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Chapter Text

Leone Abbacchio hated it when his work life and life outside of work blended together. 

Unequipped with a code of principles of socializing everyone around him seemed to know by heart, a useful manual he was forced to catch up with on the go, he was never quite sure where to draw the line between small and deep talks. 

The situation was easy enough around people he knew - Bistecca, his office partner, Osso and Buco who’d sometimes drop by - or join them for field work - there, he could be himself without risking glares. Eye rolls. Surprised glances. Why did he say that?

Or was it inappropriate to state certain things at all? Then again, how come some got away with it? 

Like Seppie. Or Vitello. 

Abbacchio blamed it on privileged positions. Or so he supposed that was it, up there, on a pedestal unavailable to him, a newbie, just yet. 

Was he idealistic for simply wanting to get his job done and to get it done the right way? Or was he lacking in some way, having chosen the wrong career path, law and order being anything but law and order?

And if work proved disenchanting, did he demand too much if he wished to keep it separate from his life? 

He could only do so much if the whole system was corrupt, his sense of justice redundant in light of defeatism shown by his co-workers and superiors alike. 

Stressful interactions at pointless briefings and the awkward smiles exchanged only added to the pile, mentally draining him out, bringing a feeling of entrapment. 

Caught between the devil and the blue sea, he was growing frustrated with his situation with every passing day. 

He’d tried to adjust somehow, to level up his social skills - and to an extent, it worked. So long as he were able to draw a line between the formal and the friendly. 

The strategy proved efficient in the police academy - and failed him on day one of real life. Be it innocent remarks from his older co-workers, not directed at him (thankfully) - but rather, encompassing decades of routine work, the same cases over again, and hey, did anyone remember that round-up after those latex and leather straps weirdos from that march back in 1991?

Abbacchio was, to no surprise, much too young to recall it (and many other such instances for insensitive jokes seemed to be everyone’s favorite pastime activity). Usually, he would force a smile - not in agreement, but simply to let his own resistance slide unnoticed. And as he grinned or faked a laugh, he wondered just what the chief officer would say if he knew this awkward newbie was a part of those latex and leather straps guys - with the right intonation - a derogatory description of Pride.

Regular working hours were fine. Patrolling trips, Leone would usually look forward to - Bistecca shared his peculiar sense of humor. Osso and Buco seemingly only existed as a pair, inseparable whenever they showed up - all the little details that made his job more bearable. 

And it was not a sense of ungratefulness which drove Abbacchio’s growing burnout. Quite on the contrary, he found himself where he had always wanted to be, where he felt that he would truly belong. 

Only that, he figured, life relied on conditionalities. The comfort of taking down the mask of a serious adult, the permission to be himself - and the inconvenience of briefings, featuring a larger crowd, insensitive jokes, insider humor he did not quite get, on part because outdated attitude tended to burn his brain inside out; and on part because he’d been in the force for too short to catch up with all the mocking lines. 

Though he had to admit, earning the badge of a second lieutenant brought a sense of pride he wanted to cherish forever. 

It was, after all, his first real rank since finishing training. 

This realization felt comforting - and so he recalled it whenever he felt down, as though he did not belong among this judgemental bunch of his older co-workers. 

It kept him sane, to an extent, like a last resort to hold on to, in this workplace hell he ended up, upon his own wish. 

***

“I can’t believe we’re stuck out here while there is a round-up going on in Arenaccia. We should be there, we should be-,” Bistecca waved his hand around as if to express the feeling of injustice embracing him - an unfair job assignment for this lazy Saturday afternoon, sometime late September, a simple county-mounty for a respectable (and ambitious) lieutenant that he was. 

The early autumn heat was growing unbearable - remnants of what had been last month, August in its prime time - and Abbacchio could not have been more grateful that, despite their miserable position, he and his partner could at least hide from it inside the air-conditioned vehicle. 

Parked in an exit lane leading off the A56 highway, on the edge of an escarp bordering a car showroom, all they needed to worry about were drivers violating the speed limit. 

It was a boring job - and clearly unrewarding, at that - although as much as Bistecca had been assigned it simply to be put back in place for his (apparently) arrogant remarks on correcting their boss (rightfully so, though not in this corrupt world, it seemed), Abbacchio knew it was the closest to missions out in the wild that he would ever get. 

And it irked him, to an extent, this injustice, unfairness stemming from fear and lack of understanding - when he knew well enough, a bulletproof vest and an appropriate team organization would solve the issue. 

Though they couldn’t risk it, or so the chief officer had said, his heavy arm protectively wrapped around Leone’s shoulders, a father-like gesture, as though the man - his own dad’s best friend and successor in the force - tried to convey the message in an amicable way, like the older Abbacchio would have - even though it would have never happened with such proximity of flesh and warmth. 

“If you had kept your trap shut, you would’ve gone with them,” the white-haired man rolled his eyes and took a glance at the empty highway. The traffic was scarce in the lanes leading out of Naples, with people having left for the weekend the night before. 

There were quite a number of cars heading the opposite way - but for whatever reason, perhaps that of territory, Abbacchio and Bistecca had only been assigned to watch over the side connecting the city to the rest of the country. Yet another aspect that made no sense at all in the environment Leone had found himself in. 

“I couldn’t leave you all alone, though,” the brunet protested, offering an innocent grin. “Besides, someone had to tell the old man off, right? I’m surprised it wasn’t you.”

“So am I,” Leone sighed, shocked by his own confession and reached for the radio button. Six, seven months ago, he would have raised his doubts about the organization of work in the force - naive and unaccustomed, overly ambitious, a little bit too bold. Back then, his internal conflict and stern moral compass would not have allowed him to bend, to adjust - to take in the money someone else would have gladly accepted - with it being only a matter of choice whether or not he wanted to remain empty-handed. 

And nobility, as gracious as it was, did not pay the bills. 

“Well, but I did. You talk back to him next time,” Bistecca pulled out a water bottle from the compartment between the seats and handed it to Abbacchio. “Stay hydrated while you suffer.”

“Gladly,” Leone accepted the bottle with an eye roll. “Who are they trying to get, anyway?”

Even though he knew he would miss out on the bigger jobs, the more dangerous ones, simply because the chief officer did not want to accidentally off his predecessor’s sickly son (nevermind that a bulletproof vest and a position that did not require a lot of running would have solved the issue), Abbacchio still wanted to stay up-to-date with everyone else’s work.

“Sticky Fingers, the one and only,” Bistecca grinned, leaning back in his seat. “I smell a failed mission.”

“Bucciarati? Seriously? ” Leone’s eyes widened at the news. He almost dropped the water bottle, now unscrewed, slippery wet from coldness between his fingers. “Good luck to them, then.”

Sticky Fingers, the gangster in question, made himself quite a reputation around the city - and in the force, too, as one of the most demanded criminals in Naples - and one of the most peculiar ones, known for yelling out the Stones’ album name like a battle cry much too often to be coincidental. A gangster everyone wished to drag into the police headquarters, handcuffed and humiliated - and whom no one managed to get their hands on, to date. 

Rumor had it he had mysterious ways of getting away - as though he were capable of walking through walls - though the truth was, despite his reputation, Bucciarati was just too kind to outrightly commit atrocities that would make him suspect in some crime. Perhaps he was just being careful - a professionalist, after all - leaving no traces and no leads, swapping them for smiles and well-mannered conversations, small talk with the locals. 

And the only evidence, right there, two corpses and an autopsy report - got mysteriously outdated before anyone managed to get a hold of the man, the kid, then. 

Someone’s lucky find, Abbacchio supposed, an extra flow of cash. 

Only the stupid would refuse, he knew, hating himself for the thought, such a probable sum. 

Though there was something about the case, Leone had to admit - something about killer kids - that scared him shitless, much more than if it were a grown man who’d committed a double murder in a hospital ward, back then, in 1992. Or so the story had it, he supposed. 

“And good luck to us,” Bistecca grinned again, snapping the goth out of his thoughts as a mint-colored car passed them by with a shameless engine roar. Maserati Ghibli , Abbacchio recognized the model, his childhood interest in vehicles much too strong to be casual, paying off for once in his life. “Shall we?”

***

“Either way, we’re getting something out of this,” Bistecca said when they pulled the car over a few hundred meters away. Surprisingly, the driver was not up for a chase - a suspicious action, Abbacchio reckoned, considering the vehicle was most likely stolen. 

He did not know why but he could feel it in his bones, this weird sense of knowing - perhaps simply experience-based, a Maserati being a rarity in this area. 

“I’m tempted to just let them go with some cash in my pocket,” he confessed, surprised by his own boldness as he fixed the police cap on his head. 

Truth to be told, he hated how ridiculous it made his hair look - as though it were not a crime in itself to force him to tie it back, like the workplace code of principles had it. 

“Let’s see if it’s worth it,” Bistecca and his sense of justice popped the bubble of hope Abbacchio found himself in. “You know we can’t just let everything slide.”

Leone hummed in response, watching as the brunet head towards the Maserati in front of them before he followed, his bad knee reminding him of its existence more prominently than usual, his cane not being of much help for the matter. 

“Sir, do you know the speed limit on this road?” Bistecca’s voice carried a hint of unease which Abbacchio noted as he finally caught up. An attempt at joking to ease the atmosphere up a little bit unsuccessful upon seeing the driver, he reckoned. An unexpected surprise, not of the pleasant kind. 

“A hundred and thirty, why?” The response came sickly sweet, sticky with familiarity. It rang a distant bell, one that Abbacchio could not quite pinpoint. 

“Does two hundred and twenty look like one thirty to you?” He asked, catching up with Bistecca, casually glancing at the speed camera he was holding before taking a good look at the insolent driver - feeling his stomach flip upside down when he did. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the gimp officer,” Bruno Bucciarati eyed him up and down, one hand on the steering wheel, the other - a cold elbow, casually resting against the open window frame, a playful smile painted on his face. “Your daddy’s job serves you just right, I see.”

Abbacchio gave up attempts at explaining that he was not a child of nepotism, not in this universe - not quite, at least, having had to pass his finals and undergo training before getting his proud first badge. The offensive remark did not irk him much, either - the usual annoyance overdriven by an alarming sensation of worry upon discovering that Bucciarati seemed to know more about him than he’d expected. 

Certainly, the velcro strap on his chest revealed his name - though was he so popular that people instantly recognized his family connections? Or did Sticky Fingers simply guess based on the available information, connecting the dots a little bit too well? Surely he couldn’t have looked into Leone’s life - it wasn’t interesting enough, the goth hoped - or perhaps it was, his bribe-taking habit having become common knowledge. 

“And I thought you outspoken,” Bucciarati sighed, having not received a response from Abbacchio and turned fully towards him and Bistecca, resting his chin on his arms folded against the open window frame. “Let’s settle this quickly, gentlemen, shall we?”

Leone exchanged hesitant glances with his partner. Uncertainty mixed with determination flashed in Bisecca’s eyes for a moment and, before the goth had a chance to react, he lurched forward and leaned down to Bucciarati’s level, as though determined to wipe that smirk off the man’s face. 

And what a handsome face it was, Leone realized, barely able to stay upright as it dawned upon him, those blue eyes and a trace of freckles against the man’s tanned, olive skin. Framed by a rather feminine choice of haircut, a black bob with red strands, one on each side, completed with a bluntly chopped fringe, Sticky Fingers clearly held a certain charm to his own self. The white linen shirt he was wearing only added to it.

“Listen here, you smug bastard,” Bistecca spat out - and he certainly would have grabbed Bucciarati by the rags if it were not for Abbacchio who tugged on his uniform, suddenly alarmed by an unsettling sense in the air - as though something was not quite right, like the brunet was about to drop dead in a second, even though the gangster they pulled over clearly did not hold a gun, both of his hands visible, the minty metal of the car door digging into the softness of his forearms. 

And then a glare it was, from Bistecca of all people as he staggered forward in an attempt to finish his interrupted speech - though Leone’s grip on the fabric of his shirt remained firm. 

“Sure, let’s settle this quickly,” the white-haired man spoke instead, pushing in front of his confused partner. “I’ll let you off with a warning, but it'll be the last one.”

To no surprise, Bucciarati offered a displeased pout in response, cocking an eyebrow just ever so slightly. 

“I guess I owe you, officer,” he spoke smoothly, reaching down to his jeans pocket before he pulled out a roll of notes and handed them to Abbacchio. “This should be just enough.”

“Keep your money,” Leone pushed the rolled bills away and, to his own surprise, closed Bucciarati’s plump fingers around the paper. The unexpected touch sent an electric shock down his spine - one look and he was sold, another glance into those blue eyes - beyond the point of return, head over heels for the man. 

The strange feeling of uneasiness disappeared, too - replaced, perhaps, by the fluster of the brief interaction - or fear of entangling himself into schemes beyond his understanding if he took the bribe - though Sticky Fingers just shook his head. 

“I owe you,” he repeated, his words somehow eerie on this bright sunny day. “Kindness for kindness, eye for eye.”

The words held a certain threat to them, or so Abbacchio interpreted their intention. Like a reminder that he was being watched - and he swallowed hard, forcing a nod before Bucciarati waved him goodbye. 

***

“ Gimp officer, my ass,” Bistecca scoffed once the two of them got back in the car. “What the fuck, Abbacchio, why’d you let him off like that?”

Leone shrugged in response. He knew there existed no way to silence his partner before he unloaded all of his frustration anyway - so he let the man go on for a while, repetitive questions of second-guessing his own sanity and rightfully placed annoyance with his unexplainable, senseless behavior. 

“There was…,” after a few minutes, Abbacchio finally attempted to explain himself, waving his hand around as though to draw a picture of his decision-making process. “I don’t know. Fuck, something was off. He’s powerful, you know? How’d he figure out who I was right away?”

Bistecca exhaled loudly as though he were mentally preparing himself to explain the concept of basic maths to a seven-year-old. 

“That’s common knowledge, Leone,” he sighed and it took the goth by surprise that he was being addressed by his first name. “Everyone knows who your father was before he retired. And you’ve got a name patch. Right. Here,” unexpectedly, he poked at Abbacchio’s chest where the velcro strap stuck to his uniform. “Put the two and two together. Plus, he disrespected you. Why’d you let him off?”

“Because he’s a powerful man and I don’t want to get in trouble with the whole fucking Neapolitan mafia, you know?” the goth spat back, hiding the hint of fear in his voice behind aggression. “I’d rather have him call me a crip than throw me into a meat mincer.”

“The name could be redeemed and the latter avoided if we’d arrested him on the spot,” Bistecca protested, albeit irrationally. 

“What, for speeding? We could have taken his license away, at best. Though I doubt he has one,” Abbacchio scoffed, hoping to cut the discussion at that - but his partner demanded human sacrifices. 

“ What we’re dealing with here is a total lack of respect for the law ,” he quoted, seriousness in his voice - his stern gaze not allowing Leone to laugh in his face at the musical reference. Though a remark would not hurt, he hoped, his mood lifting surprisingly quickly after the puzzling confrontation with Bucciarati.

“Now add some bass synths to it, Liam Howlett,” he rolled his eyes. “Let’s go get some food, I’m starving.”

“Gladly,” Bistecca started the car, his scowl breaking into a smile. “You never told me how you ended up giving Bucciarati reasons for stupid nicknames, anyway.”

He nodded towards Abbacchio’s knee brace with an innocent look painted on his face. And Leone scoffed in response, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

“Just a stupid accident from my teenage years,” he dismissed the question. “Not worth mentioning.”

“Something like Vitello accidentally almost shooting himself because he forgot he was holding a loaded gun?” Bistecca teased as he took the nearest exit off the highway. “Trattoria Capri sounds good?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t that bad,” Abbacchio snorted, hinting away from the grotesque image of his younger self getting stuck on the fence net he was attempting to climb over in hopes to get in to see Massive Attack play a show in Naples without a ticket - the tragedy of fabric folds caught against the wire and failing to support his weight, his right leg snapping like a matchstick before he knew it as he dropped to the ground, the first tones of Protection - an ironic end to the story. “Trattoria Capri is overrated. Libeccio’s alright, I’ve heard. Somewhere between Quartieri Spagnoli and Porto, as far as I know. Seems like they didn’t get to catch Bucciarati, in the end.”

“And neither did we,” there was a certain bitterness audible in Bistecca’s voice as he took a turn into Via Agnano, rolling his eyes, like he held a certain resentment towards Leone for the way he handled their interaction with the gangster. Like he were greedily hoping for a promotion, a long-awaited one, at that, arresting the mafioso providing a perfect opportunity to fight corruption. 

Though was he not a part of it, himself?

And Abbacchio, too, letting the encounter slide as though it never happened? 

Possibly so.

Chapter Text

“Car thefts are on the rise again.”

Abbacchio paused on his way across the kitchen and glanced over the island countertop, resting his surprised eyes at the image of his father holding an open newspaper. 

The older man’s face revealed a playful expression, a tease of sorts - and Leone could only wonder what amused him so much about robbery. 

Or perhaps somehow he found out that his son had let a dangerous gangster drive away in a stolen car. 

“I’d expect them to drop with the introduction of remote keys, to be honest,” Leone suggested carefully, shifting his weight onto his left side, using the nearest counter for support, cursing himself for walking around the house unaided (again) (he never learned from his mistakes). But it was a good day, painless, almost, his limp barely noticeable, so much so that he regretted such a coincidence fell on a Sunday when he had nowhere to be but his own bedroom. 

Sure, Bistecca had suggested going out for drinks in the evening - though Abbacchio refused, excusing himself with the necessity to be at work early the next day ( Nothing like tons of reports to write up). Besides, he’d spent the whole week in the man’s company - and eventually grew tired of him, overwhelmed by monologues on the malfunctioning of the world and the system, regardless of their complicity in it, complaints about the unbearable hum of the computer fan, the stuffy air, the (barely audible) conversations in the room across from them. 

Dad jokes, with Bistecca being only a few years older, topped the fucking cake. 

“Thieves adapt. Or maybe it’s simply because I’m no longer guarding the city,” the older Abbacchio folded the newspaper and got up. “Though I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy retirement.”

“You’re only fifty four, come on,” Leone rolled his eyes in response, forcing a laugh, somehow relieved that the remark only served to flex about the man’s own achievements throughout his career in the Carabinieri. “And that’s how it is, isn’t it? The producers might improve their key coding system but they’ll always be one step behind. ‘Cause I’m assuming that’s how it works. Cracking the code to trick the vehicle into thinking it’s the owner unlocking it.”

Playing dumb always worked in his favor. Be it a way to obtain more information for a case of interest or simply to fool people into following a path leading away from the one that would reveal his true intentions. Apparently, it was just what made him a good fit for a police officer. Interrogations, crime scenes, deducing the turn of events. Too bad the new chief officer refused to allow him to focus on anything more than paperwork or, at best, traffic police. 

When he first joined and his father was still positioned at the boss, everything seemed easier. Sure, he never got sent out to deal with criminals on the go, round-ups and the like - but he’d been allowed to visit a crime scene every once in a while, to get some experience and offer his insights when asked. And many of those times, he was right about the way the fateful nights and days had unfolded for the victims. 

Now, though? Thanks to the cordial relationship between his father and the new chief officer, Seppie, and the man’s fear of his best friend’s son getting as much as a scratch, Leone was confined to his office desk and highway patrolling. 

“Probably. But I’m not up to date with the modern approach,” the older Abbacchio walked into the kitchen. Placing the newspaper on the countertop, he sent Leone a knowing look. “Do something with this hair of yours, you’re beginning to look like a lost circus performer,” he complained, then poured himself a glass of water.

Considering the shitshow my workplace is, it’s fitting for us both, the goth thought, biting his tongue before he spoke the words into existence and rolled his eyes instead. 

Sometimes he wondered how it was possible that he and his father were related. Aside from a sarcastic attitude, his own more fine-tuned than that of the older man’s, there was barely any physical resemblance between the two. 

Sure, they were of similar height - though Leone looked more like his mother with his hair naturally dirty blond (repeatedly bleached since he was sixteen), not dark brown, now greying, like that of his father. Still, he had to admit, some of his dad’s genes surely played part in shaping his appearance, courtesy of sectoral heterochromia, his eyes the shade of the clouded blue sky for the most part, falling into lilac under artificial light - with an amber patch on the side of his left iris, a case that would make his classmates go weak for him back in high school. 

If only he were interested in girls. 

Not explicitly out in front of his parents - and coworkers alike (save for Bistecca who’d figured it out right away), he still wanted to accentuate his homosexuality - cherishing it like a precious treasure that formed a part of his whole, a matter he was at ease with. He wanted to turn people’s heads as he walked, to attract a potential boyfriend, perhaps - his girly hair, along with his androgynous facial features - a part of the strategy. 

Though, as much as he longed for someone to call his own, he wished he had a choice over who he would fall for. 

And, to his own horror, he could not shake off the image of Bucciarati smiling at him, squinting in the bright sun before he rolled his window up and drove away. 

He couldn’t possibly - didn’t want to - have a crush on a gangster, of all people. Sticky Fingers was a criminal, a dangerous outlaw. A double murderer, at that. 

Who knew what he’d do to Abbacchio if they met again? The goth did not even want to think of it - their respective paths, he knew, were to never be crossed again. 

Suddenly, the perspective of still living with his parents at the ripe age of twenty did not feel so much of a nightmare - his wishes to find someone to move in with, a lover, perhaps, no longer relevant in light of homebound safety and the dangers of dating a mafioso. 

Besides, he tried to console himself (and so did Bistecca, a few days back), with only as much as his twenty-first just round the corner, he was still too young to fly out of the family nest. People were, after all, culturally allowed, if not expected to stay with their parents until much later into adulthood. His partner himself had only recently left his childhood home - and would still show up on most days, restocking food supplies and staying over for dinner. 

At the end of the day, remarks on his hair were certainly better, Leone reckoned, than being found dismembered in a dark alley simply because he hung out with the wrong people one time too many. 

***

“Are we having a work party? Did someone die?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, stopping in his tracks - causing Bistecca to bump into him from behind. 

The shared space of the police headquarters was buzzing with excitement - and though no decorations were hanging around, it smelled of pizza and relaxed atmosphere. 

“We managed to get Polpo. On Saturday, that is,” Buco, followed by Osso, explained and handed a plastic cup filled with some semi-transparent, red fizzy drink to Leone. 

“I thought you were after Bucciarati?” The goth took a sip, wincing at the cheap chemical taste of strawberries. “Was he not where he was supposed to show up?”

“Like you would know,” Osso rolled his eyes and grabbed a slice of pizza from the nearest box. “Polpo is a bigger fish. He won’t talk but that’s fine. We’ll keep him locked up for as long as we need. There’s plenty of evidence. Human trafficking. Car thefts. Drugs. You name it. He’s just downstairs if you wanna come say hi.”

“No, thank you,” Abbacchio brought a cup to his lips to mask a sudden wave of unease that came upon him. He wished he could just blame it on Osso’s poor manners, talking with a mouth full of food - though the feeling reached deeper down. It was more visceral, like a warning, a red flag he could not precisely locate. 

Something was off. 

The pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit together. 

As far as Leone knew, Sticky Fingers was a medium-rank gangster. Still under a caporegime. Polpo’s, of all people. Who inside the gang would lure a whole unit into a chase after a wanted, but still regular mobster only to swap him for his own boss? Should it not have been the other way around, to protect the more important figure? 

“Aww, aren’t you moody today, Abbacchio?” Buco joked, handing the goth a nearly empty pizza box, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

Leone scoffed in response, mindlessly grabbing himself a slice - though he did not allow his focus to shift away from the case. 

“Do you know if he was supposed to be with someone? Bucciarati, Polpo? There, last weekend?” He asked, hoping for a casual tone, though it did not come out as such. 

“Bucciarati was going to meet some Massimo Volpe. The man told us himself. Volpe, I mean, not Bucciarati,” Osso shrugged. “Then he never showed up. But we don’t have anything to lock him up and I think he knows that. Why?”

“Just asking,” Abbacchio lied, glancing at the pizza slice, miserable in his grip - though his eyes caught that of Bistecca who sent him a knowing look. 

“We’ve got some traffic numbers to make up. It’s the end of the month,” the man stated, as though suddenly remembering they were behind with the statistics. A neat cover-up excuse for the obvious thing they were both about to do. What they should have not been doing at all. “Come on, let’s get it done and over with.”

***

The scene looked exactly how Abbacchio imagined it would. A run-down, single-storey building carrying traces of fire and repetitive damage. 

It smelled of soot and decay, the stench growing more and more irritating with every passing minute. 

Glass crunched under the goth’s boots as he made his way across the shabby space, an uneven rhythm of his steps and the hope to encounter a trace of something, a lead of sorts. 

To no avail.

“I mean, I don’t think they’d leave anything behind anyway if the case’s closed for now,” Bistecca spoke, catching up with the goth. 

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Abbacchio groaned, stopping to inspect a shimmering object on the window sill, only to discover it was a shard of glass reflecting the early afternoon sun. “Why tell people there’ll be a mediocre, albeit wanted gangster when you know it’ll be his boss in the end? What’s that Volpe guy’s deal? Unless he’s collaborating with Bucciarati. Unless they’re both getting something out of Polpo’s incarceration. Positions, promotions? Money?” Mindlessly, he went on, making his way to the next room, a distant sound of opening a zipper drowned out by the crunch of glass under his feet. “Seems to me like it’s all been-”

“Set up?” A familiar warm voice spoke from behind. “Good morning, gimp officer.”

Abbacchio spun around, followed by Bistecca. Both were met by the figure of Bruno Bucciarati who smiled at them condescendingly.

“Don’t call me that,” Leone demanded and regretted his words instantly, having realized how pathetic they sounded. 

“Why not?” The gangster pouted, taking a glance at his neatly polished fingernails. “It’s fitting.”

“Certainly more fitting than your pants, I take it,” the sarcastic remark escaped Abbacchio’s mouth before he managed to bite his tongue. Horrified, he desperately tried to think of a line to follow-up with and steer the conversation onto a different track: “Why Sticky Fingers anyway? I never thought you were a pickpocket type.”

“God, no,” Bucciarati waved his hand carelessly as though to highlight how much the imaginary role did not suit him. The air in the room tensed, an eerie blow dancing around the three of them - and Leone felt his stomach twist at the possibility that the insult, although accurate, with the gangster’s white suit pants tight at the side seams, the softness of his stomach forming a medium-sized muffin top just above his belt, earned him a painful death for disrespect. Though Sticky Fingers did not pick up on it when he continued in an amicable, yet condescending tone: “Pickpocketing isn’t my thing. I respect myself. I steal cars, if anything. But it’s all legal, officer, registered at the border and in the transport department. Check the papers if you want. Or perhaps you’d like to order one for yourself? We’ve got quite a variety to choose from. Multiplas are in fashion these days, I’m told.”

“Are you trying to get yourself arrested?” Bistecca spoke from behind Abbacchio’s shoulder, his voice stern, a hint of irritation prominent in it. 

“Do you have the grounds to arrest me?” Bucciarati cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Either way, it’s not a setup. Not in the way you think it might be. You’re smart, officer Abbacchio but that’s not like us. In fact, it was all pre-planned by my capo himself. He’s got some… business to attend to. It’s only a shame Massimo got away as he was going to be the bait, but I trust your skills to get him.”

“That is not up to me, unfortunately,” Leone replied, hoping to keep his composure. He only wished to get out of this stupid debt he seemed to have gotten himself into - not on his part, thankfully. Still, he did not need a gangster, a double murderer, to owe him anything for his ill-placed kindness. 

“Well, what if I told you I’ve got some information that could be of help?” Bucciarati asked with a smirk that only thickened the eerie air around them. 

“Don’t tell me you’d willingly go to the station with us to provide a testimony,” Bistecca scoffed, unexpectedly reminding Abbacchio of his presence. The gangster before him seemed to be his primary focus, enchanting him with his presence, his demeanor, a charm so strong he could not resist it - was it why the locals always spoke so fondly of him? Did he play the same tricks on them? 

