls, they’ve been waiting for ya!”

Fuck. Giorno sat himself next to the quietest-looking woman, his mind already coming up with ways to leave the party early. He distracted himself in the meantime by reaching for a half-full champagne flute from a waiter, sipping at it intermittently as he tried hard to ignore his surroundings.

Valentino continued to babble about something or the other, leaving no gap in his one-sided conversation for anyone but the girls to parrot back with a superficial “ooh” or “wow”. Giorno was just about to make an excuse to run to the bathroom when he noticed a shadow slinking around the entrance of the hall. Unnerved, he set his glass down and got up to chase after it.

“Excuse me for a minute.” 

Before Valentino could protest, or maybe he didn’t notice, Giorno got up and hurried out of the hall. 

The shadow, now obviously a human figure, darted quickly out of his sight. He gave chase, following them up the hotel lobby stairs and eventually onto an unlit balcony, illuminated only by the light of the full moon.

“Who are you?” Giorno called. “Are you keeping track of me?”

“Fuck off.”

“I have other ways of making you talk.”

The person laughed. 

“You want to use your Stand on me? What was it… Gold Experience, I think?” 

Giorno frowned. “Show yourself,” he commanded, snapping forward to grab their wrist. 

“Let— Go!”

Their hood slipped off, revealing a sharp face, serpentine eyes and a pronounced jaw. They looked incredibly familiar.

“Twins,” Giorno realised, knowing immediately that this was Valentino’s sister. 

She said nothing.

“…Riri Valentina?” He tried.

“Eris,” she spat.

“Eris,” he repeated. “What are you doing here?”

The woman shrugged. “Is ‘keeping an eye on you’ a good enough answer?”

“No. It’s not.”

Eris crossed their arms, looking unaffected. 

“You find a nice grave for your Capo?” She suddenly asked. “Or did you dump her in a hole somewhere?” 

Capo? Giorno’s heart sped up, realising what this meant.

“It was you working with Dolce? You worked with her to kill me?”

She smiled. “The one and only.”

“So what, you plan to finish the job now?”

The girl huffed a laugh.“I wish.”

Giorno’s eyes narrowed. “The deal with Valentino is too good. You won’t risk killing me now just to screw your own organisation in the process.”

“Got me.”

“So why? You knew your brother and I were in talks of allying with one another, and still you planned an attack on me?”

“Because Dolce was a better ally,” Eris snapped. “Orso didn’t see that and you didn’t either. She was wasted on you.”

“I recognised her strength. Our values simply didn’t align.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what pisses me off about you. You have no idea what’s right for our famiglia.”

“And do you?” Asked Giorno. “Valentino never mentioned your involvement. Does he know about any of this? I can’t imagine that he does.”

Eris glowered. 

“…He’s stubborn. Doesn’t think a woman has a place in the mafia.” Something forlorn crossed her face for a moment, before tightening back into seriousness. “So yes, my plans haven’t exactly been well planned out… But when he realises my vision, that’s when we can work together. We can make dad proud together.”

Giorno gave a heavy sigh. “Your business between Valentino and yourself are your own. It has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you. Taking down Passione is my mission.”

“Sure. Right after I tell your brother what you’ve been up to.”

“He’ll never believe you. Besides, he’d rather kill you than ever side against me. That’s just the kind of person he is. Loyal to a fault.” She crossed her arms. “I suggest you start sleeping with one eye open, Giorno Giovanna.”

Giorno couldn’t hold back a small laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I just pity you,” Giorno laughed. “You think it’ll be that easy, all on your own?”

“I’ll show you.” 

“Then I wish you luck. You’ll need it.”

“Giorno?” A voice suddenly called. It was Fugo. “Giorno, you up here?”

Giorno exchanged a look with Eris, knowing that this conversation was not over between them.

“…You should’ve taken the deal.” She said, quietly. “The drugs.”

The blond frowned.

“How do you know about that?”

“If you can’t swim with the big fish…” She trailed off, ignoring him. “Then get out of the water before it drowns you. You’re already floundering.”

She disappeared, running off into the darkness. Giorno stood there, absorbing the details of their talk. Allying with the Valentino family came not only with smuggling routes to Germany, but also an adversary hell-bent on killing him. What on earth was he supposed to do with that?

“There you are.”

Fugo’s voice rang crystal clear in the cold, night air. 

“Oh… Fugo.” He turned around to face him, grateful to see a friend.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah… I was just about to go to my room,” he said. “All of these people make me exhausted.”

Fugo nodded solemnly. “Me too. I’ll go up with you. I’m worried if we don’t leave now we’ll get wrapped up in Valentino’s gross orgy. Did you see him with all of those girls? He was all wrapped up like an octopus,” he gagged.

Giorno laughed, appreciating the sudden levity of the situation. “Let’s go before we see something we’ll regret.” 

They headed towards their rooms, and the relief that Giorno felt from the fact that this was finally his last night here could not be understated. He showered and did his nightly routine, deciding that he was not going to worry about Valentino’s twin for now. There was, at this point, no energy left in his reserves to worry about this right now. He hoped he wouldn’t come to regret that.

He collapsed in his bed, and for the first time in about three weeks, he felt like he actually wanted to sleep. His eyelids pulled closed, and let everything fade out.

He was awoken a few hours later by his phone’s ringtone.

Groggily, Giorno threw his arm over to retrieve his phone. It had been ringing for so long that the phone had travelled across the table and off it, and Giorno just managed to catch it before it hit the floor. Bleary eyed, he squinted to recognise the caller ID. 

Mista.

He picked up immediately.

Chapter Text

The day of the Florence trip arrived with much of the same elegance as a house-cat dumping a mouse onto the front door welcome mat.

Mista stood on the mansion’s outside steps. The brisk wind cut his skin as he had one hand curled around the warmth of a takeaway coffee cup and a watchful eye on the bags being packed into the car. The doors behind him creaked open and Fugo joined him on the landing for a brief second, exchanging a dismissive look.

“Fugo,” Mista called, sharpening his voice to a point.

“What?”

“You let anything happen to Giorno and I’m breaking something worse than your nose this time. Got it?”

Fugo’s flat demeanour cracked, lips curling in contemptuous amusement.

“Classy as ever, Mista,” he scoffed. “You don’t need to worry about that. We can take care of ourselves,” and with a swish of his coat, he descended the steps and disappeared into the car.

Mista knocked back the last of his, quite frankly, shitty coffee and tossed the cup, deciding to head back inside –That was until he came face to face with exactly the person he didn’t want to see.

“Mista,” came Giorno’s soft-spoken tone. He was neat and presentable in a newly fitted suit — Mista instantly remembered the day Giorno tried it on, a flash of nervous energy striking his chest. Italian designer, finely sewn, colour a sultry burgundy. His hair was tightly braided, brooches fixed meticulously to his chest. Everything was precise. A good impression was worth its weight in gold to the mafia, and Valentino would accept no less. Giorno obviously understood this well.

But the whites of his eyes still had a redness, and Mista had the thought that he looked… Tired. 

“Giorno,” he said, as much of a greeting as it could be with how coldly he had delivered the name. He moved inside the house, knowing that stopping this interaction now would be better for the both of them. He didn’t have the heart to keep arguing with him.

“Wait. Can I talk to you?”

Mista stopped. “Talk about what?”

“Just…” Giorno paused, going over the words in his head. “About that night… Well, I just wanted to say–”

“Giorno, whatever shit you’re about to peddle me, I’m not interested. I mean seriously, what ?” He turned around fully to face him and he could feel the murmur of resentment vibrating under his skin. “What else do you wanna say? Haven’t you said enough?”

He hated seeing Giorno’s face fall. He hated seeing the way his eyes quietly dimmed. He hated that he was the one who was making him feel that way.

“Car’s waiting,” he said, as a mercy to them both. “You should go.” 

“I’m not leaving you to go on holiday or something,” Giorno said eventually. “That’s not what this is. I’m doing my job, and so are you. Let’s act more like it, shall we?”

Mista knew. He knew, and yet he couldn’t help all of these negative emotions from bubbling to the surface. He couldn’t compartmentalise like Giorno could.

“…I’ve left you everything you need in my office. Polnareff will help you. If there’s anything else, just call me.”

The Don stepped forward then, looking frustrated. He suddenly reached for Mista’s injured hand.

“Will you at least let me heal you before I—”

He flinched. Those keen, green eyes of Giorno’s settled on Mista’s own, shining with remorse, with some form of guilt. Mista had to turn away before his anger deflated, because if there ever was a direct sedative to his negative emotions then it were those eyes.

He wouldn’t give in to him. Against all his will, he refused to. 

He stood with his weight on the door, waiting until he was sure that the car had finally pulled out of the driveway. With quiet renewed, Mista approached Coco Jumbo, who sat politely along the windowsill. Polnareff, having had a front row seat to the full awkwardness of that exchange, popped out of the key with a conflicted expression.

“Did you and Giorno have a fight?” He asked, quirking a ghostly brow.

Mista pulled a face. “Don’t try to lecture me, old man.”

“Hmph. I wasn’t about to, but now I’m feeling tempted.” He breathed out a heavy sigh. “No, I understand. I know how he is.”

Mista tapped his fingers on the windowsill. He refused to look wistfully outside of it, to play the part of a jilted lover because it was too ridiculous and too melodramatic, even for him. 

“It was probably my fault,” he said quietly, eventually. He still found himself defending his friend. He couldn’t help it. “It usually is.”

Polnareff’s face softened.

“Mista…"

“You told me to take care of him and I couldn’t do that. It was the one damn thing I promised you and still I…”

“Life is more complicated than that. You tried your best. Perhaps I have something to learn from pressuring you too much. I was your age too, once.” 

Mista shrugged, scooping the turtle into his hands.

“Not your fault, Pol.”

Polnareff perked up, his glance of surprise evening out into what looked like reserved endearment.

“You two can talk it out when he’s back,” he reassured. “Until then, let’s just do our jobs.”

That sounded good enough to Mista.

♡

When Giorno occupied the office, sitting in that grand chair of his, it sometimes felt like the light flowing into the room bent to illuminate his own personal spotlight, a handwritten sign from God showing others that he was exactly where he deserved to be.

When Mista sat in the same spot, his mind imagined himself in a far less glamorous manner — Something like a toddler trying to fit into his dad’s oversized loafers and two tiny, balled up hands hauling his briefcase around, pretending to be important.

Seriously, Mista thought, what was he doing here?

When Mista talked about assuming more responsibility, he hadn’t imagined the title of Boss of the entire fucking gang being thrown onto his lap. Wasn’t this a little too cruel? Did Giorno actually hate him or something? Want to break him? 

“What made him think I can do this?” He asked aloud, half to himself, half to God, probably. “And dumping everything on me at the last second too…” 

“Mista,” Polnareff began in that heartening tone of his, “I think you’re confusing Giorno’s pragmatism with callousness. You think that he did this to spite you, but I promise you this decision wasn’t rooted in personal feeling.”

“Yeah, well. It fucking felt personal.”

Polnareff shook his head, a helpless smile lifting the aged corners of his mouth. 

“Oh believe me, if I were in your shoes I’d be pissed. You’re handling this with far more grace than I would have at your age.”

Mista preened on the validation, but his burgeoning sense of insecurity hung over his head nonetheless. Polnareff seemed to hear his thoughts, calling his attention again with a beckoning sigh.

“Look, I’ve been working closely with Giorno so I believe I can speak for him on some level.

“Let’s think about this whole thing from his perspective: He needs to take time away, not of his own volition, and leave Passione on its own for two weeks. Typically, I imagine this wouldn’t be an issue — that is, if the gang was operating normally. The fact is that we haven’t been in power for very long. Has it even been six months?”

“No,” Mista answered. It’s been four. No wonder nothing was going right.

“Exactly. Giorno’s been doing his best but with all the changes, trust hasn’t been built up within the organisation yet. Most recognise your power, but I imagine the Capos fall in line out of fear more than respect. Respect takes years to build and a second to break. The position of Don is volatile as it is. Add an assassination attempt by his own Capo and her death on top of that, how do you think the gang looks at Giorno now?”

“Tch. As if anyone respected Diavolo. He ruled by fear, too.”

“It’s not the same. Diavolo kept his identity hidden. He committed vile, inhumane acts to keep his men in line. But, more importantly, he possessed control over the largest drug trade in Europe. Fear was a factor, but ultimately people stayed in line because it was easy getting by just by following the money. With that gone, Giorno needs more to convince people that it's worth staying.”

Polnareff sighed.

“Besides, Giorno doesn’t want to rule by fear. Money and power is not why he’s here. I think you know that.”

He did. Mista was the same.

“Too much can happen in a week. If we’re not careful, complacency will become a bullet hole in our heads. So, a close eye needs to be kept on things. If Giorno can’t be in control, someone else must be.”

“Why me then?” Asked Mista. “Why not Fugo? He’s obviously better at this shit than me!”

A hand reached to stroke Polnareff’s chin, a contemplative look in his eye.

“I’ve only known Fugo for a few days but I don’t believe you’re completely wrong. I think he’d certainly be capable. He’s a genius, after all.”

“You weren’t supposed to agree, you fucking jerk…” Mista grumbled, wounded. 

“But,” Polnareff continued, “It’s crucial to consider the organisation’s perspective too. In a period of instability and waning faith in the Don, he goes and assigns a complete nobody to be de-facto Boss while he’s disappeared to Florence. Tell me, what kind of message does that send?” 

“I dunno. That Giorno’s a great judge of character, probably,” Mista muttered. 

A chuckle escaped the older man.

“No, Mista. Perhaps if the Capos knew Fugo, but they don’t. They only know you.

“What matters above all is image. Choosing you to lead in the Boss’s stead not only strengthens your partnership and allows you to learn, but it makes you look capable. It demonstrates to the Capos that Giorno has no doubt about you, and that you’re exactly the right person to be at his side. Respect begins by setting an example. Plus, you have the advantage of actually knowing how the organisation has been doing ever since you took over, every little detail. Fugo doesn’t have that.”

Image was one thing, but taking charge was another. Mista could make himself look good no problem, but taking the wheel and charging the entire gang off a cliff seemed too easy a mistake to make. Did Giorno really trust him that much?

“This is a good thing for you,” Polnareff reassured, sensing his unease. “So long as you keep a rational head.”

Mista blew out a sigh, picking at the corner of the stack of papers Giorno left him. He hadn’t read a single page yet.

“Why’s it sound like you’re on his side?” He asked, deflated, no energy left to keep up his anger anymore. 

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” said Polnareff. “I just think you ought to look at this situation as an opportunity more than as a punishment.”

“Some opportunity,” Mista snorted. “Giorno and his best friend Fugo get to dick around on vacation while I’m stuck here. Fantastico. ”

“You’re wrong. Giorno’s about to undertake his most difficult challenge yet. Trust me, his task is no easier than yours.”

Mista frowned. That’s right — Convincing Valentino to ally himself with Passione wasn’t going to be anything less than arduous. 

What a self-absorbed ass, he couldn't help but think. If Giorno took him along like they’d planned, he could’ve helped! Wasn’t that what their partnership was for? Why Giorno was so insistent on doing everything himself was absolutely beyond him. 

It was then that three knocks sounded on the door, cutting him off from his reverie.

“Ah, it must be ten,” Polnareff chimed like a clock. “Minestrone’s coming in for his meeting with you.”

“What?” He’d totally forgotten. Mista’s hand stretched to reach for his timetable, stuck in between the print-outs of the other crap he hadn’t had time to read yet. Every time he pulled one page out, an avalanche of other things came out. “Hang on, I can’t–”

“Oh. He’s actually early,” Polnareff commented, taking a peek at the time. “Maybe my watch is late…?”

“Wait a damn second, I haven’t even…!”

Two more knocks came, softer than the initial three.

“Come on, you can’t keep a Capo waiting. Chop chop.” 

“What the fuck…?” Mista hissed as he watched Polnareff traitorously slide back into the key. How convenient. 

He threw aside the stack of pages – he was never going to get through all of it anyway – and cleared his throat.

“Yeah!” He hollered. Then wondered if that was inappropriate. “Uh, come in!” He corrected himself. Whatever.

The door tentatively opened. 

“Good morning…” Minestrone entered the room, tipping his hat in restrained greeting. His eyes trailed to the pile of strewn pages on the floor. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nah, va bene.”

Mista didn’t really have any history with Minestrone. He dealt with a small pocket of businesses on the western side of Naples, which time and time again had been targeted by repeated attempts at annexation by other gangsters but to no avail. Not only were the local residents loyal to Minestrone completely, apparently Giorno had heard that he knew some pretty nasty secrets about some key Passione members that gave him nice leverage over them. Having been in Passione as long as he had guaranteed he was good at finding skeletons in all sorts of closets. He was non-confrontational and easily kept in line, which was probably why Diavolo kept him around too.

Compared to the other Capos he was pretty softhearted, which usually would’ve been a weakness but in his case was one of the qualities that made him not irritating to talk to. That being said, Mista didn’t interact with him nearly as much as Giorno did. 

He watched the Capo hover by the entrance, trilby hat tied up in his fingers.

“Sit, sit,” Mista directed. “I ain’t gonna bite.”

The captain did what he was told. 

“So, uh… What’s up?”

Minestrone’s face lit up in surprise.

“Did Don Giovanna not fill you in on the details?”

No, he did, Mista just hadn’t bothered reading it. 

“Must’ve missed a memo,” he chuckled awkwardly. “How about ya gimme the rundown?”

A look of uncertainty crossed the Capo's face, but he cleared his throat and began to speak.

Well, you see, signore … It’s the businesses I protect. They refuse to pay pizzo .”

“Protection money?” Looked like it was becoming a more widespread problem. “Why?”

“From what I gather, there have been small gangs forming and rallying business owners against us. They believe that there’s nothing we do that they need to pay fees for. They’ve forgotten what purpose we serve.”

“So?” Mista crossed his arms. “Did you need permission to go and break some legs? Start a gang war?”

Alarmed, the Capo shook his head.

“I’d rather it not escalate to violence! At least, it shouldn't be the first step we resort to.” Minestrone gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s why I hoped to discuss some diplomatic solutions with you. Don Giovanna told me you might have some suggestions.”

“… Did he now?”

With a pang of anger, Mista realised that he was being tested. There Giorno was, still pulling at puppet strings. 

“Alright then,” sighed Mista, knowing that resistance was futile, “Tell me more. These shop owners, have you talked to ‘em?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve known the majority of them for over a decade now.” He grunted. “I don’t like to say this, but many of these businesses wouldn’t be standing without my intervention throughout the years.”

“And they still refuse?”

Minestrone nodded.

“With these new gangs cropping up, they’ve gotten the strength to stand up to my men. Even my longtime friends are having doubts. Perhaps they’ve received a better deal with the local hooligans, I don’t know. Whatever’s happening, it’s not good.”

Mista kept quiet, trying to think. What action he took here was important — so what was the right choice? What did Giorno want him to say?

Take out the gangsters? Talk to the businesses personally? Negotiate? Threaten? Offer a goddamn coupon?

Seriously, what did Giorno want from him?

“O-kay!” He said with a clap of his hands. “I got it.”

“What is it?"

“Let ‘em off the hook.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“If they don’t want to pay, they won’t pay.”

Silence stretched between them. Quietly, Minestrone piped up:

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“No,” Mista admitted. “Not really. With Passione in the red, it ain’t smart to let go of any source of income, no matter how small.”

“Could you explain your reasoning?”

“Look,” he sighed, “I could go and get some guys to chase those gangsters down to the gates of hell and make ‘em disappear. But if I do that, then these businesses will lose trust in you forever. How could the one guy that’s always protected them turn around and beat everyone he doesn’t like with sticks? Doesn’t send a good message, right?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So we give them some time. I guarantee you these local gangs will turn on them real quick. In fact, that’s probably exactly what they’re waiting for. They’ll take everything from these businesses. The police won’t help ‘em, the law won’t help ‘em. There’ll be no one to help until they realise that we were the only ones who ever did. They’ll come crawling back and they’ll be begging to pay pizzo again.”

If Mista didn’t know business, then he knew people. And if respect takes years to build and a second to break, then pizzo wasn’t about to be the thing that broke a community’s longstanding relationship with the gang — Especially at a time when they needed all the support they could get.

“And the Don… Would he be okay with this?”

Mista leaned back in his chair.

“Who’s sitting across from you? Me or the Don?” 

He tapped his fingers on the desk, contemplative.

“Besides… Giorno wants Passione to be different now. He doesn’t wanna rule by fear, have innocent people under his thumb. You get me?”

Minestrone nodded.

“I understand. Then they’ll pay nothing.”

“But figure out a way to keep your men from knowing. If they find out you’re not demanding the money, it’ll look bad for you. In the meantime, pressure those gangs. I doubt they’ve got any real power behind them but keep ‘em in line.”

There, thought Mista. That good enough for ya, Giorno?

Minestrone himself seemed pleased.

“Yes, that’s smart. Thank you. Ah, there was one other thing…”

“Hm?”

“The drug trade… That’s been abolished for some time now, yes?”

Mista’s heart kicked a faster beat.

“Yeah?”

“Hm. It’s probably nothing, but… I’ve heard that there’s been some erratic behaviour exhibited by certain people recently. Not unlike how it used to be.” He looked back at Mista, a grave expression clouding his face. “Perhaps you should look into it.”

The captain packed up his hat, placing it stiffly onto his head, and gave a bow of his head in gratitude. He idled by the corner of the desk, where Coco Jumbo was, and jutted one finger out to carefully stroke a line down the turtle’s back. 

“Nice seeing you, Coco,” Minestrone rumbled with affection, then finally left the room. The animal looked indifferent, but Polnareff, who popped out as soon as the door closed, did not.

“Merde, will there ever come a day when I’m not confused for a goddamn turtle?” He cursed, rubbing his neck. “I have feelings too, you know…”

Mista laughed a little.

“Tough break.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” 

Polnareff gave him a small smile.

“You did good back there. I’m actually a little surprised.”

Mista pulled a face. 

“Alright, old man, that part wasn’t necessary.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, my friend!” Polnareff chuckled. “Really, you did well. I can see why Giorno trusted you to take over.”

Mista nodded along, his victory somewhat dampened by the circumstances pertaining to it.

“With time,” continued the Frenchman, “Fugo will hopefully be able to integrate and become a respected figure among Passione’s higher ranks, but it’s not the time to have him assume responsibility. Giorno doesn’t trust him that much yet.”

 He looked up at Mista then, eyes soft. 

“He trusts you though. Very much so. He believes you can do this, and I’m starting to believe so too. Have more confidence.”

Mista’s heart warmed in spite of himself. When it came to Giorno, he only ever wanted to please him. Even if the situation wasn’t ideal, he must be doing something right if his friend trusted him this much. 

With refreshed spirit, he promised to prove himself to Giorno, no matter what was going on between them. This was his chance.

Polnareff hopped up to sit on the edge of the turtle’s shell, hitching up a leg to rest his elbow on.

“Besides. He never expected you to do this alone,” said Polnareff chiefly. “Apparently I’ve developed a knack for inter-mafia diplomacy. A career change if there ever was one.” 

“You’ve fit into it like a glove.”

“What can I say?” He teased, throwing his hands up. “I’m just that amazing.”

Mista smiled, leaning back in his chair. It was honestly nice to have Polnareff with him. They were never particularly close, but he’s begun to harbour familial sentiment towards him in a way he couldn’t explain. He fit so easily into the role of a caring older brother or uncle, reminding Mista of old relatives. When he recalled the things that he’s read about Polnareff, it made more sense why he always bent over backwards trying to look out for them both.

“Hey, Pol.”

“Mm?"

“You’re friends with Jotaro, right?”

Polnareff blinked. Surprised, he laughed.

“Christ, you kids are nosy. But yes.”

“He a good guy?”

“One of the best people I know. Why the sudden curiosity?”

“Well… Giorno and I found some things out. That stuff about his dad you didn’t want him knowing.”

Polnareff’s face dimmed.

“Ah.”

“Yeah, well... Curiosity killed the cat or whatever.” Mista chuckled, uncomfortable. “Anyway, we also found out that he’s got a bunch of relatives. The Joestars, right?”

“That’s right.”

“So, I thought, hey, that’s a good thing right? All these uncles and nieces and nephews… So I told Gio that he should meet them maybe. And…” He sighed, recalling the night. “He got mad. Like, really mad.”

“Right.”

“And I was just thinking… Was I really so wrong for saying that?”

Polnareff hummed in thought. 

“No,” he said eventually. “I don’t think you were wrong. I would’ve tried suggesting the same thing. But… I don’t think now is the right time for Giorno to be considering that.”

Mista cursed under his breath, kicking himself for what he said.

“How is he?” Polnareff asked, concerned. “How is he dealing with everything?”

“Not good. Or at all,” answered Mista, hanging his head. “I’ve never seen him like that before…”

“I can only imagine.”

“Look, it wasn’t all me, okay? He said some shit to me too.”

Polnareff didn’t say anything, a solemn expression falling on his face.

“You know, Mista,” He spoke up, “I believe I understand how you feel. Family has always been a big part of my life. Regrettably, I never got to spend more time with them, but I still carry them with me, everyday.”

He stared down at the red gem of the key, his features swirling within its reflection until he was borderline unrecognisable. 

“My sister especially… I spent years chasing revenge, trying to get some kind of closure. The madness that drove me to avenge her was the most painful thing I have ever experienced, far worse than whatever Diavolo did to me. That kind of familial love is almost impossible to describe to people who haven’t lived it.”

Mista found himself feeling bad about their argument all over again. Of course Giorno got mad at him. He couldn’t even begin to consider what it felt like to be alone your whole life. It wasn’t something he could get used to, but for Giorno it was second nature.

“That being said… Even when I lost all my own blood relatives, it was the Joestars who were there to be a second family to me.”

The teen looked up, taken aback.

“What? Really?”

Polnareff smiled widely, his face instantly brightening. 

“Of course! They’re wonderful people. Like I said, Jotaro is one of the best people I know, and the sentiment extends to the rest of his family.” He sighed. “I haven’t seen any of them in years. Poor Holly, I must’ve worried her so much…”

Mista quieted, not really knowing what to say.

“You know Jotaro had a daughter,” Polnareff mentioned wistfully, after some time. “Eight years old already.”

Mista remembered the photo.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to meet her now though,” he sighed, referencing his spectral form with a wave of his arms. 

“Hey man, they’ve probably seen weirder things than ghosts. You still got a chance.”

Polnareff smiled sadly. “Ever the optimist.”

“That’s my specialty.”

He laughed, some of the age lifting off his face.

“Anyway. What I mean to say is… Giorno will come around. Just be there for him. And hopefully one day… He’ll be ready to meet them. I know they will take him in with open arms.”

That thought comforted Mista more than he cared to admit.

♡

Absent of any decent company, Mista found himself having lunch with some of the lower rungs of the Passione family ladder that he’d worked with before. Some part of him also hoped that hanging out with some other people will help him forget about Giorno while he was away. Besides, he was a social guy. Why not make some new friends?

He attached himself to Leo, one of their higher ranking officers, the same position Bucciarati was once in. He’d introduced him to some of his friends and, well… Mista found himself staring into space more often than not during their conversations. 

He hated to admit that he missed Giorno. It felt like losing, somehow, but he did — He missed talking to him about everything and nothing, his witty comments and his reactions to Mista’s dumb jokes. This was to say nothing about his old crew.

Now, he’d cut in with a dry joke that never went anywhere, or he’d listen to conversations about their girlfriends or their mechanic overcharging them on their brake fluid or whatever other bullshit. The inherent work relationship imbalance didn’t really help either.

“Hey, just ‘cause I’m the boss doesn’t mean I can’t take a joke!” He had said. It felt forced, but it had to be good enough. That got them to relax around him, but he immediately regretted not solidifying harder boundaries when the boys started their locker room talk.

“Really?” Leo asked, actual confusion on his face. “No special girl in your life?”

“Unlike you lot I actually do my job, so no,” Mista spoke over the rim of his glass. “Too busy for girls.”

That got some laughter. 

“Hey, you need to go out and bang a hot chick, man! Let your stress out, get that stick outta your ass. You’re a decent looking dude, it can’t be that hard to pull.”

“What, don’t tell me you’re gay or something?” One of them barked a laugh. “Dick too small?”

“Neither, actually,” snapped Mista. “I just can’t believe sex and money is all you degenerates think about.”

“What else is there to life?”

“How long’s it been since you've gotten some, anyway?”

Mista let out a groan, getting up from the lunch table.

“I’ve got work to do,” Mista grumbled, irritated. “Not wasting my time on this dumbass conversation.”

The others exchanged a knowing look. 

“So at least a year.”

Mista just rolled his eyes as he left the room to their hyena laughter.

So what if Mista didn’t have a girlfriend? He didn’t have any interest, yet for whatever reason he felt embarrassed. He’d quietly given up on going out with girls ever since Giorno stonewalled him that one time, but the more he had thought about it the more he believed his friend was probably right. It was just too risky. And besides, Mista would feel bad if he couldn’t spend time with a partner due to the hectic nature of his work. Sure, he’d get frustrated sometimes as any man would, but for the most part he was too busy to even think about things like that. He was satisfied with the way things were.

Nonetheless, there was a murky feeling gnawing at him, like there was something more to this that he couldn’t figure out. 

After that conversation, Mista thought it might as well be better to be alone, but for whatever reason he couldn’t do that to himself. Maybe it was too sad, the image of eating a limp sandwich in the kitchen alone, surrounded by piles of work documents. So, when Leo invited him for a couple of rounds of card games with the rest of the ensemble, he found himself tagging along on a free afternoon. 

They headed to the boys’ usual watering hole, a run-down trattoria with an infamously watery carbonara, when Leo turned to give Mista a sheepish look right before they entered.

“Hey, by the way, I invited one of my friends along today. That cool?”

Mista raised an eyebrow. “Passione?”

“Yeah, yeah. He just hasn’t been in town for long so I thought he could do with some socialising. He’s a little bit of a handful though.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Mista was the underboss of Passione. He could deal with a “handful.” 

The door opened and the entryway bell chimed just as the owner gave them a cheery shout. All looked normal, the gangsters huddled around a large table like usual, until Mista saw just who Leo’s ‘friend’ turned out to be.

“What the—”

The centre of the table was occupied by an irritatingly familiar angular head and auburn hair. 

Lo and behold, the user of Kraftwerk that Mista defeated months ago, alive and well and with the shittiest fucking smirk on his face.

“Surprised?” 

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“And what the fuck are you doing being the boss of Passione?!” Sale groaned, banging his fist on the table. “Thought my ears were all plugged up when I heard. I thought, ‘surely it couldn’t be that annoying-ass British flag I fought in Capri!’”

“British flag?!” Mista jumped forward to grab him by the shirt collar, not about to withstand any slander to his clothes. “You take that back!”

“Fuck you.”

Mista ran through his options. Technically he had the clearance to shoot this guy and no one could say shit about it—

But when Mista tried to move his hand, he couldn’t. 

“Let me go, asshole!” 

Kraftwerk relented his grip on Mista and he fell backwards to the eruption of Sale’s laughter. The other gangsters looked around quizzically, missing the punchline to the pair’s little inside joke.

“You guys… Know each other?” Asked Leo.

“A little too well, if ya ask me…” grumbled Mista. He swiped the dust from his pants as he got up. “You still didn’t answer me, by the way. What the fuck are you doing here? Thought you were Rome-based.”

“I was.” Sale sniffed. “Then the Don did some restructuring. Ended up moving here. Ain’t as bad as I thought, though.” He flashed a lazy grin. “The weather’s good and the chicks are hot as. Who am I to complain? The only thing ruining it is you.”

Mista pulled a face. Great, another thing he should be mad at Giorno for. 

“Where’d your shitty friend go?” 

“Ah?” Sale cocked an ear, thinking. “Ohhh, you mean Zucchero?”

“Yeah, the octopus-lookin’ motherfucker.”

He barked out a laugh. “Skipped town after all that shit with Bucciarati. Last I heard he was in Portugal chasing tail. Who the fuck knows what he’s doing now.”

Good riddance, thought Mista.

“Ahhh… This sucks!” Sale wailed like a toddler, throwing his hands around. “As soon as life starts getting good again, I have to run into you. What’d I do in my past life?”

“How do you think I feel?! We saved your ass, too! Shoulda let your bullet wounds get infected.”

“Can you guys shut up about your shitty backstories already?” Moaned one of the other gangsters. “Let’s get the game started, I’m tired of fucking waiting!”

Mista dumped himself onto one of the chairs, pointing an accusing finger at Sale.

“I’m taking you for everything you have.”

“Bring it on.”

An hour later, the entire table was enshrouded in deathly cold silence. Only the flimsy sounds of cards being flipped filled the air.

One card. Then three more in succession.

Mista glanced at his hand. He hadn’t been dealt any fours, so he was feeling good. He glanced up at his opponents. Suddenly, all of the locker room talk that Mista had to endure felt worth it. After all, he wasn’t about to win a boatload of money at poker right about now if it weren’t for these guys.

He cocked a self-satisfied smile.

“Full house,” Mista announced, throwing the cards down to an eruption of groans. “Pay up, ya sacks of shit.”

“Fuck off!” cried Sale, tossing his hand down in a huff. “You cheat!”

“Didn’t I say? Everything. You. Have.” He grinned. “Now gimme.”

The clinking of chips being shoveled into Mista’s corner was interspersed with hissed complaints and sighs. They took a break between games, replenishing their coffees and lighting fresh smokes. Mista was busy counting how much he was owed. 

“How much, how much?” Asked No. 1 excitedly, peering from behind Mista’s ear. 

“You can buy a whooole lot of salami with that!” No. 3 chirped. 

Sale, at hearing the Pistols’ boastful chatter, shot Mista a hilariously reproachful look. 

In the thick of the other gangster’s chatter, Leo suddenly approached him.

“Hey, uh, can I talk to ya for a second?”

Mista leaned his elbow over the chair, lending a listening ear.

“What’s up?”

“So…” Leo ran a hand through his hair, an atypical nervousness washing over his expression. “My girlfriend, right, she works at the strip joint, yeah?”

“Sure, I remember you sayin’ that.”

“Well, she told me that something happened to her friend last night. She got beat up or something, I dunno. Apparently it’s been happening more and more recently, and my girlfriend asked me if there was something I could do about it… The girls are getting too scared to go to work, you know? And the manager’s the type to crack the whip if they don’t do what they’re told.”

Mista frowned, definitely concerned. “Giacomo’s in charge of that area. Why didn’t you go to him?”

Giacomo Tagliatelle was another one of their capos. He rose to fame via his web of businesses all throughout Naples, straining all their dirty money through them. Nowadays he provides income through a restricted list of companies, choosing to focus more on his personal life. As long as he provided cash, Mista couldn’t say he had an opinion on him one way or the other. 

“I did!” Leo exclaimed, frustrated. “He gave me some shitty, nothin’ answer. ‘Can’t do anything,’ he said. What else am I supposed to say? He’s a Capo, you know?” He sighed. “My girlfriend’s a tough nut to crack, but even she’s gettin’ worried… That’s why I wanted to see if you could do anything.”

Mista got up, a sudden resolve pumping through his veins. 

“Aight. I’ll go sort it out.”

“Right now?” Leo asked, watching him pocket his gun into his boot.

“Might as well nip it in the bud.”

“Oi oi,” one of the others yelled, “We still got another game!”

“Just be careful of the manager,” Leo suddenly mentioned. “Giacomo’s the only high-ranking Passione guy allowed in there. There might be something going on with them.”

Mista frowned. That definitely sounded suspicious. 

“He in?”

“Not today. You should be alright, just… You know.”

Mista nodded.  He craned his neck to look back at the table, tossing an unamused expression towards Sale.

“Oi, Sale, you’re comin’ with me. I needa keep an eye on you.”

“What? All the way out there?” He grumbled through the obstruction of his cigarette. Mista walked over and plucked it from his lips, stamping it out demonstrably on his losing card — A two of clubs with the corner bent at an angle.

“Just get your ass up already.”

The two gangsters piled into the car, making their way over. ‘The Diamond’ was not too far from the restaurant, erect on the far side of a rough-looking parking lot. This area was one of those corners of Naples that was shabbier than most, notorious for gang rioting and shuttered businesses. Just about the only things left standing were the strip club, a tobacco shop and a laundromat, caged in by run-down flats. 

“He really lets her work here…?” Mista couldn’t help mumbling to himself. 

Metal suddenly cracked from below his boot, a discarded needle. He frowned and kicked the remains aside. Months later, there were still people using. It was a sobering reminder of how much work they still had to do.

“What a dump,” Sale drawled, scraping his feet along the tarmac. “Let’s finish this up quick, bein’ here gives me the creeps.”

Mista tossed him an annoyed look over his shoulder, with all the equivalent scorn of a schoolteacher. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole, remember who’s in charge here. And behave yourself, got it? Don’t get weird with the girls or I’ll make sure you won’t see the pearly gates.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Huh? Speak up.”

“You got it, boss,” he said with sarcasm.

The club was quiet this time of day, the slick fuschia lights and vinyl seating lonely without the backup of a crowd. Some workers shuffled around the stage cleaning the floors, whilst the bartender quietly stocked up behind the bar. A sharp stink of cleaning chemicals and built-up tobacco prickled Mista’s nostrils. 

A woman approached them as they entered, swaying her hips as she walked. She was good looking, tanned and dark hair snaked past her waist. Mista was a little ashamed to find himself staring. Trish’s voice wormed into his ear: Don’t you dare look down, pig. 

“You’re Leo’s boss, right?” 

Her expectant voice snatched Mista’s attention and he shook himself out of his tongue-tied stupor.

“Are you the girl?” He asked, the words tripping over themselves as they stumbled out into verbalisation. Fuck. He probably looked stupid as hell. 

The woman shot him an annoyed look, not looking impressed.

“No. Viola’s in the back.” She scrutinised him, looking him up and down, and did the same to Sale, who was not as subtle in drooling over her. “I’m just here to make sure everything goes smoothly. You don’t have a problem with that, right?”

Mista quickly got the impression that if he disagreed, then there definitely would be a problem.

“Nope. We’re just here to help.”

“Good.” The woman nodded her head in the direction of a door at the back of the club, beckoning the two men over. 

“I’m Jade, by the way. Leo’s girlfriend.”

“Mista.” 

“Pleasure,” she said in a tone that suggested otherwise. 

“Do you know much about what went on yesterday?”

“I wasn’t working. I got the gist of it, but you’ll have to hear the whole story from Vi.” She stopped when they got to the room. “Do we really need the two of you, though? She’s already nervous enough as it is.”

Mista glanced at Sale, who already looked bored.

“Go keep the bartender company,” he ordered. The gangster slinked past them, looking grateful to not have to do anything. Jade gave Mista an approving glance.

“Thanks. Didn’t like the look of him.”

Mista snickered.

She led him inside the break room, where a young woman sat at one of the tables, hands clasped together. She was younger than Jade, maybe nineteen but definitely no older. A security guard hung around the back where the kitchenette was, giving Mista a requisite nod of acknowledgement. 

“Hey Viola, this is the guy that came to help,” Jade said soothingly, coming around to sit next to her friend. 

“Hey.” Mista took a seat opposite her. He tried to accommodate Viola’s clear nervousness, keeping his body language as open as he could. He cleared his throat. 

“I’m Mista. I’m one of Passione’s people. Heard something happened at the club yesterday and I’m here to sort things out.”

Viola nodded but she still couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Hey, I know you’ve probably heard some scary things about the famiglia, but I promise you I’m only here to help. No need to be nervous, okay?”

Viola jerked her head forward in a nod, clearly not assuaged. 

Mista pressed on. “Now I heard some things about the incident, but I’m gonna have to get some details from you to understand the situation better. Can you start by telling me what you remember?”

The woman clammed up, not able to say a word.

“Vi, you gotta say something!” Jade cajoled her, whispering in her ear. “You’re gonna piss him off and make him leave!”

“Oi, oi, don’t scare her even more. I’m not gonna get mad, okay? I can wait a bit.”

They let a couple of minutes pass, Jade and Mista sharing apologetic glances with one another.

Mista began to think. Giorno was a sweet talker — There was something about him that got people to just talk, and if they didn’t, he knew exactly what to do to get them to open up.

What did Mista have? At the end of the day, he only had his honesty and his gun, neither of which would be helpful at all. He had connections, and he had…

“Hey, uh… You never knew a Passione guy by the name of Bucciarati, did ya?”

The name sparked recognition in Viola’s face.

“Um… Yeah. He came around a few times to help our manager…”

“And? What was he like?”

“Nice,” Viola said, with no hesitation. 

“Real nice,” Jade backed her up. “Seemed like a guy who cared. Not like the other pieces of shit gangsters that work our block.”

Mista felt relief surge through him, buoyant in its magnitude, a bittersweet thought that Bucciarati still lived, in some way. 

“Well, I was actually part of his team. He was my boss. Before he…” Mista shrugged. “Well, he’s not around anymore.”

The room went quiet, the air suffocating in its sudden sobriety.

“Sorry. Sad to say that’s just what our life is like. But… I guess what I’m tryna say is if you trusted him, then you can trust me. That’s all.”

The security guard tipped his head. “I can vouch for Bucciarati,” he said. “Didn’t know him well but he was always an upright guy.”

Jade knocked shoulders with her friend.

“See? Donnie liked him, and if he liked this guy, then…” 

Viola’s face softened, seemingly swayed. In a thin voice, she spoke.

“It was around eleven, or eleven-thirty… A customer put his hands on me and… hurt me.” 

“While you were on stage?”

“I was giving him a private dance in one of the booths. It’s what he usually asks for.”

“So he’s a regular?”

“…Yeah, I guess.”

“What exactly did he do to you?”

The girl’s fingers carefully traced up to her turtleneck’s neckline, pulling it down to reveal muddy yellow bruises. Mista felt anger fester in the pit of his stomach, flashes of meaty hands at his own throat coming to his mind. 

“How was he acting before the attack? Anything seem off to you?”

“He was quieter than usual. Maybe… Maybe he was having a bad day or something.”

“No, there was definitely something off,” the security guard cut in. “He was acting weird as soon as he walked in. All twitchy and paranoid.”

“Probably a junkie,” said Jade, nose up in the air.

“He never seemed that way to me…” Viola said. 

“Would you guys say there’s been more of those types coming in? Junkies, dealers, whoever?”

“It’s been worse than usual,” said Jade with a nod. “This area’s always been bad but it’s been totally out of hand the past few weeks.” 

Mista hummed. He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Do you know the name of your attacker? If he’s your regular, you should know, right?”

Viola glanced sideways, sheepish.

“He’s my best customer, so… I can’t. I feel like I’m betraying him.”

“Vi, are you serious?” Jade brought her slender arms to Viola’s shoulders, shaking her. “He strangled you! Who knows what he’ll do next? Fuck him!” 

“Easy for you to say! I need money and he gives me it! Who cares about anything else?”

“How can you say that? He beats you to death and you leave your brother behind. Is that what you want? Huh?”

“That’s not what I said–”

“Hey, I need you to both calm down.” Mista straightened up, wrestling back control. “Where was your manager? Didn’t he try to stop him?”

“He didn’t do shit!” Jade snapped. “Neither did that fatso Tagliatelle or whatever he’s called. So much for ‘protecting us.’” She gestured towards the security guard. “Donnie was the one who got him out of the club, right?”

The security guard made an affirmative noise.  

“And thank fuck for that, or we’d be scraping you off the fucking floor right now—”

“Jade, shut the fuck up—”

“Ladies! Please!” The girls jumped from the sudden boom of Mista’s voice and the room fell silent. “Just… I need to figure this shit out and I can’t do that if you’re constantly at each other’s throats.” He winced, peeking at Viola. “Sorry.”

He sighed.

“I need you to tell me who it was,” he said. “If you really don’t want me to, I won’t hurt ‘im, but you have to understand that I can’t let this guy keep running around.”

Viola shook her head immediately. “I can’t. I can’t. If— If he finds out…”

Jade opened her mouth again, looking just as frustrated as Mista felt, but he silenced her with a pleading glance.

“Viola, can you listen to me?” He tried, giving it one more shot. She heeded, looking up at him. 

“I don’t know what you guys have heard about Passione, or about me, or the boss... But we’re trying to make Naples better, in our own way. Probably sounds ridiculous, but… When I hear about this kinda shit, I need to do something about it, you know? I can’t sit back and let people do whatever they want, especially not to girls like you. And to be honest, the only people who can do anything about it are people like me.”

He paused.

“You didn’t call the police, did you? If it weren’t for your friend here, you’d have just let it go, right?” 

Viola squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, shrinking more into herself, like it was even possible.

“I get it. You don’t feel like anyone can help. You can’t rely on anyone. But… That’s exactly what we wanna change.” 

Gold flashed in his mind, eyes that shimmered like tinsel, that siren-like voice that Mista thought about more times in a day than he should. A hand over his, soothing in its tenderness.

“It’s our dream.” His dream, now.

Mista took his wallet out and started to count bills, the rubbing of his fingers against paper drawing the room to silence.

“Listen, don’t worry about this month’s rent.”

Uncouth as it was, only sincerity flowed through the hand that placed the stack of money in the centre of the table. Everyone in the room stared at it. Viola looked stupefied.

“What?” 

“I want you to take it.”

“What?” She said again. “I can’t! I can’t be in debt to you!”

“I promise you you’re not in any debt. If you don’t wanna see my face ever again, that’s fine. But I want you to take this money and use it on whatever you need. Yourself, your brother, food, gas, bills, whatever. Passione won't ever ask anything from you, promise.”

“How can I believe you?”