“Oh no, no,” Bucciarati waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t collaborate with cops. However,” he raised his index finger as if instructing the two officers to wait before he reached into one of the many zippered pockets of his white suit blazer, the fabric adorned with black tear-like pattern. From there, he pulled out a handkerchief and placed it on the nearby window sill, before unfolding the soft fabric, revealing a small pouch filled with white powder. “This might or might not have his fingerprints on it. Test it if you’d like.”

“Well, he isn’t exactly in the possession of illegal substances at the moment. If anything, you are,” Abbacchio bit his lip, leaning in to take a glance at the contents of the bag. Cocaine or flour, it was impossible to tell. Perhaps the gangster was just making a fool of them both. “And you’ve just given yourself away to us.”

“Oh no, I haven’t,” Bucciarati grinned and motioned towards the pouch. “This was left discarded here. Plus, how are you going to prove that it’s mine if I didn’t leave any fingerprints, hm?”

He had a point, Abbacchio was forced to admit defeat. 

“Fair enough then, say we take it,” he sighed, exchanging looks with Bistecca in hopes to silence the man if he were to object. “What are you getting out of this? Me being indebted to you?”

“Oh no, no,” Bucciarati shook his head. “See, we were hoping to get rid of Massimo last weekend with the help of law and order but he got away. It’s both in your interest and mine to deal with him as soon as possible. He’s been… trouble for the organization and needs to be taught a lesson. As for civilians… You don’t want him to sell this,” the gangster pointed towards the pouch on the window sill, or rather, an empty window frame. “To children, right?”

Abbacchio nodded slowly, trying to process the mafioso’s words. His reasoning made perfect sense - and his intuition did not raise any issues, either - yet still, he did not want to make deals with a criminal. 

“Why don’t you deal with him yourself, then? It’s your organization and your trouble, primarily. Not mine. I’m just a mediocre traffic police officer, not some high-rank investigator,” he protested, his desperation growing more frantic - thanks to both the situation as it was and Bistecca bearing witness to the conversation. Could he be trusted? Leone did not want to trouble himself with second-guessing the intentions of his best friend. 

“We’re not assassins,” Bucciarati opposed, clicking his tongue. “We simply want to protect our turf. And you,” he sent Abbacchio a long look, forcing the man to maintain eye contact. “You are the one and only son of the retired chief officer. And both of you here are bribe-takers. So consider this.”

“Is this an order?” Leone asked weakly, wishing he could rewind time all the way back to the morning, dismiss his growing urge to get in trouble and take a look at the round-up scene himself. For once in his life, the commodity of being assigned the easiest jobs through cronyism and thanks to his reduced mobility could have, it seemed, saved him. And yet, he chose to ignore it, convinced he knew better, like the idiot he was.

“Only if you interpret it as such,” Bucciarati sent him a warm smile, though his ocean blue eyes remained stone cold. “I still owe you, officer. And a gangster’s loyalty is his honor. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got some business to attend to. Keep pretending you want to get us and we’ll keep pretending we’re scared of you.”

Chapter Text

“You guys forgot something,” Abbacchio carefully placed the mysterious pouch, along with the handkerchief, on the edge of the lab technician’s table. “It laid on the floor where Polpo was captured.”

“And I take it, you just happened to pass by? Totally not trying to stick your nose where you’re not supposed to?” Vitello, the analyst, raised an eyebrow in response, reaching for a pair of rubber gloves. “How come our team missed it? I swear they said they thoroughly searched the place.”

He removed the bag from the folds of fabric and glanced at it under the artificial light of the lamp, shaking the contents ever so slightly. 

“It might be that someone dropped it afterwards. Maybe it’s unrelated. Still, worth checking. I think,” Abbacchio shrugged, taking another look at the handkerchief on the table. 

It was a nice piece, woven of fine material, cotton or linen, he couldn’t tell for sure without a closer inspection. 

White, decorated with golden-threaded lace on the edges, it only carried minimal detailing - a contrasting, black tear-like adornment embroidered in the corner. Beside it, there sat a trace of blood, a drop-sized stain that had rusted ages ago, forever ingrained between the soft fibers, an accidental dripping or perhaps someone’s frantic effort to stop the bleeding of a minor cut. 

Someone’s. 

Bucciarati’s. 

Abbacchio couldn’t help but picture the man, pressing the fabric against a slit on his finger, a papercut, a shallow graze.

He supposed he would be forced to return the handkerchief. 

It was a dreadful perspective, having to face the gangster again. Looking out for him, wherever he might be, places and locations unbeknownst to a respectable policeman. 

Though keeping the handkerchief for himself stayed out of the question. Who knew how expensive - how dear - it was. What meaning it held for the criminal. Even though Leone doubted the man was capable of human emotions at all, a double murderer, a killer kid. 

Abbacchio could not - did not want to - keep the accessory, let alone treat it as his own. 

“And this?” Vitello pointed towards the unfolded fabric, unsure if it formed a part of the evidence. 

“Mine,” Leone lied, mechanically reaching out to grab the handkerchief, creasing it and shoving inside the pocket of his uniform pants before he knew it. It was not in his fashion to bend the truth like that, less when he could get in trouble for it - yet somehow, revealing the true origins of the fabric and with it, his encounter with Bucciarati clearly posed a greater danger. “I didn’t want to contaminate the bag with my fingerprints.”

“I’ll have the results of the analysis by tomorrow morning. Come by, find out,” Vitello got up from his seat, about to head into the lab adjacent to the shared space belonging to the upstairs technicians. The downstairs ones seemed to use perishable evidence as their lunch seasoning. Abbacchio was not going to risk breaking the unwanted deal with Bucciarati through their incompetence. Of the two, Vitello, as pompous and affluent as he seemed, was a better choice. He might have had terrible hand-eye coordination and aim but he could restore evidence from scraps. “Oh, by the way, Seppie is looking for you and Bistecca. Traffic control for another month for the great son of the ex-chief officer?”

***

“There is a sex trafficking case I want you both to attend to,” Seppie spoke, slowly pacing across the room, taking in wheezy, laborious breaths with every step, pausing mid-sentence to inhale. 

Abbacchio was not a judgemental person, for the most part - though he had to admit, the new chief officer carried every possible stereotypical trait one could think of. 

From an open pack of donuts on his desk through the traces of icing on his mustache to the way the fabric stretched around the buttons of his blue shirt encompassing his rather large frame, and the stains of sweats decorating the inside of his armpits. 

Leone had known Seppie since he was a kid - and could swear, for the last dozen years, the man looked exactly the same, save for the progressive greying of his ginger hair. 

Though he was offering some real work - and the goth was more than determined to take it. Everything seemed better than sitting in a car outside the city for hours on end - and the piles of paper decorating his desk, the never-ending reports, so many of them he was close to screaming more often than ever, unable to prioritize their importance. 

A sex trafficking case was, as horrible as it sounded, a nice change from the dull routine. 

“Do we have any leads as of now?” Bistecca asked. A notepad sat in his lap, ready to take in orders and hints - though suddenly, the scene seemed rather ridiculous to Abbacchio. 

Or, more like, the sight of his partner like that - his chestnut-colored hair parted in the middle in the slightly passé fashion of Leonardo Dicaprio, along with a virgin mustache above his lips, a thin line of hair he seemed incapable of growing beyond the initial stage; mixed with his ever-so-eager green eyes widened in anticipation - gave off a sense of an officer-in-training, naive and kind-hearted, an image they had both left behind. 

And Leone disdained it. He hated himself for the thought and the sick sense of satisfaction it brought, along with the consideration for Bistecca’s image as a whole. Older by a few years, he should have known better. They both were accepting bribes as they pleased. They would make fun of Seppie’s mannerisms on a daily basis. 

Seeing a contradiction of the version of his partner that Abbacchio grew used to, brought a feeling of contempt, quite against his will, resentment towards naivety and the pitiful sight before him. 

Because Bistecca was not a newbie. He knew the risk and the seriousness of cases. Did he grow so used to traffic control, Leone wondered, that he forgot how to handle real issues? Or was he simply hoping to make a good impression on the chief officer for whatever reason - buying his way in, bootlicking, smiles for scowls and one ‘Yes, sir!’s too many? 

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” Seppie answered, folding his arms behind his back. “All we know is that underage girls are being picked up through, what do you call these… chat rooms, or lured in and drugged up at nightclubs across the city. We’re not sure if it’s the same organization that’s behind these as there’s no pattern. Clearly, an unsolvable mystery,” he offered a sardonic grin at the two, flashing his gold canine. “But since you’ve got so much free time controlling traffic you manage to hang around closed-off locations without a warrant, I figured I’d give you something to do. Put an end to this and you’ll be promoted. Your father insisted that you’re capable, Abbacchio, prove it to me, then.”

Leone resisted rolling his eyes. 

He wasn’t sure what he hated to think about more - the perspective of his old man trying to persuade Seppie to let him unlock his son’s true potential or the idea of the consequences, the officer’s hurt pride within the context of the military-like structure of the force, on the path he ended up taking simply because his father had once, too, rather than the regular one which ran parallel to it. No high-rank soldier liked being told what to do by their retired predecessor. 

The task - the case - seemed like a cruel trick played upon him in revenge. Abbacchio had always felt a certain unexplainable resentment towards Seppie, since he could remember. Sunday dinner meetups in his childhood, filled with conversations he could not understand then, matters too complex to appeal to a six-year-old, yet accompanied by expressions of spite, sardonic grins and voice tones foretelling no good. Parallel with these were talks concerning complaints about their respective husbands, led by his mother and Seppie’s wife, interrupted every so often to scold little Leone for speaking in dialect when playing with the couple’s daughter, simply for the sake of it because she would, time would show, catch up with it soon enough, proficient by the age of ten, as though her family had spent their entire lives in Campania, rather than up north, by the Slovenian, then Yugoslavian border. 

There was something wrong with the man, always had been.

Now, after a decade and a half, Abbacchio finally figured out what it was. An insecurity of sorts, masked for years on end, put to rest along with Seppie’s latest promotion and his own father’s retirement. Hating to always have been the second best, the one worse off - the new chief officer vowed to avenge his jealousy through his predecessor’s son. 

“So be it,” Leone agreed, more to his train of thoughts than to Seppie’s words - yet simultaneously - to both at the same time. “We’ll start by checking the security footage from the reported locations, then.”

“Just like the old joke has it,” Seppie concluded with a spiteful grin. “Back in the day, the greatest minds worked in pairs all because one could read and the other one could write. Now, in the new millennium, the tables have turned. One has great thinking capabilities, the other - walking abilities. Truly the best combination.”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes at the remark. 

“With the old-school way, do you mean yourself and my father, then?” He asked, unable to bite his tongue in self-defense - but also simply because Bistecca, as naive as he looked just moments ago, did not deserve to be downgraded like that. And with his family connections, Leone could risk a daring remark.

***

The space of Dial-up looked shabbier and sadder than Abbacchio had expected an internet café to be. There was no trace of futuristic blues and transparent plastics, grey glass bricks by the entrance - the only promise of modernity. 

A woman sat behind the counter, making pink balloons from her chewing gum.

“We’re closing at six,” she informed when Abbacchio approached, Bistecca trailing behind, seemingly having lost his confidence of a lieutenant in charge, as though the promise of a promotion no longer felt appealing to him after Seppie’s remarks. “That’s in seven minutes.”

“Not here to surf the web,” Abbacchio shrugged and leaned against the counter. “Just interested in some security footage, that’s all.”

“Many of you creeps are,” the woman rolled her eyes and fixed her blonde updo, brushing across her loose corrugated strands as she popped her gum balloon. “What for?”

“Nothing to concern your beautiful mind with,” Bistecca spoke before Abbacchio had a chance to react. Spoiling the act, he flashed his police badge at her - earning no reaction but a scoff. 

“We’re not obliged to keep a backup of our tapes, you know,” her glitter fingernails drummed against the counter and she sent them a bored look. “Got a warrant, officer?”

“Certainly,” Bistecca assured her, then patted his pockets, his expression growing more surprised by the second. “I must have left it in the car.”

Abbacchio suppressed an eye roll at that. 

Bistecca was a mixed bag - older than him, yet so inexperienced, somehow, lacking a certain skill of waffling, dead honest in the least appropriate moments. Charming it was, the goth had to admit, only when it happened off-duty. 

“No warrant, no tapes,” the barista popped another bubblegum balloon with a bored look. “Anything else?”

“Go bring it,” Abbacchio sneered in response, taking aback both the woman and Bistecca, the latter surprised he was being spoken to with such disrespect by his underling while on duty, regardless of their friendly relations. Though something in the goth’s eyes must have convinced him as he turned towards the exit, aiming to head out and back into the cruiser in search of the document he could swear he had folded and placed in his back pocket. 

And as he was about to leave, an echo of footsteps interrupted him - preceded by what seemed to be the sound of unzipping a coat, it revealed a familiar pattern, soft and light, yet steady and grounded at the same time.

The handkerchief in Abbacchio’s pocket suddenly felt impossibly heavy for a piece of fabric. 

“Hello, hello,” Bruno Bucciarati walked in with a warm smile plastered across his face and nodded towards the woman behind the counter before acknowledging the presence of Leone and his partner with a prolonged look. “Mind if I quickly search something up? Google , as people put it these days?”

Not waiting for a response, he made his way towards one of the PC booths past the counter - but stopped before Bistecca, pulling out a neatly folded sheet. 

“I believe you might be looking for this, officer,” he said, handing the piece of paper to the man who failed to grasp it, stunned by the directness of the act. “A warrant always comes in handy. It was lying on the doorstep. You must have dropped it.”

Abbacchio snatched the document before Bistecca managed to accept it. Unfolding it on the counter, he passed it against the surface towards the barista who quickly ran her gaze across it. 

“How far back do you need to check?” She asked with forced politeness in her voice, not even bothering to hide the hint of disdain it carried. 

“Just the last month,” Bistecca regained his ability to speak as his eyes mindlessly followed Bucciarati to one of the ten available PCs across the room. 

“That’s going to be a few,” the woman smirked spitefully and, with the motion of a single finger, ordered the man to follow her down the narrow corridor leading towards the exit, as though she was convinced he was simply Abbacchio’s right hand, a low-rank officer helping out on a routine checkup - not the other way around. 

Yet, Bistecca seemed too stunned to protest - trailing behind the barista until he disappeared behind a set of industrial plastic doors. 

Though Leone was in no mood to remain alone in the same room as Bucciarati - even if the man seemed too preoccupied with using the internet to pay him any mind. 

The goth spent a few moment in idle hesitance - pondering following the two to retrieve the security footage and help Bistecca carry the tapes to the car - though for some reason, he seemed unable to move from the place he was standing in, enchanted by the image of the gangster before him, the man’s back facing him, a white suit jacket with a zipper adorning its upper part. 

Bucciarati truly was a peculiar one, especially when it came to his choice of accessories. What was so absorbing about zippers, Abbacchio did not know - the only possible explanation he could lean towards was that of simple fondness towards it, the way he enjoyed heavy eyeliner and platform boots, the makeup section of Douglas.

Though the realization of their possible alikeness did not bring any comfort. If anything, it enhanced the feeling of resentment he held towards the gangster. A sense of contempt mixed with fear, growing stronger the more often he seemed to be running into the man, as though he was being followed - though why the mafia would take an interest in him, he could not tell. 

If anything, he made their jobs easier by accepting bribes and turning a blind eye to crime. 

Though he wished Bucciarati would leave him alone. He did not need such a dangerous man in his life, with his peculiar ways and sticky mannerisms - not in the same room, either, across the floor, googling - here, Abbacchio could not help but take a glance at the convex screen of the PC - the language of flowers, of all things. Was he going on a date? Trying to pick someone up? Was he even capable of loving with that heart of stone, having murdered two people in cold blood?

Leone had so many questions - and yet, did not want to ask any of them. 

“...What do you mean the tapes were thrown away?” Bistecca’s voice, shaking with disbelief, snapped the goth out of his thoughts. “Aren’t you obliged to store them for a certain time period?!”

“As far as I know, no,” came the barista’s response. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“Have you seen anything suspicious, maybe?” The man stormed into the room, followed by the ever-bored employee. Abbacchio shook his head as discreetly as he could as though to order, no, to let his partner know it was time to cut the discussion, especially with a mafioso - a possible suspect in the case - present in the same space, though Bistecca seemed not to have noticed it, enraged by the possibility of a bunch of security tapes missing. Oblivious to his surroundings, he continued: “Suspiciously-looking men, perhaps? Anything out of the ordinary? Teenage girls coming in more often to use the internet?”

The final sentence seemed to snap Bucciarati out of his research dive into flowers as he perked upright, turning away from the screen and glancing at the scene before him. 

The barista shook her head in response with a cocky smile. 

“Sorry, officer, I can’t help you. Wrong address, it seems,” she ironized, clearly content with the sight of Bistecca growing even more enraged. 

“Come on, let’s go. She’s right,” Abbacchio cut in, resisting the urge to tug on the sleeve of the man’s uniform and drag him outside - though the brunet seemed to have finally caught on as he nodded mindlessly. 

“Thank you, ma’am. We won’t bother you anymore,” he spoke, much too formally for Leone’s liking, as though it were fear and panic talking through him - perhaps at the realization of having spoiled the case details for the mafioso across the room - though it was better than nothing.

Defeated, he headed for the exit, his steps accelerated, looking anything but relaxed and natural. 

Abbacchio caught on, muttering a careless thank you on the go. 

Outside, in the empty parking lot, Bistecca let his frustration out. 

“Can you believe,” he ranted with disbelief prominent in his voice. “The shelves were empty! Empty!!! No trace of tapes, nothing! Why would they care to remove them all? Something’s clearly wrong here.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Abbacchio grumbled, quite unintentionally, more so - mindlessly, barely paying attention to the older man’s words and pulled out a cigarette. 

His mind seemed to be fixated on the gangster inside the café, the image of him, hunched over the milky white keyboard with outdated crumbs between the keys, stains covering the letters. Adagio For Strings , a song he only now realized, was quietly playing on the radio inside the building, soundtracked the scene, the sight of Bucciarati glowing before his eyes like a god in human skin, much to his dislike - and as he faced the thought, he realized the man’s blood-stained handkerchief was still cozily tucked away inside his pocket. Like a magnet, it seemed, a boomerang bringing him back to the gangster, the one who had sent the toy flying in the first place.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio bit the tip of his pen and leaned back in his seat, looking away from the sheets of paper laid out before him. 

Briefly, his eyes rested upon the outside view, visible through the large wooden window overlooking the representative frontyard of the National Library. Situated between century-old bookshelves, it let in the afternoon light which faded slowly as the sun proceeded to set at the ungodly hour of five in the evening.

The beginning of the week brought the start of October and with it, short gloomy days and strong winds carrying particles of sand and street litter. 

Abbacchio dreaded the upcoming months, wishing he could just fast-forward to spring, his twenty-first, the month of March and a respectable amount of daylight. 

He wasn’t a fan of winter, of the 4pm sunsets, the rain, the mild coldness that hardly ever brought a snowfall - and if it did, the white coat melted away before he knew it. 

The gloomier half of the year meant pains and aches, his old injury flaring up at the tiniest of changes in weather, ones that he would not otherwise notice. 

He struggled to focus with his attention being constantly shifted towards the dull, yet pulsating sensation in his knee where the bone met metal screws, a procedure that did not quite work as promised. 

Sometimes, Abbacchio wondered what would ruin his liver first - the newly-acquired bad habit of finishing his day with a glass of wine to unwind after work and ensure a good night’s sleep, with the amount of golden liquid in the goblet increasing from one week to another; or the amount of pain medication he was soon going to be running on simply to make it through a weekday in the office. Or worse, in the cruiser, his knees cramped from being folded under the dashboard while he waited for reckless drivers to go over the speed limit by just as much as ten kilometers per hour - and let mafiosos in stolen cars off without a warning. 

If the sex trafficking case was going to save him from spending the next few months stuck in limbo, wasting his potential more than bribe-taking habit caused him to, he was willing to give it a go. 

And he became invested in it. Quickly figured out Seppie was lying when he said there were no patterns between the drugging up and chatroom interactions. 

A trip to the five major night clubs in the city returned a general outline of the culprits’ idea of planning a perfect crime. 

Coarse but efficient, getting rid of the security footage, the same way it seemed to be for the internet café Abbacchio and Bistecca had visited at the start of the week. 

The remaining few scattered around the city did not report anything out of the ordinary though - and the available, archived footage from the last few weeks confirmed just that. 

The pattern stood out loud and clear - accentuated with various colors on a cheap printout of the map of Naples, suspicious locations marked with a sharpie, connected with ruler-straight lines. 

One would think Abbacchio was a student, spending his afternoons in the library, sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the reading room upstairs. 

And he hoped people would consider him just that - outside of his work uniform, he would show up with a black military backpack, one of those that would close by pulling the straps, the woven fabric secured in place with metal plaques. It was cumbersome - and loud, of all things, with the countless buckles and clasps jingling as he walked - but its square-shaped space fitted in all the case materials without leaving a single crease on the sheets of paper he carried around - and it was dear to him. A present from years ago, kindly gifted to him by his older sister’s best friend the summer when he broke his leg. 

A kiss from behind the iron curtain, the woman (whom he’d seen thrice in his entire life thus far) had said as though it did not matter the divide had not existed for a good six years, then; her foreign Italian accent thick and harsh, lacking its natural softness - the double r in ferro, she would carelessly shorten to just a single one.

Though he had to admit - the backpack was a perfect gift and an ideal fit - for all the evidence and all the notes, the records of his thought process. 

The library provided the least probable location to find him in - with students looking for a place to do their work and waves of tourists sightseeing the spacious rooms decorated with geometrical patterns and relievo adorning the ceilings, the 18th century theatre just beside the building, he blended right in, clad all black, his hair down, a pair of worn-out headphones whose bright redness provided the only detail in his otherwise monotone outfit. Leaning over a pile of notes, sat in a strategic corner of the room so that no one could look over his shoulder, he resembled one of the stressed undergraduates. Sometimes, he would even swiftly make up a story about studying towards a degree in Criminology or Law, if a chatty stranger decided to make small talk with him. 

The library provided just the right setting. Surrounded by dozens of people focused on their work, Abbacchio could easily do exactly the same - a nice change from the police station where paperwork piled on his small desk, leaving hardly any space to arrange and rearrange his notes and sheets - a possibility he did not seem to have at home, either, with the atmosphere and attitude surrounding him. 

Then again, everywhere was better than home. 

With its slamming doors, the air so thick with tension it could easily be cut into pieces with a knife. 

Home, where Leone learned how to walk on eggshells so as not to trigger a rant, a vent, a fight. 

Home, where his father tended to unload workplace stress on him and his older sister. 

Aurora had it easier, Abbacchio supposed, having moved out a good few years ago. Being stuck in this toxic environment, embraced by a refusal of change, slowly but surely, burned him out. 

At Home, he was never good enough. Ever since he could remember, he was constantly being compared to, well, nothing in particular, aside from this unachievable standard of perfection his father had set out for him. 

He would follow in the man’s steps and become a police officer, it had been decided for him. It was the easiest and the most efficient way to succeed - and as much as Leone understood this pragmatic approach, he simply did not want to. 

Breaking his leg, although unintentionally, the goth hoped to escape the miserable path - the entry exam featured, after all, an endurance test. 

All to no avail, though, with a piece of paper and a few handshakes, he was dismissed from the practical part, forced only to take a theoretical quiz - nothing too hard, considering his above-average intelligence level, he figured upon seeing the list of questions - the prompts so banal he would have rather gotten into the police school and suffered through it than embarrassed himself by stating that the steering wheel was situated in the trunk of the cruiser when asked about its position. 

And the academy turned out not so bad in the end. In fact, Abbacchio would be lying if he said he did not have fun while there. 

All he wanted, at the end of the day, was simply not to become who his father was. 

Bitter and complaining, capable of great one-liners, yet a difficulty to have around in a formal setting, a man who would get utterly lost and confused if it were not for the existence of his wife. 

As a chief officer, the older Abbacchio succeeded. As a likable person - he was a mixed bag. 

And sure, Leone enjoyed the good moments - endless conversations about anything and everything, for the man seemed to possess the knowledge of every possible existing topic - as though he’d swallowed an encyclopedia as a child. And even though his takes sometimes proved outdated, the talks - or rather, monologues, for it was difficult to cut the retired officer off - offered a source of entertainment that Leone was generally looking forward to. 

Though Niballo Abbacchio was like a ticking bomb. 

It took one word too many, one object misplaced by an inch, one unexpected turn of event to set the man off - for all these spelled disaster, an incommodity of sorts, surpassing the threshold of tolerance by one point on the scale and unlocking visceral rage on impact. 

When Leone was younger, he used to be terrified of those outbursts. When he grew up, he simply learned to yell louder. 

If there existed no way to silence the man, he resorted to a different means of asserting control. Of establishing dominance. 

One word too many. One plot twist too far. One bounce sideways from the wordlessly agreed house rules, growing progressively ridiculous as years went by (No deep-frying past 6pm. No placing meat and cheese on the same fridge shelf. No leaving the TV on standby for it could catch fire). The list went on - and at a certain point, Leone stopped giving a fuck.

He drew the line when he was ordered not to use his cane on the living room floor for apparently it could leave marks on the wood. Traces no one seemed capable of seeing but the man. 

Tantrums over doing everything half-assedly , Niballo hovering over him pointing at microscope-sized stains and dust fibers on the kitchen counter, on the table, everywhere, the goth remembered all too well. 

Ridiculous complaints about the pungent fucking stench of the detergent he would usually bring to remove them, despite being ordered to, and the rant that followed, the oblivion of one’s own indecisiveness, he was genuinely sick of. 

And god forbid his mother added fabric softener to a load of laundry, the smell was atrocious, apparently, the dried clothes - slimy to touch. 

It sticks to your fingers!, Niballo would complain, demonstrating the very issue by offering his hand, demanding a good look - though Leone saw nothing out of the ordinary. Even when wearing contact lenses for a better view. 

The library, although it closed at eight, offered a much more peaceful environment for investigation. 

***

“You never came by to check on the test results,” Vitello complained, catching up with Abbacchio in the grimy, poorly lit workplace canteen. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Sorry, traffic control got me distracted,” the goth ironized in response. Playing for time, he placed a frittatina beside the portion of gnocchi on his plate. He was itching to find out the outcome, certainly - though Vitello did not need to realize his curiosity - not when it would certainly fill the man’s day with an ill-placed sense of satisfaction. 

“I never thought it could be interesting,” the lab technician rolled his eyes and placed a large slice of greasy spinach lasagne on his own plate. “Still, I’m surprised. You seemed quite involved in that closed case. And,” he paused to reach for a glass of orange juice. “You might have just caused it to reopen.”

“Oh, did I?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, hiding his curiosity behind a nonchalant expression and glanced away, towards the table-filled space of the canteen, noticing Bistecca who waved at him, sitting solitarily by the opposite wall. 

Getting rid of Vitello would not, he realized, be possible without losing the chance to find out the results of the analysis of the coke (flour?) pouch. “So, what’s up with it?”

He hoped the question sounded dismissive - as though the case had long slipped his mind, like he was struggling to remember the exact details. 

“Oh, you won’t believe me,” Vitello grinned victoriously and dug out a crumpled ten thousand lira note from his wallet to pay for his lunch. 

Abbacchio followed suit, retrieving an identically blue piece of paper from the pocket of his pants. As he did, his fingers brushed past an unfamiliarly soft material and he felt his heart jump up in his throat.

The memory of the couple of times of encountering Bucciarati hit him full force - the strange magnetism the man seemed to carry - and how it attracted him, quite against his own will. 

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t yet returned the handkerchief like he had been planning to. Though at the same time, he wasn’t going to outrightly seek out the gangster’s company. 

Perhaps, he hoped, if he could just leave the piece where he’d come into its possession in the first place, the issue would be solved by itself. 

“Need help with that?” Vitello’s voice snapped Leone out of his thoughts. The man was pointing at his tray sitting on the counter, as though he were wondering if Abbacchio were able to carry it to the table with only one hand available. 

“No, it’s fine,” the goth shook his head dismissively, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was a valid question, he had to admit, though with it coming from Vitello, accepting help was not an option. “I’ll manage.”

And manage he did, balancing the tray with the use of a single arm, years and years of experience of carrying shot glasses filled to the edge, showing. He was, after all, known for his high alcohol tolerance and great music taste. 

Vitello followed him to the table wordlessly and situated himself across from Abbacchio and Bistecca. 

He stabbed his lasagne with a fork and sent them both a rather puzzled glance before he finally gave in. 

“So… Aren’t you curious about the test results?” He asked deflated. 

“Sure we are,” Leone offered a sardonic grin and rested his chin on his hand, his eyes glued to Vitello. “Go on.”

“Ten grams of cocaine with Massimo Volpe’s fingerprints on the bag,” the man announced - and, much to Abbacchio’s displeasure, managed to gain his shot of satisfaction as the goth and Bistecca exchanged glances, the younger paling ever so slightly at the realization that Bucciarati had been telling them the truth all along. Though why, he could not figure out.

***

“Should we?” Abbacchio nodded towards the shaded gate leading across the massive concrete block of flats on the other side of the street. “Should we interfere?”

In the comfort of the columns upon which the weight of the construction seemed to rest, like a cheap and disorganized tribute to the French Unite d’Habitation , a messy sketch of the masterpiece, proportions lost through one’s own renovation works, windows in varying shapes and sizes, clanky railing decorations; there stood a couple of people - a man and a woman. 

Gathered here for the sake of the world’s oldest profession, they seemed unbothered by the sight of a police car stopping close-by. 

“You go,” Bistecca lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat. “A walk a day keeps the doctor away.”

“Not with my knees, asshole,” Abbacchio rolled his eyes but obeyed eventually and stepped out of the cruiser. 

Approaching the pair, he noticed the woman, dressed much too lightly for the mild October chill hanging in the air, seemed younger than he presumed. 

The man accompanying her seemed to be growing impatient with something. And the more annoyed he became, the more uncomfortable she looked. 

“What are you two doing here?” Abbacchio asked, interrupting their heated discussion, only to be met with a welcoming grin. 

“Oh, good morning officer!” The man spoke. His expression quickly switched to a cordial one as he turned towards the goth. 

He looked familiar, Leone noticed, the realization outweighing his concern about the woman’s age, stemming from her youthful appearance (then again, he thought, Aurora was twenty-three but looked eighteen, at most). And, as cruel as the conclusion seemed, teenage apparition came in handy for successful sex work. Creepy men would pay the most ridiculous amounts of money to get their sick fantasies fulfilled. “We’re just out for a walk.”

“Out for a walk?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, eyeing the stranger up and down in an attempt to remember where he’d seen him before. “In this neighbourhood?”

“Oh come on, officer. We’re not bothering anyone, are we?” The man offered a wide smile in response. 

And then it hit. The red bandana tied on his head. The single strand of brown hair sticking through the fabric. 

Abbacchio had accepted dirty money from this man before. Hell, it was the very first bribe he had ever taken. 

“I’d ask the locals about that,” he tried to maintain his composure, glancing at the woman, looking for any signs of visible discomfort she could be showing - though she only glared back. “This is a residential area, certain activities aren’t permitted. You know it.”

“Oh, come on, officer, it’s such a beautiful day,” the man chirped and dug out a roll of notes from the pocket of his unironed shirt, then offered it to Leone. “Out of sight, out of mind, right? Or will you lock me up so I can confess how sticky your fingers are with extra cash in question? Now go. ”

The last couple of words carried a sense of threat in them - and obediently, Abbacchio accepted the money with a deep sight. 

“This is the last time I’m letting it slide,” he warned the stranger, well aware that his words held no executive power - he had entered a vicious cycle by taking the first bribe - now, there existed no escape route permitting him to safely restore law and order. 

Stunned by the way the events unfolded - and powerless despite his badge and uniform, he failed to notice the woman’s dilated pupils. To acknowledge a sense of doubt that appeared in his mind, the question of her age. To connect the dots and risk following down the wrong thinking path, testing the hypothesis of sex trafficking links leading him all the way up to Scampia. 

Chapter Text

Abbacchio stared in puzzlement at the bouquet of flowers before him, shamelessly laid out on the worn-out doormat. 

A bunch of burgundy roses preened towards him from the ground, a thin gold thread holding them placed in arrangement. 

Leone’s brows knitted together in bemusement as he leaned down to pick the flowers up, careful not to prickle his fingers with their thorns. 

There was no note attached to the bouquet. 

Not even a card or a simple tag revealing the secret admirer. 

Although it was a nice arrangement of flowers. Six red roses uncut at the bottom, simple in their elegance, the golden ribbon - the only accessory, as though the sender had feared anything fancier would overcast the main component. 

It must have been a mistake. 

Wrong address listed at the point of ordering or a careless error of house numbering, as it were often the case. 

With a sting of sadness in his chest, Abbacchio accepted the probable explanation. The flowers must have been meant for the neighbor from the end of the street, a woman around his age whom he’d seen around a few times by now - certainly, she had a boyfriend. One that did not deserve her, seeing as he couldn’t even double-check her address before ordering her roses. 

For a moment, Leone debated a quick visit to return the misplaced gift - and retorted just as quickly, realizing how weird it would look, with him showing up at her doorstep, carrying a bouquet of flowers with no intention of asking her out. 

Would she even believe him? The explanation sounded ridiculous enough in his head. And having to deal with the interest of members of the opposite gender was not something he was going to get himself into, certainly considering the fact that he was not into women at all. 

Besides, there was no note. The roses could have been meant for anyone. An accidental error, a silly issue he did not want to spend the rest of his weekend worrying about. 

He could as well keep the flowers. 

There was no note attached to them, after all. 

Or it could have been a joke. 

Abbacchio’s thoughts ran back to the image of Canaderli, a new addition to his unit. She’d been around for a couple of months, although he didn’t see her much recently. No wonder though, being sent to deal with traffic control clearly kept him away from the station. 

Canaderli was capable of sending him flowers at the cause of some bet she’d made with one of their coworkers. Osso or Buco, or both, he could picture it, a prank much more delicate than getting him a belated birthday gift of a bottle of wine wrapped in a t-shirt with the cover artwork of Cradle Of Filth’s Cruelty And The Beast printed at the front. 

She certainly was capable of doing that. Their banter had been going on for weeks, with both sides having the best fun, up to the point where they accidentally tricked everyone in the unit into thinking they had a thing going on. 

Only that they were both gay in the wrong direction. 

Canaderli had outed herself as soon as the rumor began to spread. It was probably easier for her than it would have been for Abbacchio, no shame brought upon the family legacy of the greatest chief officer since the construction of Rome. 

And it certainly facilitated a lot for her, dealing with horrific homophobic takes instead of unwanted come-ons, Leone’s co-workers unsuccessful attempts at asking her out. 

But then again, it made no sense that she would send him flowers. He hadn’t seen her for weeks. 

Besides, he realized, if the flowers had been sent out by someone, wrong address or not, there would have been a delivery man waiting outside for him to sign the package receipt. Or to direct him to the right building. To the correct recipient. 

The idea of a stranger sneaking in to lay a bouquet of roses on the doormat of his family home, hoping it would be him to find it, although childish, sent a wave of warmth across his chest. 

Biting his bottom lip to contain a smile, Leone backed into the house and quietly shut the door. It felt nice to have a secret admirer, he had to admit - it brought in a strange sense of being wanted, one that he had not experienced for years. 

He could only hope the lover in disguise was a man - then again, it must have been the case. He doubted the order and rules of advances imposed by patriarchy inverted overnight. 

And, after all, being around other queers, sneaking out with friends his parents considered his lovely classmates in high school, and then hanging out at Pride events when they became more common, accessing western zines and consuming sinful culture, he eventually figured out it were the shameless opposites of the approved and desired cishet who bent these norms. 

***

“So, how’s the investigation going?”

Bruno Bucciarati had a problem respecting personal boundaries. 

It was the only coherent thought Abbacchio managed to compose before the strange warmth of another human close to his body shifted its placement and an arm brushed past his own. 

It was moments before his heart rate accelerated, not at the fault of infatuation of any kind, but rather - genuine fear of being followed, yet again, still, for a couple of weeks now. Rationality lingered for a few moments more - then panic set in and it took Leone a great deal of strength to keep up the calm facade behind which he had been hiding all afternoon, on the overheated top floor of the library, surrounded by notes and maps for company in the otherwise empty space. 

“It’s… moving forward,” he managed a reply - then a glare and a follow-up he was certain would only encourage the gangster to continue to follow him around. Then again, unexpected waves of bravado acted on their own, his impulsivity not being up for debate: “Not that I’ll spoil the ending for you, I want to watch you and the like see their intrigues crumble to nothing. Who do you think you are?”

The statement might have been overly idealistic - and as his hushed words resonated in the empty library space, Abbacchio realized how ridiculously they sounded. 

He could only expect Bucciarati to laugh him in the face. Then press a gun against his temple for disrespect, ordering him to obey, to quietly leave together, his arms painfully twisted behind his back, his knee flaring up in pain for lack of support from the cane the mafioso would not bother worrying about. 

Though the man did not. 

If anything, he simply clicked his tongue, before pulling away a spare chair to Leone’s left, careful not to topple his walking stick leaned against the edge of the table. 

Then, he crossed his legs and leaned in towards the goth, placing a hand on the black fabric of the man’s hoodie covering his forearm. 

“I was just looking for a conversation starter,” he spoke with that sickly sweet confidence prominent in his voice. “And you working on, I presume, your newest case, provided a good opportunity. Though I’ve got to admit, I’d much more expect to see you at the police station. But I’m not here to complain about that.”

“...No?” Abbacchio interjected, unsure if what he was feeling comprised fear or confusion. Suddenly, the perspective of being abducted in the quiet of the evening seemed much more of a probability than he would have liked.

“No,” Bucciarati shook his head and something like a smile danced on his lips. Though whether or not it was genuine, Leone could not tell. “I’m here to thank you for trusting me with the Massimo Volpe thing. I didn’t think you would. I’m told your unit is already working on hunting him down. Although I wouldn’t say a description of armed and dangerous fits him well.”

“Putting it that way wasn’t up to me, you see,” Abbacchio forced a smile although he was certain it appeared more of a grimace. “Is that all? Can I– could you please leave me alone now?”

The question came out more pleading than the goth would have liked. Certainly, it made a bad impression on Bucciarati, who seemed taken aback by this sudden request. There was a hint of… was it hurt? , in his eyes, like Leone’s words caused him pain. 

And Abbacchio expected punishment for it. For his disrespect, for not acknowledging the gangster’s position of power. That was how they all were, wasn’t it?

“Of course, if that is your wish,” Bucciarati finally spoke, his voice quiet and flat, hiding emotions unknown to the goth. He withdrew his hand but did not make a move to get up from his chair. “Though… May I have one more request for you before I fulfill it?”

Against his will, as though he were unable to refuse, Leone nodded. 

The last thing he wanted was to get entangled in the mafia business - yet, here he was, in the national library, sharing a table with a gangster in the heat of the night. 

And Bucciarati seemed rather encouraged by this subtle sign of approval. 

He leaned back in and pulled closer one of the paper sheets scattered around. 

It depicted a poorly xeroxed map of Naples with colorful lines running across it, marking suspicious locations, occurrences of sex trafficking incidents around the city. Single-line comments accompanied each - and droplets of dried grease on the edges revealed how many times it had been used and reused, causing the officer beside him to lose his sleep as he snacked on whatever homemade food his mother had prepared for him. 

Bucciarati studied it quietly for a few moments, biting his fingernails, trying to decipher Leone’s illegible handwriting. 

And, to his own surprise, Abbacchio found the sight appealing. He desperately tried not to - he couldn’t have been falling for a gangster, a criminal, a double murderer - yet the image of the man, illuminated by the golden glow of the wall lamps was stronger than rationality. 

The light danced on the cerulean fabric of the blazer the man was wearing. It slid off the collar of his blue-and-white shirt, his hand casting shadows on his delicate jawline and the softness of his neck. It left sparkles in his eyes, focused on the map before him - and accentuated the line of his prominent nose, causing Leone to feel weak and overheated all at once, certainly not at the fault of anxiety. 

“So what’s your request…?” The goth finally broke the few minutes of suspenseful silence between them. 

“When you approach this case,” Bucciarati tapped his finger against the printed map of Naples. “Don’t focus on the physical locations. It’s all done the modern way, these days. And when you crack it, keep in mind you’re going to need a lot of men. People might die. Choose wisely.”

“Are you threatening me?” Abbacchio felt his blood run cold. He folded his arms together, crossing them over his chest to stop his hands from shaking. The best he expected to hear was another mocking narrative, like that of Massimo Volpe the other week. He would have put his money on the fact that Bucciarati would simply try one of his weird tricks on him again. Though a warning? He had never even considered things to get that far. Not in real life. This couldn’t be happening, a gangster could not have just been threatening him to reconsider his choices. 

“I’m not,” Bucciarati rose from his chair, toppling Leone’s cane this time. He caught it mid-air and safely rested against the table before continuing. There was no apology or consideration that followed. So well-behaved he was. “I’m simply telling you to stay out of trouble. I know corruption isn’t entirely your fault but by taking part in it, you’re only making the situation worse for yourself and everyone else. Perhaps it’s time to man up and pick a side.”

“Is this a job offer?” Abbacchio scoffed, quite against his will, driven to the edge of insanity from fear, it seemed. 

In response, he really expected to see a gun this time. Three times a charm, the saying had it - and he’d already disrespected Bucciarati twice before. 

Though the gangster just waved his hand dismissively. 

“You wouldn't be a good fit with your indecisive attitude and lack of mind of your own,” he replied and headed for the door. “Stay out of trouble, Leone. Make it easier for both of us. Otherwise, you just might start finding cut-off fingers on your doorstep.”

***

Warmth spreaded across Abbacchio’s body as he placed an empty wine glass back on the table. He was glad to have the house all for himself for the weekend - with his parents gone to visit Aurora in Sardinia, no one was hovering over his head, complaining about the most ridiculous matters one could think of. 

The world closed in on him as he leaned back into the softness of the sofa. For a moment, it reciprocated the warmth of his body as though it were a person - a familiar brush of linen blazer sleeve against his own - followed by what he presumed would have been a wave of anxiety if he were sober - offering only nothingness in his inebriated state. 

He loved the effect alcohol had on his mind. And was ashamed of it at the same time. It was becoming an issue for him - from a glass a couple of times a week to go with dinner to half a bottle every other day, every stressful day. 

But wine offered bliss and peacefulness he seemed incapable of finding otherwise. It calmed his thoughts. Clouded his mind. Numbed the dull ache in his knee. 

It made him feel lighter. More comfortable, certainly - more relaxed. 

It asked no questions - and offered no answers - but Leone was not looking for any. 

All he wanted was an escape. From the stress of his workplace and the case. The guilt complex Seppie seemed to have, taking it out on him. The impossibility of moving forward with the investigation and the mundane routine of traffic control. The brickbats from his half-brained co-workers and his hurt pride, the constant need to prove himself, to show everyone around that his name was not the only thing that got him landed a job in the police force. And the desire to solve the case, the drive of ambition - the threat of the new chief officer confining him to the position of a low-rank policeman until the day he retired, simply because the man held a grudge of jealousy against his own father. The loss of honor that came with it - watching the least gifted individuals in the unit climb up the ladder of promotion, leaving him at the bottom forever. The necessity to solve the case and the mysterious underlying ties. The fear of what he could possibly dig out, uncover - by accident. The threat of a gang war. The warning that Bucciarati left him. And the figure of the man as a whole along with his unwanted role in Leone’s life.

Abbacchio simply wished to hide away from it all. To blissfully pass out, for only the intoxicated sleep left him without any thoughts bothering him. The hangover in the morning after and the damaging effect of alcohol on his body, his inebriated brain did not feel like worrying about. 

Leone sighed, picking up the glass and made his way towards his room. 

The pain he had grown used to disappeared - and if he pretended hard enough, he didn’t even register the ever-present limp, whenever his leg refused to cooperate with the rhythm of his steps. 

Wine asked no questions and offered no answers - but for a moment he could pretend his ligaments were intact, his patella and the bottom of his femur held in place by the force of nature and not metal screws. Wine asked no questions and offered no answers - certainly, though, it dulled his emotions to a bearable level - and with that, brought peace of mind. 

Abbacchio’s eyes rested upon the gold thread holding the withering bouquet of roses together. Stood inside a crystal vase on his desk, the flowers showed clear signs of neglect - and certainly would have held on for longer if he’d bothered to change their water at least once within the span of the previous week - if he had had the time to remember it in the first place. 

Once a delicate accessory, the golden ribbon now remained the most presentable piece of the decoration. 

Up until now, he hadn’t even noticed it was made of satin. A nice choice, he had to admit - though the secret admirer had not yet shown up to reclaim it, causing the goth to believe it truly might have been just a prank - only that he wasn’t entirely convinced. 

As he placed the glass on the desk beside the vase, a leaf broke off of one of the roses, probably on impact of the miniscule shockwave the gesture sent across the surface. 

Clumsily, Leone picked it up, wanting to throw it away before it dried and folded inwards - and dropped it almost instantly, as though the frond had burned him. 

There was an inscription on the still-glossy top part. Two letters scratched onto the surface of the leaf, traced with a thin line of gold ink - as though the sender had wanted to make sure their message was clear even if the flowers withered completely before it got noticed. 

A memory broke through the inebriated haze clouding Abbacchio’s mind. Bistecca’s outraged rant, his own cigarette smoke. Dial-up about to close, no tapes to collect. 

Bucciarati’s back facing him, the light of the computer screen illuminating the man’s face. Brows furrowed, a quick internet search. Leone’s curious sneak-peek and the oddness of the result. 

The language of flowers, four words in the inquiry box. 

BB, the golden inscription on the leaf read - the reason why no note had been attached to the bouquet in the first place. Or perhaps a note in itself. 

Chapter Text

Bruno Bucciarati had a problem respecting personal boundaries.

He blamed it on the touchy-feely culture of his own - a cover-up excuse to disguise the stolen years of his adolescence, the lack of means to regulate his emotions, to learn appropriate, courteous reactions to everyday situations regular citizens had the displeasure of  - and he, the privilege of - indulging in. 

Bruno Bucciarati had a problem respecting personal boundaries. 

No one taught him how to acknowledge them. 

And sometimes, he wondered whether his good-willed decision from eight years ago had actually been worth the while. 

Deprived of childhood, a product of a broken home (a thought for which he felt ungrateful, the more consideration he gave it. Ultimately, his parents did try to provide him with love, warmth and care) - whether he was a good fit for his father’s emotional support source after the divorce remained a rhetorical question but at the time, little Bruno considered it a necessary adjustment period. Too bad it never really ended. 

It was, he supposed, one of the hard times (to the tune of Westbam’s upbeat rhythm) when decisions had to be made with a sense of rationality, rather than consideration. 

He killed two people. 

Well then, but they tried to off his father in the first place. 

He felt no guilt in relation to that fateful night - the seconds, minutes that deprived him of adolescence. Or had it happened before then? The moment his father had seen the drug deal, the moment he’d stepped onto that boat, the moment he’d left the house?

There was no guilt. No remorse. Only anger. And a sense of detachment, accompanied by a strong feeling of frustration, the kind that only appeared in one’s teenage years, objects thrown against the wall, screaming into the pillow, looking for ways to get it out. 

Or maybe it never went away at all. 

Ultimately, no one taught Bucciarati how to regulate his emotions. 

Violence was the answer and the mafia world did not leave space for love. 

The kind he was looking for. 

Certainly, there were the girls. One-night-stands he’d seen other gangsters indulge in, drunken adventures, fast cars, drugs and a false sense of advantage, kings of the night, rulers of crack, respectable patriarchs - an image of pity and despair in the morning after, vomit all over expensive suits, their dignity taken away with rolls of cash as their women walked away, closed the door, only to lure them in again past the sunset. 

There were no winners. 

And no space for love. 

Though indifferent to the rules, it helped itself into his life. It walked in shamelessly when he least expected it, unconcerned about boundaries or conventions - a dignified companion to his own lack of respect for personal space and the like. 

And Bruno Bucciarati, who regarded mafia responsibilities with a sense of calculation (and kindness whenever he had to deal with regular citizens), did not know what to do. 

Love (and personal boundaries) sat beyond his comprehension. 

No one taught him how to approach either of the two. He had no concept of dating, of asking people out in the first place. He’d accepted, upon joining Passione, that he would not concern himself with such trivial matters - there was no need to if he were to die young anyway, for the nature of the path he was walking down. 

And yet. 

Love introduced itself into his life on a highway in the outskirts of Naples. Love wanted to fine him for speeding, love spoke fluent sarcasm and did not - like its clusterfuck of a companion - seem intimidated by the perspective of facing a gangster. At least until the reflexes caught on. 

Love let him off with just a warning and love was on his mind since that fateful Saturday afternoon four weeks ago. 

Love carried the name of Leone Abbacchio, synonymous with hopeless disaster, love seemed to be terrified of him - yet, it accepted the flowers he had sent. 

So Mista was right. 

Sometimes, Bucciarati wished he could seek out relationship advice without embarrassing himself. Yet, with the reputation he acquired over the years (a shameless bisexual sodomite who had fucked half of Naples) (nevermind that he’d never lived up to this exaggerated expectation, only having slept his way in to get information for Polpo ( he was a pretty boy, wasn’t he? (he felt sick at the mere memory of hearing those words for the first time))), he could only count on the questionable tips his teammates offered. Still, they were better than nothing. 

And he took notes. 

***

“I thought your love interest was a policeman, not a DJ.”

Bruno Bucciarati had a problem respecting personal boundaries.

“Well, that’s what he does on weekdays. It’s a Saturday, remember?” He turned to face Mista who pretended to be fixing his hat while he let Sex Pistols out. 

“Whatever you say, boss,” the gunman leaned against an uneven rock wall and crossed his arms. “Why are we here, anyway?”

Bruno Bucciarati had a problem respecting personal boundaries.

And he clearly hadn’t kept his promise of staying away from Abbacchio like he’d said he would. 

Across the space of the cave, up on a rock formation resembling a podium, behind a set of boxes - or a desk, perhaps, leaning over a turntable, there stood love, the man himself. Clad all black, a tight turtleneck tank top revealing his muscular arms - and a tattoo with a date Bucciarati could not quite make out from afar, the numbers inked on his skin in the style of electronic alarm clock digits, Abbacchio did not shy away from extravaganza. 

Makeshift strobes reflected traces of glitter decorating his face - like an extension of the heavy eyeliner adorning his eyes, they ran vertically across his temples. Black lipstick finished the look, a contrast accentuating the man’s white hair - a messy half-updo, semi-corrugated, thin braids threaded through the impressive length. 

Bucciarati was sure - hopeful, rather - that the man could not see him from across the room. Not only because he’d broken his promise from a few days ago - but also thanks to his knees going weak at the sight. Meeting the eyes of his crush and collapsing would not be a graceful reintroduction.

The familiar hum of Secret Love’ s melody echoed against the rock formations, the orchestral and guitar-like synths of the past decade bathing the gangster in the irony of the situation and the song title, transporting him back to the last hopeful summer of his life, when joining the mafia for the greater good still held its purpose - and keeping him grounded in the present at the same time. Four years apart like it was nothing.

Abbacchio had great taste. And beautiful eyes. And pristine skin. And the prettiest hair Bruno had ever seen, and-

“Boss? You haven’t answered me,” Mista’s voice broke Bucciarati out of his wishful daydream, the music around them deafening as it slowly transitioned into a different track, one that the ravenette did not recognize. Perhaps it came out when he was too busy to pay attention to new releases. “What are we doing here?”

“Making sure he doesn’t get himself in trouble,” Bucciarati nodded towards the DJ stand where Abbacchio stood, oblivious to his presence. Beside him, his police partner swung to the rhythm. 

Bistecca was his name. Or something like that. Bruno couldn't care less.

If he looked like a wet, half-plucked chicken while on duty, he certainly resembled a long-lost circus recruit outside of work. 

Suddenly, Bucciarati stopped worrying about his own insecurities. He never needed to be concerned about the shape of his nose or the way the fabric of his pants folded when buttoned, considering Bistecca had inspected himself in the mirror and decided he was good to go. 

The man’s ginger hair was parted in the middle, as though he were aspiring to be the next Leonardo DiCaprio - and it wouldn’t even be half bad on its own if it wasn’t accompanied by a set of thin, also copper, virgin mustache alluring more towards pubic than actual facial hair. 

To that, Bistecca settled on a colorful, pink-purple-and-teal shirt, a size too big for him, paired with blended grey crease pants. 

The combination might have been stylish, certainly - and surely would be, twenty years later, reclaimed by queers - though it gave the man a vibe of that weird, virgin uncle making ambiguous small talk with his clearly underage nieces at a family birthday party. 

How did he and Abbacchio end up friends, Bucciarati wished to know. 

They seemed complete opposites. Or perhaps, Bistecca was the bad influence which, Bruno supposed, was stopping the goth from taking responsibility and a stance on his own life. 

He’d followed the two around a few times - and it proved to be enough to form an opinion on the ginger man. Pretentious, justful and lost, Bucciarati’s verdict had it - a blend of traits complimenting the redhead’s pants. 

The ravenette couldn’t help but have eavesdropped a couple of their conversations, too. On both occasions, Bistecca revealed a cast-iron attitude Bruno had seen too many times before. A set of traits attributable to idealists who would sooner or later realize the world was all but the comfortable, simple black-and-white. And so they would hope to change it, to convince the corrupt, wrong, evil, uncaring majority that it was in the wrong because why could life not rely on stern, noble principles as it was - thus, making it easier for everyone. And then they would fail to do so, turning bitter on impact. 

Bribe-taking, Bucciarati supposed, was just Bistecca’s attempt to navigate the fraudulence surrounding him. As a superior in the ranks, he probably taught Abbacchio just that to show him the ropes, in good faith, plotting a disaster for both of them at the same time. 

Or maybe Leone figured it out by himself. That it was easier this way. Maybe it were the other way around, maybe he convinced Bistecca to accept dirty money simply because everyone else did. 

Only the stupid would not. 

And perhaps it was the reason why they gravitated towards one another so much that they kept a friendly relationship outside of work, too. Being complete opposites of one another - Bistecca’s clumsy navigating of the world and his rigid monologues on how rotten it was, contrasted with Abbacchio’s careless attitude and ironic remarks. 

Bucciarati wished he could fit in-between the two, somehow. Or move the redhead aside. 

Though there was no place for love in the mafia. 

“On a Saturday night? Off-duty?” Mista raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Forgive me boss - and I’m not questioning your orders - but what could happen to him in a place where no one has any idea of who he is?”

“If they know, they know,” Bucciarati waved his hand dismissively, watching Bistecca whisper something into Abbacchio’s ear as the man moved aside to dig out a new vinyl from the box beside him. Were they arranged in a specific order or did he just pick them at random? Bruno desperately wanted to know, to ask, to find out - though Bucciarati was busy making sure his love interest stayed out of trouble, his eyes following the redhead off the stage and into the crowd. “Mista, would you be so kind and check what he’s up to? And don’t hurt him.”

“Unless absolutely necessary,” the gunman agreed with a nod and took a dive into the mass of people ahead, too.

The ravenette was going to object his subordinate’s words, correct him on them - though a small part of him resisted it, the unkind, jealous teenager who had never had a chance to grow up. 

And was it wrong of him?

***

The sex trafficking case was more complex than Abbacchio would have ever imagined, Bucciarati knew. Unsolvable was a better way of putting it, for the solution meant taking down the whole organization. And this, the ravenette - or rather, his capo and the people above - would not allow. 

Silently, he hoped Leone would realize its nature, too. Soon enough, before getting himself in deep shit - chat rooms and nightclubs being only a prelude to the tragedy hidden behind their simplicity. Predictability. 

He wished the man would figure out he was being played with - the chief officer’s own corruption and his ties to the gangster underworld, drinking shots with capos back in the day, combined with his jealousy - the narcissistic god complex Seppie seemed to have. 