It was a good question. He looked Viola in the eye, and the only answer he could give was:

“You're just gonna have to trust me. That’s the best I got.”

His goodwill seemed to be conveyed. Gingerly, Viola took the money into her hands, knowing deep down that there was no way she could refuse the help. 

“Hey, you got something to write on?” Mista waved to the security guard. “Quick.”

He was handed a torn-off square from the phonebook and a pen with the end chewed. Mista jotted down his number and slid it over.

“This is a number you can call if anything else happens. If it doesn’t go to me, then just ask for me directly. I’ll know it’s you. And if you ever feel like it… Tell me the name of the guy who hurt you. I’ll make sure he won’t do anything like this again.”

He elaborated no further, and left.

Viola uncomfortably sorted through the bills in her hands. She stopped. She counted and then recounted them, and with complete disbelief it dawned on her that she won’t have any problems with bills for not just this month, but the next three.

She wrestled the urge to cry as a twenty-ton weight lifted off her shoulders.

♡

Mista reunited with Sale at the bar, who was just in the middle of lighting up a cigarette.

“You think we’re here to relax or something? Put that out.” In all honesty, he just wanted the excuse to tell him off for something.

“Hey, I fucking did what you asked!” The gangster snapped, cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth. “I found out some things, okay? Gimme some fucking credit, goddamn .”

“You did?” Mista sat down at the bar, giving a quick nod to the bartender. “And?”

Sale took a drag. “It’s not good news,” he prefaced.

“Spit it out.”

“So, Mr Bartender told me Giacomo likes to come down on Friday evenings and get shitfaced and tell him all kindsa things.” He paused. “He also said he likes getting girls to sit on balloons for him. Real weird shit. Anyway, bartender told me something way more interesting than that.”

Mista was going to pretend he didn’t hear that other part. 

“Go on.”

“Giacomo’s been skimming you.”

“…What?”

“Capos pay fifty percent, yeah? Well, apparently he’s been lying about his earnings for damn near a month now. Undercutting you by fifteen.”

“Fifteen percent?!” That motherfucker. 

This meant that Giorno and Polnareff were more right than he thought. The capos were losing faith in them. If they weren’t careful, they were going to be overthrown, and it would not be a clash without bloodshed.

“There’s one other thing.”

“What?” 

“Come on,” Sale directed, getting up from his stool. “But when you see it, you’re not allowed to freak out on me, yeah?”

Mista frowned.

“Sure… Yeah.” 

Mista cautiously followed him around the back of the club, down a delivery corridor near the rubbish disposal. Sale approached an inconspicuous-looking door and turned the handle.

All along the wall were boxes, lined up in rows. Mista went to a random one, and flipped open the lid. Bricks of cocaine, stuffed to the brim. Mista slowly took one in his hands, watching as the powder turned over on itself. 

“…Where’d this come from?”

“Apparently there’s a cooksite a couple of blocks over. Giacomo just keeps the product here in case it gets busted. Manager’s in on it too. Gonna guess that’s why he didn’t want ya coming.”

Mista threw the substance back into the box, then stormed over to another container. Pushed the lid back. Meth. Another box. Fentanyl. Small quantities, controlled. Almost as though the goal was to drip-feed the market until a solid trade could be re-established, all without them suspecting a thing. With demand so high right now, it was an easy gap to fill.

Mista could barely control his rage. So they’re still selling this shit, and their own Capo no less. Was he fucking stupid? Did he really think Mista wouldn’t find out?

“Hey man, we can totally fix this,” said Sale, tactful as ever. “Kill Giacomo, take over the operation ourselves. Easy money-maker. No big deal, right?”

“No big deal?” The next thing Mista saw was Sale pinned against the wall, his arm digging into his chest. “No big deal?”

“Oi, what are you—!”

“Say that to me again and I really will fucking kill you.”

“Hey man, what the f—”

“We didn’t kill Diavolo to end up just like him, got it?! That’s not what we did all this for!”

Confusion flittered over Sale’s face, but melted quickly as he found himself desperate for air.

“F-Fine, whatever…” Sale choked out, squirming under the force of his grip. “Just let go…”

He did, letting Sale stumble around as he regained his balance. Mista turned back to the stack of containers, wondering the hell he should do.

Giorno was a phone call away. He’d know exactly what to do. It’d be so easy. 

But then Mista thought about what Giorno was up to now, just how much bullshit he was probably going through. Finding this out now and not being able to do anything about it would just stress him out for no reason. And, if Mista was being honest, he wanted to figure this out himself. 

He drew a long breath, allowing whatever mechanism in his brain existed to keep him calm to snap into place and whir to life. 

“Keep your mouth shut about this,” he said, addressing Sale. “Use Kraftwerk if you have to. I can’t let it get out that I know. In the meantime…”

He turned on his heel, a dark look clouding his eyes. 

“We’re gonna go straighten our little caporegime out.” 

“Yeah?” Sale asked, expression springing into one of excitement. “We gonna bust some skulls?"

Mista’s phone suddenly chirped. He pulled it out, a solitary message in his inbox. 

From Viola.

“In every sense of the damn word.”

♡

They found Viola’s attacker bumming around the touristy areas in Naples city centre, lifting wallets out of people’s pockets and begging for coins. They beat him until his skin broke out in splotches of black and blue, and a disturbingly twisted laugh ripped out of Sale when he finally stopped fighting back. 

Just short of hospitalising him, they dumped him in the back of the car and, after making a few quick phone calls, headed towards Giacomo’s location. He was, apparently, dropping off a pair of shoes to get the soles fixed. Said shoe was about to be stuffed down his throat if Mista had anything to do with it.

The car stopped right outside the repair shop, and Mista entered, contempt boiling under his skin. Giacomo was there, as expected, like a sausage stuffed into the casing that was his ill-fitted suit, jabbering on with the repairman. At the sound of the door scraping open the chatter screeched to a halt, and the two men sunk trepidatious gazes onto Mista. One could hear a pin drop. 

“Ciao,” he called, waving a hand.

“Welcome signore,” the cobbler greeted. “Were you after our services?”

“Oh no, not today. I just wanted to have a quick chat with Signore Tagliatelle. That okay with you?”

“But of course! If there’s any way I can assist you—“

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

He smiled, like a shark bearing down on its prey.

“It’s already so late in the afternoon. You should take a break, don’t you think? Why don’t you go out and get some well-earned rest while I chat with our friend here? There’s an excellent cafe just down the street. Won’t stop hearing about how good their mocha is.”

The cobbler bowed his head, looking shakily up at him.

“…You’re so kind for looking out for me, signore.”  

“Go on then. And don’t be in a rush to get back here, you hear?” Mista shifted his gaze onto Giacomo. “Take as looong as you need.”

“Grazie, signore.”

He scrunched up his carton of cigarettes off the table and into his hand, then fled out the back door. 

“Consigliere,” addressed Giacomo, wearing a smile that was just short of a grimace. “I’m surprised to see you here. Was there a meeting I forgot about?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothin’ like that. I was actually just investigating an incident at The Diamond. Strip club on the other side of town. You know, right?”

Giacomo pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“I’m afraid not. About twenty years too old for that.” 

“Ah, Giacomo, man…” Mista chuckled, walking around the establishment. He picked up a tanned Oxford boot, then chucked it back onto the shelf. “You know I don’t like it when you people lie to me. Makes me feel stupid.” He glanced at him. “You don’t think I’m stupid, do you?”

“No, consigliere.” He hesitated before cracking into a crooked smile. “Okay, so sometimes I like to come in and let off some steam with the girls. Is that really so bad? Men have certain needs, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmph. Not something I would do if I were a married man, but to each his own.” He put his hands in his pockets. “So then you can tell me about the incident last night, right?” 

“…I heard something happened, but as for the details, I wouldn’t know.” 

“Ah, ah, ah, but I think you do know.” 

He whistled, and Sale emerged from the entrance like the loyal guard dog he was, limp body in tow. He hauled the man who attacked Viola in and tossed him into the store. He slammed into the bench like a wet noodle and collapsed onto the floor. 

Giacomo stared at it for a second.

“…What the fuck is this?”

“At eleven last night, this bastard assaulted one of the female workers. You left without a word, even though the club is under your jurisdiction. I’ve also heard that this wasn’t the first time something like this happened.”

Giacomo said nothing. 

“Sale,” called out Mista, low and calm. Kraftwerk flashed into existence then disappeared. Mista sauntered over to Giacomo. He flinched, aiming to run but when he tried to take his hand from the counter he couldn’t. 

“What… What the…”

Mista slammed him into the counter and twisted him so that his arm was wrapped behind him. The Capo screamed, the arm close to being ripped from its socket. 

“You piece of dogshit,” he hissed. “There ain’t enough words in the Italian language to describe how much of a fucking piece of dogshit you are.”

“Let go!”

“Does it get you off? Watching girls get beat up like that? Is that what it is? You get your rocks off to it, you twisted fuck?”

He wedged a handful of hair into his fingers and forced the capo’s head down onto the bench. He howled.

“You punk!” The capo spluttered through his gushing nose. “Have you no fucking respect?”

“For you? Think it just ran out.”

“This is how you treat a captain of your own famiglia? This is acceptable to you?” The man hacked out a wet cough, some combination of blood and phlegm ejaculating onto the floor. “To think that Giovanna hired such a brute to work with him… No respect…”

Mista’s eyes flashed. In an instant, Mista’s revolver jammed under his jaw like a shucking knife to an oyster.

“Whatever so-called respect you get from the Don is his fucking business. Me though? I ain’t giving you shit. I do things my own way,” he spat. “I suggest you get a pair of glasses and start learning how to spot the difference because I am not Giorno Giovanna.”

“A-All this… Over some discount whores?” 

Another slam against the counter.

“So you do think I’m stupid.”

Giacomo blinked, and when he peeled his eyelids open again he watched as snow-white powder poured over the curtains of his lashes.

“This is…”

“How long did you think you could keep this from me? Honestly, on some level I have to respect the sheer audacity.”

The capo’s face flickered and went white, the severity of the situation finally breaking like egg over his face.

“C-Consigliere … Please, this is all just a simple–”

“Misunderstanding? Please.”

Sweat pooled around the muzzle of Mista’s revolver, Giacomo’s skin vibrating from panic. 

“Just do it,” he wailed. “Just do it already! Do it!”

“Oh… No, signore. ” Mista relented his grip on him, wiping the fluid off his gun with the capo’s shirt. “It’d be a mercy to kill you here. No, I’m going to make an example out of you. And, when the Don gets back…” 

He gripped Giacomo’s chin to look him in the eye.

“He’ll take pleasure in making an even better example out of you.”

Mista retreated behind the counter, checking out the cobbler’s dizzying setup of tools and machinery. The capo, and Sale, watched with wary eyes.

“So many interesting tools they got around here…” murmured the gangster. Metal banged against each other as he rattled around the space, eventually reaching for a long, slender pair of pliers. Mista threw the weight of it around in his hand, nonchalantly approaching the capo again.

“You know, being the underboss is fun and all, but I miss getting to do this sometimes.”

He paused, looking Giacomo right in the eye. “Interrogation.”

The teeth of the pliers met the brittle underside of the capo’s thumbnail, and in its bloody wake left a cacophony of screams and moans as each nail was agonisingly ripped off his fingers, one by one by one. When his nails were done, Mista decided his hair would do.

The cobbler never returned. Sale, who usually had too much to say, camouflaged into the back like a blade of grass as he watched the scene unfold. The man on the floor gurgled as he lurched in and out of consciousness. 

After an hour, the capo was spent. He had blacked out and dropped to the floor as Kraftwerk finally loosened its ability on him. 

Mista threw the pliers down. He looked back at Sale, who was giving him an infuriatingly stupefied look.

“What?!” He barked.

“Nothin’!” Sale shrugged that expression off like a fur coat and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Just didn’t know how much of a scary motherfucker you can be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re gangsters, scary ain’t a bad thing! Don’t look at me like that…” He cracked a nervous laugh. “We all got our own demons clawin’ inside’a us. I get it.”

Before Mista could ask what that hell he was implying, a mechanical noise trilled.

“Ah, give me a sec, will ya? Think that’s my girlfriend,” Sale said, thankful for the distraction. The phone screen flopped open, hanging on by a loose hinge, and he answered it, leaving Mista alone in the wake of his self-made destruction. 

“Ciao, bella mia … Huh? Nah, nah, still at work… Where are ya? I’ll come pick you up when I’m done…”

Red spotted the floor. Mista turned his palm upwards and saw his knife wound burst open. 

He squeezed it and let the pain course through him like a storm.

♡

His phone screen had  become a familiar sight over the last week and a half. Giorno’s name leered at him, tempted him. Mista considered messaging him questions he had. He’d considered calling him and bitching about his day. 

He ended up not doing any of those things.

But it still hurt knowing that Giorno himself refused to contact him either. They were both stubborn as hell when they wanted to be, but… Did Giorno really not care at all about how he was doing? 

He was in the office, going over the situation with Giacomo and the drugs with Polnareff again.

“It’s a good thing, right? Not telling him about this yet?” 

Mista had agonised over the whole situation for days, the indecision a stone wedged in his side. He’d begun marking out the initial stages of his plan, wanting something solid to report to Giorno once he gets back, but not informing him of anything that’s happened was difficult to get over.

Somewhere in the background, Polnareff hummed in agreement. 

“I believe so. There’s not much he can do from over there. Besides, he sounded tired over the phone. Informing him now will only exhaust him further.”

Mista frowned.

“You talked to him? When?”

“Hm?” Polnareff quirked an eyebrow. “He never called you?”

“No…” Mista replied, and he could just about feel his heart sink in his chest.

“…Of course, he’s extremely busy! Barely even managed to say ‘hello’.” Polnareff put on an unconvincing smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Ah… Yeah.” 

Mista put his head in his hand, losing himself in the view outside the window. He tried hard not to think about what it all meant. 

It was hard. Being alone was hard. Maybe that was why he’d attached himself to Giorno so adamantly. He saw flashes of them still, in his mind, bone that peeked unnaturally from folds in pale skin, stained only by their bloodshed, dark as wine. To have even Giorno leave him, as short of a period as it was, only exacerbated this loneliness, circling his heart no matter how much Mista tried to chase it, slipping away like a fish that didn’t want to be caught.

“Hey, Pol…”

“Yes?”

“Does it ever get easier?”

“...In what way?”

Mista shrugged.

“All the ways. Does it go away eventually? The grief, the emptiness…. The anger?”

Silence. Then, an aged, thin voice.

“Some days it feels like despair upon despair. A hole you can’t get out of. But it’s just an emotion, Mista. You won’t be stuck in that feeling forever. It’s just not possible.”

It certainly felt possible.

“Tout va bien se passer, Mista,” soothed Polnareff, not hearing his thoughts. “Everything will be o-kay.”

He could only hope that would be true someday.

♡

It was the last day before Giorno came back. Mista had nothing to do, and had spent the last few hours lazing around, drifting from magazine to TV programme to cassette tape. Eventually, Polnareff had had enough of his infectious ennui.

“Tomorrow, Giorno comes back. There’s no more work at the moment, so why don’t you go and do something?”

“Like what?”

Polnareff blew out a big sigh. “You’re the young one, not me. What are the kids into these days? Go see a movie or something. Those are still around, right?”

Mista chuckled, sitting upright.

“You wanna get rid of me that badly?”

“Yes, Mista. Your depressing face is ruining my view. Go and have fun. Or at least try to.” 

Mista clicked his tongue. 

“Would it kill ya to be nice for once, old man?”

“Maybe when you stop calling me ‘old man.’”

He grinned, something boyish flickering in his eyes, a ghost of who he used to be.

“I’ll hold down the fort. Anything happens, I’ll call you.”

Mista stood in his room, thinking of where to go. He was anxious, his heartbeat in his hands. He didn’t think he could sit still in a movie theatre for two hours. So then…

A ping came from his phone. For a second his heart jumped, and he picked it up, hoping it was–

It wasn’t. 

Anger bubbled up in his chest. Why was he so mad? It was just a job, that’s all this has ever been, a job, and Giorno was his boss. Who gave a shit? Why did he care so much about Giorno in the first place?

He decided to go clubbing. It wasn’t the type of place you could think, and Mista had decided that he really, really wanted to stop thinking.

He picked out something dark, clothes that were neither attention-grabbing nor particularly appealing. The last thing he needed was to stand out.

Maybe the boys were right. Maybe all he needed was to hook up with some girl and forget about work, about Giorno, just for a night. 

Where was the harm in that?

He chose somewhere they didn’t know him, somewhere where he had the least likelihood of running into Passione. He took a cigarette when it was offered to him in the line and he took a spiteful drag of it, smoke billowing from his lips. The bouncer let him in without fuss, and he trawled up the stairs, each step he took an exodus of common sense. 

This was probably not the smartest idea. It didn’t matter. It mattered a lot. 

It was fine and it wasn’t.

His head bounced a lot of these contradictory thoughts as he walked in, until the music blasted into his head and each and every thought tumbled out like broken pieces of a ship in a bottle.

God, he needed to get so drunk tonight.

He hadn’t realised, however, just how much harder everything was. Heading to the bar was harder, talking to girls was harder, moving to the beat was harder. Every inch of him protested being here at all, let alone having any semblance of fun. 

After a few minutes, a girl stumbled into him at the bar. 

“Heyyy, my friend thinks you’re cute!” A giggly voice hollered at him through a cloud of girlish laughter.

“Oh my god, they’re so annoying,” the woman laughed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mista put on a charming smile and spoke the next line of his usual award-winning script, “Let me buy you a drink?”

The woman smiled. “A cosmopolitan for me.”

They began to chat. She told Mista her name but he didn’t hear it properly over the screeching of the music and didn’t care enough to ask again. 

“What happened to your hand?” She suddenly asked.

Reflexively, he hid it from view.

“Cut myself cooking food. Nothing interestin’.”

The girl smiled, interest burning within her pupils.

“So you’re a chef or something?"

“Wouldn’t have cut myself if I was a chef.”

“Okayyy… So what do you do then?” 

Mista laughed a little, fingering the rim of his beer glass. How could he put this delicately?

“It’s boring. Real boring. You wouldn’t wanna know, trust me.”

“Yeah?” She rested her chin in her hand, her eyes almost glowing. “You seem like exactly the type though.”

“What type?”

“Mine,” she said without missing a beat. Mista rolled his eyes, though not with any offense.

“Fell right into that one.”

“Mm. It’s not really what I meant though.” A hand sidled up his arm. “I more meant like… You’re the bad boy type, right?” That same hand curled around the contour of Mista’s bicep muscle, squeezing it. 

“Dunno if I’d put it that way,” he dismissed.

“Oh come on. This is Naples, it’s like an open secret.” She shrugged, undeterred. “Guys like you are always involved in that kinda business.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes I do! Don’t treat me like I’m dumb. Is that who you like? Dumb bimbos?” She pouted her lips, a furrow in her carefully manicured brows. “You’re a gangster, right? Tell me I’m right!”

Mista said nothing. The word hung bitterly in the air, but the woman seemed to not notice at all.

“Okay fine, so you don’t like being open about it.” She smiled again. “Let’s see… How did Tony Soprano put it? You’re in ‘waste management’?”

Mista scoffed, taking a drink of his beer. 

“Well if you know that much, then you’ll also know not to get involved with guys like me.”

“Oh please. Girls aren’t nearly as innocent as you like to think they are.” 

“I’m serious. You’re gonna land yourself in trouble.”

“Well, maybe I like trouble...”

She positioned herself to slip a knee in between his legs, one hand on his thigh and a terribly suggestive smile on her lips. The air thinned, a begrudging question forming between them.

“I have a girlfriend,” he lied.

The girl lidded her eyes, pressing closer.

“Okay… But I know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to have some fun. So…” She looped her arms around his neck, cocking her head to the side. “Forget her. Just for tonight.”

Her hand slipped under his coat, brushing upwards until—

Her eyes widened. Mista remembered then where he had stashed his gun. 

They made eye contact, and that fun, plastic veneer that divided them fractured in an instant. Her smile thinned and her eyes dulled.

“…I think I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick,” she said.

“Sure.” 

She unglued herself from him and scurried off, the tide of dancing bodies sucking her in until she disappeared. Mista turned to nurse his drink again, knowing she won’t be back.

Like he didn’t warn her. 

When he had the chance, the gun was traded from his coat pocket to his boot, hoping he wouldn’t scare any more girls off, and he left.

He bounced between different people at different clubs, everyone too vapid and too shallow to catch his interest for more than fifteen minutes. God, every time some girl complained about her job or some guy bragged about the new car he bought, Mista wanted to grab them by the shoulders and scream until he was blue in the face about the endless late nights and the bastard Capos on his ass and the second teenage body he had to identify this week after another drive-by shooting. Within a few months, he had become completely out of touch with the general populace and he realised with a slow, horrifying lurch in his stomach that he will never be able to relate to normal people again. 

So he drowned those feelings, first with drinks, and then again with random girls he’d get hot and heavy with on the dance floor. A hand on the small of her back, her own trailing down his stomach. When at one point a kiss might’ve been intoxicating, nothing excited Mista at all now.

When he got bored, he’d slink away and escape to another club, and he felt like an absolute pig about it but knew that at the end of the day, he was only doing them a favour. One girl pulled him towards the bathrooms and another promised him that her boyfriend wouldn’t get mad if they slept together. At some other less complicated point in Mista’s life he might’ve considered the opportunity but today it felt wrong. Everything was wrong.

All this because he just happened to be in the wrong place, wrong time two years ago. More wrongs.

It was punishment, wasn’t it? For killing those men? Maybe it went back further than that. Maybe it was when Mista stole the communion wine when he was twelve. Maybe it was when he stepped on that crack in the pavement when his mother told him not to. He was five, then. He wondered when exactly was the moment that it all went wrong for him. Maybe this was just what fate ordained for him.

Being a mafioso wasn’t the first thing scratched in with 2B pencil on his career planning worksheet back in school. That honour went to professional footballer. Hell, it wouldn’t have been the second, or third, but it might’ve come close against pasta-maker at fifth. Why not? The movies made it seem fun. Shootouts and parties, what was not to like as a fourteen-year-old? 

He fell into it not of his own volition, but he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t good at it, or god forbid that he even actually enjoyed it sometimes. 

But it carried a weight to it, that ability to take lives. It was never unjust, but exactly what was the value of a life? What made Mista the arbiter of fate for these people? Like Mista had tried shaping Scolippi’s rock of fate, did he shape the paths of people’s deaths? Was this God’s divine judgement, or something else entirely?

It kept him up at night. It kept him washing his hands even long after the blood was gone. 

He always liked to believe they were the heroes, somehow. The ones enacting a justice the police couldn’t, the law couldn’t, the government couldn’t. Was that really true? Mista tried his best to be good but did that matter when the people he worked with were monsters?

Only Giorno was trying to change that. 

Giorno. Again he was thinking about Giorno! This whole night was supposed to be about forgetting about him!