And he prayed Abbacchio wasn’t stupid enough to try and investigate on his days off - the only desire of his that seemed to have been fulfilled somehow as Mista patted him on the shoulder upon his return a couple of hours later. 

Standing outside, hidden in the shade of a rock pillar, comfortably distanced from the entrance to the cave, Bucciarati watched the goth and his redhead friend load the box of vinyls and the turntable into the trunk of a silvery green Alfa Romeo 156. 

“He’s no harm. Just went out for a smoke and talked to a couple of women his age. Clearly legal, I’ve asked around,” Mista reported and stood beside Bucciarati. “Stop staring like that, people will no-”

The ravenette silenced him with a wave of hand and took a small step forward for a better view - and better access, if he needed to intervene. 

A bunch of punk teenagers approached Abbacchio and Bistecca who paused loading the car and turned to face them, kind anticipation painted on the redhead’s face - and a contrast in the form of a scowl on the goth’s. 

“I know you,” one of the teenagers spoke. They couldn’t have been older than sixteen years - and looked quite miserable attempting to appear taller with Leone towering over them by a foot. “You’re both cops, aren’t you? What are you doing here, snitching around?”

“Can a man not enjoy his Saturday?” Bistecca spoke - and there would have been nothing wrong with his words if it were not for the intonation. Stated firmly, a little bit too loud, they posed a threat of an attack - even though the man clearly was not up for a fight. 

“Stop bullshitting me,” another teenager stepped up. Taller and more muscular, his face obscured with a shade of a black hood. “There’s no space for cops at raves.”

“Well, I’m only a cop Monday to Friday,” Bistecca defended himself - a smile would have helped, certainly, though all he offered was the same unapproachable intonation - or lack thereof. “So I don’t see-”

A punch would have landed on the man’s face if it were not for Abbacchio who stopped the weight of the teenager midway through. 

Startled by the unexpected strength, underestimated perhaps through the sight of the goth’s cane resting against the open back of the car, the kid hesitated. 

“You’re so against oppression you become the very contradiction of it,” Abbacchio scoffed, letting go of the kid when he’d calmed down enough. The shorter one still seemed up for a fight - probably only courageous thanks to the backup of two more teens behind them - but they opted for words instead. 

“Says the most oppressed of all,” they ironized and crossed their arms. “You’re no good for justice and no good for equality. Fuck the corrupt system - but then again, you probably enjoy being a part of it.”

“Tell that to your mom when she grounds you for coming back home past your bedtime,” Abbacchio scoffed in response and grabbed at the pocket of the teen’s black corduroy jacket, probably to take a glance at the tag sewn on it. “Nothing fits anarchy like Benetton’s newest fall-winter, right?”

Bucciarati debated intervening - blowing his cover on impact, sure, but preventing the goth from setting the bunch off and getting into a physical fight before the sunrise. They were at the age of self-righteousness, of despising the words of adults - there existed no way the man would convince them they were just as corrupt as he was with their branded clothes and punk rocking till 10pm but no later, no way they would listen to a lecture on basic Sociology, either. 

Though the teens seemed to have given in. The short, most aggressive one just waved their hand dismissively before motioning for the group to follow along and leave. Walking away, they spat on the ground before Abbacchio and Bistecca - but did no more harm - and so the ravenette just leaned against the rock pillar in a more comfortable position. 

He watched the two cops get in the car - as they drove away, something like comfort spreaded its warmth across his chest - though whether relief that Leone was not as stupid as he’d worried the man would be - or simply a sense of parasocial attachment within; caused it, he could not tell. 

Chapter Text

“Does it matter how many flowers you get in a bouquet? Roses, to be specific?” Leone reached for an empty clay pot and pulled closer a bag of soil. He did not sign up for helping his mother to move all the sensitive plants from the backyard into the comfort of the heated winter garden - but here he was, a spade in hand, a pair of worn-out fabric-and-rubber gloves tickling the skin on his fingers. “Like, is there a code or something?”

Bruno Bucciarati was going to be the end of him. 

The unexpected delivery of roses kept Abbacchio awake for the last three nights. Certainly, it had happened before he asked the gangster to leave him alone - still, the act suggested an expectation of sorts. Didn’t the mafia send warnings to people who got in trouble with them?

It must have been just that, yet another reason to add to the goth’s growing pile of anxiety - and yet another cause behind his progressing alcoholism, or so it seemed - the volume of the consumed white semi-dry increasing week by week, making the man wonder whether it was time to acknowledge the quiet whisper of responsibility, of common sense - to admit that he had been, in fact, drinking too much as of recent. 

But it helped to silence his thoughts. And it certainly mollified the dull ache in his knee, the one his body refused to quiet down, regardless of the amount of painkillers consumed. 

What did Bruno Bucciarati want from him? 

Abbacchio hoped the request he’d made back at the library was acknowledged by the man. 

It seemed so, at least - he no longer happened to bump into the ravenette, whether round the corner or out in the city. 

Still, gangsters were not to be trusted - and so Leone had to make sure. To double-, triple-, quadruple-check that the flowers meant nothing. 

“What, are you trying to ask someone out?” The goth’s mother raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to pass her the little shovel beside him. Leone obliged - and nodded for the sake of it, simply to avoid suspicions on her side. “One rose should be enough. Certainly don’t make it thirty, you’ll scare her away.”

“I was thinking five, maybe six…,” he answered, bending the truth ever so slightly. He had to know. “But that’s probably too much, isn’t it?”

The woman suppressed a laugh and shook her head disapprovingly. 

“You’re head over heels, aren’t you?” She teased, to which the goth rolled his eyes. “If you get her six roses, she’ll run away. It’s a gesture of something along the lines of: I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. ”

Leone gasped in response, unable to suppress the expression of surprise. 

It felt as though the ground had slipped from under his feet. He was glad he was sat down on the moist garden grass for he would surely have collapsed on the spot.

Bruno Bucciarati was going to be the end of him. 

“Don’t tell me you did just that,” his mother scoffed in disbelief with a defeated smile painted on her face. 

“Almost,” Abbacchio lied, having managed to regain his composure. “It was a coworker’s advice but I refrained from it.”

I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. 

The words, regardless how ridiculous they seemed, were fitting for Bucciarati’s demeanor. His sticky personality. His reputation Leone had only vaguely heard of. 

Suddenly, he regretted growing his hair out to the length at which it was now - reconsidered wearing eyeliner, shying away from the straight look he felt had never fitted him. 

Bending and giving in this once would have saved him so much trouble. 

The last thing he needed was a gangster being obsessed with him. 

He wasn’t going to acknowledge a reciprocation of the advances, clearly. What he felt in relation to Sticky Fingers didn’t matter - and he was sure, if he tried hard enough, he would be able to suppress the unwanted infatuation in a matter of weeks, months, at worst. 

There were no place for dating a criminal (a double murderer!) in his life. Not with his promising career prospects now that Seppie finally caved in and assigned him a real case - and with the name he was known by, the reputation of his father. 

He couldn’t just ruin it. 

Being gay in this day and age was hard enough. Blurring the boundaries between the respected civilian world and the felonious underground stayed out of the question. 

He hadn’t even come out as it was, yet. There clearly was no space for any homosexual romance in his life, let alone for one with a criminal. 

He would just ignore the roses, he supposed. He would return the handkerchief, ask someone to pass it to Bucciarati - or mail it to the man, an even better decision. 

He would dismiss the meaning of the flowers. He had made a request to be left alone, at the end of the day. And a gangster’s word was his honor. Or whatever Sticky Fingers had said.

Abbacchio did not want to remember. 

“One rose is fine,” his mother repeated and handed him a flower pot. “Then ask her out for coffee. Make the third date a dinner.”

Leone nodded mindlessly, wondering just what the woman would say if she knew the truth. 

Himself? He’d never dare to eat anything prepared in the gangster’s presence. 

***

“Are you sure you don’t want to go downstairs and see Polpo for yourself? I mean, he’s fucking huge, ” Bistecca’s fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel.

The October sun was pouring through the windshield of the cruiser, burning hot despite the season - and the air conditioning was barely managing its job in the heat generated by an endless serpentine of cars in which the two officers got stuck on their way back from the outskirts. 

“Like huge in size or huge in position?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow at the random change of topic. They had just been talking about weekend plans - and, as much as he was used to the redhead (the man’s hair was in a desperate need of being redyed brown in the near future) jumping from one conversation to another, he was actually quite excited to throw his three cents in. A big underground rave was coming up - an occasion the legality of which he had to let slide if he wanted to attend it - and he had been asked to play a set - an opportunity he did not want to miss. 

There, he hoped he would be unrecognizable - unlike the weekend before when the punk posers had approached him and Bistecca - and passing off as a nameless goth, known only by his stage alias of Sling Blade - simply because it sounded cool, not for the sake of the movie’s plot. 

Though Bistecca’s thoughts had already jumped onto a different track. But if he tried to do the same–

“Both,” the redhead grinned. “Like, have you seen him? Give that weird tomboy of a man his annoying underling is, another ten years and they’ll become undistinguishable.”

“Gender stereotypes serve you right,” Abbacchio bit back before he managed to resist the urge. He didn’t know what exactly caused it - the crush he still, against his own will, had on Bucciarati, the graceless attempt at offending the gangster - and by extension, the androgyny Leone prided himself with, too - using a low-blow of an insult when the man himself looked no better than a balding case of pubic hair. The goth wished to recall when he’d become so mean towards his co-workers. “With the history of hypothyroidism in your family I’d be careful about making claims like that, honestly.”

“Thankfully, it’s being researched,” Bistecca grinned, turning the music up by a bit. The chorus of Summer Jam filled the space of the cruiser and the man continued: “For real, though. He’s like three meters wide. You need to see this.”

Abbacchio hummed mindlessly, brushing his fingers through his hair damp with sweat at the roots. Usually, empty promises shut his partner up for a while - he seemed incapable of reading the intention - or lack thereof - behind the reaction. And in this sticky heat of the afternoon, all Leone wanted was to be left alone. 

If only he knew he’d obliged to a promise of curiosity - and how it, like pieces of domino, started the spiral of misfortune that was about to come. 

***

The basement of the police station smelled of dust and dampness. A familiar, oldschool scent of concrete stairs and red brick walls, marked with time and history. 

Apparently, the building had been a hospital in the days of the Kingdom. 

Abbacchio wished he had never found this out. 

Though with Bistecca as his partner, he could only dream of blissful oblivion. 

Forced into agreeing to get downstairs, just when he thought the man had forgotten, he’d been ushered to the staircase and down the first flight, as though the redhead was trying to make sure Leone would not run off. 

No amount of excuses pointing at his bad knee and the number of steps leading to the basement seemed to convince the man. 

God, was he stubborn, Abbacchio thought as he made his way down the poorly-lit corridor and stopped at the checkpoint gate. 

“Here to see the new species?” The officer behind the barred entrance greeted him. The goth nodded dismissively as the buzzer sounded, the metal gate jumping open. “He’s just straight down at the end. Enjoy the sight.”

Abbacchio doubted he would but he persisted regardless. He’d made it downstairs already - clearly, up there on the ground floor, Bistecca awaited him, pacing impatiently back and forth, ready to fire countless questions at him, expecting detailed answers. 

Leone would not lie his way out of this. 

Somewhere halfway, the path descended evenly, the grey terrazzo floor replaced by brick and stones - dating back, he supposed, to the days when the place had been a hospital. 

The walls felt colder, too - as though he found himself deeper underground - a probable explanation, given the terrain shape outside. 

Before him, the hall was divided into two poorly-lit corridors. He took the one on the right, not really wanting to, and headed towards the only available seclusion cell the building had. He had never been before, but he wasn’t excited about the perspective of the visit, either. 

The corridor ended abruptly with a single metal door. Abbacchio could only guess by its thickness how much it could endure - and felt his stomach twist with a sudden wave of fear at the realization he would soon be facing a mafia capo. 

Bistecca had warned him not to engage in a conversation with the man - still, he supposed he would need to say something. Even as much as a greeting. And a reason for the visit. 

He hoped a check-in proved a good enough excuse. Curiosity, it seemed, did not. 

He wished the floor in the room was more even. Or perhaps that the air felt less damp. 

A combination of both elicited a wave of dull ache in his leg - as though all the screws piercing his bones decided to remind him of their existence. 

Abbacchio let out a deep sigh, then knocked quietly on the door before pulling the small shutter aside to open it. Somehow, it seemed like the only appropriate order of action. 

“Do you bring any hopeful news?” A tubular voice sounded from the inside of the cell. Leone needed a moment to collect himself at the sudden surprise. 

“No, I’m afraid,” he answered, hoping his own voice did not shake too much. “I’m just checking in with you.”

Shamelessly, driven by an unexpected sense of curiosity, he stole a glance of Polpo through the narrow square space in the door. 

Indeed, the man was huge. Above and beyond. Abbacchio was close to thinking he occupied the majority of the solitary cell’s space - but then the capo got off the bunk bed he seemed to have been sitting on. As he made his way towards the door, the goth realized the man was only much wider than he’d anticipated. A case of morbid obesity, he concluded, jumping away when Polpo stopped on the other side of the little vent in the metal plate separating them. 

“Checking in, you say,” he said in the same sickly sweet tone Bucciarati used. “I guess I can’t voice my complaints about the state of humidity in this cell, can I?”

“Unfortunately, that is not up to me to decide,” Leone looked away from the man’s green eyes, the tattooed scleras sending a shiver down his spine. 

“What a shame,” Polpo’s fat fingers grasped at the little board on his side of the window. “You should give yourself more credit, officer Abbacchio. I’m surprised you’re not a part of my family yet.”

“Excuse me?” The goth felt his knees go weak at the remark. It did not matter that the words were a contradiction of what Sticky Fingers had said to him a few days ago in the library, that he would be a hopeless fit for a gangster - it meant that the mafia had an interest in him of all people, for reasons undisclosed. 

“What I’m saying,” Polpo offered a toad-like smile and leaned in closer to the window. His breath brushed past Abbacchio’s face, a trace of garlic and herbs prominent in it. The man clearly did not brush his teeth in the morning. “Is that you’ve got some potential in you, officer. A kind of potential that could go to waste if not used right. You’re growing idle in the force, young man.”

“I don’t think I’d want to join an organization whose capo got locked up,” the remark slipped out before Leone was able to bite his tongue. An insolent question followed: “Why’d you let yourself get caught, anyway?”

“Touché,” Polpo placed a hand over his chest. Abbacchio noted a couple of heavy, gold rings on his fingers. Certainly, these should have been taken away when he had been arrested. “I’m afraid I won’t answer any questions without my lawyer present.”

Before the goth managed to come up with a response - or an apology, perhaps, considering the levels of anxiety he was experiencing thanks to the proximity of a high-ranking gangster inches away from him - something hit the floor. 

Abbacchio’s eyes followed the item as it rolled across the floor and hit the red brick baseboard of the opposite wall. 

A lighter. 

Leone raised an eyebrow and made his way across the narrow hall to pick it up. 

It was a fine piece, made of metal with some initials engraved on the side. Upon closer inspection, the goth realized one of the symbols was a key. 

Decorated with lace-like adornments, the lighter neatly fitted into his hand. For some reason, it tempted to be lit up - and as the man resisted the urge for the sake of not activating the fire alarm in the building, he felt a sudden wave of unease embrace him. 

In a way, it resembled what he’d felt with Bucciarati around. As though his life could be endangered in any second, like a strange aura coming upon him - somehow familiar, an invisible ghost hovering in the distance, beyond the surface of another dimension - crawling in his skin, a ticklish, burning sensation of, he supposed, anxiety. 

“You’re not allowed lighters in here, sir. It's a fire hazard,” he finally spoke, sliding the item into the pocket of his uniform pants. His fingers met the familiar fabric of Bucciarati’s handkerchief demanding to be returned - but he’d learned to ignore it by now. “I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate this. You’ll be able to pick it up with the rest of your belongings when you’re released.”

An introduction of a formal tone brought a sense of comfort Leone had so dearly missed during his interaction with Polpo. With the rules reestablished, he once again felt safe in the poorly-lit corridor - the threat of the mafia unable to grasp at him. 

“It’s not like it would light up, anyway,” the gangster rolled his eyes with a smirk. “You can try if you want to. It’s broken.”

Abbacchio was not going to. 

***

Up the stairs, Bistecca almost jumped out of his skin at the sight of Leone coming out of the basement. 

“How did it go?” He asked as the goth approached. More digression followed: “He’s huge, isn’t he? An easy target indeed. Maybe he’s just safer indoors. I can’t imagine him in a fight, honestly. I bet it was all staged. Like that doll of a subordinate of his had told us. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Abbacchio waved his hand dismissively in hopes of discouraging the man from further investigation. 

All to no avail. Bistecca continued rambling, oblivious to the fact he was not being listened to at all. Down the hall they walked, the weight of the lighter disappearing from Leone’s mind at the sound of the redhead’s voice grating his consciousness, overwhelming in its persistence. 

Soon enough, there were no trace of the plan to deposit the accessory with the rest of Polpo’s belongings. The softness of the handkerchief ceased to exist, too - and when Bistecca finally fell silent, the memory of both disappeared from Abbacchio’s distractive mind. 

Chapter Text

Slowly but surely, Libeccio became a regular lunch break venue for Abbacchio and Bistecca. 

Located on the edge of Quartieri Spagnoli and the port district, it offered a selection of fresh seafood, alongside quite a few pasta and pizza options. With its dirt cheap prices, it made Leone wonder just where the trick was - until it occurred to him through a familiar sight of a white-suited figure, followed by… a teenager? 

The goth squinted to catch a glimpse of Sticky Fingers and the unnamed fair-haired minor before the two exited the restaurant. A wave of nausea ran through his body at the obvious connotation. 

Suddenly, the weight of a long-forgotten handkerchief tucked into the pocket of his uniform pants became very heavy. 

Abbacchio had not seen Bucciarati since their memorable encounter in the library - clearly, the gangster was staying true to his word - though seemingly, it was the goth who was continuously trespassing the mafia territory, willingly or not. 

And at once, the pile of pasta he’d eaten shifted uncomfortably in his stomach. The water in the glass beside his table began to taste of chemicals. 

Was he growing paranoid? 

And was it a common sight to spot a teenager in the company of an adult known for his dubious reputation? 

As the fabric of the handkerchief burned through the inner padding of his pants, he connected the dots. 

Bruno Bucciarati liked children. 

Abbacchio never had any respect for creeps of that sort. 

In a matter of moments, his crush faded to nothing.

There had been a case like that in the force not too long before he joined. It remained a rumor as the matter got wrapped up in the couple of weeks preceding the kick-off of his infamous career - but the story had it, some kid killed their professor with a textbook for no reason at all. 

As it often were with cases like that - for there existed no way to prove the unwanted touch and invitations. To each their own, institutionalized hierarchies and the defenselessness of facing those positioned above. Of a hurt kid confronting adults. Of the shame of the act and the patriarchal attribute of it to women, the impossibility of being used having been assigned male at birth. 

And yet. 

The kid’s rich parents bailed their child out of jail not too long after - Abbacchio supposed there was a sequel to the tragedy, though the story ended in 1999 with an abrupt cut closing the book. 

And now he was witnessing just that. Bucciarati grooming a child. 

No wonder security footage had disappeared from venues he’d visited. Like Dial-Up . 

Abbacchio could only hope the gangster would meet his demise, beaten to death with a textbook, too. 

“You eating that?” 

And how could Bistecca still think about food when there was a dangerous criminal walking around freely?

Leone shook his head, more to express his disapproval upon the man’s lack of consideration than to answer the question - but his partner seemed not to have interpreted it as such, reaching out to grab a half-empty bowl of leftover olives from the goth’s order. 

Not that they were going to return to Libeccio anytime soon. 

The mafia’s ownership of the venue posed a great disadvantage - if not danger - of the restaurant’s safety. Bucciarati getting sucked off by minors in the bathroom clearly did not outweigh the issue. 

Trattoria Capri was going to see their return sooner than anticipated. 

“Seriously though, Abbacchio - are you okay?” Bistecca’s hand rested on Leone’s own - and the touch burned, unwanted, unappreciated - dirty, in a way, the goth’s disgust with Sticky Fingers at fault. 

He had to do something about this. To protect that teenager. 

“I’m feeling sick - must have been lactose in this parmesan,” bending the truth, Abbacchio vaguely gestured to his plate left unattended on the table. “Give me a moment.”

The way to the exit seemed twice as long. Somehow, his leg hurt ten times more than it tended to. Accelerating the pace of his steps only turned the blunt sensation into a piercing sharpness of overexertion. 

There were people in his way. Waiters, suits, little kids. Did they all do it on purpose? Were they sent by the mafia to stop him from reaching one of their kind? So that the man could safely escape, a minor for the night in tow?

Outside, there was no sign of Bucciarati. Not for a little while, at least. 

Then, out of the blue, as though he rose from the ground, the man appeared. The teenager Abbacchio had seen earlier, trailed behind, a scowl alike his own, painted on their face. 

“Hello, officer,” the gangster’s greeting came off rather cordial - though the squint of his eyes did not escape the goth’s attention. And indeed: “I thought we were meant not to encounter one another again? How are you enjoying my restaurant?”

“ Your- ,” Abbacchio cut himself off, feeling the little of pasta in his stomach rise up in his throat. Sticky Fingers’ approachable attitude, along with his alleged tendencies to send longing looks after minors, only increased the sense of disgust the goth had been feeling for now. 

He wanted to puke.

“Well, not mine, ” Bucciarati waved his arms carelessly to accentuate his condescending tone and winked at Leone. “But you get the idea.”

“Clearly,” Abbacchio rolled his eyes. “I take it, it's a brothel as well?”

At that, the kid behind the gangster let out a scoff and sent the officer a glance of disbelief. The goth noted a sign of defiance in their red-coloured eyes (with the fair, almost white shade of their hair and their ghostly complexion pinkish on the cheeks, they certainly should have been avoiding the sun, he realized - but hey, Naples had only so much shade to offer. Though the holes in their outfit clearly did not help damage control). The mocking expression, he attributed to a result of manipulation. After all, victims of grooming tended to live in denial, their sense of reality altered through endless gaslighting - wake up, he wanted to scream, not being professionally trained to react in any other way - though somehow, all he could do was remain silent as Bucciarati’s eyes widened at the suggestion. 

“I think your investigation of the rise of sex trafficking has gone down the wrong lane,” the gangster replied after a moment of what seemed like a quiet evaluation of his options. Waffling his way out of the dead end seemed to be his method of choice. “But I’m more than happy to show you around.”

And of course, Abbacchio thought with disgust, he had nothing to hide. 

They never did. Groomers, pedos, abusers. 

The goth wished he hadn’t eaten any of the pasta. 

“Seriously, though, what is this about?” The teenager interjected. Abbacchio noted a sight of their fists clenched so tightly their knuckles became white. Much paler than their natural complexion. “Since when do you work with pigs, Bucciarati?”

The gangster sent the kid a firm glance. As if on command, with a deep breath, they went silent. 

“Excuse their disrespect, officer,” Sticky Fingers produced a light-hearted smile. “Some of my men are still learning.”

They clearly don’t want to be seen as a man , Abbachcio thought as he nodded mindlessly, balancing on the edge of his conflicting emotions - his crush on the gangster at the sight of the man from up close resurfacing against the feeling of disgust with his actions - alleged or not. 

“Are you dragging kids into the mafia now, Bucciarati?” Came his response, followed by a wave of fear at his own disrespect and the bluntness of the direct way in which he addressed the criminal. Though was he wrong? 

“I appreciate your concern but they joined on their own,” Sticky Fingers smiled, then patted his pockets with a rather saddened expression, as though he was expecting to find an item that was not there. “The invitation is open to you as well. My capo sees some potential in your contribution, I’m told.”

There was a hint of mockery in the man’s voice that Abbacchio missed, alarmed by the sudden realization that he was being talked about among criminals. Among the members of the most dangerous Neapolitan mafia. Hell, one of their capos had an interest in him. 

His stomach turned. A wave of heat embraced him just as cold sweat soaked through the back of his work shirt. He regretted not taking his blazer off. 

“... Are you alright, officer? You got a little pale,” Bucciarati’s hand landed on his back in a concerned gesture - topping the pile of disgust - and before Abbacchio managed to shake it off, bile rose in his throat and he retched uncontrollably. 

Out of his mouth and through the nose, half-digested spaghetti napoli went - missing the pavement, hitting Sticky Fingers’ black loafers right on the spot. 

A hand grabbed his messy ponytail out of the way - a non-registered command sounded in the distance. 

The world swung a little, his stomach convulsed - another wave of food and acid followed, bringing a feeling of relief and extreme fatigue as the same foreign hand guided him onto the nearest curb. Sitting down, adrenaline at fault, Leone did not feel the usual pain shoot up his knee as it bent too much, too fast. “Are you feeling better now, officer Abbacchio?”

The mention of his name finally sobered the goth up enough for him to realize he was dead meat. Or would be, by the end of the day, at latest. 

Before him, Bucciarati stood, his expression painted with concern, his expensive loafers covered in puke. 

No amount of bribe money could repay the material damage. 

And the embarrassment. 

“Fine… I’m-I’mfine,” he spoke, blindly digging out a tissue from the pocket of his pants. The softness of its fabric felt a little too familiar - though he was too confused to pinpoint the impression to a memory. 

Wiping the remaining vomit from the corner of his mouth, he dared to look up. 

A pair of worried blue eyes met his own - in the corner of his visual field, the silhouette of the white-haired kid appeared, holding an object of sorts. Water, a bottle of water, he realized as he squinted to see better. 

Briefly, his gaze rested upon the handkerchief crumpled up in his palm - and as he noticed a small piece of undigested pasta stuck to a black tear-like adornment in the corner of it, his stomach twisted again. 

He was absolutely, utterly, completely dead. 

As though driven by some primal instincts, he rose from the curb, shoving the dirty fabric deep into the pocket of his pants. 

He barely registered a strange feeling of cold metal brushing past his fingers as he made his way towards the cruiser parked round the corner. 

Bistecca, who had come out of the restaurant, too - alarmed by his absence - or alerted by the kid, perhaps - sent him a confused glance but followed obediently, as though he were not the senior officer in charge between the two of them. 

Throwing up on your crush’s shoes was one thing , Leone thought bitterly. Puking all over a dangerous mafioso’s loafers and using his very own handkerchief to clean your fugly mouth right on the spot was a death sentence.  

Abbachcio did not expect to see the sunset - but the least he could do was to bring Bistecca to safety. Or drop him off at home after work.

***

Though days went by and no hitmen showed up to end the goth’s miserable existence. 

Bucciarati disappeared somewhere, too - and Leone could not have been more grateful as he slowly returned to the regular rhythm of his life, traffic control and lazy afternoons marked by early sunsets. 

More and more of them, he spent in the company of white semi-dry, the amount increasing steadily as his frustration grew stronger. 

The sex trafficking case was going nowhere. And even if it were, it was a dead end, anyway. With his inferiority complex, Seppie was not going to appreciate Leone’s effort - or acknowledge it in any way, dismissing his initial promises with fears for his predecessor’s son’s safety at work, his career path leading out of the station and into the cruiser, far, far away into the outskirts of Naples. 

Abbacchio did not even bother going to the library anymore. 

He welcomed the strange sense of emptiness with a calmness unknown to him. As days went by, everyday activities proved uninteresting, his stagnation growing stronger with each dark afternoon. 

The sex trafficking case was a dead end. Missing connections, lack of information. Leone was still determined enough to keep going - but he was losing sight of the end result with every new report of kidnapping. 

An official’s daughter, a regular shopkeeper’s one. 

There were no patterns. No security footage. No traces, no leads. 

No motivation. 

October seemed to be getting on everyone in the force equally. 

Bistecca’s dad jokes became less funny ever since the sun began to set at five in the afternoon. 

Vitello walked around trying to outsmart everyone - and Abbacchio could not bother to correct him on his misleading takes anymore. 