He slammed back the last of a watery vodka cranberry and sped to the door. Last club for the night, he promised himself. It still wasn’t too late to go home and get some sleep. He wasn’t having any fun anyway.

He went to the bar, and he wondered how he was even standing at this point. Colours in cocktail glasses sloshed together and he swore the music had been the same in the last three clubs, that same beat, over and over again – Du-du-dududu-du. Maybe he was going crazy.

“Hey there.” 

A smooth voice beckoned his head to the side. A young man, maybe a little older than himself, leaned against the counter of the bar. He had a short blond haircut and soft bangs that fell over his eyes. He was kind of gorgeous. 

Fuck, why did Mista just think that?

“...Hi,” replied Mista. He hoped he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt.

“Having a good time?”

Mista chuckled.

“Do I look like I’m having a good time?” 

The man returned his laugh, sweeping a hand through his hair. The gesture revealed the column of his neck in an strangely alluring way and Mista found himself staring.

“Actually, I thought you looked a bit lonely,” he confessed. “Maybe I can keep you company?” The blond eyed his dry glass. “How about a drink? What do you like?”

Oh, I’m actually not— Mista wanted to say, suddenly realising what this was, but his mouth dried up and his brain went static and ultimately nothing came out. He was a fish out of water. He was paralysed.

“How about an espresso martini?” The beautiful stranger asked, nonplussed by Mista’s lack of response. “Not sure if you’ve ever tried it, but it’s my favourite.”

He swallowed thickly.

“…Sure,” he somehow managed to get out. Why? Some morbid desire to see where this went?

“Be right back,” he said, and the depth of his voice sent shivers up Mista’s back.

The blond retreated to the bar and left Mista to stew on the storm of emotions brewing in his chest. He knew he was in the more liberal part of Naples, but he’d never expected to get hit on by a man. Worse, he never expected to actually be… interested? Was that the feeling? 

For the first time tonight, he actually felt something.

The blond returned, two cocktails in his hands. He set one in front of Mista and joined him standing at the counter. Mista took a hesitant sip of his drink. The bitterness from the coffee sliced through a sickly, sweet flavour but it was too sharp, too prickly going down his throat. The aftertaste stuck in his mouth, gummy. It wasn’t great.

“How is it?” 

“Pretty good.”

The man looked pleased. 

“By the way, I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Marco,” Mista lied.

“Stefano.” He smiled. It wasn’t unpleasant. “You from around here?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mista cleared his throat. “Lived in Naples all my life.”

“Oh really? I just moved here, actually. Thought I’d meet some new people so I came here.”

“Oh… Yeah?” replied Mista shakily. Jesus. Apparently all that easy charisma he oozed when he talked to women dried up around men because it’d be more stimulating to speak to a bowl of wallpaper paste than him. 

Surprisingly, Stefano was undeterred. Maybe he liked airheads. They talked for a bit, exchanging flirty pleasantries. It was a different feeling than talking with girls, and Mista found himself weirdly enjoying himself, even if he was still feeling insecure. 

A hypnotic beat swam through the speakers. 

“ Merda , I love this song!” Stefano looked cheekily over at Mista. “Come dance with me.” 

“Ah…” Mista waved him off. “I don’t really dance.”

“You’re a really bad liar.” He flashed a smile, tugging at Mista’s hand. “Just one song, bello mio.”

Bello mio? Mista couldn’t say he objected to being called that. Not at all.

They stumbled onto the dancefloor, knocking against the other bodies in the crowd. What Mista promised himself would only be one song ended up being two, then three. Before he knew it, he found himself not wanting to go home.

They migrated further back into the club, still in close proximity. They weren’t dancing so much anymore, just swaying to the beat. Mista said something about getting another drink that went ignored. Then, an arm quietly slipped around his waist. Mista hitched a breath, a shiver of nervous energy flooding his spine. The touch had him heady, simultaneously relaxing into it as well as trying to fight it. What was going on?

“You wanna get out of here?”

His nose brushed against his and Mista could feel the heat of his breath across his upper lip. Why did he so badly want to see where this went?

Stefano’s mouth finally found his and they kissed. Mista panicked, conscious of people seeing them but they were in a darker corner of the club, most people conjugated on the dance floor in the middle of the room. His fear passed a little, and he found himself melting into it. It felt strange, it felt good. Mista wanted more.

Stefano’s hand slipped sensually down Mista’s back, down to his waist, his hip. His hand groped the curve of Mista’s ass and a stifled noise escaped him, surprised at the sudden development. Stefano deepened the kiss without mercy, and within a few seconds Mista had to break apart to catch his breath. He could barely collect himself within the blur of the club lights and thumping of the bass rumbling to the core of his chest.

He looked up into Stefano’s eyes, not knowing what he expected to find in them, and— And… 

How could he not see how green they were before? 

It reminded him of someone, it reminded him of… Of…

Mista was going to be sick.

“S-Sorry, I—” he pushed Stefano away, desperate to get out. “I have to go.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just…” He stammered. His hand reached up to rub the saliva from his mouth, becoming unappetising slick on his leather sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” Stefano pulled a face. “You’re not actually straight or something, are you?”

“Um, no, there’s just… There’s someone—”

No? There’s someone? What the hell was he saying?

“An ex you can’t get over?” He laughed a little, shaking his head. “Look, it’s just a kiss, alright? Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but…” Stefano shrugged, looking helpless as he turned to walk away. “Drink some water. You taste like a cantina.”

He left with a smile, oblivious to the columns that held Mista’s world up collapsing all around them.

Chapter Text

Mista rushed out of the building, heaving in large gulps of air. It didn’t clear the nausea but at least he didn’t feel suffocated anymore.

He flagged down the first taxi he saw and clambered into the backseat. He managed to stab his belt buckle in on the third try and the car lurched forward—Lane markings spun like rings and streetlights became comets, and Naples swept by them like nothing was wrong, like nothing was lost.

Cologne still pierced his smell, vodka still punctured his taste. A phantom touch around his waist, pressed chest to chest, the pink tongue that licked the sweat from his lips…

“Hey, let me out here.” 

“Here?” The driver said, startled. “But it’s—”

“I’ll walk the rest of the way.” Mista quickly sifted through his wallet, drawing too many bills out and stuffing them into the cup holder of the centre console. “I-I don’t feel good. Let me out.”

The driver stopped without further questioning. 

He walked the rest of the next forty minutes along the side of the moonlit road. A soothing wind kicked up the leaves but even the fresh air gave little relief to Mista’s ailing head, his blood beating fists against his skull. His mind was a cassette tape, relentless in its repetition, replaying what happened over and over and over.

The climb to the mansion echoed an unpleasantness from the past, a distant memory of gunfire and screams, even though it really wasn’t so long ago. So much has happened since then. 

His feet sank into the grass as he walked and he couldn’t care less about tracking mud into the house. He saw no-one on the way to his room, the residence still as a corpse. Mista slammed the door and rushed to clean himself.

His clothes were banished to the dark corner of his bathroom, and he didn’t bother turning any of the lights on as he showered. Soap slipped against his skin and he scrubbed until he was red. He wished his thoughts could filter through clean like the water did, but they didn’t, though they were just as ceaseless. Eyes and lips stained the fringes of his mind, and he couldn’t tell anymore whose lips he thought of when he parted his own to brush his teeth. He spat. The drain gurgled. He collapsed into his bed and waited for the mattress to swallow him up, to take him out of his misery, but such a thing never came. 

His body itched for something to distract himself with, anything to wipe away the dregs of his night, and before he knew what he was even doing, Mista was already listening to the monotone rings of his cellphone, restless for an answer.

It was late. He wouldn’t even pick up. He wouldn’t want to speak to him anyway. Mista was about to drop the call when—

“Hello?”

His heart stopped. 

“Hey… Giorno.”

“Mista?” Giorno’s voice was hushed, but rose in urgency. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Everything’s fine, I just—” He stopped himself, not knowing what excuse he could give. Giorno waited on the other end of the line, patient as always. He always did give him so much undeserved grace. 

“I guess I just… Wanted to hear your voice?” He replied lamely. It sounded so deflated to his ears.

“…Really?”

Mista squeezed his eyes shut. He sounded like a clingy girlfriend, grating like squeaky glass.

“Forget it. I’m gonna… I’m gonna get off the line. Sorry for waking you up.”

“Mista wait!” 

Silence prevailed through the line. Mista’s nerves shook in his palms. 

“I’m really happy you called,” Giorno finally said. “I’ve missed you here in Florence.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… Yeah. I kinda missed having you around too.”

“Only kind of?”

Mista could practically see the teasing smile dancing on Giorno’s lips, but his own heart wasn’t in it and he only sullenly hummed in agreement.

“Mista?”

“Hm?”

“You would tell me if something happened, right?”

“…Yeah. ‘Course I would.”

“…Right.” 

Moments from Mista’s evening struck like glass shards in his stomach. Why? Why did he feel so guilty?

“Can I say something?” Giorno suddenly asked, his calm voice smothering those thoughts. 

“What?”

“I actually wanted to apologise. I’ve been so hard on you recently and I’m sorry. I think… I’ve really taken you for granted.”

A pause.

“And I didn’t mean what I said. About reconsidering your position. I hope you know that.”

Mista sucked in a breath, not realising how much he needed to hear that. 

“No, I should… I’m sorry too.”

“…Are you mad at me?”

“No.” Mista didn’t think he could ever really be mad at him. “We were both acting stupid.”

“Yeah,” Giorno laughed a little, easing the tension somewhat. “I’ve been feeling so guilty but… Sorry. I should’ve called you first. I just thought you needed some space, and… I don’t know.”

Mista frowned. For as long as he’s known him, Giorno has always seemed so sure, so unshakeable. A typhoon could rage and Giorno would be the last man standing. Sometimes though, Mista was allowed these rare, tiny glimpses into the deeper abstractions of Giorno’s soul, these moments where he sounded so lost and small, so unlike himself. Mista’s chest squeezed and he wanted to comfort him, needed to. 

“Gio, it’s… It’s okay. I know your family stuff really fucked you up, too. You’re going through a lot.”

Giorno didn’t deny it. Then he spoke, quiet and tinny through the filter of the phone:

“Are we still friends? Or… were we ever…”

“Yes!” Mista said fiercely, immediately. He wondered how Giorno could even think of such a thing. “Of course we’re friends, Gio. Don’t think for a second we’re not.”

“Even with work in the way?”

“Yeah. It’s not exactly conventional, but what about us is? Work’s complicated, but… We’ll figure it out, like we always do.” 

Mista didn’t remember the last time he was the one taking control of a conversation between them, if there had ever been such a time. Giorno didn’t seem to think anything of it, and breathed out a sigh.

“You don’t know how relieved I am. I’ve been so anxious recently.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t forgive you?”

“I care a lot about what you think.”

Mista swallowed.

“But… You still understand why I had to take Fugo, right?”

The question blanketed an unwelcome sobriety over their conversation and Mista huffed, annoyed at having to be reminded of his replacement. 

“Mm-hm. I know.”

“You’re the only one I trust to take care of things at home.”

“I know.” Mista sighed. “Just… Don’t go and make Fugo your new best friend or anythin’. My heart can’t take it.” He said it lightly enough, but the words strained bitter on his tongue.

To his surprise, however, Giorno barked out a loud laugh.

“Mista… Are you jealous?”

“What? No!” 

“Mista, listen to me.” His voice deepened, in the way one would whisper secrets into the hollow of an oak tree. “Fugo is my friend, but he could never replace you. You’re… important to me. So much so that it’s difficult to put into words. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Did he? Mista knew it was innocent, it had to be, but the way his heart picked up speed felt like the organ was seconds away from climbing out of his chest and strangling him. 

“…You’re just saying that,” he deflected, throat bone-dry. 

“I’m not,” said Giorno. “I promise I’m not.”

He knew. 

Quietness followed, Mista not knowing what else to say. He fell back into memories from hours before, the hand that was once around his waist morphing into one that was far more familiar, one he had felt many times but never so intimately, never as sensually. It horrified him that he was desperate to feel what that was like. 

“How was your day?” Asked Giorno after a while.

He jumped, and went to stammer out a word or two before he realised that he couldn’t share anything. 

“It was kind of a weird night,” Mista settled on saying, hoping Giorno wouldn’t prod.

“Mm.”

“You? Giorno?”

A beat.

“Me too. Weird night.”

Mista hummed. When was the last time the air between them had been this stilted, churned thick with words unsaid? 

“How’s Florence?” Mista asked instead. “Doin’ all the sights with Fugo, huh?” He couldn’t help the resentment from leaking through his tone.

Giorno, to his eternal credit, picked up on his feelings and responded with just the right touch of delicacy.

“Nothing that interesting, I promise. Just more meetings.” He paused. “We saw the Palazzo Vecchio, but it wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be.”

Mista couldn’t help but laugh a little, seeing through his game easily. 

“You don’t needa lie. I know I’m actin’ like a spoiled kid.”

Giorno returned his laugh, breathy through the phone. Mista wished he would do it again. “No, it’s fine. I know you wanted to take this trip together. We just have to make it happen next time, right?”

Next time.  

“Yeah,” he said. “Next time.” 

Mista resisted but the images came steadfast: Him and Giorno walking the sweeping vistas of the city, tracing the interwoven fabric of history through strolls in art museums, blurry smiles in photographs taken on a dinky camera, chocolate gelato shared under the shade. Maybe it could happen.

“How’s Valentino?” Mista went to say, needing to distract himself. “Gave you trouble?”

“A little. Passione got what it needed from him though. I’ll tell you about it when I’m back.”

“Sure.”

There was a pervasive silence in which Mista believed the call was finally winding to a close, dying with a whimper rather than a bang, much to his disappointment. Then, he strained his hearing to make out some shuffling and a rattle of the handset. 

“Gio?” Mista called out. “Gio…?” He tried again. He paused. He sounded out the syllables again. “Giogio…” 

It was cute. Why was it so cute?

“Hm? Did you say something?” 

“Oh, uh—” Mista clammed up, face hot. “Nothing.”

“Really?” Giorno’s voice sounded different.

“Are you outside?” He asked instead.

“Yeah. I just wanted to look at Florence one last time.”

“What, you like it better than Naples, boss?”

“No,” laughed Giorno. “Never. But it’s an undeniably beautiful place. Am I allowed to say something like that?”

“Mm. I dunno about that.”

Giorno chuckled. Mista could hear the wind whistle through the receiver. He wondered what it was like there.

“Look at the view, Mista,” Giorno suddenly said. 

Mista wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“I can’t.”

“Your view.”

“What?”

Giorno laughed. “You’re at home, right? Look outside your window.”

Mista begrudgingly turned his head to the side. The curtains were still drawn open and the sleek light of the full moon poured in silver ribbons into his room, heavenly in its radiance. Naples lay just below it, a blanket of warm golden lights. It was an enchanting sight, like something out of a half-forgotten dream. 

“Do you see the moon?” Crackled Giorno’s voice.

“Mm-hmm. I see it.”

“And?”

“And… I dunno? Looks the same it always does.”

A quiet sigh came, though not one of resentment.

“And here I was, mistaking you for the romantic type.”

“W-What the hell do you mean by that…?”

“Mista,” and the way he said it this time did funny things to his stomach, “Did we not both see the same pile of romance tapes on your apartment floor?”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

“All I’m saying,” said Giorno softly, “Is that it’s kind of nice that two people can share the same view even when they’re apart. Don’t you think so too?”

Mista lost himself then, within the moon’s vastness, round and full and beautiful. It was a strangely welcome remedy to his thoughts, something endlessly soothing about it. Knowing that Giorno was out there looking at the same sight made his chest tighten, a longing from deep within pulling at him. It was a familiar emotion to him and yet, no matter how well acquainted he was with it, the gravity of it in this moment was something he felt unprepared for entirely. 

“It’s a bit sentimental, but… I guess something about you has always drawn that feeling out of me.”

“…Yeah,” Mista managed to croak out. “Yeah, it is nice.” 

And it was. 

“…You sound tired,” said Giorno. “You should go to sleep.”

“Oh… Yeah.”

“Besides, I‘ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“…Good night, Mista.”

“Night.”

The call ended and Mista found himself with the phone still pressed to his ear, trying to grasp the fleeting sounds of Giorno’s soft voice, tangled sunlight in water. When he closed his eyes Giorno’s face flowered in his mind like a bud opening up after the last snow of winter. Finally free, finally blooming.

He thought about next time. He thought about the day they met and every important moment in between. He thought about chocolate birthday cake and purple hydrangeas and a delicate hand ruffling his hair.

He thought about his promise to him.

They were men, and they were gangsters. It should be wrong but it didn’t feel wrong, not to Mista, and he really couldn’t deny it to himself anymore, could he?

He wanted to be with him, touch him, kiss him, and…

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. He couldn’t.

Mista buried his face in his hands and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

Chapter Text

The last suitcase rattled through the doorway and just like that, Giorno was back home. The air smelt as he knew it and the sun leapt from the windows to dance golden discs upon the bronze floors. After two weeks away it might’ve been the most comforting place Giorno had ever been in. Then, it came. His body finally remembered that it ached. A unique brand of fatigue began to scratch away at him, peeling slowly at each strand of his muscles as a hawk picked clean gore from bone. He needed to feed himself and sleep, but like always obligation came before human impulse. 

Giorno opened the door to the office, expecting a familiar figure to be present. He was not. Only Coco Jumbo was there, chewing idly on sprightly tufts of lettuce. Disappointed, Giorno approached the animal. 

“Polnareff?”

The man sparked into existence, small enough to fit in Giorno’s palm yet aflame with an energy that matched any living person and then some.

“Giorno, you’ve returned! How was the trip?”

Giorno let himself smile. 

“Passione got a very good deal. I’m hopeful.”

“Good, good! I knew you could do it.”

He hummed, distracted. “Where’s Mista?” 

“Hmm, don’t think I’ve seen him today. He was out last night so… Probably sleeping off all the booze.”

“Oh.” It was already afternoon. “Still?”

Polnareff gave a restrained smile. “Don’t be too hard on him. I wanted him to go out and relax.”

Hard on him? Was that Polnareff’s impression of Giorno nowadays?

“No, it’s fine. Of course it’s fine. I know I placed a heavy burden on him. He deserves some time to rest.”

So, that’s what he was up to yesterday, thought Giorno. The mystery of the uncharacteristic phone call cleared itself a tad, and somehow raised even more questions.

“Then I’ll check on him a bit later. How did you two handle things in my absence?” 

A triumphant smile spread itself on Polnareff’s face. “Very well, Giorno. Mista did very well! Much better than expected. There were a few hiccups here and there but, well, nothing burned down and nobody died so let’s call it a roaring success!”

The words blew a sense of relief through Giorno. So, he was right. Mista stepped up to the challenge and excelled. It was exactly what he had hoped for.

“That’s great,” said Giorno, and he meant it. “So, nothing major to report?”

A pause came, one short enough that anyone else would overlook it but Giorno was always too quick for that. Polnareff covered it up well, considering.

“There’s one or two things for you to look at, but—” A hasty noise rose from his throat. “I think that’s best reserved for tomorrow.”

“If it’s important, I’d like to know now.”

The corners of Polnareff’s mouth curled upwards.

“Frankly Giorno, you look dreadful. Have you seen yourself? Eyes like this–” He pulled at his cheeks. “Like a panda. I don’t think more work is what you need right now, hm?”

Blunt, but not unkind; It was Polnareff’s usual manner but Giorno couldn’t help but feel embarrassed anyway, absentmindedly bringing a hand up to his face. He touched his skin like he could literally feel his dog-tiredness, dead as untreated animal hide. He dropped his hand, conceding defeat.

“I hate to admit it but you might be right,” he sighed.

“‘Course I am. Besides, it’d be better to include Mista in that particular conversation, no?”

“Yes. You’re right.”

The man’s countenance softened. “Go, get some shuteye. I don’t want to see you back until every ring around your eyes is gone.”

Giorno bobbed his head in a nod. Sometimes it was nice to be parented. He turned to leave but stopped suddenly, a certain realisation hitting him.

“Ah, that’s right. I need to return this.”

At once, Polnareff’s face flickered in recognition. 

“I almost forgot. Bring it in.”

Giorno returned to where the turtle perched and stretched out his arm. In an instant he stood inside its room, equally nostalgic as it was dreary. He reached into his blazer’s inside pocket, fingers nipping to clasp around where it was widest, then carefully fished the metal out and produced it in his palm — The Stand arrowhead. A chill brushed against Giorno’s fingers and it was gone.

“So you didn’t need it after all,” commented Polnareff. He flipped it over. A white glint rode up its side, catching the eye of the beetle; Still sharp, still aching to drink the veins of someone powerful.

“I’m capable all on my own.”

“I know you are.” Polnareff tucked the arrow back into its hiding place, a felt-lined treasure box found in one of the room’s cabinets. “But going into enemy territory like that… You can understand why I wanted it with you.”

Months later, Giorno’s soul still hung leaden in his chest. Not from guilt or regret — Diavolo deserved whatever punishment karma had divined for him. No, it was a feeling akin to fear. Giorno was afraid of little, but what Gold Experience Requiem did in the absence of his mind haunted him. Gold Experience Requiem was him and he was it, as inexplicably tangled with its essence as a fly in a web, and so, he was marked with the responsibility of some unknown power with no way of undoing it. What horror had he cursed Diavolo with? What exactly were his limits? Did he really have it in him to resist his bloodline, to never abuse his power and to choose goodness above all?

He’d like to say yes. He didn’t know. That was where the fear took root.

Fugo had by now retreated to his room, exhausted, and Giorno yearned to do the same. His bags had already been carried in, tiled neatly on his floor. He stared at them, then at his bathroom. The shower peeked enticingly from the crack in the door. God, was he tired. 

Something still pulled at him. What was the time? He checked it — just past one. He stepped back into the corridor and hovered outside of Mista’s bedroom, tossing up whether or not to bother him. 

He selfishly knocked. He couldn’t wait any longer.

The door eventually swung open. Mista emerged, rubbing his eyes, face puffy from sleep. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have even entertained opening the door. Hell, he’d probably have yelled for the intruder to fuck off while he was at it. As it was, he must’ve known who was there. The thought sent an undeniably pleasant ripple through Giorno. 

“Hey.”

“…Hey.”

Last night’s phone conversation hung between them, sacred and untouched. Giorno wondered if he should reference it but held himself back; It was embarrassing but perhaps the memory of it was too precious to acknowledge it so openly.

“Sorry, I know you were resting, I just… Couldn’t wait to clear the air. Can I come in?”

Mista blinked. He nodded and pulled the door open. He did so, taking in the space, blue with the lack of light. It’d been spruced up a little since the last time he’d seen it, more of Mista’s things from his apartment dotted around. 

“Sorry it’s a mess, boss.”

Giorno made a noise of protest. He turned to face him again and was assured that even like this, tired as he was, Mista was a salve to his troubles. All those pulsing thoughts in his head calmed with a look.