Canederli provided no company either - with her girlfriend dying of cancer, she was busy looking for a loophole allowing her to take custody of the other woman’s teenage daughter after her death - the way it was clearly listed in the will and which the conservative officials strictly opposed given the possibility of the girl’s father being alive and well. As though his abandonment of his own child was not a clear indication of his level of concern about her. 

And Abbacchio was no good at consolation. 

Out of boredom - or driven by a sense of justice, perhaps - he began taking trips to the archive in the force’s building’s attic. 

A professor who got beaten to death with a textbook. 

Accessing information was easy enough. Osso and Buco remembered the deceased man’s and the suspect’s names - and with their blessing, Leone received a fake warrant to enter the secret records storing accounts of underage criminals. No one bothered to double check. 

Every time he opened the stained folder, a part of him died a little. 

The twisted story typewritten on yellowed sheets disgusted him. A kid’s suffering and their last resort of violence when nothing else seemed to have been working anymore, for the old troll could not take a “No.”, turned into a pity party for a “respectable professor”. 

A part of Abbacchio wished he’d been there to protect the victim. Or to help them massacre the abuser’s body as much as possible. 

He’d tried to find Bucciarati’s records, too. To no avail, the shelves proved empty, regardless of the search method. Last name, first name, the gangster’s father’s name. 

The only result the final strategy brought was helping Leone find reports on the university professor’s case. It offered a name. The name of the sentenced kid.

Pannacotta Fugo. 

For whatever reason, the alphabetical order of records ran by the first name of the people involved. 

All photos had long been removed from the file and, as far as the old, grey and bland member of staff told the goth, the documents were yet to be scanned and digitized, saved in the force’s database. 

Though the story was still there, to be read between the lines, a tragedy of abuse and ignorance thereof - and it made Abbacchio sick to think Bucciarati seemed to have an interest in minors, too. 

No wonder, though, he was a criminal, at the end of the day. 

Whatever good traits Leone had attributed to the man, ceased to exist. No amount of worried looks was going to restore his faith in Sticky Fingers’ innocence. 

And with the mafia not taking any further interest in himself, the goth was simply going to mail the now washed handkerchief to Libeccio. 

The envelope sat in the glove compartment of his car, waiting to be dropped into the mailbox after work. No return address was included. Abbacchio wanted to begin anew with a clean slate. 

Depositing Polpo’s confiscated lighter sat among his priorities, too - and as he made his way down the stairs from the attic, he decided to do just that before it slipped his mind again. 

Though, he realized, a smoke would not hurt. Simply to relax his wrung-out nerves, to help him unwind after the atrocities he’d just read about. 

He needed a break anyway. 

Taking a sharp turn in the opposite direction just as he was about to head into the shared office space, Abbacchio made his way outside into the shaded, secluded backyard of the station. 

The concrete square only housed as much as a bench installed for smoke breaks - and a metal ashtray fused to the ground just beside it. 

Leone patted his pockets in search of cigarettes. 

An almost-empty pack of red Marlboros offered him a single remaining one. 

Like a final wish before being fried inside out on the electric chair, he thought bitterly, placing the cigarette inside his mouth and pulling out Polpo’s lighter. 

Certainly, no one was going to complain about him borrowing it once. It simply came in handy by accident, with Bistecca having accidentally taken the cheap one the goth owned. Maybe he liked the image of palm trees on the sides. Abbacchio wouldn’t be surprised. 

Unsurprisingly, the capo’s one looked much more expensive. The coldness of its metal case worked wonders for Leone’s tormented mind, grounding him in the present. 

Bringing the item closer to the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, he flipped the elegant cap covering its top. His finger brushed past the initials engraved on the side as he placed it on the igniter. 

Moments after, the lighter flickered to life, its flame burning steadily as it lit the cancer stick between the goth’s gloss-coated lips. 

Though instead of the familiar calmness he expected to come over him as he inhaled the smoke, he was met with unease. 

The same kind he’d felt before, on the day he and Bistecca pulled Bucciarati over, identical to the one which had encompassed him a couple of days later when he’d addressed the gangster by his nickname, asking for its origins. 

The shaded space of the small backyard suddenly seemed darker. 

In the corner of his eye, Abbacchio noticed movement. 

He did not recall anyone following him for a smoke break. 

The uneasiness grew stronger, tying knots in his stomach. Taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling the smoke, the man looked up, intending to put it out in the ashtray and head back inside - though a figure stood in his way. 

Leone Abbacchio was not one to believe in ghosts. In any situation, he looked to find the most rational explanation of the seemingly paranormal. 

And suddenly, he was forced to reconsider his views on the matter. 

Before him, rose a ghost.

Clad in a black cloak tangled by gusts of wind coming from nowhere, it resembled a mechanical creature with a Venetian mask for a face. 

Though machines did not appear out of the blue. They were material. 

But the ghost seemed too.

From under a large hat matching its coat, a pair of empty purple eyes, crossed only with strands of gold, met Abbacchio’s terrified gaze. 

He had been spotted, it seemed, his existence made aware of as the figure’s mouth opened to speak. Certainly, whatever futuristic inventions the new century held, they were not yet as advanced. They could not have been. They could not have had a mind of their own. And clearly, they did not spawn out of nothingness. 

And yet.

Was he high? Did he mistake salt for whatever new evidence came through for the downstairs technicians?

“There are two paths that you can follow,” the creature’s words echoed against the enclosed space of the shaded backyard. “The first path is for the chosen ones who will live… and the other! The path of death. ”

Abbacchio’s knees buckled against his will. The matter clearly could not have been attributed to the malfunctioning of the screws in his right leg.

A flash of gold cut the air like sunlight that never reached the enclosed space. An old-forgotten childhood prayer rang in the goth’s mind like desperation. 

A defenseless act followed. In crimson and agony, Abbacchio met his fate. 

The mafia came for him.

It must have all been, he was sure, because of the shoes. 

Chapter Text

Leone Abbacchio was not one to believe in ghosts.

Whatever had happened moments ago, clearly must have been just a creation of his own vivid imagination. 

As he rose from the concrete ground, suppressing a grunt of pain, he forced himself to accept the explanation. 

Ghosts did not exist. 

He made it all up. He must have. 

“Abbacchio?”

Bistecca’s voice came like salvation, the way it tended to grate Leone’s mind on a regular basis, swapped for a sense of comfort. “Abbacchio, are you okay?”

Slowly but surely, the presence of the redhead grounded the goth in the present. Ghosts didn’t exist anymore. They never had. 

Or so the white-haired man wanted to believe as his partner approached him, face concerned, eyes widened. 

“You look like you’ve been in a fistfight.”

The remark came like a bucket of ice-cold water - and again, Leone felt as though his beliefs of the world were being tested. 

A glance all over himself offered an explanation for Bistecca’s worried look - though it only intensified the overall puzzlement of the goth’s position in the situation. 

The whole front of his work shirt - and his hands, somehow - were covered in blood, a giant stain alluding to a stabbing wound - but no pain followed the realization. 

There had been an arrow. 

“Abbacchio, what happened here? Are you-” Bistecca trailed off when the goth silenced him with a wave of hand. 

There had been an arrow. (His mind was plotting nonsense.) Its head went right across his chest. (It would have still been there.)

“I had a nosebleed,” the answer came on autopilot, sensible enough to make the redhead refrain from further interrogation. 

And to an extent, it offered an explanation that convinced the goth to lean towards the rational side, too. 

He was simply overworked. Stressed. Exhausted. Burned out. A nosebleed and fainting, seeing things that were not there - must have been nothing but a predictable reaction to the pressure he was under. To the fear that the mafia was after him. 

Perhaps his consciousness simply had enough. Bringing somatic symptoms to release the tension, to force him to take a break formed a sufficient amount of evidence to accept the possibility as the truth. 

The crimson on his hands must have simply come from an attempt to stop the nosebleed. Certainly, it could not have been a result of frantically grasping at the arrow dug deep inside his chest to get it out before it punctured his heart. 

The falling to his knees, Abbacchio was willing to attribute to a momentary loss of consciousness. 

And the strange sensation tickling his skin, like energy running within, the same kind he’d felt a few weeks ago in the empty hideout with Bucciarati facing him, exactly like what hit him just moments before the alleged nosebleed, he simply ascribed to a chemical reaction inside his body. An adrenaline rush - and then a crash, once the danger was over. 

The feeling was, he realized after a moment, a weirdly comforting, sweet caress of his own - and he wanted to believe just that.

***

The handkerchief never got mailed to Libeccio. Unsurprisingly, hidden in a glove compartment, it slipped Abbacchio’s mind. Pushed out by urgent, burning matters, the item was bound to collect dust for a little while longer before being returned to its owner. 

Sent home after his alleged nosebleed - certainly, it could not have been a supernatural experience of any kind - Abbacchio was hoping to forget about the malfunction of his consciousness as soon as the next day - though his mind had other plans. 

Like intrusive thoughts, memories of the past began torturing the goth in the least appropriate moments. Retrospective accounts of the events he’d been through - or vivid images of stories told to him, other people’s accounts, clearly pictured from the mere snippets he remembered hearing in the past. 

At first, they were not too bothersome. In fact, he mistook them for his own remembering of his teenage years, the very first fascinations with music, experimenting with styles and subcultures, devouring books with a sense of intellectual certainty, an ego-boosting mannerism attributable to adolescents, prior to the collision with reality and acceptance that was not the wisest in the world for having read Joyce’s bullshit twice. 

Only after a couple of days did those visions become more intense and rather upsetting. Briefly, Abbacchio wanted to believe it was simply yet another stage of his body’s reaction to excessive stress - bloodied corpses before his eyes, a creation of his own mind. A professor beaten to death with a textbook. A familiar light-haired silhouette. A memorable black bob and the face he despised, younger by a few years, a set of rather revealing clothes, uncertainty in the man’s eyes. Surely, just like one of the many hypotheses surrounding the origin of dreams, the goth’s mind was looking for ways to connect the ambivalent emotions within to some kind of images. There was no relation to reality, Abbacchio hoped. There could not have been. 

And then he began seeing auras. Faint luminance tracing people’s silhouettes, migraine-like, the outside world glistening - like anesthesia particles - or perhaps pieces of the screws inside him breaking down, its partlets forever circulating in his system, too small to be removed, a cause behind vision issues and the like. 

His skin itched. It was the same kind of familiar buzz he’d felt when Bistecca had found him in the backyard of the station. The same one that appeared around Bucciarati. 

And it was strangely comforting. 

Though it evolved - or perhaps Abbacchio needed a year of sick leave. 

The visions would not stop - and with the end of the weekend bringing him closer to his unavoidable return to work, the goth dreaded the upcoming Monday morning. With the images before his eyes intensifying, becoming tactile, almost, to the point where he was not sure anymore whether what he was seeing remained inside his head or escaped into the world around him, visible only to his own eyes, he was growing frantic. 

And as he finally saw a teal aura glowing around his own silhouette reflected in the mirror, he realized he was most likely going through a psychotic episode. 

***

“His hair is better than mine,” Abbacchio remarked, watching a rather lanky man walk out of the building across from the parked car inside which he and Bistecca were hiding. The stranger’s long strands moved with the gusts of wind - and he squinted as he headed out into the street, covering his face with the little of his forearm, protecting himself from the street dust. “This him? I expected him to look totally different.”

A suede jacket with fur sewn onto the collar and sleeves seemed a rather peculiar choice of clothing - the man could have left it for winter, for the colder months. With the temperatures still pushing the early twenties around midday, he must have been boiling - or so Abbacchio assumed, thinking back to his own black leather aviator, buried deep inside his closet. 

“How so?” Bistecca raised an eyebrow and lifted a digital camera to his eyes, snapping a few shots of the stranger crossing the street. All moves allowed, it seemed, gathering evidence. 

“I don’t know, a buzz cut? Short, messy hair and a sandy, woolen suit?” Abbacchio shrugged mindlessly. “You’d expect some basic fashion sense from someone named after Massimo Dutti.”

“Couldn’t you just, like, conjure up a vision of him then? You said you were seeing things,” the reply, curt and direct, caught Leone off-guard. He’d known Bistecca for over a year now -  still, the multiple remarks the redhead would sometimes make, blunt and outspoken, evoked a mix of ambivalent emotions every time. Could a man his age not behave himself? Certainly, there were responses to avoid, especially when your so-called best friend had confessed to you about the possibility of suffering from psychosis, blame it on workplace stress, and the inability to be seen by a doctor without tarnishing the reputation of his whole family because walls had ears and laws of confidentiality could only do so much if people were hungry for scandals. But Bistecca was not done: “From my understanding, you said you could do it on demand.”

Abbacchio bit his tongue before offering a hurtful remark. The redhead (his brown hair dye was beginning to wash out again) was his best friend after all. Still, how many more comments like this could he take before he finally snapped? He wasn’t sure. 

Rolling his eyes, he pondered a more amicable response - one that would itch, he hoped, but only after Bistecca gave it some thought. 

“Your understanding seems to only be working on demand,” he finally said. His partner shot him a glare, but the goth paid it no mind. “I wish I could stop seeing things, you know? We can swap if you want.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Bistecca’s tone was hurt. He lowered the camera, watching Massimo Volpe get in his car before offering a brief glance at the pea green Multipla in which the two officers sat. “You should take a week off, you’re certainly burned out.”

And there it went. A verdict. A diagnosis of sorts, as though the brunet was not to be objected to, like he were the smartest person in the world (so much time he spent studying workplace fatigue, he never got to his common courtesy classes). Accompanied by a knowing look, his eyebrows raised in satisfaction and a smirk dancing under his virgin moustache, the man’s appearance made Abbacchio realize his partner resembled the front of his own car more than he would have liked. Certainly, if Bistecca had opted out for a copper shade of the paint, he would have unmistakably been a doppelganger of the vehicle. 

“We blew our cover, dumbass,” the goth rolled his eyes again, recalling his initial objections against using his partner’s private car for undercover hunting of a gangster. The look on Volpe’s face was undeniably realizational as he glanced in their general direction. 

Again, the mafia was up their asses. 

***

“Car thefts are on the rise again,” Seppie stated, taking a wheezy breath halfway through the sentence as he climbed up the stairs, Abbacchio and Bistecca in tow. “Did you manage to get a hold of that Volpe guy? He might be behind these.”

“I mean, we’ve got photos of him leaving the transport department office but that doesn’t outright prove he’s involved,” the redhead spoke. As he did, Abbacchio felt a sudden wave of annoyance run through his body, even though his partner did nothing wrong. It was the same kind of irritated sensation that had come upon him when they had first been assigned the sex trafficking case. Only now, it somehow felt much more intense. And Leone was not sure what to do with it. 

He could feel a headache building up. It was one of the last hot, humid afternoons of the season - and he could not wait to get home, switch the air conditioning on and sleep the malaise off. 

Intrusive thoughts had been on the rise since morning. Images and scenarios of other people, of his friends, younger and informally dressed, playing in his head at random. Whichever room he wandered in, whichever part of the city he visited - there they were. His imagination’s version, he presumed, of Bistecca, lined up in the emptiness of the street, standing in the middle of it as though he had joined a queue of people - only that he was all alone. The man’s fists would be clenching and unclenching, and his posture remained bent forward ever so slightly, alluding towards a predator waiting for his prey - though Abbacchio was sure, it must have been a creation of his own mind, his partner was a soft sweetheart. Unless he were waiting for a new album release, that was, in which case the man’s dedication to his favorite artists took over common sense. 

And there was Canaderli, on the streets of Rione Sanitá, Canaderli with her hand outstretched to the side, as though she were holding someone else’s - though there was no one to be seen beside her. 

Then, when he least expected it, Leone saw reflections of his own self from the past, memories he’d never particularly cared about, walking along shoe shop windows wondering how long he had to save up for a dreamt pair of platform boots. There he was, in his own room, leaning against the frame of a walker, a leg brace keeping his healing knee in check. And there he was, again, a few months after the surgery, age sixteen, stood in front of the mirror, getting ready for his first musical outing in months, a memorable one, his debut night as a DJ - a bag of vinyls in the corner of the room, the same rather cumbersome, he thought it, then, mobility aid - an addition to match his studded collar. 

How short his hair was, then, he forgot. Half the length it grew to over the years - annoyingly, it tempted him to chop it back to that level, the more time he spent on the memory. 

And there was cognitive fatigue. A sense of tiredness and confusion, difficulty forming and articulating his thoughts brought by the constant replays of memories and whatever creations his mind decided to focus on. His attention jumping from one item to another on a daily basis clearly did not make matters easier - causing a sense of overload, of sorts, a neat explanation for his frustration with Bistecca. 

“And we need a new car if we’re to follow him around. This one stands out too much. Do we have spare undercover ones we could borrow?” He interjected before the redhead diverted towards questioning Seppie’s decision to observe Massimo Volpe’s behavior before officially arresting him.

The mention of car thefts brought to Abbacchio’s mind thoughts of Bucciarati. Unwanted, the man made his way into the goth’s head and situated himself comfortably in the chaos his thoughts were.

Weirdly - and surprisingly, Leone felt a certain sense of attraction towards the gangster. It only grew stronger since the start of the psychotic episode he believed he was going through. As he acknowledged the thought, he realized visiting a specialist would be unavoidable. Family reputation tarnished or not, he was on the verge of insanity - he couldn’t care less what his father would say or how loudly he would articulate his displeasure. 

Perhaps the peculiar symptoms had to do with Bucciarati. Maybe he was simply enamored - and needed to get over it as soon as he could, once he figured out how to stop his vivid imagination and racing thoughts from driving him mad. 

Sticky Fingers was a creep - he’d murdered two people in cold blood, he liked children - Abbacchio did not need to desire the touch of the man’s sun-kissed skin against his own. Besides, he was sure the gangster’s hands lived up to his nickname. Sexual abuse was probably the most he would get out of a situationship with such a lowlife, anyway. 

He simply needed to put Massimo Volpe behind bars to be left alone - there, his and Bucciarati’s common goals ended - or so he hoped - with the sex trafficking case unsolvable, which the gangster must have been long aware of, there existed no more excuses for the man to follow him around. 

Sticky Fingers was a nobody, despite his reputation. Or perhaps because of it. Either way, Leone wanted nothing to do with him. 

He let the thought resonate against his consciousness before letting it go and focused his attention on Seppie's response to his request instead - though his pounding headache made it almost impossible to do so. 

Again, a migraine aura emerged. The air around him flashed turquoise - as though it were on fire, like denatured alcohol set ablaze. His body doubled - then it tripled and quadrupled, a multiplication of his frame and its movements, so many of them it made his head spin. 

His skin itched again, a familiar feeling he grew to hate - as the well-known ticklish sensation made its way down his spine, a thought appeared. A name, a nickname, an oldschool band, a bunch of men with weird haircuts and sad lyrics. Abbacchio had never been a fan of the 60s and 70s rock music, save for The Doors. 

Yet, the two words rang in his head, demanding to be articulated, ignorant of the difficult matter at hand - his and Bistecca’s cover for the case blown, a need to adjust the plan. 

Oblivious to the thoughts of Bucciarati and the danger Leone ended up in, the name echoed in his head like an intrusive thought. 

Moody Blues. 

It made itself comfortable in the chaos, pushing out desires of the gangster until it attracted them again. Dreams of sticky fingers and Sticky Fingers, nights in white satin and the like. 

Moody Blues. 

And Abbacchio’s body multiplied again, his skin burning, his consciousness clouded - and sharp at the same time, a mysterious state of duality unknown to him. The air around him burned blue, its hue separating him from reality. Or so it seemed as he took a step back, inhaling sharply to stay conscious. 

Bistecca’s concerned gaze, he did not register. The name rang in his head as his foot met nothingness, the fear of falling sobering him up instantly. 

Moody Blues, it hit again and echoed, Moody Blues, Moody Blues. Sticky Fingers. 

The warmth of the redhead’s body against the goth’s own as he caught his weight, briefly grounding him in the present. 

And then again. Moody Blues. 

Seppie’s worried gaze, fear of his own - no trace of concern about his predecessor’s son's wellbeing as it was, but rather - his position as the chief officer, the possibility of losing it if the kid broke his neck. 

Moody Blues. 

And a wave of anger, frustration, an ambivalent emotion Abbacchio could not quite name. The two words repeating, an intrusive thought. 

A compulsion to silence it, a desperate attempt to keep his balance and the need for the world to stop spinning for a moment. 

Moody Blues. 

A wave of electricity up his spine, tickling his skin. Moody Blues, his own voice beyond his control. 

“Moody Blues,” cognitive fatigue and sick leave, the split second before it was all over. 

And when it all began.  

Chapter Text

I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. 

“How’d it go with the roses?” The buzzing of Paxe’s tattoo gun paused as she adjusted her position over Bucciarati’s bare upper body, the half-inked pattern decorating his lower back exposed to the artificial light illuminating the makeshift studio. 

The small space violated at least a dozen safety regulations, despite maintaining basic work hygiene. It certainly would have been closed down a long time ago if it did not belong to Passione. Just like Libeccio, it offered a meeting point. A place to hang around in idle anticipation between jobs. 

Cramped between a capo-owned florist and a pharmacy yet to be reclaimed by the organization, it hosted a hair and nail salon, a tanning room (as though it were a necessity in southern Italy) and a tattoo studio, the last of which remained Bruno’s most faithful hideout before the more difficult missions. 

“I, uh… Not well,” the ravenette let out a deep sigh - and a hiss when Paxe restarted tracing the pattern on his lower back again. I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. Why had it not occurred to him to reach out to her for relationship advice in the first place? At the end of the day, they’d started together back when they’d had to earn their respect. 

“As in: a complete disaster? Or can you hope for a second chance?” The woman asked, wiping away excess ink from Bucciarati’s skin. 

“As in: He doesn’t want to talk to me. He wants to be left alone. To be honest, I think he’s scared shitless,” Bruno winced at yet another unexpected piercing touch of the needle and inhaled deeply, pushing away the urge to cry. It was just a tattoo. And he was a big boy. 

That’s what Paxe would say, at least, he knew it. That’s what she’d said to him countless times back when they’d both been at the very bottom of the business that Passione profited from, drugs aside. The very same one his hopeless crush was after. And the man’s clusterfuck of a companion. 

About the gingerhead, Bucciarati couldn't care less. Too bad regular citizens were privileged enough to form deep relationships with other people. And Abbacchio seemed quite concerned about the wellbeing of his very apparent best friend. 

Bruno couldn’t really blame him, though. If anything, it was himself who tried to interject between the two, to steal the goth for himself - and put him in danger at that, inevitably dragging him into the outskirts of the criminal underworld. 

At the end of the day, as much as the situation left the ravenette’s feelings unreciprocated, perhaps it was better that Abbacchio seemed much too soft to fit for a gangster. Of the two of them, the goth had a place to come back to. A future to look forward to. Bucciarati couldn’t really snatch it all away in selfishness, hoping being left with no choice would somehow make the white-haired man like him back. 

“No wonder he is,” Paxe handed him a cup of water. “We’ll take a break, you’re quite pale, darling.”

“I’m fine,” The ravenette sat up, regretting it instantly. The world spun for a moment - and, perhaps at the fault of his quick motion, his lower back began to burn. “I’ll be alright.”

He was determined to get the tattoo done before his job in the evening. It had been a little reward to look forward to, one that would, he knew, give him an extra push through the atrocities awaiting him past the sunset. 

And he loved the little pattern. A recent trend, albeit criticized, that fitted the unfavorable opinion half of Naples held of him. It matched the extensive design on his chest and arms - one that he’d been progressively getting finished in the course of the last few years, partly to lie to himself that he was all grown-up (after all, most gangsters had tattoos, didn’t they?); and partly to not be perceived as an object of desire anymore. He’d been regarded as a natural beauty from his teenage years onwards, ever since beginning to look mature enough to avoid raising suspicion when hanging out in questionable areas of town. 

His androgynous features had been praised on countless occasions, wrinkled hands pressed against his body for he was so their type, a cherub boy - until he wasn’t.

Old, sweaty men who needed pills to stand their dicks up did not fancy fucking tattooed boys till their dolls fell unconscious from exhaustion. 

Bruno paid the price for it, certainly - acid burn scars still marked his back - but once they healed, sex work ended for good for him. 

Only that now, he found himself on the other side of the equation, contributing to the case his love interest was fighting against - then again, he knew breaking the chain was more than impossible with those in power. 

There existed no escape once he was in - no way out of the misery his life had become once he’d reached the summer before his thirteenth birthday. What would his father have said to that? His only son - a gangster, a murderer, a manwhore. Certainly, Paolo Bucciarati had hoped to raise Bruno to be better off. 

And yet. 

“I’m not surprised he’s terrified, honestly,” Paxe pulled out a bar of chocolate from the cupboard beside her and broke it into pieces before unwrapping the tinfoil. Both she and the ravenette grabbed a piece each. “You’ve got quite a reputation.”

“The best blow jobs in town,” Bucciarati smiled bitterly and rested his eyes on the view outside the window. It overlooked the glass skyscrapers of the business district, contrasting with the unkempt concrete mess of the train station’s back area and railway bridges dating back to the previous century. Or even before then, he couldn’t tell for sure - his education and all the money invested in it by his father had been laid to waste at the start of the past decade. 

Bruno felt like a complete failure - having let down the only person who was rooting for him, the only one he swore to protect - and could not have saved, in the end. 

“The best blow jobs in town,” Paxe agreed. Reaching for the hand disinfectant, she sent him a smile - and for a moment, she seemed just a regular tattoo artist. Not at all an ex-sex worker and a gangster, just like him, a user of a dangerous stand capable of killing people through their very own fears by projecting them onto their consciousness like hallucinations. 

With the view outside the window, the taste of chocolate in his mouth and the poppy tones of Veronica’s Someone To Hold, Bucciarati was willing to buy into this lie. He could only fool himself for so long - but he was willing to while it worked. While it lasted. While he still were able to. 

***

I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. 

Bucciarati had never been so disgusted with himself. He wondered about the extent to which his chances to get with Abbacchio diminished ever since having been assigned the job. All the more that he had been on the other side of the metaphorical barricade just a couple of years ago. Tonight, he was only here for a pickup - yet, the questionable morals of the mission left him feeling conflicted with his own sanity.

He’d been lucky to avoid being chained to the wall in a makeshift brothel, at least. Polpo’s special boy for balding perverts, influential fetishists with money his capo was hungry for. Or which, Bucciarati had tried to fool himself then, the man needed to send higher up, to the boss. The realization of what sharing the loot actually meant only came to him with age. 

He’d had the comfort of returning home after getting his job done. The commodity of a hot shower to break down under. 

Perhaps his attitude would have been even more different were he not forced to give his body and with it, the remnants of his sanity, away to old creeps doused all-over in expensive fragrance. 

Yet, regardless of the amount of perfume, the underlying scent remained the same. 

A sickly sweet smell, a blend of body odors, sweat - the most prominent of all. And with it, came a sticky trace of adulthood - and stolen adolescence, bland, yet salty, yeasty, slimy, cloying. 

Victory - fulfillment - had always been one-sided. 

Bucciarati recognized it instantly, the moment he entered the building. It rose the hairs on the back of his neck as its faint scent carried down the poorly lit underground corridor. He could taste it on his tongue. 

Decade-old dust covering the rows of pipes attached to the bare walls surrounding him failed to override the impression. 

He supposed it was just a trauma response to finding himself surrounded by the atrocities he thought he’d left behind, again. 

A seemingly empty warehouse bordering the nearby village, situated in a neighborhood so run down it did not attract attention, by a road so busy the sound of cars passing by drowned out all the cries for help. With the fence so tall it would take ages to climb over, the location ensured a good supply of Passione’s sex slaves, the mysterious disappearances lured in the modern way. 

In a moment of desperation, Bucciarati had laid the matter out in front of Abbacchio as clearly as it stood - though looking back, he hoped the man would give up trying to solve the issue. 

There existed no way to put a stop to the tragedy going on in the warehouse - one of the many. Hell, the ravenette doubted the whole Neapolitan police employed enough people to raid all the locations concerned. The network was dispersed, the planning method - contradictory. Leaving the poor gimp officer stuck in a dead end - Bruno hoped - discouraged.