“What was that thing you said to me, on the boat?” Giorno walked a semicircle around him, a teasing smile on his lips. “Once Bucciarati became boss, you were going to be next in line for capo?”

“That was mostly talk.”

“Talk or not, you’ve proven yourself more than capable.” Giorno cocked his head, his expression softening. “I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t have placed you in a situation you couldn’t handle. You did well.”

“I was just doing my job.”

“Oh, take a compliment, will you?” Giorno chuckled, giving him a friendly poke to the arm. Modesty didn't look nearly as good on Mista as playful bravado, Giorno thought, but apparently Mista thought differently today. He didn’t take to Giorno’s teasing like he usually did. 

“Ah… Thanks.”

Something went unspoken after those words. Giorno resisted following up with a comment, and went to approach the bed, gingerly sitting on its edge. He rubbed the spot next to him, hinting at Mista to sit beside him. He didn’t. 

“How do you think things went here? Tell me a little about it.”

“Ah…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Nothin’ too crazy. I handled it.”

“You did. Polnareff did say there was something you wanted to discuss with me though.”

“Tch, that guy… Can’t keep his mouth shut.” Mista sighed, crossing his arms. “Look, there’s… A lot to get through. Let’s talk about it later.”

Giorno hummed, intrigued. “Okay,” he said. “I trust you.” 

Mista said nothing to that. He was still absent from the conversation in a way he never was, mist over his eyes. He gave Giorno some flighty glances, ones that Giorno couldn’t understand at all.

He pressed on. “So… Florence went well,” he said.

“Mm.”

“We can go through the full debrief later, but in short, we managed to secure territory, trade agreements, some business expansions… It’s looking good.”

“Congrats.” 

Giorno made a helpless look. “Congratulations might be a little premature. We still need to see if we get results.”

“Still,” Mista said, still not looking at him. He licked his lips. “Could’ve gone worse.” 

“It could’ve.” Giorno paused. “Valentino’s a Stand user.”. 

“He’s what?” Mista finally matched his gaze, fire licking his irises. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

“No, he—”

“Fuck…” Mista grumbled. “I told you, I told you I needed to be there!”

“Mista, I’m fine,” said Giorno before he could work himself up about it. His arms still mimed the sensation, boiling whenever he thought of the fight. He was quietly grateful there was no physical evidence left of that agony. “He wasn’t trying to kill us. It was his stupid idea of a test, that’s all.”

“A test?” Asked Mista, incredulity hot in his voice. He and Fugo had that in common sometimes. “Is he right in the head?”

“Mostly.”

“And you really think we can work with a guy like that? He sounds unstable as fuck.”

“I do. But you know we don’t have many other options.”

A thick sigh came from Mista’s chest. Resignation. He knew, all too well, that Giorno’s mind was paved and set in titanium. 

“He’s good for Passione,” tried assuring Giorno. “He’s definitely odd, but he’s serious. He knows the business, inside and out. If nothing else, I can learn from him.”

Besides, Valentino wasn’t who they had to worry about. Giorno quietly tossed up whether or not he should tell Mista about his sister — Mista’s protectiveness over Giorno was endearing but it muddied his reasoning, and learning of a plot to ruin him, barebones as it was, could be a siren’s call too loud for Mista to ignore. Giorno needed him present, focusing on the organisation. It was best to keep it quiet for now.

“What’s his Stand?” Asked Mista after a while.

“Flesh for Fantasy. The higher your stress levels are, the more it burns you.” 

“Burn?”

“Yes. Your body catches fire, beginning its trajectory from your fingers or ears until it consumes you entirely.”

Mista fell quiet as he imagined it. 

“Then it’s a direct counter… To Gold Experience.”

“It is. But with luck on our side, I’ll never have to fight him.” 

“You can’t assume that.”

“I’m not assuming. I’m prepared.”

Quiet passed between them, raw in its vulnerability.

“Mista… I know you feel a duty to protect me.” Giorno sighed. “I’m sorry I dismissed you so harshly before. I really didn’t know it was that important to you.”

“There you go again,” Mista mumbled. “Like you’re not important or something.”

Giorno gave a half-smile, not fully understanding but getting Mista’s sentiment well enough. 

“I’m unharmed. If anything, it’s Fugo you should feel the most sorry for. He suffered the worst of it.”

“I don’t care about Fugo, I…” The air swallowed his thought and he said nothing else. “Never mind.”

“Do you remember last night?” Giorno asked. He swore he heard a sharp intake of breath at that. “What I said, I… I meant it. I’ve taken you for granted.”

He finally caught Mista’s eyes and he didn’t let him look away this time. 

“So… I’ll do my best to be more mindful of your feelings from now on. I promise.”

He felt the weight of Mista’s gaze on him. He was silent for too long. It was hard not to think of a cartographer, mapping every centimetre of his features. 

“What is it…?”

“Nothing. Just… You really do look like shit.”

Giorno blinked. He helplessly broke into a smile. That was more like the Mista he knew.

“As do you,” chided Giorno affectionately. He let his eyes fall closed. “Mm. I think… I should take the day off tomorrow.”

“Glad you have some sense left.” A pause. “I’ll take care of things. What’s one more day anyway?”

“Thanks, Mista,” Giorno mumbled, then flopped backwards onto Mista’s bed. It smelt like him. It was nice. “So comfy…”

“Oi oi oi, you have your own room, come on man. Don’t you miss your own bed?”

Giorno hummed. He didn’t really. Things were temporary, as were places. It didn’t make sense for him to get attached. What he really missed was Mista. 

“C’mon. Get.” 

Mista gingerly stuck out a hand for him to grab and he did, groggily getting up. The contact didn’t last as long as Giorno wanted. With a heavy head, he walked to the door, but at the sight of his room across the hall he suddenly remembered.

“Wait, I have something,” he rushed out to say. Bewildered, Mista didn’t have a chance to protest before he was dragged out of his room and into Giorno’s. He hung like a lamb in the doorway as he watched Giorno shuffle things around in his bags. 

“What is it…?”

Giorno unzipped the correct segment this time, and out came three different bags in varying sizes, stacked neatly in Giorno’s arms. He presented them humbly to Mista.

“I got you a few things from Florence.”

“…Oh.” 

Mista looked through the bags, an indiscernible feeling on his face. Giorno might’ve undersold his generosity a bit. He offered a spectrum of souvenirs, ranging from perfumes and skincare oddities to handmade leather trinkets and artisan confections. Mista rifled through each bag appropriately, admiring each thing in turn. Then, surprise flittered over his expression and he fished out the jumper that Giorno bought. He stared at it for a while. Giorno began to worry. 

“Is the size fine?” He blurted out. “I thought I knew your measurements but maybe I got ahead of myself—”

“No. It’s just right.” Mista admired the sweater in his hands, eyes softening. “Thanks.”

Giorno smiled tightly, relieved that he seemed satisfied, but an uncertainty skimmed over him like a stone over water. Something was still off.

Mista cast him a skittish look, the handles of the bags tightening in his grip.

“Thanks… For all this. I’m, uh, pretty tired so… I’ll head off.”

“Mista, wait—“ 

Mista hung back, uncertain. 

“Everything’s fine, right? Between us?”

Mista continued to stare hard at the floor. Then, he gave a quick glance up at Giorno like a flighty deer. 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

For a minute after the door closed, Giorno was still, unable to move. Panic tendriled up his chest. His breath wobbled.

Everything was definitely not fine. 

♡

On the day that Giorno returned to work, Mista had asked for a day off. The way Giorno heard this was via Polnareff. 

“Of course that’s fine. But why wouldn’t he just ask me?” 

Polnareff made a quizzical face. “Who knows? Perhaps he couldn’t reach you.”

Giorno frowned, his phone a dead weight in his pocket.

He ignored the tightness in his chest and marched on ahead with his day. First he took the letters from his pigeonhole and flicked through them. The action was simple, calming. Even chores like these can be missed with enough time away.

There was one letter, stamped from Florence, that piqued his curiosity. He tore it open and read it: A check, and a handwritten note.

For the suit I ruined. 

Victory was sweet as cream. Giorno hummed contentedly to himself and pocketed the cash.

♡

Mista was in agony.

Maybe there were other words to describe his state of mind. Sex Pistols prattled off a nice list for him: Miserable, anguished, wretched. They had, predictably, not been of any help. 

He’d been sleepless since the night he phoned Giorno, and the only one less helpful than the Pistols was the culprit himself, trapping him in his room and singing soft-spoken promises in his ear. A bag worth Mista’s weight in handpicked gifts slumped over itself in his closet. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand his kindness.

He didn’t go to work that next day. Mista sat still in his room, watching the searing red eyes of his clock blink away the time. He shivered when fours struck but even they didn’t seem so bad now. He waited, until the walls of his room weren’t hard anymore, until they were soft as boat sails and sagged inwards. They draped over Mista’s head until it became too hot to breathe.

Mista knew he needed to talk to someone. Hours later, he paced back and forth on the landing to his old apartment, waiting for Trish to come back from school. 

“Mista?” He almost jumped. Her voice travelled far across the tiny stairwell. “What are you doing here?”

He spun around to face her. Trish was bundled up warm, a stylish scarf wound around her neck and coat draped over her uniform like cardinals’ robes. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. 

“Hey, uh… Can I come in?” 

Trish laughed, confusion wedged between her eyebrows. 

“Yeah, whatever.” She jangled her keys into the lock, twisting the doorknob. “How long have you been standing out here like a lost dog?” 

“Long enough,” he mumbled, slipping into the apartment. Trish followed, puzzled but not unamused.

“Make yourself comfy,” she said, dumping her school bag onto the kitchen counter with a loud thunk. “Want anything?” 

Mista shook his head no. He pulled a chair out and arranged himself like a mannequin to sit at the dining table, one knee to his chest.

“Then what do you want?” Trish scoffed. “‘Cos something tells me you’re not here to help me with homework.”

“I dropped out, remember? Can’t help ya with shit.”

Trish laughed melodically in reply. She was always like that, light as a feather, gliding through life with a smile and an enviable security in herself. It’s probably what Mista liked most about her. She didn’t dwell on things that drifted outside of her orbit. Mista’s mind was always festering nowadays, gnawing on the same thought as dogs chewed bone.

Trish prepared herself a drink, a floral concoction steeped in water that eluded Mista’s understanding. Her nails tapped like the clatter of dice, stirring her spoon as the liquid flowed into the cup. At last she sat across from Mista and she took a moment to study him, watching him drum his fingers on the arm of the chair. His eyes were glued to the table centrepiece; His face was white as a sheet.

“Mista, you’re starting to freak me out.” She’s never seen him like this before. “What's going on? Have… Have things gotten bad? In Passione?”

“No, it’s nothing like that!” Mista rushed to calm her. “Actually, my problems seem kinda stupid now that you’ve said that.”

“Don’t say that. Clearly it’s important if you’re so nervous about it. It’s only me.” 

Mista swallowed, nodding his head. He took a moment to drum up the courage.

“The other night… I was at a club, and… I kissed someone.”

“Okay…” She waited for him to continue. “Like that’s new,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. Mista just shook his head.

“It… wasn’t a girl.”

“Oh.”

“And… I liked it.”

Trish was quiet for a moment, taking it in. Mista’s fingers sped up in rhythm.

“You don’t think I’m…” Mista paused, the words sour milk on his tongue, sharp and foul. “You’re not… grossed out, are you?”

“No!” Cried Trish. “What?! Of course not!”

It was then that Mista finally met her eyes, a nervous smile growing on his lips. 

“Thank God,” he laughed, breathless. “I feel like I’ve been going fucking crazy.”

“No Mista, I’m… Happy you trust me like that. You really thought I’d judge you?”

“I don’t know.” Mista folded his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”

“Who else have you told?”

“Just you.”

Trish frowned, but said nothing. Silence ticked by, decorated only by the air moving under their noses.

“So… You like guys,” Trish coaxed, hoping to dye their conversation with some enthusiasm. “That’s great! Now you can live your life and be yourself, right?”

“No, Trish, I… I can’t. I can’t be.”

“What do you mean…?”

“I dunno, I just… So what, I’m just supposed to be okay with being… gay now?” The word caught in his throat like a cough, not feeling quite right. “Isn’t it kinda cruel to just spring that on me out of nowhere?”

That was a lie. It had not been out of nowhere; Mista had in fact known it his whole life. It had been shame and denial that had forced his complete resignation to the fairer sex. It spilled over him now, memory after memory, of all the hints from across years of life: The anticipation of his barber touching the base of his neck, the uncomfortable sting in his belly when he wrestled with boys during sports, the flash of heat in his cheeks as he listened to a friend describe his first kiss. He had grown into his manhood faster than Mista, bronzed and limber and square-faced seemingly overnight. It was almost painful to understand now that what Mista felt for him was more than simple jealousy. 

It was hunger. The kind that was easy to ignore in its infancy, so much so that Mista never thought he would need to confront it — But since then it’d been doused in satisfaction, like a vampire spoiled by the nectar of virgin blood, and now Mista knew he could never go back to being as he was. 

“Nothing’s really different,” said Trish. “You’re still the same person.”

“Yeah, but… You live your whole life pretending you’re one thing, and then turns out you’re not. It’s not fuckin’… easy.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought I liked girls my whole life and now apparently I don’t. It’s fucking with me.”

Trish snorted, even though she didn’t mean to. 

“What? This funny to you?”

“No! S-Sorry, it’s just that… You’re a fucking menace with women. I don’t believe for a second that you’ve been pretending this whole time. You are allowed to like both, you know.”

Mista considered it. Were there really people like that? Maybe. He thought he watched an interview of David Bowie saying he was bisexual once. He wanted to immediately protest it, some part of himself still certain you had to choose one or the other, because then, things would be fine. Then things would make sense. He’ll choose women, over and over, and things will never have to be complicated again—

And that’s when his veins flooded with desire again. When his want for one person infected his whole body, a want so heavy it lived in his spine. That one person who was also his superior, his coworker, his friend. All while being a fucking gangster in Italy of all places. All of this was complicated in a way he knew would never untwist itself willingly.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “It doesn’t matter! Whatever I am, it’s not good. I can’t ever, ever let this get out to Passione.”

Trish, who had just gone to pick up her forgotten drink, stilled in the frigidity of those words. He barely sounded like the friend she knew at all.

“Aren’t you being paranoid? Being gay isn’t that big of a deal anymore, right?”

Mista scoffed. “Sure, Trish. I'm sure the other gangsters will be very welcoming. The same men that wanted to kill an innocent girl are the same ones who’re cool with guys taking it up the ass. Makes all the fucking sense in the world.”

It was easy tripe to spout. That being gay was fine, only if you locked yourself away, tucked yourself so small you became negligible. Mista remembered the boys in the schoolyard, hurling slurs like footballs and boasting their manliness. Girls sharpening their knives and brandishing the accusation of ‘lesbian’ at any girl who didn’t dare fit in. The teachers making the few out kids change in separate toilets and then snickering about it when the door closed. He remembered seeing workplace harassment incidents on network news, and cars being tagged at protests. 

A slur tossed from a car window he could handle. Being out in the mafia, he knew, was an entirely different story. 

He got laughed at enough for not having a girlfriend. Being gay was social suicide, and would be career ending if his boss was anyone but Giorno. He thought of it then, the ugliness, the humiliation, the crowing laughter of a hundred men who once called him Consigliere. It pricked his brain like a spearhead cracking through skull — A social ritual of sneering faces, teeth bared like feral cats and knobbly fingers squirming to tear at his skin. Mista mustn’t think himself invulnerable because of his position. Men, as he knew, killed for less. 

“I’ll be a laughing stock,” he spat, “and that’s if I’m lucky.” 

The cut of his voice scored Trish to the bone, the uncanniness of his temper making her second-guess who she even spoke to. She squashed herself into her seat, feeling more guilty than ever.

“…Sorry. I didn’t really think.”

“No,” he sighed, apologetic. “It’s not your fault.” 

He quieted, staring at the table again.

“…You know I’m not the best person to talk to,” said Trish. “I’m bad at this kinda stuff. I’m glad you trust me but… Why didn’t you talk to Giorno?”

Mista snapped up to meet her gaze, eyes wild.

“Giorno? Why Giorno?”

“Why?” She eked out a nervous chuckle. “You guys are practically attached at the hip. I figured he’d be the first to know.” 

“No. No, he… He’s got nothing to do with this.”

Trish pursed her lips, watching the colours in her glass swirl together.

“I don’t get it. You used to talk about him all the time, and recently it’s like… I dunno. It’s like something happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Really?” Her temper buzzed in her chest, and she was getting that same sickly feeling from before, when people insisted cruelly on hiding things from her. “Because you cannot be this mad about the Florence thing, Mista. Or even the Fugo thing! Seriously, he’s your best friend and you’re acting like–”

“Oh my god, can you just drop it? Giorno this, Giorno that. Everything’s about him! It’s his fault any of this is happening to me in the first place!”

Suddenly, it hit her. It was so plain to see that she was amazed she didn’t realise it sooner. Lines were drawn for her in the sand, dim but clear enough, of half-covered memories from months ago. Of shared glances in the afternoon light, of secretive smiles exchanged like gifts. Of real gifts, flowers and jokes and company. She had seen only through the fissure of a seashell but for Mista it was seaglass, polished clear and smooth from days and days of being by each other’s side. It was so obvious now.

“Oh… Oh Mista…” She looked up at him, face pinching. “It’s… Giorno, isn’t it? You like him… right?”

Panic fell on Mista’s face like an axe – then slowly and painfully, a smile. He rolled his head back onto the chair, and stared up at the ceiling.

“Yeah.”

Defeat. As simply as it could be understood.

“Aren’t I pathetic?” He cracked a dry laugh. “Fell for my best friend who’s also my boss. Finally living out those romcoms in the worst way possible, huh?” 

He waited for Trish to laugh along with him or at him, whichever, but she did no such thing. 

“Give,” Trish demanded. Mista frowned, not understanding. “Your hand,” she clarified, and after a second he pulled it from his lap and onto the table. Trish took it and they sat for a while, warm where their fingers crossed like constellations.

“I don’t want everything to change again,” said Mista quietly. “I’m so sick of change. And I’m sick of not being normal.”

“The only thing not normal about you is your fashion sense. And the gangster thing, I guess, but everything else… You’re as normal as they come.”

Mista felt Trish’s thumb pass over his knuckle, and the touch wasn’t like Giorno’s at all but it felt like what he needed right now, something more honest about its warmth.

“I was raised pretty religiously,” Mista said. “But I’ve never had a problem with it. With being gay. Just that… I never thought I would be one of… Them. It never felt like an option.”

“Yeah.”

“And you grow up with all these… these news stories and headlines and it’s… It’s fucking scary. There was a whole epidemic back then, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Trish uncomfortably. “I remember the TV programs about it.” 

“I know things are better now, but I can’t help but still feel kinda scared.” He laughed a little. “I’m a gangster for a living but I’m scared of liking men. How dumb is that?”

He felt young again, swaddled against his mother, confessing secrets so heavy the ground would slump beneath their weight. Now Mista understood those same secrets were only the dumb musings a child could ever entertain — But the gravity of it felt equal. Even if no one understood, the relief of telling someone who listened was the only thing he needed.

“And… Giorno, he…” He could barely force the name out, shame pillowed between each letter. “He’s my closest friend besides you. We work together. He’s…” he trailed off, swallowing his thoughts. “I don’t wanna lose him. He’s important to me.”

Trish made a face, calculative. 

“Are you… sure he doesn’t like you too…?”

“Trish,” Mista groaned, averting his eyes. He went red instantly.

“What? It’s a legit question!” She said, her mind stirring memories of Giorno acting strange around the topic of women. She didn’t want to give Mista false hope, it’s not like she had proof, but she couldn’t help but feel Giorno wasn’t as straight as they’re assuming. 

“Come on, what are the odds of that? Besides, I know him. He’s not interested in anyone, period.” 

Mista least of all. He felt so stupid. Of all the options he had in the world, both men and women, he had to fall for the most unattainable one — Apollo who walked with his lyre, spinning golden poems from mortal words. So beautiful he became classical, so powerful he charioted the sun across the sky. It was so humiliating.

“…You can try to move on to someone else. Crushes don’t last forever.”

Mista gave a weak chuckle. “Don’t got a choice. If he ever knows my feelings, it’s over. There’s stakes here, you know? We’re the fucking mafia.” 

He made a promise to fulfil Giorno’s dream. That was his top priority. Everything else was dust. 

“God. It all feels like the universe is playing a big fucking prank on me.”

Though Mista still felt uncertain, the air had cleared a bit. Something in him felt lighter. No less muddled, but lighter.

“Forget Giorno,” Trish said with a shrug. “Go find that guy you were making out with at the club.”

Mista barked out an abrupt laugh. “Something tells me he wouldn’t want me back.”

“Then find someone else. God, Mista, you talk like you’re a dead fish. There’s plenty of people who like you, and now you even have double the options!”

“You think?” A grin spread on his face.

“Yeah, I think. I don't like saying it ‘cause your head is way too big as it is but… It’s kinda true, okay?” She sniffed. “As for work… Those dumb ‘coworkers’ of yours can kick rocks. Seriously, Mista, I’ll be so mad at you if you let them say homophobic shit. You’re the boss, act like it.”

“Yeah, Mista!” 

The Sex Pistols crawled out of his hat then, loud and bubbly.

“We’ll get anyone who talks shit to you! Bang, bang!” No. 3 cried, miming shooting a gun. The other Pistols crooned in agreement.

“You guys always got my back, huh?” Mista scooped up the Stand in his palm, watching them bounce around. “That’s right. We’ll show everyone who’s boss, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Come on,” Trish encouraged, her chair scraping as she stood. “Let’s go watch something. Take your mind off of things.”

Mista gave out a groan as if he’d been punched.

“I can’t do romance movies, Trish. I don’t know if I can watch them again.”

“Fuck that!” She crossed her arms, tilting her head at him seriously. “Recently, I bought a whole book of bootleg kung-fu movies with the shittiest Italian dubs you have ever heard. We’re ordering pizza and we’re getting through every. Single. One.”

Mista grinned, ear to ear. He could always count on Trish.

That night, the Pistols chewed on crusts and the TV sung its staticky hymn, long forgotten. Mista and Trish fell asleep on the couch together. It was like old times, those pallid days after Rome when they only had each other to hold. Trish’s hair threatened to crawl into his mouth and the spine of her bleached shirt collar dug into his hand, and it was the first time in a while Mista felt at peace.

♡

He was called into Giorno’s office the next day. A debrief of the past two weeks was to occur, with Mista to explain the Capo’s betrayal and his plan to clear out the drug manufacturers. His nerves jumped in his palms at seeing Giorno again, this new feeling for him thick and oppressive in his throat.

“How was your day off?” Asked Giorno. 

“Good,” he answered. It was a little easier to smile today. “Don’t feel like a zombie anymore, finally.”

“I’m glad.” 

Giorno was looking much more put together than before. And, unfortunately for Mista, he still looked as good as he always did. He styled his hair a little differently, two curling locks of hair framing his face perfectly. The sunlight reached into the room just enough to bounce off of Giorno’s earrings, reflecting vivanite on his skin. He glowed. Mista had to force his eyes away, gathering his resolve. 

“Uhh, Trish says hi, by the way,” he quipped, reaching for a random book off a random shelf. He just needed something to occupy his hands.

“Oh. You were with Trish.”

“Ah, yeah.” He quickly realised how that sounded. “Don’t worry, it was super lowkey. You didn’t miss anything.”

Giorno simply smiled. No no no, don’t do that, agonised Mista.

“I hope she’s doing well.”

Fugo came into the room soon after, the turtle cradled in his hand. Mista cursed to himself. At least there was enough distraction not to stare at Giorno the whole time. Small mercies.

It took some time but they dissected each party’s experience, unpacking their achievements and their setbacks, throwing around ideas for new strategies. At last it came time for Mista to expose Giacomo’s scheme and reveal what he knew. 

Giorno, as expected, did not take kindly to the news.

“So they continue to betray me,” hissed Giorno. 

His eyes curtained off, his fury incandescent beneath his skin. Mista hadn’t seen him this angry in a long time. 

“It’s not unfixable,” Fugo rushed to say. “Thanks to Mista, we have the upper hand here.”

A certain tension in Mista’s chest unspooled, surprised at Fugo’s open recognition of his value. It was weirdly validating.

“I know,” said Giorno stiffly. “And I’m grateful, I just… I suppose I still can’t accept how how greedy they all are. I try to be fair and this is what they give me in return. It’s disappointing.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that I came up with a foolproof plan,” boldly announced Mista. He handed out a few pages to Fugo, a printout with the identities of the drug manufacturers, and a layout of the building they operated in.

“I scoped out their place and figured out the best times to go in and bust their shit. Looks like the sneaky little fuckers don’t get out much so we’ll have to deal with ‘em, but as far as I can tell they’re just Giacomo’s lackeys. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You managed to get all of this?” Giorno scanned the papers, flipping through them. He gave Mista a triumphant smile. “Good job, Mista.”

Mista didn’t respond, only shrugging his shoulders. A shameful ripple of pleasure burst below his skin. God, he hoped it wouldn’t show on his face. 

“Yes, Mista. You did a good job for once,” Fugo said, with some ambiguity in his tone as to whether or not that was a bad attempt at banter. Mista didn’t care for it.

“The sooner we do this, the better.” Giorno pinned Mista down with his gaze, freezing him in place. “You and I can handle it, can’t we?”

Mista blanched. He was not expecting Giorno to want to tag team. The idea of it was simultaneously intoxicating as it was nauseating — The sheer proximity to Giorno was a delicacy Mista always clamoured for, but he also knew that that greed would absolutely ruin him. Maybe even the mission. Realistically, he couldn’t afford the distraction.

He must’ve not said anything for too long because Giorno began to look concerned. 

“What? It’s been a while since we did an assignment together. You’re not up for it?”

Fuck, fuck.

“Ah, well…”

Giorno quirked a brow. Sensing Mista’s doubt, he shrugged his shoulders and, calm as anything, declared a new tactic. 

“Then you can work this case with Fugo. Problem solved.”

Mista’s mouth opened at the same time Fugo’s did.

“Wait—”
“Huh?!”

But Giorno ignored them, and probably enjoyed doing so. He stepped forward, placing an arm on Mista’s shoulder. He leaned in closer, and Mista almost choked on his perfume. Sandalwood and citrus. He knew the one. The smooth voice which followed helped about as much as a hammer to the head.

“I think it’s about time you two talked it out.”

He walked to his desk, picking up his phone.

“I’ll be dealing with the capos.” He gave a dark smile. “Clearly, they must be reminded of who’s the Boss.”

He began punching in numbers, and Giorno was officially unreachable. Mista found himself dizzy in the new background of phone calls, trying to process what the hell that was. 

Working with Fugo? Was Giorno trying to get them to kill one another?

“Don’t worry,” Fugo said, as comfortingly as he could. “We’ll get this done in no time.”

Mista eyed him. God, he couldn’t stand his ass.

He scoffed and shrugged him off, heading out of the office to begin prep work for the assignment.

Fugo gave a heavy sigh, knowing that this was about to be a long, long mission.

Chapter Text

The car jerked to a stop. Across the intersection was a grey, concrete block, graffitied over with tags and poorly drawn pin-up girls. The only things that suggested life inside it was the row of uniformed trucks at the loading bay and the occasional swing of wide, factory doors.

It was, apparently, an industrial laundromat. It occupied the largest section of a rundown industrial compound, the back half of which lay abandoned now, not much more than rubble and a roof over the occasional homeless man’s head. It was there that Giacomo’s drug operation was hidden.

Mista hung over the steering wheel, watching the scene. A new truck rumbled into the loading dock and a cluster of workers popped into view, migrating over to it. Off-white uniforms camouflaged into linens and bedding, mountains of them rolled around on metal carts. It should be easy enough to slip by unnoticed, although it was unlikely that anyone would look twice at a pair of roughed-up teenagers going to hang out at a derelict warehouse.

“Is that it?” Fugo, who sat primly in the passenger seat, asked. 

“Yup.”

Fugo consulted the map in his hands, then glanced up to compare. “That path to the left… That’s the best way in, right?”

“Yeah. Intel says the lab is all the way at the back. That run-down bit over there,” Mista said with a point of his finger. 

Fugo rustled the map back into his pocket and opened the door. “Then let’s go while it’s quiet.”

Mista agreed and the two headed over across the street, making their way around the complex. The dinky chain-link fence did so little to oppose their trespassing it was almost insulting. Within a few minutes they made it to Struttura numero cinque; It was a building that was wider than it was tall, streaked with rust and rotting paint. There was a red string set up around the perimeter of the building – some sort of construction marker, if Mista had to hazard a guess. Maybe the entire place was planned for demolition or something.

The rear door was wrapped in chains and a padlock, but with a pair of bolt cutters and a bit of well-applied force, Mista cracked it open. The lock clattered to the ground and he wasn’t able to resist an unprompted quip, “I’m sure they won’t be missing that.”

Upon entering they were wrapped in grey, the only light provided for them being thin poles of sunlight pushed through pinprick cracks in the roof. It was dusty too, thick enough to kick up a sneeze. Exposed wires hung like octopus legs from above and a layer of grime wiped the walls and floor, built up from years of neglect. It was quiet, deafeningly so. Their very breaths scored echoes in the silence. 

Save for the odd scuttle of a cockroach, the two gangsters were cut off from the outside world completely. 

Fugo consulted his map again. The way was straightforward, or at least it seemed to be, and the pair continued down the corridor without a single word passing by their lips.

Ever since Giorno put them on this assignment, Mista had thought tirelessly about how to approach Fugo. Mista operated on his own much of the time, back in the old days, but the times they were paired together were mostly uneventful. Both of them suffered their fair share of petty jabs and squabbles, maybe even a punch or two, but never anything close to a real fight. Their obligation to Bucciarati kept them working through their differences with one another, although maybe it was more likely that they preferred not to provoke Bucciarati over their juvenile arguments. He was scary when he wanted to be. In any case, it was far less trouble to simply keep the peace.

Outside of work though, they were… Well, they were friends at some point in time, weren’t they? There was a wall between them that Fugo liked to keep, but they had a rapport. They referenced jokes and teased Narancia and ate together. It wasn’t always like this. 

Over the last few days, Mista found that his anger toward Fugo had dimmed. In Mista’s brain was a pocket, specially carved out for rotten emotions to stew — over his work, or Fugo, or the number four. It had since been reformed to accommodate his horrible, Giorno-shaped crisis, and in the acidic background of that Mista found himself not as preoccupied with his teammate. 

He still meant it when he said he wasn’t sure if he could forgive Fugo. He was almost positive he never would. But, illogical though it was, Mista was almost comforted that he was around again. Any scrap of familiarity had Mista scrambling for it like bait on a hook.

But even if Mista talked things out with him, what could he say? Where could he even begin? He didn’t want to apologise, and he knew Fugo didn’t either. They were both too prideful for that. After everything, there was no way they could go back to what they were. 

Mista chanced a glimpse at him now. Fugo was never good at masking his emotions but he betrayed nothing on his face, eyes locked straight ahead. A second passed and his gaze flickered over to him. Mista turned away, embarrassed.

Fuck. It was awkward. He hated it. 

What was Giorno thinking, putting them together like this? Of course, he hoped that they’d reconcile. Fat chance that was about to happen. 

Then there was the problem of Purple Haze. How useful could Fugo possibly be without the use of his Stand? The responsibility of the mission fell completely on Mista’s shoulders. Not that he couldn’t handle it, obviously.

There was an utterly shameless fantasy living in his head, and Mista retreated to it now, eager to break away from the dirty corridor that sat like a tumor in front of his eyes. 

He thought about returning to Giorno after the mission, all golden and heroic. He would boast about how he took care of everything, how he courageously risked his life to save poor Fugo from something, a falling chunk of brain-exploding debris maybe, and then Giorno would look at him like… 

God, what would he look like? Mista’s palms went prickly as he thought of it. 

First, there would be that light in his eyes, that sparkling look he got when Mista did something good. Then, there would be that small quirk on the corners of his lips before he finally smiled. Mista saw it perfectly in his mind’s eye – It was that smile that he only gifted him, Mista had noticed, fond and affectionate. His voice would be lovely–as always–and then he would finally say something, something like—

“This place is a lot bigger than I thought…” 

The wrong voice struck Mista like icewater down his back, and his unraveling fantasy fizzled out as tactlessly as spit on a birthday candle. He withheld a sigh. The cruel universe just had to remind him that no, he was not about to be in Giorno’s embrace, but rather in the middle of a dingy hallway that reeked of mildew, shoulder to shoulder with the number one guy that hated his guts – although perhaps that particular honor went to Sale.

“Is this really the right way?” Fugo continued, going for his map again. 

“What, you think I gave ya the wrong info?”

“That is not what I said,” he grumbled. Fugo stopped to look at the layout again, squinting at it. 

With a roll of his eyes and a not-so-subtle huff, Mista drifted off along the corridor, punting broken shards of plaster with his boot. This was so typical. Mista was the resident fuck-up after Narancia. Of course there was no way Fugo trusted him to do anything right.

Mista idled some more. The hallway was lined with doors and he wandered to one, knowing that there was nothing in there but needing to scratch that restless itch in his brain. Shivers broke along his back when several furry bodies scurried out of the door, wrapping their wiry tails around his legs. 

“E-Ew!”

He jumped backwards, slamming into Fugo and they both tumbled to the floor like bowling pins into an ungraceful heap of arms and legs. The rats skittered past them in panic, their squeaks fading away into the distance.

“OW! Get your ass out of my face!” Complained Fugo. He gave him a hard shove. “This isn’t the time for your bullshit!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Yelled Mista, nursing the freshly-formed bump on his head. “You just think I’m a big, dumb idiot, don’t you?!”

“I don’t need to think it when you act it! You can never focus!” 

“I was focused!” He paused. “Am! Am focused! I was scoping out the surroundings, asswipe!”

Fugo scoffed. “Sure. And what about last time? Forgetting the damn tape recorder for a negotiation! Dumbass!”

“Hey, I got the info, tape or not! When was the last time you were useful for anything ‘cept teaching Narancia his ABCs?” 

“Perhaps when I saved your ass falling from a building? What a convenient blip in your memory! Seriously, what was that?”

“I explained it, if you ever bothered listening to me! There was this… This fucking rock—”

“God damn it, Mista! Inside voice, use your inside voice!” 

Mista bit his tongue, realising how loud he was being. 

Fugo blew out an irritated sigh, flipping his bangs out of his eyes. “This comedy routine is going to get us killed,” he groused. “Let’s just get through this and then we never have to speak again. How does that sound?”

Mista scrunched up his face like a toddler and crossed his arms.

“Sounds just perfect.”

Both of them in a sulk, they set off again.

The hallway stretched far, farther than they initially thought. Mista’s chest was sand, all the debris in the air making each inhale feel like breathing static. God, could they just get to this lab already? Mista was desperate to shoot some bullets into some heads and get home in time for dinner.

Then again, that would mean having to speak to Giorno and as much as Mista wished his fantasy would come true, he knew deep down that the debrief will undoubtedly consist of Mista bumbling his way through what should be a normal conversation before escaping to his room. He could barely look Giorno in the eye nowadays. Seriously, when did he become this uncool?

All of a sudden, an uncanny noise sliced through Mista’s thoughts. It was hardly noticeable at first, like the rupture of a sac or a blister, before it distended into a grating scrape. He ignored it at first, but the stillness of the building soon rendered it impossible to focus on his own thoughts.

Mista looked over at Fugo. This bastard.

“Hey Fugo… You’re irritating me.”

“What now?” He moaned, his expression instantly hardening. 

“Your breathing, idiot.”

“My breathing?”

“Or whatever it is. Keep it down. You’re distractin’ me.”

“A child. You are a child,” Fugo balked. “The hell did Bucciarati ever see in you?”

Mista smirked. “I dunno, maybe that I’m a total badass?”

He turned to catch Fugo’s reaction — Only to find that he wasn’t there. 

“Fugo...?”

No answer. Mista snickered, sticking his hands onto his hips.

“Yeah, okay. Very funny, dude. Come out already.”

Still nothing. 

“Alright man, you got me!” He made a quick inspection of the area, trying to see if he was stuffed inside a vent or something. “Seriously though, after calling me childish? Talk about hypocritical.”

He listened in for a possible response, but heard nothing except that sound. It had evolved, dry and shrill now, like the teeth of two chainsaws grinding and sparking against one another.

A sense of urgency kicked in Mista’s chest.

He picked up speed down the corridor, checking the closest door. Locked. He barrelled to the next. Locked. He threw his sight to the end of the hall, and all he could see was a swirling, undulating darkness, swallowing up everything in his vision.

Shit. 

♡

On the other side of the building, Fugo heaved himself against different doors to no avail. 

“Mista, where are you? This isn’t funny!” 

Out of breath, he spun around, making the decision to head back the way they came. His fists shook, heat pooling in his belly. Nothing was about to bring him more pleasure than handing Mista’s ass to him. What was he thinking, pulling shit like this on an important mission? His mission, too! 

“After all this time, he hasn't changed at all! Even Giorno can’t straighten him out, that troublesome, happy-go-lucky bastard!”

He walked for a few minutes, grumbling to himself incessantly, before finally realising something crucial. 

This was not the same hallway he was in before.

“What the…” 

He looked around, trying to make sense of his position. Anxiety lapped at his throat. 

He checked his map again to figure out his orientation, the paper wrinkled from constant folding and unfolding, but within a few minutes he realised that nothing in his new surroundings matched the layout. In disbelief, Fugo scrunched the paper up into a ball, anger frothing in his blood.

“Fuck! Where the hell did I end up?!”

He stopped, and put his brain to work. This whole situation reeked of an enemy Stand, didn’t it? Mista’s disappearance, the changed structure of the building… It must be. 

His senses were ablaze now, eyes flickering around to catch any breaks in the Stand. Was it an illusion, like Man in the Mirror? Or had the building been physically manipulated? 

Most importantly, how could he find Mista and get out?

That thought stopped Fugo dead in his tracks. Find Mista? Forget about him! He was a big boy, he could handle himself just fine. Finding the Stand user was Fugo’s priority now. Then, completing the mission. 

He had to do this for Giorno. That’s what was important.

It was at this moment that he noticed it — Creaking, or some sort of incessant scratching. It had become so loud in his ear that he was shocked that he was only just hearing it. Was this what Mista was referring to earlier? Was this part of the Stand? 

Fugo slowed his walk, tempering his breathing so that he could make it out. His heart beat so hard in his mouth that he tasted blood. 

Before he knew it he was chasing that sound, desperately grabbing at the one thread that might be able to untangle this mess. He ran, throwing himself after hallway after hallway after hallway. The building almost lived, darkness shifting and stirring like spinal fluid as it pulled Fugo in more, suffocating him, dampening all of his senses. He clamoured for the walls, using his hands to guide himself as that scraping continued to screech in his ear.

Then, in the shadow, piercing cold light. 

It stunned Fugo’s eyes and he adjusted, eventually making out the narrow outline of a door. He crept towards it, fighting his body’s urge to stumble from the sudden disorientation. 

He pressed his palm to the door. 

His eyes fell upon a hunched over figure. He bobbed back and forth on unsteady feet as he fiddled with red yarn tangled up in fat, stubby fingers. It looked like an old-fashioned puzzle. What was it called? Cat’s Cradle? Fugo might’ve seen some kids at school playing that a long time ago. It was exceptionally complicated, and Fugo’s eyes crossed just trying to make sense of the pattern.

At Fugo’s entrance, the man wearily looked up. He had a face like a bull’s — a bulbous nose and dots for eyes. His head melted into his torso as though he had no neck. He was round and lumpy, and only came up to Fugo’s waist in height. Fugo would like to say he’s too polite to call him ugly, but even by charitable definition he was still rather ugly.

“Y-You found me!” The man squeaked, voice like a rusty door hinge. “What do I do? I never thought this would happen…”

“Uh…” Fugo had no idea what to make of what he was seeing. Gingerly, he asked, “Who are you?”

“Oh.” The man cocked his head, a look of panic crossing his features. “How do I answer that? I don’t think anyone has ever bothered to ask me my name before...”

“I didn’t,” replied Fugo flatly. “I asked who you are. That’s not the same.”

“Oh.” He pouted, face red. “W-Well, it’s Burrata, just so you know…”

Fugo tensed. Purple Haze teetered on the edge of his senses, ill at ease. 

Leading up to this mission, half of his thoughts were about Mista, and the other half were about his Stand. He dreaded having to take it out. It was useless in Florence but beyond that, he worried himself numb about controlling it. What if it went berserk? What if it harmed someone he didn’t mean to, like Capo Dolce from before? Mista was a prick, but even he didn’t deserve to die because of Fugo’s carelessness. 

The man still had his beady stare on him. He blinked one eye at a time. Fugo thought, maybe foolishly, that he could solve this without Purple Haze. If he killed the user, he had no idea what would happen to Mista. Besides, this Burrata guy didn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box. It shouldn’t be too difficult to solve this without a fight.

“S-Sorry… I’m not very pleasant to listen to, am I?” wheezed Burrata. “I had a bad infection in my lungs, you see, when I was small… My vocal chords don’t work right anymore.”

He fiddled with that red yarn in his fingers again, eyes wobbling.

“All that time in the hospital made me really good at puzzles though… I like string puzzles the most. The nurses gave me lots of chocolate milk too. It’s definitely the nicest kinda milk, don’t you think?”

“Look,” Fugo said, in the voice he used when giving Narancia bad test results, “I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but I’m not here to harm you.” 

“Really?!” He squawked, eyeing Fugo warily. “But I was told that bad men would be coming… There would definitely be a purple one, he said, and maybe a black and green one… No-one said anything about a totally green one though,” he said, throwing his eyes up and down Fugo’s suit.

“What happened to him?” Fugo asked. “The purple one.”

“Oh, him? Bah! I put him far, faaar away! He has a gun and guns are scary, you see?” 

He narrowed his eyes, face conspiratorial. The strings in his hands slackened, and Fugo swore he felt the floor bend at his feet.

“Are you scary too? You are, aren’t you?”

“No,” answered Fugo, too quickly not to seem suspicious. “I just want you to give my partner back. If you can do that, we’ll leave you alone.”

“No can do! I-I was told to keep you away… From that important place!” Burrata’s mouth curled. “A-And If I do a good job, then I can get all the chocolate milk that I want! It’s my favourite, you see? Lick lick.”

He waggled his tongue and Fugo grimaced, instinctively taking a step back. Of course that’s what this guy was sent here to do — To stop them from finding the lab. 

Purple Haze sizzled in Fugo’s palms. Of course, as soon as Mista was safe he was going to pummel this guy into next week. 

“We’ll leave, alright? Just let us go and nobody has to get hurt.”

“Nuh-uh! You can’t trick me, you know!”

Burrata cast a wide, toothy smile. He held up his hands, yarn expertly knitted in between meaty fingers. With the surprising dexterity of a puppet master, he tugged a string and pulled it taut. 

The room shook as lines were carved into the floor, slicing a square around where Fugo stood. He was violently jerked sideways, slamming hard into the far wall. All the air was knocked out of his body and Fugo heaved on the ground, hacking up spittle as he ravenously clawed back his breath. His entire right side burned from the skin-on-cement collision. He silently cursed himself for all the holes in his suit.

“Y-You… That Stand!”

Burrata laughed the way that a goat bleats.

“Isn’t it fun! This whole place is my domain! It took a while to set up, but now… It’s like my own little funhouse!” He danced a little. “Let’s make your friend play too!”

Before Fugo could protest, the Stand user raised his hands again, his face bright as though he was caught in religious rapture, and flipped another string in a downwards motion. The foundation of the whole building quivered, and from far away came unearthly rattles and groans.

♡

The ground shuddered beneath Mista’s feet. He had gotten used to that feeling, but the sudden ferocity of this vibration couldn’t compare to the tepid rumbles from before. His whole body jolted in alarm and he steadied his grip on his revolver, fortifying his stance. By this point he had understood that he was dealing with an enemy Stand, and he resolutely prepared himself for the worst. 

A smooth sound filled his ears, like the rolling of a marble. Mista watched as he was caged within a marked rectangle on the floor. Beginning its trajectory from behind him, the floor flipped like a deck of cards and unspooled into ribbons below him.

“Shit!”

Mista ran forward, as far as his legs could propel him, and leapt up right before the ground completely disappeared. He grabbed onto a ceiling fixture and watched it all topple into nothingness.

“Damn it… This whole place is falling apart.”

“That’s a loooong way to the bottom!” Exclaimed No. 6.

“Where do you think it goes….?” No. 5 whimpered. 

“Won’t be findin’ out,” said Mista, leveraging his body strength to swing and jump onto solid ground. 

How the hell was he supposed to find the Stand user like this? No matter which way he turned, he wasn’t getting anywhere. 

He weighed what he knew. The enemy Stand had ways of manipulating the environment, whether it be creating an inescapable labyrinth or molding the fabric of the very ground he walked on. It was a pain in the ass, but it did point to the likelihood of an offensively incapable user. He had no way of directly attacking. As long as Mista managed to avoid the floor traps, he should be fine. He just needed to find the user and take him out.

“Pistols,” Mista called. “No. 1, 2, 3, split up and try to find the Stand user. 6 and 7, see if you can find Fugo. No. 5, on me.” 

“Alright! We got this!” Screeched the Pistols triumphantly. 

Lithe, yellow bodies crawled inside of his gun and Mista readied the shot, pointing straight into the darkness. He fired twice, and as the recoil of his firearm rocked his body, he hoped sincerely that the user was within range. If he wasn’t, he was definitely going to be in trouble.