Though plans seemed to have changed with people having been caught - and now some rich businessman wanted his daughter back. 

Employing shit-for-brains ended in consequences, Bucciarati thought bitterly, the story of some Passione idiot soldatos unknown to him kidnapping the wrong person by mistake losing its fun as soon as the higher-ups realized the identity of the poor girl. 

The request to return the lost daughter to her desperate father posed difficulties Polpo was not entirely happy about. Caught between the devil and the blue sea, the capo had to make a decision, though - resting the responsibility on the ravenette’s shoulders instead. 

And Bucciarati knew just what it meant. 

I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. Would Abbacchio hate him now, if he didn’t already?

“Man, it’s such a shame, she’s got a pretty face,” the nameless green-haired gangster leading the ravenette through the basement maze turned to face him. A sociopathic grin was plastered across his face - quite a fitting expression, considering the drill in his hand. Bucciarati could only hope the businessman’s daughter was drugged up enough to not feel the pain. “On the other hand, I love my job. It’s much better than what I did in the hospital. I feel like I can develop my full potential, you know?”

“I suppose,” Bruno felt the need to acknowledge the man’s lunatic monologue somehow. He was a stand user, too, that much the ravenette knew - though he were not sure of the ability. And he didn’t want to test it, either, considering the freedom of act with which the gangster carried himself. 

“Hey, don’t be so uptight,” The green-haired freak frowned before turning back to Bucciarati, gesturing with his free hand as he spoke: “I’m keeping it as ethical as I can. Primum non nocere, right?”

The ravenette let out a mindless hum in response. The two stopped in front of a metal door at the fork of the corridor. To their right, a path ended in darkness. To their left, there was an upstairs - a way out which Bucciarati would take in less than fifteen minutes, an unconscious teenage girl in his arms - the delivery stage - the end of his job for tonight. 

He felt so sorry for her. 

Yet, his hands were tied. He’d been in the organization for long enough to know he would not be able to take it down by himself. Fated to passively watch people hurt and die, he hoped for a miracle. A change of attitude. A revolution. A guardian angel of sorts to step in and put an end to the atrocities around him. 

Though he was well aware that simply killing those in power would not bring change. There would be others. They would follow, attracted by the perspective of monetary gain. It was an uncollapsible structure, rebuilding itself as it broke down. Passione . The hatred in his heart. 

And the inability to let it out. 

“Just… Be delicate, alright? I don’t want my car trunk covered in blood,” Bucciarati hated himself for the wording - though he could not think of a better way to express his concern for the businessman’s daughter without raising suspicion. With some of the people he knew caring about newly acquired material goods much too excessively, the request posed innocence - and, the ravenette hoped, would save the girl some suffering. 

“Worry not. The organization’s safety and secrecy is my top priority,” the green-haired man glanced fondly at the drill in his hand. “I’ll try not to give her a stroke. Those are the worst to deal with in the long run, with treatment and all, once the scum wakes up.”

Passively, Bucciarati nodded and watched the man open the metal door beside him. As he stepped in, the ravenette averted his gaze. He was so sorry for the girl. 

The door closed with a soft click. Innocently, the sound was followed by silence. Seconds turned into minutes as the ravenette finally caught a faint echo of a muffled voice - sickly sweet words of consolation for the victim. The screams, the sounds of the drill, the begging for mercy - he wished he could drown out. 

***

“Damn, what did they do to her?” Mista’s eyes went wide at the sight of the limp body in Bucciarati’s arms. 

The gunman pulled open the back door of the car they’d stolen for the mission and paled ever so slightly as his gaze rested on the bloodied bandage wrapped around the girl’s head. 

She looked peaceful, almost, as though she’d just fallen asleep - but it certainly would have been better for her if she’d died during the procedure, Bruno thought. 

And she was pretty indeed, the green-haired gangster the ravenette was never given the name of, had been right. Cascades of wavy brown hair fell freely from under the bandaid onto her face, covering her closed eyes, traces of drying tears marking her freckled cheeks. Even with a busted lip, she must have been stealing glances before she got kidnapped. 

When she was more talkative, Bucciarati recalled the green-haired gangster’s slimy words, she mentioned she wanted to study International Relations or some shit. Too bad. 

Too bad. 

“They drilled through her brain. The usual,” the ravenette’s reply came emotionless as he adjusted the girl's legs into a more comfortable position in the backseat. Not that she would mind them being folded, he realized, in her unconscious state. 

Perhaps when she woke up - if she woke up, she would - though the job had it she was not meant to. 

And perhaps she would have had a chance to recover if Polpo’s order had not prevented it - commanding Bucciarati and his subordinate to drop her off at the doorstep of her family home to be discovered at random, far, far away from the ER. 

“They what, ” Mista hissed as he got behind the wheel. “Boss, this can’t be. We have to, we-.”

Though Bucciarati silenced the man with a wave of hand. 

“This is outside of our control,” he spoke coldly, hating himself for it. “We have to finish the job. It’s too late anyways. They don’t want her to remember, otherwise she’d start talking. It’s that simple.”

For a moment, the gunman looked as though he were going to object. Sighing heavily, he just started the car instead and headed for the address they had been given at the point of being assigned the mission. 

Bucciarati’s conscience burned with guilt, too. He’d taken in Fugo, Narancia and Mista so they could avoid the fate he’d faced as a teenager. Being a part of his team, the three remained reasonably safe from the sticky hands of perverts - yet, what the ravenette could not prevent were jobs like these. The atrocities that came with them, the sense of internal conflict, the people they had to deal with, the orders. Did they all hate him for the decisions he was forced to make? Certainly, with time, they would. 

Abbacchio already did. 

I’m obsessed with you. Please love me back. 

How hypocritical of his own self it was to still hope for human love after all that he’d seen and done? How ironic? How shameless? 

***

The house was nice. The girl would at least remain surrounded by beauty and richness, the way she was supposed to, Bucciarati realized as he carefully maneuvered her unconscious body from the backseat. 

She barely weighed anything in his arms - as he zipped through the impressive fence wall and made his way across the lawn towards the front door, he felt even more sorry for her. 

He did not care about being seen - the businessman knew exactly who had taken his daughter and who would return it. The identity of individuals assigned to complete the job did not matter much - the police would not do anything, anyway. The chief officer was too deep in the underworld to even pretend to care. 

Sometimes, Bucciarati preferred the old one. Abbacchio’s father had the guts to stick true to his principles, at least. And he was respected, unlike his successor, the laughing stock of the organization. 

In a way, Seppie became Passione’s puppet, the ravenette supposed. Or he would become it, sooner or later, going down the path he had chosen. 

Not that Bucciarati cared much. He was just a mediocre gangster anyway. His heart ached for kindness but rationality took over - careful, planned moves he chose in hopes for matters to change for better. How much patience did he have left before he grew too desperate to care about pragmatism, he were not sure. 

With every accidental victim, every civilian’s life lost, every person entangled in the mafia business against their will, the ravenette’s forbearance ran shorter. 

An innocent girl with dreams and hopes. 

How many of them? 

And yet, he could not do anything. He could not react. 

It were not for fear of losing his own life, although nihilism with its indifference to the value of existence did not speak to him, either. Simply - no one would bother as much as a sigh if he protested for no one else cared. He would not even be considered a traitor. All they would proclaim him was going to be framed as an idealistic kid with too many dreams. Not a dangerous one - for no one would blink an eye if he fought back. 

The businessman’s daughter let out a groan of pain as he laid her on the terra cotta steps of the front porch. 

“I’m sorry, principessa,” he said, resting her head against a bag of soil he moved from the wall. “I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

Polpo’s order had it to leave the girl alone until she was found - whenever that would be. Yet, Bucciarati ignored it and pressed the doorbell, its sound ringing in his ears as it sounded. 

Perhaps he had a way to fight back. Small acts of kindness, of humanity. 

He knelt by the girl’s side, examining the damage. The drill wound seemed to have stopped bleeding - he could not assess the damage but hoped for it to be a good sign. Whether he was right or wrong, he were unable to tell. 

He stayed on the porch steps for a few moments longer - until the shuffling of feet on the other side of the door and the click of lock broke him out of the stagnant state he fell into. 

With a heavy sigh, he got up, not bothering a final glance at the girl. He did not want the image on his conscience. Witnessing her tortures earlier in the day had done enough damage. 

He’d been in the organization for far too long to experience an adversary reaction to the levels of stress and atrocity he saw on a daily basis. Over the years, he’d learned to detach himself from his job, be it the feeling of an old pervert’s length deep inside him, the smell of his Valentino perfume bringing a sense of suffocation; or simply debt collection, the effective ways of hammering someone’s head into the table. 

A voice, following a surprised gasp, called from behind as he made his way to the front gate. He did not stop walking. He did not turn away. 

He did not dare to. 

Chapter Text

“So what brings you here, sir?” The psychiatrist’s snow white eyebrows rose as he stated the question. 

There was no couch in the office. 

Not even a chaise longue with a chair beside it, the way Abbacchio had imagined the room to look like. 

Sat across from the man, with only a large, mahogany desk separating them, the goth thought of the best way to offer a satisfying answer - one that would lay out the magnitude of the issue he was facing; and which was not, at the same time, going to reveal his desperation. 

Deciding to see a psychiatrist in the first place had been a tough decision - raised to believe every issue, every hint at the disorder in one’s private life ought to remain within the comfort of their own home - for why did strangers need to take an interest in people’s own struggles? - Leone spent a good few days considering every advantage and consequence of his plan. And once the positives outweighed his fears, he spent another one looking for a doctor’s office located far enough from his parent’s house so that his visit would not cause a scandal in the affluent neighborhood of Posillipo - and close enough to be accessible within an hour’s drive.

With Canaderli’s help, he finally found a specialist - an apparently experienced psychiatrist located in the heart of Sorrento, above a restaurant, in the quiet of a modernist tenement of flats, one of the many. 

Up until walking into the office, the goth had been confident about getting help - yet now, sitting in a basket-chair across from the man, scrutinized by his neutral gaze, he found himself at a loss of words. 

He tried to think of the least invasive way to bring up the matter of hallucinations and their possible relationship with the excessive workload and workplace stress he was exposed to, without dismissing the matter with a simple career burnout straight away. 

And he hoped to sound as rational as possible describing the visions haunting him, people and - as of recent - a science fiction-like figure, a purple jello humanoid morphing into individuals he knew, an intrusive thought marking its presence with a sense of demand, of ownership, of familiarity.

Moody Blues. 

And the physical symptoms - the itching buzz under his skin, one that he definitely could not attribute to scabies, not having been thrift shopping for at least six months, to date. 

How was he going to express the lack of discomfort normally associated with such experiences, he were not sure. Where or how was he going to start describing the experiences, he did not know. 

Yet, the man demanded an answer - and the clock was ticking, the one hundred thousand liras paid for the appointment reminding the goth to not waste the hour of consultation they bought. 

“I think I have psychosis. Most likely,” he finally stated, hoping for at least a twitch of the psychiatrist’s face - yet, his expression remained neutral, painfully non-judgemental. 

“And what makes you worry about that, sir?” There came another question, one that Abbacchio should have expected - and which surprised him all the more. 

In a way, the impossibility - inability - to read the man’s thoughts irked the goth - caught in desperation, he was only destined to confess his worst fears. Risking receiving a label instead of help, he would only prove his parents right. Could the psychiatrist be trusted at all? 

“I don’t-I don’t know,” Leone started, the unexpected question-answer having caught him off-guard. He forced his face to hold a neutral expression, too - if a single twitch of a muscle could give him away, steer the conversation onto the wrong track, he wanted to be careful. Was he driven by paranoia? Or did he simply - and rightfully so - have enough after all the stress he’d been exposed to? “I mean… I’m kind of- seeing things. If that makes sense. As in, in my head. My co-workers, victims of different cases and it feels so real it drives me insane. And then there’s the somatic side of it. Sometimes it itches, like there’s something under my skin but it doesn’t really feel unpleasant, it just doesn’t make sense. And then there’s auras and all, and–”

“Sir, I’m going to have to stop you right here,” the doctor raised his hand as if to silence Abbacchio - and, surprised by the impact the gesture had on him, the goth obeyed. Regretting it instantly. 

The man’s eyes ran him up and down, a trace of contempt showing through his initial neutrality. 

And the goth knew that look all too well. Disturbing Behavior, the title of the movie he and the well-mannered guy from the marine academy went to see when it came out a couple of years earlier - before they broke up, before they became history. And the embodiment of it, the judgement, the glares. 

Was it the platform boots, the hair or the eyeliner, Abbacchio could never tell for sure. 

Though it always brought a follow-up. 

“Have you been taking any substances I should be made aware of recently, sir?” And there it went, an innocent question - and a critical look accompanying it, as though to suggest Leone’s issues were all his own doing. Or were they? 

He could spiral down the path of cause and effect, of the last bribe he’d taken, the one before that, the very first one. He could blame workplace stress on his dirty habits, the same ones that seemed to have attracted Bucciarati. 

Bucciarati. 

It was all the gangster’s fault, his showing up uninvited, his capo ending up under arrest instead of him, making quite a show of himself at the station, like an exhibit everyone wanted to see for themselves - and how Abbacchio bought into that, too. 

It were the teasing remarks Polpo had given him, the words of invitation, the lighter. 

The lighter. 

Certainly, it was not broken like the capo had said it would be. 

Abbacchio was not overly enthusiastic about the possibilities of the recent technological advancements and how far they would take humanity - as long as he were forced to unplug the phone to use the internet at home, he remained rather skeptical of Matrix-type mind-bending or any futuristic nano space chips distributed down one’s tear duct or thereabouts, the idea Placebo messed around with in the music video accompanying their latest single (and was the goth sick of the song by now?). 

Though setting the fire ablaze could have - potentially, hypothetically - triggered a mechanism within the lighter. It must have been just that - a hologram so unexpected it gave Abbacchio chest pains and a nose bleed as a result. Perhaps the strange symptoms the goth was facing were nothing more than a long-lasting stress reaction, a defense strategy his body opted for. They were to ease off, sooner or later, to pass - he just needed some time. A day off. 

Or perhaps he was simply grasping at any explanation that made just enough sense to calm him down, seeing as the psychiatrist was not going to help him anyway. 

Proclaimed an addict, or the assumption of it, the goth only needed to find a way out of the situation he’d gotten himself into. The one hundred thousand liras left at the cash register, he would make back at the nearest possibility of criminals wanting to bribe him. As times got tougher, prices rose. And it wasn’t that much money anyway - soon, it would equal to just as much as fifty euros. He wasn’t as cheap. Just indecisive.

“Only a glass of wine for dinner a couple of times a week,” Abbacchio offered an answer, forcing a neutral expression. “Look, sir, I know people dressed like that, ” he motioned at his choice of a band shirt and a pair of combat boots. “Tend to be associated with drugs and all, we saw it in the last decade but I’m a cop, alright? I’m not dumb enough to let drugs ruin my job.”

The psychiatrist nodded with the same neutral expression of his and left a quick note on the sheet of paper laid out before him. 

He then pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a transparent plastic cup with a familiar red lid. 

“I have to ask since the symptoms you’re describing tend to be caused by substance abuse. Hallucinations and the like,” he explained, scribbling something across the label pasted on the container with a sharpie. “Still, I’m going to need you to drop a sample down at the reception on your way out before I prescribe you any medication. I have to know that you’re clean, you know? Corporate workers often take stimulants to manage their workload. By no means am I stigmatizing you, sir, though - it’s all done in good faith.”

Abbacchio resisted a scoff as the piss box was passed across the table towards him. The case was closed, his parents were right - if anything, he’d gotten himself into an unnecessary healthcare hassle. 

“Speaking of overworking, could these symptoms also be ascribed to mental exhaustion? Or something? We’ve had a few tough weeks at the station, maybe that’s why?” He suggested and grabbed the urine sample jar, playing with it to keep his hands busy. L. Abbacchio, it said on the label. “I genuinely only came here to find out what’s been happening with me.”

“They well could be,” the psychiatrist leaned forward. “To be honest with you, sir, if you truly were psychotic, you would not have come here acting so rational. Which is why I’m looking for an alternative explanation. A week or two off work could also be beneficial. If the tests come back negative, I’ll see you at the start of December to check if you’re feeling better. We can think of introducing some medication, then, if there is no improvement.”

Abbacchio nodded in response, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

He was not going to make a follow-up appointment. 

***

The tape inside the player clicked softly as the song switched to the next one. 

Abbacchio barely registered it, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, frustration burning in his chest. 

He choked on tears - momentarily, a wave of anxiety took over as a familiar sensation tickled the inner of his skin. The singer on the track recited something in French - his melodeclamation a blur of words incomprehensible to the goth. 

Surprisingly though, Abbacchio wasn’t scared as it was. Rather - a sense of frustration and unfairness came over him. 

The memory of the just-finished appointment lingered freshly on his consciousness. A sense of humiliation accompanied, and distrust towards the one who was supposed to help him. 

The rationality of his own explanation of the issue he was experiencing brought relief and with it, certain calmness he held on to for dear life. 

This time, there was no aura. No visions, no memories. 

Only the barely notice-able itching, like a dopamine hit, just smaller. 

A sick leave note sat in the empty passenger seat, the doctor’s signature granting him a couple of weeks off - not an ideal situation, still, better than a prospect of facing Bistecca and Seppie after he nearly tripped down the stairs. 

His knee would be grateful, too, he knew - less walking after he overexerted it trying to keep up with his partner’s fast-paced steps came like a miracle. 

And his mind would rest up, at last - the redhead’s uncalled-for theorizing silenced for the whole fourteen days. 

Earlier that month, Aurora had promised to fly in for a visit, to stay over for a few days - Abbacchio’s initial worry of not getting to spend enough time with his older sister thanks to the workload piling up suddenly got dismissed with the possibility of being homebound for two weeks. Perhaps her presence would distract him from the sense of worry, from the work burnout he was apparently going through. 

He hoped. 

***

“What are you wearing? Come on, get dressed properly, you’re not going to believe what happened,” Abbacchio could not have been more wrong about the blessings of his time off once the sound of the doorbell dragged him out of bed at the ungodly hour of nine in the morning on his third day off and he found Bistecca impatiently standing at his doorstep. 

“Aitano, for fuck’s sake, I’m on sick leave,” the goth ran a hand through his unruly hair. He hoped the shameless use of the redhead’s (the other officer really needed to redye his hair at this point) first name would break the unspoken convention of formality and the man would connect the dots, Leone’s pajama sweatpants and the lack of the usual workplace jargon - his last name - concluding in the inappropriateness of his visit. 

Though Bistecca was irredeemable. 

“I know. You handed in a doctor’s note last week and I’m sorry to ruin your recovery but I need you,” he offered a stern gaze in the place of a sheepish grin Abbacchio quite expected -  and the goth questioned why he was still putting up with his partner's idiosyncrasies. 

“Then you can get me in two weeks’ time. I’m sure you’ll know where to find me,” he moved to close the door hoping to shut it in the man’s face. 

All to no avail as Bistecca shoved his foot in the little space between the wood and the frame. Leone resisted the urge to crush it on impact. 

How many lines were crossed, he could not even bother to count. 

“I’m sorry Abbacchio but I’m afraid this cannot wait,” as he looked up, the goth was met with the man’s expectant gaze, his jaw clenched tight in the annoying habit he had, the result making him seem as though he’d been hit with the back of a frying pan. “Nastro’s CEO’s kidnapped daughter was found a few days ago.”

Abbacchio sighed and rubbed his temples as the name rang a distant bell. 

“The one who went missing last week?” He asked mindlessly, recalling a vague report someone had passed to him and which he’d added to the sex trafficking case, dropping the responsibility of finding the girl on Osso and Bucco simply because he’d been too tired to process yet another tragedy. 

“Fara Nastro, that’s right,” Bistecca nodded - and the bells in Abbacchio’s mind grew louder. With them, a dismissed memory resurfaced, a bunch of weekend raves in the final year of high school and a girl whom he’d borrowed a couple of cassettes, her last name meaning just that, and her father’s opportunity of a lifetime to call his business company after his own surname because all it did was selling clean record tapes. Fara was her name and he suspected she’d once had a crush on him. “And I need you.”

“I’m on sick leave, Bistecca, you fucker,” Abbacchio opened the door a little wider, freeing his partner’s foot from the embrace of wood and metal. “Why me? You’re in charge of the case, go investigate yourself. I’m not gonna go and talk to her just because I happened to have briefly known her when I was at school. Come on. Let her recover from the trauma. When I’m back in two weeks, we can pay her family a visit and you’ll ask her all the questions you want.”

“I didn’t even mention you and her being acquaintances,” Bistecca grinned. Briefly, his gaze rested on a point above Leone’s shoulder, somewhere behind him. “Seriously, though. This can’t wait. Time is crucial here. She was found at her own doorstep in a rather deplorable condition. We need information to figure this case out. You wouldn’t guess who was seen nearby.”

“Easy enough, Bucciarati?” The goth rolled his eyes and grabbed at the door handle to close it, Fara and her sorry state be damned. With the money her father had, he certainly would have her up and running by the afternoon. 

As Bistecca nodded in response - and Leone was ready to let out a frustrated sigh - a pair of footsteps interrupted him from behind. 

“What’s going on?” Niballo Abbacchio’s voice cut through the morning and his hand rested heavily on his son’s shoulder. “You’re not on your deathbed, kid. Stop messing around and go do your job. There is no such thing as career burnout. If it existed, I’d have it before you anyway. Hello, Bistecca.”

“Good morning, officer,” the redhead grinned and bowed his head ever so slightly with a sense of respect that made Leone’s stomach twist. “Thank you for supporting me on this endeavor of getting your son out of the house. Some fresh air will certainly do him good.”

***

“So what’s up with her?” Abbacchio grumbled as he and Bistecca exited the hospital elevator an hour later. “Slow down, will you?”

Getting to respond, Aitano obediently decelerated his footsteps and the man evened his pace with Leone’s. 

“Brain injury. Apparently she got kidnapped by accident because she got mistaken for someone else so they returned her. But you know what gangsters are like. They drilled a hole through her brain so she wouldn’t remember their faces, I presume. She’s quite, uh,” the man made a gesture as though he were attempting to grasp the right words, like they were floating around. “Uncommunicative, if that makes sense.”

Abbacchio nodded silently. As they approached the Neurology and Neurosurgery wing of the building, his stomach twisted unpleasantly with the unnamed feeling blending in itself a sense of compassion and an urge to run away for fear of the unknown. 

Bistecca’s description of Fara’s state was rather vague - she could have been anything but what he remembered of her. Uncommunicative, as Aitano had put it, whatever he meant by that. 

Abbacchio was not brave enough to ask. 

And in it, there was fear of tarnishing her dignity. Unintentionally, the worst of all - the pressure put upon him through his role of a police officer. All he wanted was to treat her with respect.

They did not know one another well - if anything, he considered the Nastro girl a distant acquaintance whom he had spoken to a few times at weekend raves - his role of a DJ playing a huge part in their interactions. He’d borrowed her some mixtapes he’d made - and dutifully, she’d returned them - how old would she be now, he could not tell. 

Possibly close to eighteen, he supposed, given that he and Bistecca still ended up in the pediatric building - and remembering her mentioning her sixteenth birthday back in the day, after he himself had just barely turned into an adult. 

That Bucciarati was seen nearby when Fara was found, Abbacchio was not at all surprised. The man posed an ideal suspect with all the things he seemed to have been involved in - car thefts, grooming children and the like - sex trafficking simply offered yet another addition to the pile of wrongdoings Leone had no evidence for. 

His skin itched at the thought of the man - though no auras appeared as they approached the hospital room they were looking for. 

Through the window in the wall separating the space from the rest of the ward, Abbacchio caught a glimpse of the Nastro girl. 

He wasn’t expecting her to look much like he had remembered her, judging from Bistecca’s earlier description of a deplorable condition - though he was not at all prepared for what he saw. 

The thick, dark locks he recalled from their rave meetings have been shaved off on the left side of her head. A band-aid covered the bare skin underneath - presumably a surgical scar. 

For a moment, Abbacchio thought the girl was still asleep - it would have been quite probable considering the timing and the usual length of neurosurgeries in general - but then she opened her eyes and directed her unfocused gaze at the woman sitting by the bed, presumably her mother. 

It was the emptiness in those eyes that broke him - bringing back the unpleasant feeling from earlier. It tasted sweet, colored in pistachio green, fading to grey - tickling his insides, a sensation resembling the touch - or more so, the image - of cartoon-like coral twigs. Was it compassion? He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t fit for this. 

“You ready?” Bistecca’s voice came from afar, as though the man was speaking to him from outside of a glass bubble. 

Abbacchio shook his head in response, his knees weak - and as if on cue or perhaps ignorant to the goth’s silent protest, Aitano pushed the door open, motioning for Leone to follow him. 

Obediently, he did. 

The room smelled of disinfectants and bandages, a barely-noticeable hospital-like trace of urine carrying in the air. 

Fara’s mother looked up at the two officers, nudging at her daughter’s hand, receiving no reaction. 

“How is she feeling?” Were the only words Abbacchio was able to offer for starters, unsure as to whether it was appropriate to address the girl directly or if it would cross an invisible line of good manners. 

Though the woman was not given a chance to reply as Fara’s eyes rested upon Leone, her gaze suddenly conscious and focused, bringing back a memory of when black coal liner decorated their outline, her dark curls dyed a matching shade, a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt hanging off her frame to accentuate teenage rebellion. 

That the band-aids and the IVs did not quite suit her was the only thought that crossed Abbacchio’s mind before the girl’s voice cut through the silent tension, her speech slurred but comprehensible. 

A nickname he still went by, the same one that he had once introduced himself with.

“Sling Blade?”

Two years ago, in 1998. 

Chapter Text

“Sling Blade?”

Abbacchio wished he hadn’t opened the door to greet Bistecca in the morning. Prayed that he were still asleep, hoping in a moment, he would wake up to see the familiar poster-covered walls of his own room. 

The skewed reality in which a girl he once knew ended up having a hole drilled through her brain simply for existing seemed too cruel to appear true. 

And yet. 

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him so badly. The long-forgotten familiarity of Fara’s voice distorted in some way? The look she gave him, sharp and attentive, unlike the unfocused gaze she rested upon her mother moments later? Or was it simply the sense of pity that hit him, the weight of her stolen dreams and the harm elicited? 

He wasn’t fit for this. 

“No, honey, the officers only came to ask you a couple of questions. Of course, we can watch the movie if you’d like - though maybe another time?” Fara’s mother’s voice worked wonders on Abbacchio’s tarnished conscience - and seemed to have done the opposite for the girl herself, seeing as her lips pursed in a tight line, a hint of displeasure with the answer painted on her face. 

“Sling Blade,” she repeated, putting even more emphasis on the two words as though her life depended on it - or the necessity to be understood, to make herself clear, her ability to articulate her thoughts elaborately somehow hindered. 

Abbacchio supposed it was his turn to speak. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got this,” the words escaped his mouth before he consciously acknowledged their order. Fara’s mother sent him a confused gaze. “It’s a nickname I go by sometimes. I don’t know if Fara ever mentioned it but this is actually what she might remember me from. We met at a bunch of raves a couple of years ago, the few times I happened to DJ there.”

The goth hoped the explanation would satisfy the woman’s curiosity. Briefly, his eyes rested upon the Nastro girl - a sense of acknowledgement shone in her eyes - and as her mother turned to face her, her expression evolved into a grin - though it was too cheerful of a smile to make the situation easier to handle. If anything, it left an unsettling touch in the room, the emptiness in Fara’s eyes and the beam itself - resembling more of a grimace than a message of genuine happiness - nothing like the features Leone remembered from a couple of years ago, the shy, yet attentive smirk that always made the brunette look a little mean. 

“Sling Blade,” she repeated. “Slingblade.”

Awkwardly, Abbacchio nodded - unsure of how he felt about being in the center of the girl’s attention - or how to respond to the chorus his own nickname seemed to have formed. Sling Blade what, it tempted him to ask, to sneer - for the unsolvable case, Fara being a part of it, and the way Bistecca had dragged him out of bed this morning. 