♡

In the other room, Fugo was incensed.

“What’d you do to him?!” 

“I moved the floor, just a little!” He held up his hands again, showing off the tapestry of yarn. “I control it all, you see? All these strings are walls and floors and stuff… All it needs is a little tug. Didn’t I say? I like–”

Fugo lunged at him without a second thought. Between Burrata and Valentino and that bastard Illuso, he was so fucking sick of all the trite monologuing. 

Something abruptly passed between himself and Burrata at high-speed. It was followed by a lashing of air across his face and a whizzing noise before exploding into a brittle crack.

“Ow…”

“Told ya we should’ve taken a left back there…” 

Fugo’s eyes leapt across the room and watched as No. 6 and 7 climbed off of the bullet freshly embedded into the wall. When they spotted Fugo, their faces illuminated with relief.

“Hey! It’s Fugo!” cried No. 6.

“No. 6, No. 7…” Fugo breathed. “H-Hey, we have a problem here–!”

A slab of the floor pistoned up from below, rocketing into the underside of Fugo’s chin. Metal flooded his mouth. The Pistols screamed.

“I told you!” Burrata was practically vibrating, the veins in his forehead twitching from pure, distilled ire. “I’m not letting you fool me!”

When Fugo’s teeth didn’t feel like they were going to clatter like tic tacs out of his mouth, he barked through a mouthful of blood, “Get out of here!” to the Pistols. He spat, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to use Purple Haze!”

“Don’t!” They sputtered, fear collecting on their features. “We’ll guide Mista here! He’ll take care of that guy!”

A bolt of fury struck Fugo, spearing him down the centre of his whole body. It rocked him to his core. 

Was that really how useless he was? How useless he appeared to Mista? 

“W-What are you planning?!” Burrata’s panicked voice interrupted. “I… Won’t… Let you!”

He pulled another string in his hands and Fugo was whipped backwards, his back smashing against the wall. Acid washed the walls of his ribs and his legs begged to give way but he denied them the satisfaction of any sort of respite.  

He was not useless. He refused to be.

His voice contained no hint of frailty when he shouted it – “Purple Haze!”

The Stand spawned in the centre of the room, gulping hot, uneven breaths. A line of drool seeped from between sinewy lips. It hung low and hunched over, muscles bulging. It was as monstrous as Fugo remembered it being. 

The Pistols had already huddled at Fugo’s shoulders, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. Burrata himself had his confidence clearly shaken, eyes wide as he gawked at Purple Haze.

“W…What is that? Why is it looking at me like that?”

“You have one final chance to stop fucking around and bring me Mista,” commanded Fugo. “If you don’t, I’m grinding you into mincemeat.” 

“I-I don’t like the way it’s looking at me!” Screeched Burrata, automatically flattening himself to the ground. “Make it stop looking at me!”

“Then bring him!”

♡

Mista waited with his heart in his mouth for any word from the Pistols. Just as he was about to call his Stand back, news arrived in the form of No. 5’s full-bodied squeak in his ear.

“Mista! No. 6 and No. 7 found Fugo! And the Stand user!”

Mista couldn’t withhold a small sigh of relief.

“Bene. Two birds with one stone.” He stared down the hallway, still shrouded in total darkness. “Think they remember the way?”

He only managed to hobble a few steps along the wall when without warning, the ground shifted again. 

Everything rippled like a funhouse mirror and he was flung across the length of the hallway, his bullets glittering like hail as they cascaded out of his hat. Mista had no time to mourn them as he was juggled between rooms, vertigo bludgeoning his every sense. He screwed his eyes shut until he registered hard concrete mashing against his skin, and slowly, he adjusted his eyes to the stark light of the fully lit room. When he got up he doubled over, sticking a hand over his mouth. The rest of the Pistols hung near his head, sharing an equally green expression. 

“Urk… I’m gonna barf…”

“Later!” He heard a voice yell. It was Fugo. “We’ve got a Stand User!” 

On hearing that he automatically reached for his gun, warring against the tide of nausea in his chest. A sharp cry expelled itself from Burrata.

“EEEK! I-I-I said I don’t like guns!”

“Fugo!” Mista aimed his pistol square at the user’s head. “That thing in his hands! That his Stand?!”

Fugo opened his mouth to confirm his judgment, but was swiftly cut down by Burrata’s offbeat squeal of excitement. He stood upright, like he wasn’t about to wet his pants a second before.

“Oh! It is, it is! No-one’s ever asked me about my power before! It’s a puzzle, you see? I call it Slipknot!” 

Silence.

“Lame,” Mista drawled. 

“Seriously,” agreed Fugo. “Did you put any thought into it at all?”

“You gotta think these things through, man. Like, ‘Sex Pistols’ is a cool name, ya know?”

Fugo made an unsure noise.

“What?” Mista turned to him, dropping his gun. “You don’t think it’s cool?”

“I just think that having to say it’s cool makes it automatically not cool. Like when rappers try too hard to act tough as soon as they get famous.”

Mista scoffed. “Well, it’s way cooler than Purple Haze.”

“What? No it’s not!”

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Um… Am I sensing tension here?” Burrata mumbled. “I feel like there’s tension.”

“There’s no tension!” The gangsters snapped.

With an annoyingly smug disposition, Mista turned back to the enemy at hand.

“Stand in the back and don’t get hurt,” he called to Fugo. “I don’t want Giorno yelling at me later.”

“Oh, fuck your righteous hero bullshit! I can perfectly take care of myself!”

Mista ignored him, taking aim.

“Oi! Do me a favour and keep your head still for me! This one’s gonna hurt. A lot.”

The bullet pierced through the air, silver and magnificent, but all it took was one manoeuvre of a finger. Burrata rose up on a stone altar,  the bullet that Mista had shot wedged into a wall halfway across the room. Another string pushed the floor back like the ocean and the two gangsters became sandbags, helpless as they had no choice but wait for gravity to yank them back down. 

“N-No matter what you do… My Slipknot will never let you hit me.”

As soon as Mista relinquished control of himself he tried a second shot, but once again it was deflected, whistling past Mista’s head and launching itself right by Fugo’s foot. He jumped, face immediately twisting.

“Watch yourself! You’re gonna get us killed like this!”

“At least I’m doing something!” 

Mista stuck his hand in his boot and fished out a fresh half-dozen of bullets. He cursed, knowing he had to be conservative with his supply now. He reloaded and snapped the cylinder back into place. What could he do? How does he beat this guy?

“His hands, Mista. He needs his hands to use his Stand,” Fugo muttered. “We have to target that somehow.”

“Obviously,” Mista bit out just to be contrarian, but he had no ideas to offer and it fell flat as soon as it left his mouth.

“I told you!” Burrata squeaked from the other side of the room. “As long as you’re in my domain, you can’t get me! I win!”

“Mista,” hissed Fugo, catching his attention again. “Why don’t we…” He made a circular motion with his hand, then tilted his head towards Burrata. 

Mista stared.

“What?”

“Urgh, you know!” He made that gesture again. Confuse him! He mouthed.

Mista fixed his eyes to Burrata’s hands again. What, like tricking him into tying himself up, Looney Tunes style? A smile surfaced to his lips. A dumb solution was still a solution.

“Pistols! Get him!”

Like a swarm of hornets, the Pistols were set loose and they descended upon Burrata in a cloud of sharp kicks and bites. Nothing that could actually harm him, but enough to annoy the shit out of him. Mista would know.

“Stupid things…!” Burrata tried batting them off, but unable to risk putting himself in a bad position, he was left only to haphazardly toss his head around to get them off. Either he calls off his Stand, or he surrenders to the wrath of the Sex Pistols. 

Fugo and Mista exchanged a look and they bolted into opposite directions, circling Burrata. 

“S-Stop!” He wailed. “Come back here, you wretched… Urgh!”

Burrata flailed his hands, trying to pull the right strings to pin the two down, but the Pistols continued their assault without mercy. No. 3 managed to seize a handful of his eyelid, and it twisted until the skin went white. Burrata threw his hand up to his face and the entire room distorted beyond recognition.

The ceiling curved and snaked, bearing down on Mista and Fugo. They fought to keep their balance and leapt across the walls, desperately hanging onto anything they could for purchase. Burrata smacked his hand again and a pillar jutted through the centre of the room, knocking Mista off balance.

“Keep going!” Fugo shouted. 

Metal banged and groaned as the entire room fell into disorder, an unholy web of shattered lighting panels, stripped wiring and rusted, iron crosspieces. Walls were where floors should be and floors were where ceilings should be.

Mista’s vision became a pinprick, focused solely on finding an opening to take advantage of.

“C’mon, c’mon…!”

He dodged the swing of another metal beam, and then–

Burrata’s fingers, which once moved as smoothly as a well-oiled automaton, were finally trapped. He froze, unable to move. There were obstacles no matter which way Mista looked but he was an expert at this. He spied it, a direct shot to what mattered.

“There!”

Burrata’s hand blew off, splattering blood over the floor. His Stand dissolved and the room ironed out, back to four walls and a floor again. He howled in pain, dropping to the ground like a sack of rice. The end of Mista’s revolver sizzled.

Before Mista even had the chance to press the trigger again, Fugo sprinted and threw himself onto the user.

“Fugo, what are you–!”

“Shut up! I got him!”

Mista groaned, knowing that he did not have him. He spun the chamber of his revolver and took aim. It was risky, even with the Pistols’ precision, but he knew ultimately that Fugo wouldn’t want him to miss this opportunity just to keep him safe. 

Probably.

“Pistols! Get ready!” 

He pressed the trigger, No. 1, 2 and 3 perching on the bullet, and Mista thought he had it until—

There was a spark in the user’s left hand. A much simpler string pattern manifested and he gave out a scream as he reached over with his mouth. His teeth snapped down around the end of a loose strand and he pulled. 

A section of the wall separated itself behind Mista and he was thrust into their direction. Another shake rocked their surroundings. The walls came down to squeeze in on them from every direction, rolling with such violence it was as though the building itself came to seek vengeance.

“T-Thish ish your lasht chance!” Screamed the User through his teeth. “I want my chocolate milk, damn it!”

The walls came fast, pressing the three of them into an ever-shrinking space. Mista rapidly lost any maneuverability, and Fugo too was gradually being molded into a human cheeseblock. The end of a steel beam thrust into the dip of Mista’s back and he screamed from the pain, white-hot streaks of pain wracking his whole body.

There was only one way he could think of to get out of this. His want for survival officially outweighed his pride and he yelled it, bold and resolute.

“Fugo, you gotta do it!”

“What?!” 

A repulsive crack sounded as Fugo’s shoulder was forced downwards, arm hanging limp. He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his cheeks.

“P-Purple Haze… You have to use it!”

The concern on Fugo’s face was transparent. His brow trembled.

“What if it doesn’t work?!”

“A few more seconds and we’re going to be gutted like fucking fish! Do it or die!”

This has to work. It had to. Fugo was promised that it would. 

Blood thundering in his head and lungs fat with air, Fugo opened his mouth in a powerful cry. 

“PURPLE HAZE!”

The Stand ripped forth, fists ablaze, vocals raw from its scream. It battered the user of Slipknot. The capsules on its knuckles broke and the virus seeped out, smattering the air with its vapour. The stink of rotten meat closed around their throats as the virus washed over them. 

Everything went dark.

Chapter Text

The crumbling of the walls stopped.

When Mista opened his eyes, he was crouched in the middle of an empty room, a lone stripe of sunlight wetting the floor from the eastward window. In front of him was the body of Slipknot’s user—or rather, what remained of him.

Mista threw his hands in front of his eyes, scanning them for anything out of place. He touched his face, tugged at his cheeks, pulled at his forehead. Everything was as it was. He sucked in a large breath and exhaled, complete and utter relief rocking his whole body. 

“It worked!” He collapsed backwards, arms stretched out. “Giorno’s vaccine worked! Meno male, it worked…”

Fugo parroted his movements, checking himself. He too, was all in one piece. Even though he had seen the effects of Gold Experience’s antidote all that time ago, he was still in disbelief that it worked. 

“At least now we don’t need to worry about this building trying to kill us,” said Fugo, standing up. “Now we can finally track down the cooks and take them out.”

“Shit,” Mista whined. “I forgot all about ‘em.”

“You mean the actual point of the mission?”

An involuntary chuckle rose out of Mista’s throat. He stood, patting the dust off of him.

“Let’s get a move on then. The sooner we’re done the sooner we can eat. Dunno about you, but I’m starving.”

“You’re starving?!” No. 3 immediately peeped, manifesting by his nose. “What about us?!”

The rest of the Pistols appeared in turn, whinging in his ear. 

“What the hell?!” Cried Mista, swatting his unruly Stand from his face. “I almost got churned into butter and none of you guys even care! I almost died, you know?!”

The Stand bubbled with excitement, ignoring him and listing off their favourite buttery foods—toast, pudding, lobster. Mista just laughed, his mood already lighter. He swiveled his gun back into his pants, catching Fugo watching him with a strange expression. He turned away, resting a hand to his dead arm.

“The lab should be this way. There’s four of them in there, right?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Mista. “We should be careful. Four’s always a bad sign.”

“Right...” Fugo’s mouth twisted. “I also hate to ask, but… You wouldn’t mind popping my shoulder back in for me, would you?”

Mista waved him off. He stripped Fugo’s tie and bunched it up, handing it over so that he could bite down on it. It was far from the first time this sort of thing had happened. Mista grabbed him, wrenching the bone firmly back into its socket. Fugo bucked and vocalised against the fabric. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Fucking fuck!” He got out as soon as his mouth was free. “Son of a bitch, fuck!”

“You’re welcome.”

Mista moved on to catalogue his own injuries, digging his fingers into the bruise on the small of his back. It hurt like a bitch, but he doubted the possibility of any lasting damage. A thought passed through his head, one that debated how long he could keep putting himself through this. 

As long as he needed to, he decided.

He checked the rest of himself. Everything seemed to be in its place—Gun, keys, cash. There were spare bullets in his boot and he tugged it off, hopping around on one foot as he pooled together a pile on the ground. Just from a look he knew that it wasn’t enough. He swiped off his hat and shook it, hoping for a spare bullet to tumble out of a secret nook he didn’t know about. It didn’t. 

“I’m hurtin’ for bullets, by the way,” he said. “Lost most of ‘em when that asshole was tossing me around.”

Fugo digested this information, brow furrowing. “And Purple Haze’s capsules have been depleted,” he added. 

“They come back, right?”

“They do, but it’s too soon. It’s… It’s useless right now.” 

The pause that came after was stiff, Fugo unable to look Mista in the eye. Mista, in spite of everything, cast him a sympathetic look. 

“So… We’re fucked?” 

That got Fugo to crack a smile. 

“We had a pretty good run,” he said. 

The map had been torn up in the wake of Fugo’s earlier distress, but he remembered the way, and with his guidance the pair walked confidently, minds trained on the mission.

A string of empty rooms passed by them, chairs and dismantled equipment strewn across the floors. Corridors brightened and whitened, the space around them becoming almost unrecognisable. They crossed the threshold of what must’ve been some sort of common area or cafeteria back in its heyday, the sudden stink of disinfectant in their noses. The lights were also working now, ice-blue panels sizzling overhead. The gangsters quieted themselves, knowing that they were closing in now. 

A door on the horizon. With their approach came a mangle of voices and broken glass; An exasperated sigh.

“We can’t ask to replace all this shit again… You know how much beakers cost? It’s more than you’d think.”

“Stai calmo, we’re gonna get one hell of a pay-out soon! Who cares about the beakers?”

“That pig-headed bastard, I’m going to fucking kill him! Every time we tell ‘im to be cool, he goes and shakes this whole place up like a bottle of chinotto! Bastard!”

“Well, what can you expect from a fuck-up like that? I’m surprised he can even gargle a full sentence. Bet his mother dropped him on his head as a baby.”

A chorus of snively laughs. 

The two gangsters shared a look. So these people were the ones responsible for Giacomo’s little scheme. Mista had looked into it beforehand—They were all accredited chemists and scientists, dissatisfied with their low-end day jobs and working to turn a quick buck. Between these guys and Ciocolatta, something was clearly going on in the health sector in Italy.

Mista gathered his resolve and threw open the door. It was a wide room, sterile and white. A row of steel drums and benches lined the space, knocked-over equipment and chemical spills draping the tables. Three men stood mid-cleanup, comically wide-eyed at their sudden intrusion.

“Yo.” Mista waved. “We’re here to bust up your lil operation. Any complaints?”

A beat. Then, a clattering of metal as each scientist pulled out handguns from their coats and pointed them at Mista’s head.

Fugo sighed wearily, rubbing a hand down his face. Mista snickered.

“Looks like there’s been a little bit of a misunderstanding… We actually prefer our complaints in formal writing! Better luck next time.”

Mista readied his shot so easily it was like a carnival game—How many shots until he could score the top prize?

One. The answer was always one.

With a bright chirp, the Pistols smacked the bullet into each scientist’s head. They all dropped to the floor, one after another.

“Trick shot!” Shouted No. 1 and 2, clapping hands together.

Before Mista could give them their due praise, a rustle came from behind a row of shelves. Another man emerged, tall and square-jawed, silver-framed glasses complementing a head of navy hair. Mista remembered him from the file, a man known as Alvize Ravanelli, some nobody at a low-rung pharmaceutical company.  

Mista took aim at his head, thinking more about what fast food he wanted later more than the actual shot, and opened fire.

A phantasmic flash of a hand. It stretched, palm opening to meet the bullet directly. It passed through, and what Mista expected to be an undeniable shot to the head became nothing. The bullet bounced off of his temple, dropping to the ground like a penny.

Mista fired another shot and he saw it this time, the Stand. Its upper body was slender and wiry, bearing a contrasting midsection that gave way to stubby thighs and feet. It raised its hand again and made contact with the bullet the same way it did before, and this time the bullet fractured completely on impact. Nothing but a pink imprint on the man’s head marked the presence of any kind of injury.

Mista drained his chamber, three more clear shots reverberating as the chemist pressed closer, each and every bullet splintering on its collision point.

Ravanelli took advantage of Mista’s need to reload and advanced, his Stand throwing punches at each side of his head. He dodged, arms coming up to defend himself. A bionic fist struck the side of Mista’s pistol, and the enemy finally spoke his first, cold words. 

“Bullet with Butterfly Wings.”

The floor was hard at Mista’s knees when he came down. His fingers were bending, cracking apart as an excruciating weight bore down on his right hand. 

“Urk—! This is…!” 

Ceramic tiling sliced into him as his gun pushed him down further and further into the floor.

“What, no more smug remarks from you?” Ravanelli sneered, light glinting off of his glasses. He jostled Mista with his foot, digging the point of his shoe between his ribs. 

Four really was always the worst. 

A loud cry erupted from the other side of the room, a purple fist flying to beat the side of the man’s skull, knocking him over. He stumbled but didn’t fall, immediately standing to retaliate as he raised two arms to defend against Purple Haze’s relentless onslaught of pistoning fists.

An opening—Fugo saw red and launched his naked fists to the man’s throat, hands constricting around his neck. Purple Haze ebbed away and a terrifying feeling flooded his nervous system, fury pumping like acid through his fingertips. He stood on the edge of a cliff, saw the sweltering distance beneath his feet, felt the wind whip at his ears so violently it numbed him. It rushed, rushed from his core, up through his chest, through his arms. 

It was frightening and it was powerful, and it was a familiar feeling, Fugo knew he had felt this before—When? When was that? A few months ago—

Butterfly Wings retaliated with a lightning-fast punch to Fugo’s sternum, throwing him backwards. 

Mista finally untwisted himself from his gun, reeling his hand back to his chest. He stretched his fingers, relief spreading through them. In the shadow of the steel equipment Mista crawled to one of the bodies of the fallen chemists, avoiding slipping on the pooling blood.

What were the ethics of looting corpses? Mista murmured a perfunctory apology to God before pinching back the man’s lab coat and searching until his fingers touched metal.

Fugo gathered himself, scraping himself off of the floor. He remembered it like a smack to the head—That incredible feeling in his body, an amplified version of what he senses when he brings Purple Haze out—It was what he felt when he infected Capo Dolce with Purple Haze’s virus.  

Then… Was that not an accident? Was Giorno right, all that time ago, about a second ability? 

Was Purple Haze… Evolving? 

Before he could ruminate on it, the screams of six gunshots burst in Fugo’s ears. Mista stood with a smoking Beretta in his hands, Pistols successfully kicking off six perfect shots. Butterfly Wings appeared once again, struggling to defend himself. One hit him, spraying blood from his flank. Another two passed through the Stand’s body and broke on impact. 

Ravanelli burst out laughing.

“You think that’s all—”

A hissing erupted from their left. Ravanelli shrieked as a jet of high-pressure water torpedoed into him, one that surged from a bullet-shaped hole in the boiler. He lunged out of the way, skin hot and blistered. 

Metal groaned. From above a steel girder came plummeting, undone by the last of Mista’s fired shots. 

“Butterfly Wings!”

Ravanelli’s Stand pushed back against the metal and caught it deftly in his hand.

“God, you’re—So troublesome!”

In Ravanelli’s hand the metal suddenly flowed like liquid, twisting and bending with the integrity of a pipe cleaner. He gave it a throw and it flew easily across the room, coming at Mista fast, too fast, and before he could jump out of the way the steel crashed into him, caging him against the wall.  

Mista struggled, unable to believe that what was just manipulated so easily by Ravanelli’s Stand was suddenly so heavy and immovable. He was pinned completely. 

Changing an object’s weight with a touch… That’s his ability!

But how to beat him? His gun had been knocked out of his hand, and Fugo—

“Purple Haze? Purple Haze?!” 

Fugo warred against an offense of punches thrown by Ravanelli’s Stand, calling out Purple Haze’s name to no avail. For some reason, it refused to appear.

“Out of all the fucking times…!” 

Fugo dodged some more swipes by the enemy, jumping up to land on a table. Butterfly Wings touched its hand to the wood and Fugo instantly collapsed through it, landing among a calamity of shattered equipment and debris. He managed to roll away as Butterfly Wings attempted to land another blow. 

Silver flashed in Ravanelli’s hands—Syringes. He cast them like arrows, slicing  through the air. They embedded themselves into the wall one by one as Fugo sprinted. 

“Purple Haze, you piece of…! Where the hell are you?!”

Out of syringes, Ravanelli exploded in a guttural scream and began to throw everything he laid eyes on, shards of broken flasks and steel tongs and trays.

Fugo cursed, furious that everyone else’s Stand listened to them effortlessly whilst he had to wrangle his own like a wild fucking animal! And now Mista wasn’t able to do anything, so it was down to him to—

A sharp pain swelled in his stomach. He looked down. A shard of glass stuck out of him, carving his flesh like butter. A lazy trickle of blood spilled down his navel.

“Fugo!” Mista yelled.

The shard began to drag down his innards, scraping against the wall of his innards. He screamed, Fugo’s fingers hollowing into his skin to wrench it out. It was impossibly heavy. He positioned himself to allow gravity to handle it, letting it plummet to the ground. Crimson continued to fountain, his heartbeat throbbing in his wound. He heaved a breath, unable to step forward without shaking.

“Yeah, there’s no way you’re surviving that,” said Ravanelli with a smirk. “And since your shitty little Stand won’t come to save you, I think it’s safe to say we’re done here.”

“Hell no we’re not done here!” Peeped No. 1, 3 and 7. They came at Ravanelli, brandishing their fists as weapons. “Let Mista go!”

“I forgot you flies were here.”

Butterfly Wings appeared, closing its fist around the Pistols. They screamed for the others to escape but they were swiftly snatched up by the Stand as well, and Mista felt his whole body tighten, his limbs frozen in place.

“How pathetic!” Ravanelli cackled. He shook the Pistols, watching their heads bob. “You can’t defend yourself at all!” 

Butterfly Wings flicked No. 3’s face, and it retaliated immediately with a bite to its finger as the others wailed a string of curses. The scientist cried a sharp laugh. 

“Hahaha! Feisty, feisty!”

The Stand squeezed tighter around the Pistols, and Mista felt his whole sternum crush with the motion. 

The man crawled up to him, a sinister glint in his eye. 

“I like you. You’re going to make for a really interesting specimen…” 

He slid a hand around Mista’s wrist, tugging his sleeve upwards. Mista squirmed, but it was fruitless. He couldn’t fight. 

“Marvellous… Such marvellous veins! I can inject you so easily like this!” He pressed on them with his thumbs, watching the colour surface on his skin. “I have to thank you, really, those shitty coworkers of mine were really doing my head in! Now I have some lovely cadavers to work on and you—”

“Let me go, cazzone!”

Mista reared his head back and spat directly into his face. The man flinched. Then, a hand to his face, a methodical wiping of the saliva from his cheek. A smile grew on his lips, much more sinister this time. 

“You have a nice face, did you know that? I can finally have something pretty to look at while you’re strapped to my operating table… Ahhh… What great luck…”

Butterfly Wings squeezed again and any other words that Mista wanted to scream were immediately knocked out of his lungs. He pressed closer, cold hand settled on Mista’s waist, breath in his face. He shuddered. 

“This is just one little thing I’ve been working on,” he said, retrieving a syringe from his pocket. A chartreuse-coloured liquid swirled inside. “I’m not sure how it works yet… It shouldn’t kill you, that would be too much of a shame… My current hypothesis is that it will paralyse you… You’ll be able to feel, hear and see everything… But you won’t be able to lift a finger. How perfect would that be?”

Ravanelli smiled.

“Then… I’ll be able to do whatever I want to you.”

He raised the needle. Terror flashed hot in Mista’s body. Fugo suddenly screamed something, but all he heard was a twisted mangle of vocals in his head, the blood drumming in his skull too loudly for him to understand anything.

In his darkening vision, he saw it.

At the scientist’s neck was a spiderweb of blue and yellow veins, tiny bubbles frothing in each tiny line. It spiraled upwards, up his chin, through his nose, curving around his cheek.

His eyeball squelched out of his right socket. 

The organ seeped to the floor. Mista watched as the other eye followed, slipping down the man’s cheek, and before long Ravanelli’s face was sopping with pus and blood, melting clean off of his skull. 

The weight that bore down on Mista eased. The Pistols were free. 

On the other side of the room, Fugo stood with an arm out, the other cradling his stomach. 

“Good work… Purple Haze…” 

A cough scraped out of his throat. Crimson ran down his chin. 

He collapsed.

♡

By some miracle, they made it out alive. 

Mista fished a half-dead Fugo out of the backseat, propping his arm up around his shoulder to steady him on the ascent into the house.

“Ahh… Fuck,” Fugo heaved. Mista adjusted his grip, grimacing as blood slicked his clothes.

“Christ, Fugo, getting your blood all over me… Nobody teach you any manners?”

“I have more manners in my pinky finger than in your entire body, prick…”

They each huffed a laugh. Mista managed to drag Fugo into the infirmary and dumped him on the bed. A housekeeper scuffled in, frantic with all the commotion. 

Mista addressed him gruffly, “Oi, get the Don.”

“The Don isn’t here,” he replied, eyes darting back and forth between Mista and the red, wet heap that was Fugo. “He’s meeting with the Capos in the city. It’ll be approximately an hour before he’s back…”

The gangsters both hissed out a curse. In the excitement of the battle, they had both completely forgotten where Giorno was.

“Call the doctor then—”

“No,” Fugo forced out. 

“What? The hell d’ya mean ‘no’?”

The teen wobbled a grin, looking up at Mista with an uncharacteristically mischievous expression. 

“You stitch me up for when he gets back.”

“Huh?” Mista pointed at himself, incredulous. “Me?”

“Payback. For the staples.” 

Mista laughed when he remembered. Of course—When Fugo tended to him after his fight with Sale. 

“Have it your way then, weirdo.” 

Mista was diligent, tending to Fugo’s wound with deft, practiced hands. He washed and sterilised the area, careful to clear the plaster and dirt off of him. The Pistols helped thread the medical needle and he steadily slipped into a rhythm, stitching back and forth, back and forth. On occasion, Mista would need to stitch up the other gangsters he worked with if they ever got into shootouts or other dangerous situations. He was far from professional, but he was good enough in a pinch. He laughed whenever he thought of the old days, the stupid rituals of staples or rubbing spit or just simply shrugging and walking off the pain. They didn’t like hospitals so much, being gangsters. Narancia especially avoided them like the plague. It was as foolish as it was nostalgic.

“You did a much better job than me,” Fugo said, whistling an impressed note.

Mista chuckled, snipping the tail of the thread. “Anything’s better than that hack job.” 

Slowly, Fugo’s breathing eased, the muscles in his body softened. He looked like hell, a black bruise pooling on his chin, blood crusted in his hair and under his nails. His suit was in shreds. Mista had planned on leaving him in the infirmary to recover but the sight of him compelled him to stay; Maybe it was that tiny, sympathetic voice at the back of his head—Pesky thing.

“What was that back there?” Mista asked after a while. “With Purple Haze.”

Fugo glanced up, surprised at the voice breaking the silence. 

“A new power, I think.” He sniffed. “I wish I understood how I activated it though.”

Mista hummed. 

“Hey, about before…” He was suddenly bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for saving me. That guy…” 

“Real fucking creep,” agreed Fugo with a scowl. “But you don’t need to thank me. I just did what I could.” 

Mista blew out a sigh, sagging in his seat. He stared up at the ceiling, watching until patterns swam in his vision, until his eyes unfocused. An icy touch nagged at his waist, at the soft pads of his wrists. He placed an unconscious hand over himself.

“Had no idea those guys were Stand users,” Mista mumbled after a while. “Can never get it right…” 

“Intel wasn’t ever your strong suit. Considering the situation, you did well.” Fugo caught his eyes, and Mista understood that there was truth in his words, a sense of real acknowledgment. Mista had never much cared for anyone’s approval outside of Bucciarati’s, now Giorno’s, but he couldn’t help but feel comforted by Fugo’s sentiment. He had never been an easy one to please. 

“Besides,” he said, “I’ve been through worse.”

Fugo’s fingers edged the line of his stitches, still raw and red and sore. Mista watched the motion with guilt stuck like gum in his throat.

“Fugo—”
“Mista—”

They stared at one another, clamping down on their tongues. Mista waved, gesturing for Fugo to speak first. 

“Look… I’ve never been a confident person,” he confessed. The voice that spoke was quiet, hollow. “I’ve always had a depressive, anxious personality. So when it came time to make that decision in Venice… You were right. I was a coward.” 

“Fugo, you’re—”

“Are you allergic to listening?” Fugo threw him an irritated look, a wrinkle in his brow. “Tch. Let me speak.”

Mista raised his hands in mock surrender and dutifully piped down. 

“I know I betrayed Bucciarati. He didn’t frame it that way, but that’s still what it was. I swore an oath to him and when the going got tough I fled. Were we to swap places, I’d feel the same as you.” 

Something gnawed at Mista, a need to correct him. He wasn’t so angry anymore, even if he was bad at showing it. Even he couldn’t sustain it for that long. 

“After Venice,” Fugo continued, “I don’t know how I survived. The guilt was excruciating. It has its way of eating away at you.”

Mista knew exactly what he meant. His summer was a mess of tears and skipped meals and nights melting one into another, whittled away doing nothing and anything to numb himself. It was Giorno who reached out and helped him out of that place. Fugo had no one. 

“I was lonely. Broke. I felt too ashamed to come back to Passione once I heard you and Giorno overthrew the boss. You would’ve shot me dead anyway.” 

Mista winced, a sheepish hand on the back of his neck. “C’mon, man…”

Fugo choked out a half-laugh, shaking his head. His eyes clouded over as he quieted, staring off into space. 

“…Tried to kill myself one night.”

Mista’s blood ran cold. A tremor came to Fugo’s lip. He inhaled, exhaled. 

“No family, no friends, no job. No future. At least if I came with you guys I could’ve died for something.” He swallowed back a mournful noise, pain contorting on his face. “That’s what I believed, anyway. In the end, I guess I got too scared to do that either.”

“No,” Mista cut in. “No, Fugo. You did the right thing. I’m glad you’re still here.”

A pause. 

“...I’m glad too,” he said.

Mista quietly mulled over Fugo’s confession. Poison-slick words, a fist to a nose. Mista couldn’t say he didn’t regret that now. 

“You have to know, Mista…” Fugo looked at him now, his face a plea. “You have to know that I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“I know,” he said. “I get it now. But… Damn it, you don’t have to anymore, you know?”

“You think what I’ve done is good enough? You really think I can be forgiven?” There was bite there, a defensiveness born out of self-hatred, but there was a scrap of hope cloaked underneath it, hope that his return really might be good enough. Mista wished he could say it was. He hasn’t done enough yet either.

“The last time Narancia saw me, I could barely string a sentence together. I was so scared. It’s shameful. Are you really telling me not to regret that?”

Mista shrugged his shoulders. “And the last time Narancia saw me I was in Trish’s body freaking out over four bullets. Wasn’t much better off.”

Fugo blinked. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“You were in… What?”

Mista chuckled. “I dunno, man. Body-swapping Stand bullshit.” 

“Should I even ask?”

“Probably not.”

Fugo couldn’t help but give a short-lived smile at the absurdity. He dropped his gaze to his hands, circling his thumbs around one another.

“Feeling so guilty we wanna die…” Mista mumbled. “Isn’t it a waste of the life they gave us?” 

“Gave you.”

“No, Fugo.” Mista met his eyes again, a surge of resolve coursing through him. “Bucciarati still saved you back then. That’s the life you’re living now. No matter what you did… He’d never want you to throw it away.” 

If there was one thing Mista was certain of, it was that.

Fugo blinked, stricken by the weight of those words. His throat worked, a sheen glossing over his eyes. A minute passed. He swallowed. Composed himself enough to speak again. 

“I think… I want to visit them now,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

“‘Course. I can take you.”

Fugo sighed, shoulders sagging. 

“That would be nice.” 

They could practically feel the atmosphere lifting off of them, the heaviness clearing for them to hear the birds outside, the wind knocking at the window.

“Look, I don’t want any teary apologies or anything,” said Fugo. “Neither of us are good at that. Can we just… Have things the way they used to be?”

Mista liked the sound of that. He smiled, and it was the easiest thing in the world.

“O-kay. Being mad at you was getting old anyway.” 

“Cool.”

A healthy silence passed, and Mista’s brain got the itch to say something for finality’s sake. He awkwardly held his arms out.

“Er, do ya wanna hug it out or something?”

Fugo laughed loudly. Rudely. 

“No thank you. I don’t feel like smelling your pits today.”

Mista’s jaw dropped. 

“Hey, fuck you! I shower everyday!” He sniffed himself. “And I put my nice cologne on!”

Fugo chuckled, reaching over and punching him on the shoulder.

“Hugging has never been my style. But…” He smiled, wide and genuine. Mista wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him do that before. “I do appreciate it.”

Mista stayed in the infirmary with Fugo, chatting shit and passing the time. They reminisced about the others, and Mista felt relieved to be able to speak about them again, to remember them with someone who broke the same bread at the same table.

After some time, Fugo asked him, “Can I ask you something I’ve been curious about?”

Mista grunted an affirmative noise.

“What’s up with you and Giorno?”

“What?” Mista straightened up, tight as a spring. “There’s nothing up with me and Giorno, why would you think there’s something up with me and Giorno?” He answered with, predictably, about as much grace as a dog on rollerskates.

“Is that not something I can ask about?”

“Nah, just…” Mista instantly closed himself off, folding his arms together. “I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”

“You two seem close. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

Mista huffed nervously. “I’m not gay for the guy or anything. Fucking hell, Fugo.”

“What? That’s not what I—” He seemed to know better than to argue, clicking his tongue like a disapproving parent. “Whatever. You know what I meant.”

“Look, we’re just friends, got it?” Mista kicked the bed frame. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Fugo raised an eyebrow, his face flickering with interest. 

“Sure,” he said slowly, “I won’t argue with you.” He shrugged and added, “He said you’re being weird, by the way.”

Mista went hot. Fuck. Of course Giorno had noticed.

“What? How?”

“If it helps, I think you’re always weird so you seem just fine to me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Talk to him sometime. He seems to be worried about you.”

Mista pulled down the flap of his hat, sinking into his seat. Talk to Giorno? He could barely be in the same room as him, how the hell is he supposed to talk?

“He cares a lot about you. I don’t really get it, but… People like Giorno only come along once a lifetime. Don’t fuck it up with him.”

Mista chewed his lip. Yeah, he knew that already. That was exactly why this predicament was so hard—because Mista can’t fuck it up with him, no matter what. If he wants to achieve their dream, if he wants to keep his job, if he wants to keep Giorno… 

“So I guess what Narancia said had no bearing whatsoever,” Fugo mumbled after a while. 

Mista broke out of his thoughts and he glanced up, confused. 

“What? What’d he say?”

A strange redness creeped to Fugo’s cheeks. “Oh you know. He said stupid shit all the time.”

“Nah, if he said something ‘bout me I wanna know!”

“Nothing!” Fugo looked away, suddenly extremely interested in the potted plant beside him. He tugged on one of the leaves. “Just… Before Venice, Narancia said something about… Seeing you and Giorno…”

“Before Venice? When? What the hell did Narancia see?”

“I-It was just a dumb misunderstanding, okay?!” Fugo was scarlet-red now. “Forget about it! It’s not like it really happened!”

“Forget about what?! What happened?!” Mista grabbed Fugo by his shoulders. “Me and Giorno what?!”

The pair yelped in horror as the door opened to reveal Giorno, an eyebrow raised at their antics. He stepped into the room, concerned that Mista was about to maul Fugo and that his plan ended in disaster, but as soon as he saw Fugo’s stitches he hurried over, Gold Experience trailing behind him. Mista was just happy that he didn’t need to explain… whatever the hell Fugo was talking about.

“How was everything? The mission?” 

Mista and Fugo exchanged a knowing glance. 

“Good,” they replied. 

Giorno’s posture relaxed, the corner of his lips lifting.

“I’m relieved.”

Fugo was more astute than he liked to let on, watching the quiet looks Giorno and Mista gave one another. He slipped away as soon as he was fixed up, citing something about speaking to Polnareff and finding new clothes. The door clicked closed and it was just them again. It seemed to always end up with just the two of them. 

Giorno tilted his head, eyeing Mista with a hopeful look. 

“Will you let me heal you?”

Mista didn’t have any urgent wounds but sat down on the bed anyway, unable to resist being under Giorno’s care once more. Gold Experience came forth once again and he took his time tracing every cut, every scrape. It was far more thorough than his injuries warranted. Mista didn’t mind. He watched him work Gold Experience’s magic, taking in every minute detail. After the day that Mista’s had, he couldn’t be more grateful to have Giorno with him.

“I’m happy you and Fugo figured things out,” said Giorno, releasing his hold on Mista’s arm. He gently rolled his sleeve down, smoothing out the cuff around his wrist. His fingers stayed, just barely making contact. 

More, more. Touch me more. 

“Guess you were right like always,” Mista replied, ignoring his thoughts. “It was about time we talked.” 

Giorno hummed. 

“You said the mission went well.”

“More or less.”

“Stand Users?”

“Two of ‘em,” Mista said. His breath was short. He couldn’t tell if Giorno had noticed or not.

“You handled them?”

“Yeah, obviously. It got a little… you know,” Mista searched for the right word, knowing that he couldn’t lie about it. “But Fugo came in clutch at the end there. All’s well that ends well.”

Giorno frowned. His hands tightened just enough for Mista to notice. 

“Giorno…”

“What?”

“Don’t make such a scary face. We got out alive. It’s all good.”

Giorno’s face softened, and there was a distant look in his eyes. Regret. Guilt that he wasn’t there with him. It was typical, and it was a feeling Mista had scolded Giorno for on a number of occasions, but he would be kidding himself if he said he didn’t like being cared for. And Mista knew it was hypocritical of him. He almost blew a fuse hearing about Giorno’s fight with Valentino. He had to wonder—Were they always going to be this way, overprotective tendencies sharpened to an obsession? 

“You’re not sick, are you?” Suddenly asked Giorno. He touched his other hand to Mista’s forehead. “You’re flushed.”

Mista swatted his hand away, stammering, “Yeah, s’hot in here, you know, so…” 

So much for Giorno not noticing anything. 

“How’re the capos?” Mista asked to distract him.

Giorno blew out a sigh, obviously unhappy. 

“Scared. It seems like the only way they’ll listen.” He paused, face stiffening. “I hate that I’m starting to understand why Diavolo ran things the way that he did.”

Mista said nothing, but the words gave him pause. That name was not one he had heard in a while.

Giorno’s hands slid to Mista’s wrists, his eyes tracing the bruises from when he got pinned down. His thumb came to round the veins there, gentle. Warm. He then lifted his fingers to trace the scar that formed from Mista cutting his hand weeks ago.

“Ah.” Something more displeased passed over his expression. “You at least had some sense in getting this checked out. I would’ve helped it not scar, but…”

Mista averted his gaze. “It’s fine.”

“You never told me how you got it.”

“Because it was stupid! I was making dinner and my knife slipped.” He threw Giorno a sympathetic smile. “Seriously, it’s fine. I have scars from way before we even met, some for even lamer reasons than that. See?”

He pointed to each one he recalled: “This is from when I fell off my bike as a kid, this one’s from when my friend’s dog bit me that one time… This one’s from when Fugo fucking stapled me.” 

He looked back up at his friend.

“Shit happens. You’re not gonna be able to save me every time, so don’t push yourself so hard.”

It was supposed to be a comforting sentiment, but Giorno’s face smoothed over like water, instantly unreadable. 

“I can,” he said quietly. “I will save you every time.” 

“C’mon, were you even listening…?” 

“It’s my duty,” he said, an impassioned note in his voice. “I ask you to throw yourself into danger for me and in return I keep you safe. That’s why I should’ve been there today… After everything, it’s the least that I can do for you.”

“You do enough already, Gio. Should I run to you whenever I get a paper cut, too?”

“Yes,” said Giorno, like it was completely obvious. “There’s enough limits to Gold Experience’s powers as it is. Like I said, Gold Experience only fills in missing bone or tissue, so I couldn’t help your injuries from before…”

He fell quiet. Sometimes when Mista closes his eyes he can still feel those hands at his throat, hardening around his windpipes. He told Giorno a million times not to feel guilty about it, but of course he did. That was the sort of person he was. He cared about everyone—It was what made him so special.

“So,” said Giorno, “At least allow me to heal what injuries I can. Please.”

Mista swallowed. God, he hated to disappoint him. 

“O-Okay… Do whatever you want.”

Giorno said nothing, but might’ve been appeased for now. Carefully, he traced over the scars on his stomach, face thoughtful. His touch was feather-light, just barely catching the hairs at Mista’s navel. Shameful waves poured down Mista’s back. 

Giorno travelled upwards, inching up to the hem of his sweater. His fingers lingered as if seeking permission. His face was closer than it was. Mista eyed his lips, shiny with lip balm. He wondered what they tasted like. Wanted to pull at them with his teeth. 

What if he did? What if he just leaned in a little more and brushed his hair back and pressed his mouth to his and ran his tongue across his lip to lick that lip balm off, see exactly how he tasted—

“Boss, I’m fine!” He gasped, grabbing Giorno’s wrist. Fuck, what was he doing? His body ran hot with embarrassment, heart racing. “Seriously, you don’t need to…”

Giorno made a face as if he’d been caught. With what exactly, it wasn’t clear. He quickly ironed it out, returning to his usual stoicism. 

“I’m glad that you’re safe,” he said, retreating. “Things could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah,” Mista croaked. 

Giorno stood up, less gracefully than usual, and went for the exit. He stopped, hand palming at the doorframe.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked back at Mista, eyes soft. “For reconciling with Fugo. Really, Mista, it’s a huge weight off my shoulders.”

He left. 

Mista was still. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He was a wall.

When enough time elapsed, he doubled over, heaving in a breath like it was the first time he’d ever had air. 

“Fucking hell, does he have any idea what he’s doing to me…”

Mista placed his fingers where Giorno’s were, tracing that same path, grieving the loss of his touch. 

What the hell was wrong with him? He was restless, shocked that he couldn’t control his thoughts at all. 

Is this what his life was going to be like now? Unable to be in the same room as Giorno without his brain throwing itself into some deranged fantasy about his boss?

He wanted him so badly he didn’t know what to do with himself. He woke up and thought of Giorno. He ate and thought of Giorno. He slept and thought of Giorno. If he had a free moment he would think of him, his heart would race whenever he got a phone call, whenever there was a knock at his door. 

When was the last time Mista felt like this? Had he ever? 

The way this was going, Mista’s stupid feelings were going to jeopardise their whole relationship and everything they’ve worked so hard for—their dream. 

This couldn’t be normal. To have such intense feelings for a friend… For anyone…

And why? Because Giorno was nice to him? Cared for him after his friends died? 

Giorno cared for everyone. He cared for Mista, Fugo, Trish, Polnareff. It was who he was. It was his nature.

Mista was no-one special. 

It turned dark in the infirmary as Mista continued to sit, frozen in place. No breath he seemed to take was big enough, nothing calming enough to stop him from fidgeting.

Giorno’s words echoed in his head, soft-spoken through a phone—Mista was important to him. That’s what he said.

As a friend, as a coworker maybe, but it couldn’t mean anything else. Giorno had never brought up romantic prospects, no crushes or lovers or even celebrities he liked. 

The thought of Mista’s feelings being unrequited was a hole in his chest. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He wished he could go back. He wished he had never unearthed this part of himself. 

One thought remained in Mista’s head—He needed to destroy his feelings for Giorno before they destroyed him first.