Though she did not deserve to become the target of his frustration. 

“That is me, yeah,” he finally spoke, digging a notebook out of the pocket of his uniform. “And that, ” he nodded at her shaved side. “Will make one hell of a hairstyle when you get out of here. Mind if we ask you some questions? Your mom can stay if you’d like.”

At the mention of her hair, Fara sent him yet another of her empty smiles - he supposed they were attributable to joy of some kind - though as soon as the mention of her mother came up, the girl shook her head vigorously - a gesture, to no surprise, followed by a painful groan. 

“Out,” she demanded, letting go of the woman’s hand, pushing her away, almost. She certainly would have, had she been stronger. “I want her out. Him, too.”

Ostentatiously, she pointed her finger at Bistecca. The man raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise - and Abbacchio noted an apologetic smile on Mrs. Nastro’s face. Though could anyone really blame Fara for her preferences? Certainly, having been kidnapped only to become involved in sex work, if work was a proper term in this instance, against her will, she was sick of seeing unfamiliar representatives of the male gender. The idea of discussing the matter with a parent present left Leone with no further objections to the girl’s decision. 

Though it seemed, Fara’s mother did. 

“She’s still underage,” the woman protested, reaching out to grab at her daughter’s hand - and almost instantly, the girl moved away. “Certainly, a guardian needs to be present during an interrogation.”

Abbacchio resisted the urge to rub his temples. If Bistecca did not have a girlfriend and Mrs. Nastro were not married, he would try and set the two up - they complimented one another perfectly.

“Fara’s over sixteen,” he said, hoping for a calm, yet authoritative voice. “Legally, that gives her the right to provide testimony alone. Please wait outside, it won’t be long. And there’s a window between us if you’re worried.”

“Go get yourself a coffee mom,” Fara cut in, her speech suddenly perfect again. Or maybe Abbacchio got used to the barely noticeable slur already. “Get me a bomboloni please?”

“Actually,” Bistecca regained his ability of reasoning as he pulled his own notepad out. “It will be beneficial for the case if I take your testimony as well, ma’am.”

Abbacchio sent the man a thankful gaze. In turn, Bistecca offered only as much as a victorious smirk as he ushered the woman out of the room and down the hall - leaving the goth alone with the girl. 

“Sorry, standing will fold my knees backwards,” Leone pulled up a spare chair and placed it within a reasonable distance from Fara’s bed. Dropping on it, he noticed the brunette snickered at his words - a snort much louder than he was expecting - and slowly, it was beginning to dawn on him, scraps of forgotten knowledge from Biology classes back in school, the approach slightly more detailed in the academy - the difficulty regulating emotions. Or reactions. Both, perhaps. Memory issues, personality changes. The terms came at random, leaving him unable to connect specific symptoms with the various locations of brain injuries. “Look, I don’t think there’s any point in unnecessary courtesy, let’s just get down to the matter. I’m aware that it might be upsetting for you to recall what happened to you, though, so feel free to tell me to stop if you need a break.”

Fara sent him a long look, seconds divided only by her slow blinking before she spoke. 

“This is why I always liked you so much,” she confessed, her words more unexpected than all of Bistecca’s uncalled-for remarks and unannounced home visits taken together. “And I would gladly tell you all about it but I can’t remember.”

The girl’s voice carried a sense of calm that made Abbacchio feel uneasy. If she were not in the state she was in, he would have thought she was messing with him. 

Though the sheepish smile she sent him offered some assurance that her actions were not ill-willed. 

“Sling Blade,” she echoed yet again, her eyes staring right through the goth. “Sling Blade, Sling Blade. Why aren’t you coming to me?”

“Look, I am-,” Leone began, overtaken by confusion - and stopped just as abruptly when a familiar itch under his skin appeared. 

Only that this time, it felt stronger. 

An aura accompanied the sensation. A magenta-colored glow surrounding Fara’s silhouette before it doubled, tripled and quadrupled - leaving Abbacchio on the verge of sanity when a figure emerged, as though it detached itself from the girl’s body. 

“Sling Blade,” she repeated. “He had an arrow. A drill. An arrow-drill. A drill. An arrow. Can’t remember. A drill. He did this to me. An arrow. Black Sabbath.”

“ What? ” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, instinctively getting up from the chair he was sitting in and took a step back as a preventive measure. 

Fara did not react in any way - with her gaze directed into the empty space ahead, she kept repeating the few words like a mantra, their sound somewhat hypnotic, making Leone feel lost in the present, entranced in a way that instinctively stopped his train of racing thoughts. 

And then, suddenly, the girl’s head turned towards him. With her eyes rested upon the goth, she lifted her right arm as though to point at him - the newly acquired injury taking its toll as her hand shook, her fingers refusing to straighten. 

“Why are you forcing me to recall all this when you can just replay it all by yourself?” She asked, her voice stone-cold, a hint of hurt prominent in it. 

Abbacchio was certain she lost her mind. 

His sanity seemed to have joined the girl’s own on this adventure as the creature behind her hovered closer to the goth, a familiar humanoid shape, formation of smoke, grey and half-transparent with a darker shade running through its middle, vertically across the whole of its height, resembling the shape of, well, a sling blade exactly. 

The figure approached Leone with a sense of confidence which left the goth stunned with motionlessness. Frozen with fear, he expected to be hit, punched– devoured - but none of this happened. 

Instead, the humanoid simply stood in front of him, as though it were trying to give him an expectant look - if only it had eyes. Or a face of any kind. 

Playfully, it titled its head to the side, revealing a finger-sized hole leading inside the layers of smoke. Light shone through it, the early morning sun deceiving one’s senses that the season was spring - not late autumn, the first half of November slowly coming to a close. 

Fara’s voice came from behind - and sounded as though it were the creature speaking - her words ridden with impatience, a teenage frustration hinted at. 

“You know you can do this, Abbacchio. There’s a reason you’ve always enjoyed logical reasoning. Backtracking, solving mysteries. Get that potential out. Out. ”

At the command - the demand - Leone felt his skin itch. A burning sensation appeared briefly - like a band-aid stuck for too long being peeled off the whole surface of his body. And with it, there came a familiar teal-colored aura. 

It doubled the shape of the goth’s frame - then tripled it, quadrupled and multiplied - the jelly-like figure he had hoped to never see again emerged, mirroring his posture, hunched and confused - as though it were waiting for commands. 

For the first time since encountering the strange sight, Abbacchio did not look away. 

Something forced him to face the humanoid - he were eager to believe the smokey creature - Sling Blade? Did it have a name? - was at fault. 

The jelly creation had no mouth of its own - only a set of cassette reels for eyes in that purple face - and a veil-like structure mirroring the shape of Leone’s hair. 

Violet and silver, there it stood - with a timer on its forehead and a lustful curve of hips. 

Suddenly, Abbacchio felt very naked in front of Fara and the other ghost. 

As the digits on the timer embossed in the humanoid’s forehead began to switch like a final countdown (as if he wasn’t sick of the song being played all of last year thanks to the rumors of the millennial bug surrounding the end of the century), he did not even care to acknowledge the strangeness of the vision before him or the unexplained issue of the Nastro girl being just as absorbed in it as he was. 

Had he not fallen victim to the psychiatrist’s misunderstanding of his mental health deterioration the week before, he would have considered these hallucinations with a dose of seriousness. Now, though? He ran out of sensible explanations and caved in, accepting the bent reality as true. 

“The fuck is that?” He managed to choke out, scrutinized by Fara’s gaze - but the girl just pursed her lips in displeasure and pointed at the purple humanoid beside him. 

Dutifully, Abbacchio glanced to the side - the figure began to transform, changing shape until it became a resemblance of the girl - her side unshaved, a timer across her forehead. 

Motionlessly, the goth watched as it stood there, frozen with fear, eyes wide open. 

In the corner of his eye, he noticed the real Fara looked away, the smoke-like ghost’s arms wrapped around her in a protective hug. 

Was it an extension of consciousness of some kind? Were they both high on the smell of hospital disinfectant? He were not given time to wonder. 

Copycat Fara looked ahead with horror in her eyes. Her pupils unnaturally dilated, she seemed visibly intoxicated.

Muffled voices came from behind - and surprised, Abbacchio glanced over his shoulder, out of habit, only to see nothing. 

It seemed a vision, a replay of sorts - the resemblance before him - an image of the past, perhaps, the moment he realized what it was all about. 

“ Primum non nocere, right?” An unfamiliar voice spoke from the void. It grated against Abbacchio’s consciousness, the sense of dryness and malice of a kind sending shivers down his spine. 

A warm hum followed. And the goth recognized it instantly, wishing he hadn’t. 

As the copycat Fara shivered, scandalous words followed, a request that almost restored Leone’s faith in the humanity of the underworld, concluded in material worries. 

And there was reassurance. The organization’s safety and secrecy being the malicious man’s top priority. 

Talk of strokes followed. 

The replay was going nowhere. 

It must have been an instinct that paused it - as Abbacchio realized he were able to control the mysterious spirit before him, his blood ran cold. Yet in a way, this reassurance offered comfort that came upon him - as the copycat Fara froze motionlessly and the figure began to transform again - taking this time the shape of a man unknown to the goth, a fusion of an evil, green-haired clown and Jonathan Davis, perhaps. 

Wearing a white apron, the stranger was holding a medium-sized, yellow drill. 

19:07:43-12-11-2000, the display across his forehead read. 

“Last Sunday,” Abbacchio muttered, more to himself than to Fara who was still being embraced by the smoky figure. 

“And there was mold. So much mold,” she spoke, as if she were replying to the goth. 

The mention caught him off-guard - with it, came a pungent smell of old houses and humidity, grey and black traces marking the walls, talks of aflatoxins and the like. 

Before the goth, the green-haired stranger began to move. He walked around and past the two, stopping in the empty corner of the room, away from Fara. 

“Hello, principessa,” he spoke into nothingness in that sickly sweet, dry voice of his. “You are dismissed. Now, don’t look at me like that, I’m here to give you a kiss goodbye, honey.” 

An unarticulated scream, all too familiar for Abbacchio’s ears, followed, resulting in an expression of displeasure painted on the stranger’s face. 

Moments after, the drill came into action, the sound of metal piercing the bone and then the soft tissue, masked by unarticulated screams and begging for help, for mercy, made Leone’s stomach twist. 

He looked away out of habit, even though there were not much to see - nothing but stains of blood on the green-haired man’s apron. 

It was only then when Abbacchio realized he and Fara were the only people capable of seeing the retrospective account - certainly, the volume of the inhumane shrieks of pain would have alarmed the hospital staff by now. 

Just as he was about to force the replay to pause again simply so he could take a break, the figure morphed again - shorter and wider, it took the familiar shape of Bruno Bucciarati - an invisible weight resting in his arms. 19:42:15-12-11-2000, the display read now, the seconds passing evenly, the digits blinking steadily.

The gangster crouched down to place the load he was holding on the ground - a sight that would have otherwise amused Abbacchio with its lack of context or proper surroundings, if it were not for what he had just seen - and then made a gesture alluding to caressing someone’s face. 

“I’m sorry, principessa,” he spoke quietly, a distant sound of footsteps echoing from the void. “I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

***

“And I’ll see you in two weeks,” Abbacchio shut the front door before Bistecca managed to shove his foot between the wood and the frame for the second time today. 

He wasn’t fit for this. 

Whatever that - it - was, this weird ability of his, the one he seemed to be sharing with Fara - it remained invisible to his police partner and the girl’s mother alike. 

After the replay had ended and the jelly humanoid snuck itself back into the goth’s skin - a ticklish, yet comforting sensation of warmth which no longer creeped him out - Abbacchio tried to conjure it up again as he and Bistecca were heading out of the hospital. 

It showed up, as if on command, summoned by the two words ringing in his head for the last couple of weeks - Moody Blues - though as it circled around Aitano, it left no impression on the man, even when Leone attempted to force it to brush past the redhead. 

It refused to.

There seemed to be unwritten rules guiding the behavior of this evidently friendly spirit - seeing as it only showed up to the goth himself and those who also owned their own. Like Fara’s little ghost, Sling Blade, or so Abbacchio presumed was the creature’s name. That the moniker felt an unfortunate choice considering his own stage pseudonym, the goth did not address. 

For the brief few minutes he and the Nastro girl spent alone after the replay had ended, the man tried to figure out the name of the strange phenomenon, the visions they shared - yet Fara’s cognitive reasoning withdrew suddenly, as though it had taken some effort for her to conjure up her own spirit. 

Sling Blade. 

‘It’s a stand, it’s protection, they’re all stands, they’re all protection’ Abbacchio recalled her words - senseless as they were for he could not figure out what she was on about, unless she were somehow alluding to the irony of his own fate, Massive Attack’s song soundtracking his teenage self’s majestic fall down the fence. 

And slowly, she drifted into a state of lethargy, terminating the interrogation just as Bistecca and Mrs. Nastro approached, the woman embracing an empty takeaway cup of espresso and a paper bag filled with, the goth presumed, the requested bomboloni. 

A stand. Whatever Fara meant by that. 

Abbacchio was not fit for this. 

Passing by the surprised figure of his father as he kicked off his work boots, he headed to the quiet of his room. 

He dreaded seeing the green-haired gangster again - but his face was too good of a lead to just let it slip. 

Perhaps Bistecca could not see the thing itself, he thought as he conjured the jelly copy of his own frame and grabbed a camera from the shelf. 

As the figure finally transformed into the long lost clown member of Korn, he snapped a few photos, accepting in defeat that they could well show nothing but the empty view of his room after being developed. Yet still, if his naive strategy worked, he would - he knew - be able to cut the gangster’s face out of the frame, claim that he had searched around for the photos of his fugly mug and issue an arrest warrant for the man. 

If they could get at least one person involved in the sex trafficking link, chances were, it would slowly crumble, missing a link in the chain. 

A stand. 

Abbacchio placed the camera aside, allowing the creature to slip back into his skin, still not used to the funny feeling its movement caused. 

Moody Blues. 

Sling Blade. 

Moody Blues. 

He thought of the band, the randomness of the name and his dislike of their music. If the jelly wanted to be addressed as a mediocre 1960s ‘classic’, he were not going to object - so long as he did not have to state the name out loud in front of random strangers and risk getting looks - glares, thanks to his gothic attire. 

Moody Blues. 

Like a nickname, like Sling Blade, like-

Sticky Fingers. 

Abbacchio’s shoulders tensed as the collocation hit him. The infamous gangster known for yelling out the Stones’ album like a battle cry. 

Sticky Fingers. An unexplained action, an alleged idiosyncrasy. 

Sticky Fingers. 

Was Bruno Bucciarati of their kind? Of Leone’s and Fara’s? Did he have a friendly ghost of his own, Sticky Fingers, a name fitting a car thief and a groomer - though he did no harm to the Nastro girl. 

It was a surprising observation which Abbacchio did not quite expect. 

If anything, the gangster only had shown compassion for Fara. His gestures and words left no doubt of their sincerity. 

Abbacchio let out a deep sigh and made his way to the desk, not even bothering to grab his cane as he got up from the bed. His knee protested with a familiar ache - but he was too absorbed in thought to bother, hoping the screws inside would keep it in check. 

As he reached for a piece of paper and bit the tip of his pen, connections appeared. Links he had missed, then, Bucciarati, himself, Polpo, Passione, Fara. 

The lighter he had the misfortune of using. Possibly the same one that the Nastro girl mentioned. 

And the names. Sticky Fingers, Moody Blues, Sling Blade. Black Sabbath?

Friendly ghosts, as he referred to them, a question mark beside the gangster’s initials. The roses and Polpo’s words of encouragement, Fara’s senseless talk of his true potential, the vision in the concrete backyard of the station. Talks of the chosen ones, the fate of death.

And the contrast of Bucciarati’s complaints about his lack of a moral compass. 

A possible explanation and the strange abilities, rewinding time, the way his skin itched as soon as he got close to Fara. 

The feeling of a familiar buzz, the same one, whenever that jelly Moody Blues thing appeared. 

And how he’d initially noticed it when Bucciarati was around. 

Abbacchio cursed under his breath. There went his sick leave. 

Using the desk for support, he forced himself up and to the wardrobe, picking out the most casual set of clothes he could think of. 

As he applied heavy eyeliner around his eyes minutes later, he second-guessed his intentions. The gangster’s magnetism at fault and his own feelings unaddressed, balancing on the edge, he wondered whether his warpaint was just an armor to hide behind or if he were looking for ways of seduction. 

Refusing to acknowledge the truth, he reached for the more expensive, lustful cologne of his, reserved for dates and the like. What was there to lose, he wondered mindlessly as notes of ginger, musk and spruce filled the air and he let his hair back down, allowing it to wave freely against his back. 

“What’s there to lose, huh, Moody Blues?” He asked his reflection, expecting the friendly ghost to resurface again - and shook his head, disapproving of his own naivety as he headed out at last, leaving Niballo standing in the door, stunned, watching him slide into the cigarette smoke-infused inside of his battered 156. 

Was it a suicide mission, he wondered, recalling the last time he saw Bruno Bucciarati and the man’s fine leather loafers covered with the contents of his own stomach, was it a death sentence? 

Or would he get his answers, at last, he tried to console himself as he shoved a loose tape into the record player, forwarding a couple of songs, consoling himself for the twenty minute drive, letting The Chemical Brothers take control of his worries - or perhaps to acknowledge lack thereof. 

He had to return the gangster’s long-forgotten handkerchief anyway.

It still sat in his glove compartment.

Chapter Text

Clenching his fingers on Bucciarati’s handkerchief, Abbacchio stopped in front of the entrance to Libeccio. 

He dreaded facing the gangster. Suddenly, his impulsive plan to seek answers about stands , whatever they really were, appeared a suicide mission. 

He could only be glad he decided to park his car a few streets away. Not that it would help much if the mafia truly was after him - but in a sense, such a move provided the goth with naive hope he desperately clung on to. 

On a foreign territory, that of gangsters, he suddenly lost the drive to demand an explanation. Certainly, Bucciarati would have him chained to the wall if he pleased. 

Abbacchio might have been too old to become a victim of child grooming - though having a hole drilled through his head still remained a possibility. 

What would it be like, he wondered, losing a part of himself? 

Or would he finally know peace, no more stress, no more cases leading nowhere, no more proving himself to no one?

“Hey, it’s dangerous to loiter ‘round here like that, dude.”

Abbacchio nearly jumped out of his skin, surprised by the remark that came from behind. 

As he spun around, he was met with a piercing gaze of a man around his height. Burnt hickory eyes studied him up and down, the hair, the eyeliner, the turtleneck vest top, the black cargos. “You here on a date or something?”

The goth wished he was. Instead, he shook his head, wondering how soon the other man would pull out a knife. Asking if Leone had a problem. 

The stranger looked the type, wearing an oversized blue sport top and a pair of matching red sweats with a line of zebra-patterned fabric sewn across the side of each leg. With a beanie covering his - Abbacchio supposed - bald head, he smelled like trouble. Mixed with sweat and cigarettes. 

And the goth knew the guy. 

He recognized the man’s face from the mugshots hung around the station shortly after he’d joined the force a year and a half ago. Guido Mista, initially known to the police for stirring up fights in front of movie theaters, arrested on multiple accounts only to be dismissed the next day - a hopeless romantic notorious for asking female officers out - or attempting to. Guido Mista, finally charged with murder of three people, in cold blood, at that, the rumor had it - his hopeless explanations of a woman falling victim to an assault of the three men in question, repeatedly dismissed - for how could he have not gotten injured in a shooting? - And he did reload the gun he used. 

Abbacchio supposed the mafia bailed him out, at last. 

“Then what do you want? It’s not common to see such a pretty face here,” Mista joked - or so it seemed to Leone - cocking his eyebrow in amusement as he sent the goth another look. 

“Bucciarati. Bucciarati is who I want,” Abbacchio bit back, only then realizing the double-barrelled meaning of his words. But it was already too late to retract them - and the other man did not seem to have caught on the unintended confession. A revelation that surprised Abbacchio, too, at the end of the day - the realization he still had a thing for the gangster, despite the disgust he felt at the mere thought of his wrongdoings. 

“You’re lucky he’s around,” Mista grinned in response. A large bee - or something resembling it - flew from behind his back and began circulating around his silhouette. Soon, another four or five joined it - a mysterious dancing spectacle in the air - though the man remained unbothered. “Literally, just around the corner. He should be here in fif– Hold up, that’s not a good idea, my dude–.”

Alarmed by Abbacchio’s sudden movement, Mista reached out to grab at the goth’s shoulder - to no avail as the man slipped from the grip and headed into the nearby side street, a dead-end embraced by a pair of spray-painted walls. 

A distorted squeak - something along the lines of ‘It’s not safe out there-!’ followed - though Leone ignored it as he made his way down the shaded alleyway, comforted by the sounds of swearing and a voice he knew all too well. 

As he turned the corner, the goth was met with a familiar silhouette of the gangster. 

Smoking a cigarette, the man appeared unbothered, contrary to what Leone had heard moments earlier - his expression mocking, almost, in this idle sense of anticipation - though of what, Abbacchio could not tell. 

An opened garage gate was situated opposite Bucciarati - the man’s eyes directed at the shaded interior, witnessing - the goth presumed - an ongoing drug trade. Making sure it was going smoothly, perhaps. 

Or maybe it concerned sex trafficking, of all things. A bunch of teenagers hidden inside the building, intoxicated, kidnapped on their way back from school - the way Fara, allegedly, had been. 

Abbacchio was not going to let it slide. Not this time. 

“So what’s up with this stand bullshit?” 

The words escaped the goth’s mouth before he reconsidered the idea. Running on pure impulsivity, his strategy seemed to have worked. 

Bucciarati turned to face him with a surprised expression - momentarily, a figure materialized behind the man. 

To an extent, it resembled a modern knight - a crusader, Abbacchio’s mind decided - though it appeared more of a long-lost member of Daft Punk or a blue Power Ranger, perhaps. 

Humanoid in nature, the creature did not have eyes - wearing a studded helmet instead, it stood behind the gangster, partially covered by his frame, yet not enough to hide the zipper adornments on its - armor? Body? - Leone were not sure. 

And quite shameless these were - suddenly, the curve of Moody Blues’ hips ceased to be a source of pruderian shame for the goth. As his eyes slid down the rather large zipper between the figure’s legs, he began to wonder how accurate a resemblance of its owner’s manhood it provided. 

Because if the name stood for the profession, then--

Abbacchio had never before considered himself a monsterfucker. 

And yet, here he was. Sticky Fingers - he presumed - his sexual awakening. 

The goth accepted the thought, defeated - preparing to meet his demise upon speaking to Bucciarati in a rather uncourteous manner as the figure charged forward - only to hit the wall beside Abbacchio, cutting through an obscene word sprayed across it. 

“I’d gladly elaborate but as you can see, I’m quite busy now,” the gangster answered with a hint of nonchalance in his voice - revealing no offense with the goth’s ruthless introduction - or lack thereof - getting straight to the point. 

Though instead of turning the officer away, Bucciarati’s reaction only gave the man a shot of courage.  

“I don’t care,” Abbacchio shrugged, watching as Sticky Fingers retrieved a worn-out leather messenger bag from a hole suddenly cut out - no, zipped out - in the wall. He were only able to see it for a minute or two before a familiar sound of fastening cut through the air and something gold flashed across the gangster’s chest - the pouch disappearing along with it. 

“Well, you will.”

For a second or two, Leone was certain the words came from Bucciarati - too focused on trying to understand the man’s hidden ability and its link to zippers, he missed the appearance of another person - and as he turned around to assess the danger, it were already too late. “Prism Of Life.”

The sequence of experiences that followed did not offer the goth an opportunity to condemn his impulsive bravado. 

Momentarily, his senses seemed to have separated - each one coming back at him at a different pace and intensity, asynchronous in their feedback. The world around him appeared to be moving at double speed - before it suddenly slowed down, the impact of the realization throwing him against the opposite wall. Helplessly, the goth watched his cane roll away until the stranger’s shoe caught it. As the man stepped on the stick to pause its motion, Abbacchio grasped an opportunity to take a good look at his (or Bucciarati’s) - it seemed - opponent. Brown and copper spiky hair, narrow black sunglasses, an unbuttoned blue short-sleeve with a white t-shirt underneath. A fashion disaster. A victim of the recent trends. Was he also interested in the contents of the leather bag? What was in it, anyway? 

Leone supposed the man wanted to find out just as much as he did - when he commanded - it appeared - his stand to charge at the gangster, the surprisingly non-human figure switched its shape, the surface of the iridescent tissue covering its body reflecting the sun in motion. 

Like a prism.

Though Abbacchio was certain there was a song with the exact same name. 

Were all stands named after pop culture references?

Sticky Fingers moved away, something like a battle cry following the evasion of the enemy’s attack - though the stranger seemed not to be giving up as the figure aimed at the humanoid once more - and would have punched right through it if it were not for the gunshots that came from behind. 

Abbacchio decided he had seen everything and nothing would ever surprise him again when the same six bees he’d noticed flying around Mista earlier on, reappeared. Aiming straight at the stranger, they flew past - soon, bullet wounds decorated the man’s arms and legs. Letting out a cry of pain, he fell backwards, the shapeshifting iridescent figure disappearing as he did. 

And then Leone second-guessed his judgement again, wondering just how wrong his assumptions about the world had been - when he suddenly got dragged into a void space, blue plasma-like substance floating around him as he slid through it only to be spat out on the other side. 

Gracelessly, the goth landed on the lower of his back, grateful that the bruises would never see the light of day, hidden under his pants. 

Beside him, Bucciarati stood, carefully zipping up a hole in the air before the golden trace of the fastening disappeared with a metallic sound. 

“You alright?” There seemed to be genuine concern in the gangster’s voice as he knelt down by Abbacchio’s side, as if to examine any damage sustained during the fight they’d just been a part of. “You got hit pretty badly.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Leone nodded his head and reached out to support his weight, aiming to stand up - only that he struggled to. 

As his arm moved in slow motion, his heart accelerated in panic at the unexplainable reaction. “What the actual fuck.”

“Oh, right,” Bucciarati waved his hand dismissively. “Prism Of Life slows you down for a bit. It should pass by tomorrow, though, so don’t worry too much. It won’t be long as Mista will take care of the user.”

“What do you mean: slows you down for a bit ?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow - regretting it as he did and felt the decelerated muscle twitch - though he supposed inhibiting the action would not make it any faster. “What kind of biological weapon is this?”

To his outrage, Bucciarati laughed in response. 

“Biological weapon?” He wheezed and pretended to be wiping a tear from under his eye. “God, I thought you were joking when you asked me about stands. Did you finally get one?”

“What do you mean: finally?” Leone resisted the urge to cry. He hated how distressed the situation made him feel - and how uncaring of it the gangster appeared. Then again, the man was a heartless criminal, a double murderer, at the end of the day. Such a reaction was only predictable. “What do you want from me?”

The goth swallowed the tears, forcing his voice not to shake. He hated how vulnerable the situation made him feel - a failed attempt to get up from the ground and the sharp pain that pierced through every inch of his body as he fell back on the tarmac. Only now did he realize they found themselves in a car park. 

It must have been his miserable facial expression that finally softened Bucciarati’s own. It suited him, this image of care, of kindness and compassion - and the goth hated himself for the thought. Even when hope for consolation followed. Suddenly, it only made sense to refer to the ravenette by his first name.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” Bruno’s fingers cupped Leone’s chin, forcing him to look the younger man in the eye. “You’re scared… You’re trembling.”

Was it the softness of the unexpected touch that got him? The intimacy of the moment?

“I’m-,” Abbacchio swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure as he felt sweat build up on his temple. On the skin inside his palms. Cold, sticky. Revealing. “I’m not.” 

Showing signs of vulnerability in front of a predator was the first step into the grave, he knew it.

“Bullshit. ” Bucciarati’s hand caressed the side of his face. The goth tensed at the touch. How many lines were crossed? He didn’t care. “You’re terrified.”

He didn’t want to care. 

“Okay, maybe I am,” he admitted, at last, knowing there were no point in lying. He already was at a disadvantage, hit by whatever secret powers the enemy stand seemed to have possessed - and having no understanding of those, he was forced to cave in and accept his vulnerability. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” Bucciarati shrugged. Suddenly, the magic of the shared moment from seconds before was gone, their relations back to their formal level, no first names, no intimacy. “I was just curious, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d be the type to fear people. That you don’t have a moral compass was predictable. But this? Can’t decide whether I’m flattered or offended.”

“It better be the first option,” Abbacchio forced a laugh and blinked the tears away. “Don’t wanna end up in a meat mincer.”

“In- what? ” The gangster laughed out loud. “God, just how many action crime movies did you watch?”

“A few?” Against his will, Leone let his guard down. “Anyway, what was that thing in the alley? And how did we end up here, just through the wall like that or-? God, I’m confused.”

The questions followed before he knew it - and suddenly, Bucciarati was behind him, helping him up with the care and delicacy of someone kind and compassionate - unlike the goth’s image of the man had it. 

“You really don’t know,” the gangster sighed, shaking his head disapprovingly and pulled out a set of car keys. “How about we take a ride to mine so I can explain? You can stay overnight if you’d like - you’re probably gonna be like this until the end of tomorrow or thereabouts and I don’t think you can explain moving in slow motion to your parents when you show up back home. I promise I won’t throw you in a meat mincer.”

***

“This one’s also stolen, I take it?” Abbacchio asked as he shut the door of a brand-new white Toyota Celica which, as it turned out, belonged to Bucciarati. 

“Is that a rhetorical question?” The gangster slid the key into the ignition and started the car. With a low engine hum, the radio switched on as well, Janet Jackson’s What About soundtracking their tense ride. 

“No, for real - it’s too cheap for you. You wouldn’t settle for the least expensive paint option, would you?” The goth teased and mindlessly watched as the car park disappeared in the distance while they slowly made their way through the afternoon traffic. 

Bucciarati sent him a cheeky smile in response - a smirk that, to Leone’s surprise, melted his heart. 

He didn’t want to fall head over heels for the man. Or to indulge in the feeling as it was,  perhaps, with the process in itself already complete. 

As Janet’s voice listed all the wrongdoings of her partner, Abbacchio forced himself to think rationally, too. 

Certainly, Bucciarati was handsome - painfully his type, at that - though he must have been well aware of what he was doing to the goth. 

And they would not have a future together anyway, Leone tried to console himself - with their lives so different, the polar opposites, even, justice (in theory) and lack thereof (in practice). 

Yet still, the heart did what the heart wanted it seemed - as butterflies settled in his stomach for good at the sight of the gangster behind the wheel, his cheeky smile and the glow of the afternoon sunset in his hair. 

“Too cheap, huh?” Bucciarati teased and took a turn onto the ring road, heading for Marechiaro, it appeared. How ironic was it, that they lived so close by? “Alright, you win. I’m only fostering this little one for a few more weeks until it’s properly registered and good to go down south. Handcuff me now, officer?”

Abbacchio scoffed in response. Even if he wanted to, in the state he was in, he were unable to act on. They both knew it was the case. 

Though he could still bite back for the remark. 

“There’s footage of you carrying the kidnapped daughter of the CEO of Nastro, you know,” he shrugged with an innocent smile, hoping for Bucciarati to at least twitch a muscle in surprise - though none of it happened. 

“I was only fulfilling my civilian duty of returning her to her worried parents,” the gangster clicked his tongue in mock annoyance and smirked at Abbacchio: “Seeing as the police could not figure it out.”

Leone ignored the remark, glancing instead at the outside view before he tried another way:

“Of course you’d be at an advantage,” he would have rolled his eyes if he were not scared of the grimace’s grotesque appearance considering the stand’s impact. “You seem to have a way with underage people. Like that blond kid, for instance,”

The comment seemed to have caught Bucciarati off-guard. He sent Abbacchio a look of genuine surprise bordering on shock and stayed silent for a moment, as though he were weighing out different responses. 

“Look, I know you consider me a bastard and that is very fair considering my criminal record,” he finally spoke, a hint of sincere hurt barely audible in his voice. “But I promise, I’m not a creep. Not after…,” he trailed off, as though he accidentally revealed a secret he had been meaning to keep to himself. “Well, actually, let me prove it to you.”

***

“Here, these should fit you,” Bucciarati handed a pair of sweatpants and a washed out cotton t-shirt to Abbacchio. “I’d give you actual pajamas but I don’t think I have any with adjustable waistbands and I don’t want you to drop your bottoms when you’re up to get some water at night.”

Out of politeness, Leone smiled at the joke, taking time to accept the folded clothes, cursing the enemy stand’s power while at it. There appeared to be a hint of genuine insecurity in the gangster’s voice - a realization that caught the officer by surprise, the proof - yet again - that the ravenette was capable of human feelings. 

Perhaps there truly was a Bruno under the mask of Bucciarati - a groomer, a creep, a double murderer, a dangerous criminal. 

True to his word, the gangster promised to explain himself to Abbacchio - in the morning, once they both rested enough to handle a serious conversation. 

And quite frankly, the goth was content with such an outcome - he needed some time to structure and reconsider all the questions revolving in his head, all the matters he wanted to address - Moody Blues being just the tip of the iceberg. 

As he made his way to the bathroom, Abbacchio glanced around the apartment. Unlike he considered Bucciarati to be, the man seemed quite messy - books and paper sheets lay around in disorder - he even noticed a long-forgotten coffee cup on the table in the room across. 

It was quite cute , he realized to his own horror as he entered the bathroom and locked the warm-colored wooden door, how alike they appeared . Even though they had no prospect of a shared future. 

He could not, after all, date a gangster. 

The interior of the small space appeared contrary to Bucciarati's expensive tastes as well. Surely, Abbacchio had only seen the man’s choice of cars and clothes (he still owed the ravenette an apology for puking all over his shoes - but he was going to address the matter the following morning, seeing as he was not going to be turned into minced meat anytime soon) - though the modesty of the room was almost striking with its humble touch of matte white tiling and a smaller-than-average size.

The disorder he’d seen in the hall continued in the bathroom - a bunch of clothes waiting to be folded sat atop the washing machine, the mirror begged to have dried droplets of water and mouthwash wiped off of it - and a long-burned candle clung to the shelf above the bathtub. 

Amongst the mess, Abbacchio managed to notice a set of vacuum cleaner bags - or the like, plastic, as opposed to the usual recycled paper. Perhaps Bucciarati was simply an owner of a Dyson (certainly, stolen) - the unnecessarily fancy appliance the functionality of which Leone doubted whenever it came up on Teleshopping. And indeed, it suggested that the gangster was capable of cleaning.

It took the goth a while to get changed into the borrowed makeshift pajamas set. He gave up showering for the night, hoping to get down to the matter when he were once again able to move at a normal speed - and pulled Bucciarati’s - Bruno’s - sweatpants on. As he did the memory of self-consciousness in the man’s voice resurfaced. Unable to fight off curiosity, he took a glance at the tag - and felt horrible for it. 

The ravenette was only two sizes bigger than him, it turned out - though Abbacchio understood the insecurity it came with. He supposed the man had gotten a lot of shit for simply existing - and suddenly wished he had been there to protect him.

But he couldn’t date a gangster, could he? 

***

“Took you long enough,” Bucciarati laughed when Abbacchio finally emerged from the bathroom after the ungodly thirty minutes it took him to get changed. “I was getting worried someone threw you in a meat mincer or something.”

Leone rolled his eyes in response, not too bothersome about the grotesque effect it would have on the gangster this time. 

“Look, navigating through that mess would be a challenge even without this slow motion thing. Have mercy on me,” he sighed, noticing with satisfaction that a blush of embarrassment creeped up the ravenette’s cheeks. 

The man was in his pajamas too - a simple set of blue shorts and a top, devoid of any patterns. It was the first time, Abbacchio realized, that he was seeing Bucciarati not wearing long sleeves. 

The sight of tattooed arms surprised him - though the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made that the gangster would be inked - after all, they all were. In the movies, at least. 

Though this once reality stayed true to the fictional representation, it appeared. 

“Look, in my defense, I wasn’t planning on having anyone over tonight. You just happened to be stupid and got in the middle of a fight,” Bucciarati raised his hands in a self-defensive manner. Abbacchio scoffed at the remark. “Plus, you’re staring, dearest," and again, the damn smirk. "I appreciate your sense of admiration but it’s the second time today, officer. I get that Sticky’s junk is big and so is my own but I only fuck after the third date.”

This time, it was Leone’s turn to blush all over. 

“I-I’m not–,” he choked out, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god, we are not having this conversation.”

“Yes, we are,” Bucciarati laughed. “Why so prude out of a sudden, officer? I’m sure I took all my sex toys away from the bathroom, what else would have scared you so much?”

The gangster’s mocking cooing irked Abbacchio's conscience. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t left the house in such a rush, dismissing the stand matter as it had been - certainly, he did not need one and if he didn’t use it, he would soon forget he owned one. No explanations needed. 

“The sum of contrasts that you are?” He bit back, gathering the courage to hit where it would hurt. “A calm and collected gangster with a criminal history and no trace of it in the archives? A man wearing pristine suits whose bathroom mirror has seen every bodily fluid imaginable?” Here, Bucciarati raised an eyebrow in amusement but Abbacchio wasn’t done. He was spiteful. Desperate. He demanded human sacrifices: “And for god’s sake, if you invite someone over, make the effort to put your freshly washed underwear away, you shameless bastard. Who the fuck keeps hoover bags in the bathroom of all places?! They belong under the kitchen sink!”

When the gangster snorted with laughter, Leone was close to crying. He hated that it was just his body’s typical reaction to anger and frustration - as though blushing all over his face and neck were not enough of an embarrassment to handle in fury. 

“Hoover bags, oh my god,” Bucciarati wheezed and mockingly grabbed at the side of the bed for support. “Damn, your imagination isn’t the best for a crip.”

Abbacchio’s eyebrow traveled upwards in genuine surprise - earning yet another of the gangster’s sticky smirks before he lifted the rim of his shirt, revealing a plastic pouch neatly tucked under the waistband of his shorts. 

Lines of inked lace danced around it - hiding underneath, embracing stretch marks and a pink scar that ran vertically across his stomach, contrasting with the natural tan of his skin. 

“Gangsters get sick too,” Bucciarati spoke, his tone suddenly as neutral as it could get at the sight of Abbacchio’s puzzled expression. “At least it made my mother come visit more often after she dumped my dad for good,” and then his usual spirit was back, before Abbaccio managed to offer any words of consolation or even put the two and two together. “You owe me a leg story now. I’ll take the couch, you can claim the bed.”

Chapter Text

“So what’s up with this whole stand bullshit?” Abbacchio asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

He got lured into the kitchen with the smell of food - and here he was, demanding answers.  Something like a seed of trust towards Bucciarati had been planted inside him - a surprising discovery dating back to the early morning hours. “I put the clothes you gave me into the laundry basket, by the way, not sure if you want to change the sheets.”

The gangster paid him no mind, his back facing the goth as he methodically cut some tomatoes on the counter. Tattooed lace decorated his bare shoulders, the white tank top he was wearing only covering so much - curved lines running around his arms and across the shape of his shoulder blades, atop scars of some kind - Bucciarati’s skin as delicately pink as the line that, Abbacchio recalled, crossed his stomach. They resembled healed acid burn wounds - and the goth wished he did not know this, that he were not trained to recognize it, the aftermath of skin melting under the touch of chemicals. The scars appeared to be an inscription of some kind - and Leone was not sure whether or not he wanted to unveil the whole of it. 

Perhaps Bucciarati truly was human if his own organization seemed to have tortured him, too.

As Abbacchio forced himself to avert his gaze from the view - and certainly, from the curve of the man’s hips - and the lustful fulness of his thighs visible through a pair of semi-tight grey sweatpants - it occurred to him that he might have crossed an invisible line the previous night. Certainly, complaining about the mess in the ravenette’s apartment when the man had been kind enough to give him shelter was out of place - regardless of how lost and frustrated the goth had then felt. Bucciarati deserved an apology for the whole of last evening. 

All the more that Abbacchio awoke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner working in the other room. The air still carried a faint scent of household products - chlorine disguised with lemon. 

He didn’t mean to force the ravenette into guiltily taking a hold of the disorder of his own apartment. He wasn’t going to stay for longer than necessary, either - a plan that did not go quite well, either as he discovered the enemy stand’s effects were easing up much more slowly than he’d initially anticipated. 

Surely, motion came easier in the morning - still, he could not shake off the impression of fighting against the hold of invisible ropes with every move. Perhaps Bucciarati had been right the day before when he’d said Abbacchio would need a little while for the impact to wear off completely. 

Such great advice for a man with no patience. And priorities remained priorities, regardless of common courtesy - again, impatiently, the goth tried: “Hey, for real. You promised me an answer in the morning.”

At that, Bucciarati finally turned to face him. Abbacchio resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sight of the writing printed across the front of the man’s tank top. Menace, it said, the letters square-shaped, framed with rhinestones reflecting the morning sun in which the kitchen bathed. The tattooed lace pattern decorated the front of the ravenette’s shoulders, too, disappearing under the cotton fabric - though Leone would put his money on there being more of the design hidden beneath the clothing. 

“I was expecting a ‘ good morning’ first, but fair enough,” Bucciarati rolled his eyes in mock offense and sent the goth a teasing smile. “Coffee?”

“Forgive my lack of manners,” Abbacchio raised his arms in a feigned act of self-defense. “Will you judge me if I say yes to coffee but only if milk forms seventy percent of it?”

The ravenette snorted with laughter in response. He made his way towards the fridge tucked in the corner of the spacious, yet old-fashioned kitchen and took out a bottle of milk, alongside with a pack of tofu, the latter of which he placed on the countertop just beside the cutting board with tomatoes resting on it. 

“No one is ever judged in this house,” he sent Leone another one of his smiles - warmer, this time - less spiteful, unlike the previous grimaces. “And you’re lucky that I’m a certified barista.”

“Wait, are you– for real?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, watching the gangster switch the coffee machine on. Slowly (unintentionally so) he made his way to the table by the opposite wall, taking in the warmth of the morning glow illuminating the ravenette’s features, bringing out the cinnamon-colored specks of his freckles on his skin. It was already too late to cling to his dying morals, the goth realized, he was head over heels.  

“Obviously not,” Bucciarati placed a cup of milk with coffee in front of the man and retrieved a jug-shaped blender from one of the cupboards. How could the mere act of the man placing chopped tomatoes inside it be a work of art in itself, Abbacchio wished to know. “But I could get you a fake certificate if you ever need one.”

And of course, love was only ever so perfect. Their respective worlds should have never crossed in the first place. 

“I don’t think I will,” the goth rolled his eyes and changed the subject before it entered a dangerous territory: “What are you making?”

Bucciarati took a moment to respond as he blended the tomatoes into a semi-smooth paste, the sound of the appliance at work shaking the walls of the kitchen. 

“Soy hell,” he finally said and moved towards the cooker with a bottle of olive oil in his hand. He placed it aside and lit up the stove burner before situating a pan atop the metal frame above the blue fire. 

“Is this some kind of a code name for poison or-?” Abbacchio asked in confusion. Patiently waiting for his answer, he endured Bucciarati’s snort of laughter - ready to accept defeat, alongside jokes about being thrown into a meat mincer. 

“No, it’s breakfast food,” the ravenette’s amused voice grated on the goth’s overexerted nerves. As he added chopped onion and garlic into the pan, and proceeded to cut the tofu in little cubes, he finally cared to explain: “You know Eggs in Purgatory, right? It’s that, minus the eggs cause I don’t like them. Same goes for apples. Whoever decided they were edible, should have ended up decapitated. I hope they did. This is also extended to beans, by the way, but luckily, that’s one of the foods I really should avoid, according to my mother’s unsolicited advice. Or the little leaflet they give you when they discharge you after taking half of your insides out. And then, there’s a whole bunch of foods I’m really not supposed to be having but just happen to like. And I refuse to live this life without acknowledging the existence of sunflower seeds or porcini mushrooms. If it hurts, it hurts, I’m ready to pay for my mistakes.”

“I guess I feel that way about wine,” Abbacchio sighed, surprised by his own confession. Bucciarati sent him a concerned look - as though he did not just drop the most random lore of his own food misfortunes - and turned away to stir the contents of the pan before adding tomatoes to it. The goth felt the urge to explain; the possibility of being labelled an addict when he was not became too much to handle as he frantically attempted to rehabilitate himself in the ravenette’s eyes : “Wait, no, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just about hangovers and how bad they can get. Speaking of which,”  he reached into the pocket of his cargos to retrieve the long-lost handkerchief. He placed it on the table before continuing: “I’ve been meaning to return it for a while now but never got the chance. I washed it after… You know, that thing at Libeccio. Sorry about your shoes. I can pay you back if you’d like.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucciarati waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve seen worse things than that. Plus, I don’t think you’d be able to afford to pay me back, even with your rich Posilippo ways.”

“Thanks,” Abbacchio hoped the hint of relief in his voice was not easily discoverable. He ignored the mention of his area of residence, along with its hurtful remark on the little of his savings, and focused on watching the ravenette cook instead - there was no way of avoiding having his home address revealed - Bucciarati would always have his ways of finding out. 

Though Leone really wanted to trust the man. To allow the feeling in his chest to grow, the scraps of comfort to form a whole. 

There was something about the way the gangster had touched him the day before. A feeling evoking strange tension between the two of them, an electric warmth Abbacchio had so long feared. 

He wondered if it all had to do with those so-called stands - as he accepted their existence and asked no further questions. 

The new, strangely acquired knowledge of his came down to the aspect of feelings and sensations as they were - in their purest, rawest form. A certain sense of attraction towards Bucciarati. And the realization that followed - the knowing he would never escape it or drown the feeling out. 

A part of him wanted to try - to give the ravenette a chance. The attraction must have been mutual, given the flowers he had received the previous month. The courtesy with which Bucciarati treated him, despite being his polar opposite, spoke for itself too. And the vulnerability of their shared moments, the looks of concern and the gentlest of touches, the act of inviting a stranger over for the night simply so they could avoid problematic explanations - and the easiness with which Bucciarati had revealed his chronic diagnosis, with all of its stigma and taboos, people’s whispers, misconceptions, averted gazes and humiliation. 

It only made sense for Abbacchio to accept the realization of being welcome. Of being wanted, in a good way, of mattering, perhaps, somehow, to the gangster, like a person the ravenette wanted to care about. 

Bucciarati trusted him, the man realized. Gave him the benefit of doubt, despite the tense relationship between the representatives of law and order and the criminal underworld. 

It might have been that the gangster was simply naive. Desperate, perhaps. Overly optimistic. 

Or maybe he was simply human, flawed and longing for love - the complete opposite of what Abbacchio had considered him to be. 

“I might have overdone it with chilli peppers,” Bucciarati placed a plate of what he referred to as soy hell in front of the goth, snapping the man out of his thoughts. “I hope you like it spicy.”

Abbacchio’s tolerance of hot food fell into the negative numbers.

“I’ll try to survive,” he picked up his fork and dug it into the tomato pulp, piercing through a piece of tofu. “Can you explain what these stands are now? Please?”

“Alright,” the gangster pulled his own plate closer and took a sip of his coffee. “But you still owe me a leg story, remember.”

Leone nodded silently with a mouthful of food. He rested his eyes on Bucciarati, for the first time allowing himself to take in the whole of the man’s beauty without forcing himself to look away from it. 

“Stands are, like,” Bucciarati gestured around with his fork, dropping a piece of tofu back on his plate as he did. “The extension of your soul. Or the manifestation of it. Although personally, I like to think of them as the embodiment of a certain part of your soul or conscience, something you’re strongly emotionally related to, be it trauma or a special talent. They usually take the form of this to varying extents. So, for example, my stand works with zippers. I can create them from nothingness and then shove objects and people into the void within. It’s a neat idea of infinite storage space but since I don’t know where it leads to, I usually try to remember to remove perishable items, like corpses and vegetables, just in case. The main advantage is that I don’t really feel the weight of all these things and I’m the only one who can retrieve them. So now,” he leaned in closer with yet another of his mischievous smirks, then winked at Abbacchio. “I’ve got about twenty kilograms of coke in the bag you saw yesterday but even if you tried and arrested me, you wouldn’t be able to get it out until I did it.”

“I really don’t think my boss would care much about the weight of a small child in drugs given how corrupt he is,” Abbacchio interjected, trying not to wince as the spice levels of the dish before him hit full force. “Fara, the CEO’s daughter, said stands are like protection when I came to get her testimony. Is that… Is that what they are for?”

“Kind of,” Bucciarati tilted his head in contemplation. “But they also make you a killing machine. In the sense that stand users are thought of and assigned jobs in Passione. Unless your stand is like, a cookie hoover, for the lack of a better example and given your poor eyesight last night. What does yours do, anyway? Heard you got one?”

Abbacchio dismissed his initial concern of revealing the abilities of his- soul extension, as the ravenette put it - to a criminal. Bucciarati had already disclosed his own, anyway - and he really wanted to trust the man a bit more. 

“It’s like– I don’t know. It seems to be able to replay people from the past, one person at a time, in addition to the sounds surrounding them in that particular moment,” he tried his best to explain - and offered a shy smile when the ravenette nodded in understanding. “I take those bees… Or whatever they were, were that Mista guy’s stand as well?

Bucciarati snorted in response. 

“I don’t reveal my teammates’ personal information, sorry,” he finally said, idly stirring the tomato pulp on his plate. “Although I’ve got to admit, ‘bees’ are a cute allegory. I’ll tell that to Mista, he’s gonna love it. Where do you know him from, anyway?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Abbacchio bickered back, then took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. “How would I not know him if I started work soon after he got charged with murder?”

Bucciarati offered a slow nod. For a few moments, they sat in comfortable silence, interrupted only every once in a while by the sound of a car driving past the apartment windows. 

Abbacchio pondered any further questions - he was unsure which way to go without invading the privacy of gangsters (like he cared about them all, now - the ravenette was only an exception to the rule, not a representative example of the whole organization he was a part of). 

He did not exactly need or want to find out what happened to the nameless enemy stand user from the day before - the gunshots had been enough of a confirmation of the man’s fate - though, the goth realized, he could not find even an ounce of guilt or compassion within. Did it make him a killing machine, now? 

“And speaking of teammates,” Bucciarati shoved a forkful of tofu and tomatoes into his mouth, not caring to chew it properly before continuing: “Where did you get that clusterfuck of a companion of yours from, anyway? Do all newbies end up in the custody of humorless ginger virgins?”

Abbacchio resisted the urge to bite back with a remark just as offensive. As much as he understood the gangster’s dislike of the civilian structures of power, law and order, referring to Bistecca in such a derogatory way crossed the line. 

“Shut up, he’s my best friend,” he snapped instead. “At least my work partner is of age, you know?”

Bucciarati placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. 

“Oh, struck a nerve?” He laughed and pretended to wipe a tear away. Certainly, the man had his habits. “Sorry about that. And I hate to break it to you but you don’t exactly choose to join the mafia. Save for my latest recruit, unfortunately, but he’s irredeemable. Where’d you get that leg, anyway?”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes before answering the gangster’s question. 

A part of him wanted to sound excessively dramatic, simply for the sake of the man’s reaction - and to pay back for his attitude the moments before - though at the end of the day, there were nothing to talk about but teenage bravado and bad luck. 

“You know when Massive Attack played Arena Flegrea in 1994?” He started, giving Bucciarati a second to offer a nod of acknowledgement. “My old man didn’t want to let me go see them. I was fourteen and quite good at climbing over fences, though, so I didn’t care much, really. I just grabbed some friends and we went. The plan was to get there through where there would be least security. I almost made it - almost, ” he laughed at the memory of hanging against the net before his clothes gave up. “But my t-shirt - or maybe my pants, I can’t even remember - got caught on the wire. So I got stuck, like, imagine,” he paused again and earned a snicker from the ravenette. “Just hanging there, upside down, basically before I actually managed to grab at the net again - but as I did, the fabric tore. And I fell, legs first, my right snapping backwards. Three surgeries, a year with a granny walker, now we’re here. It was fun, not gonna lie.”

Briefly, Bucciarati’s eyes widened in disbelief - though the look he gave Abbacchio was rather playful - a sparkle of condemnation for stupid teenage ideas and their consequences - and a hint of admiration of the dedication to his then favorite band. 

“But do you have any pictures of yourself from that era? I’d love to see your angsty baby goth self with a walking frame covered in skeleton and bat stickers,” the man asked as he placed his fork away on the empty plate. 

Abbacchio rolled his eyes in disbelief - though he had to admit, Bucciarati’s directness, along with the playful way the man bickered with him almost constantly this morning, felt oddly comforting. Cute his ways were, Leone realized as his gaze met that of the gangster, cheerful sparkles glistening in the ocean blues. 

“I mean, it wasn’t covered in stickers or anything like that, mainly because I didn’t quite want to see it much,” he laughed. “But my mom should have some. Stoma bags for walking frames, I guess, if you really wanna see who's cooler of the two of us. I can have a look and show them to you next time we see one another.”

“Next time?” Bucciarati - Bruno - tilted his head teasingly and flashed a smile at the goth. “Will there be a next time?”

Chapter Text

The effects of the enemy stand power wore off by the evening. 

Bucciarati had been kind enough to let Abbacchio hang around for a few more hours, despite needing to attend to, as he’d put it, work matters. 

And Leone made use of his alone time in the gangster’s apartament. 

Awaiting the ravenette’s return, set aside on the stove, there sat a pan of seafood linguini. 

The goth would be lying if he said he did not enjoy making it. 

The process provided a sense of domesticity - a grounding technique he desperately held on to, alone in the disorganized little flat and its surprising simplicity of design. 

Initially, he had not been planning to commit to the act at all - the idea contained itself in waiting for the effects of Prism Of Life to ease up enough to allow him the freedom of movement - though as time passed, boredom crept in, uninvited - and with it, the desire to occupy his fastidious mind. 

Idly wandering around Bucciarati’s flat only provided Leone with short-lived distraction. It kept him busy just long enough to pass midday - though the rather impressive collection of books and records eventually ceased to entertain the goth. 

Still, the ravenette had great music taste, Abbacchio had to admit - tapes, vinyls and CDs of Miles Davis stacked the shelves, and between them - albums of various kinds, a blend of genres the existence of which the white-haired man would have never accused Bucciarati of knowing. 

The psychedelic cover artwork of Bitches Brew clung to the record whose name stood behind the namesake of the man’s stand - which, nota bene, the goth had initially confused with Motley’s debut - a selection that would have taken him by surprise if it were true - and which would have fitted the gangster just as well. Too Fast For Love life in the mafia seemed as it was - too dynamic and uncertain to bother feelings exceeding the primal instincts of survival. 

And yet, a living contradiction of the statement stood in front of Leone - the back of Sticky Fingers’ cardboard case casually resting against Sade’s Love Deluxe, then a set of CDs: Logical Progression, Jodeci’s The Show…, Underworld, a couple of Rober Miles’ releases, then Lethal Injection, Erotica, Five Live, Homework - the list went on. 

The familiar, painting-like cover artwork caught Abbacchio’s attention from the top of the stereo system tucked in the corner of the room. Curiously - though very much in Bucciarati’s fashion, the vinyl itself sat inside the record player carelessly set askew one of the two wooden column speakers arranged on each side of the Hi-Fi. Agharta.

Leone supposed the ravenette unplugged and replugged the sound system to each device, depending on the album he fancied playing at a given time. 

Though he was genuinely impressed by the collection. Jealous, too - somehow - as the sight of Dir En Grey’s Gauze caught his eye. 

He didn’t think Bucciarati would be the type to listen to visual kei artists - Buck Tick, Soft Ballet, SHAZNA - perhaps. But the heavier bands? 

Maybe he was simply temporarily keeping it for someone. Or sold pirated albums at weekends. The record - clearly unobtainable in Italy as it was - certainly did not come in a cassette format. 

Abbacchio made a mental note to ask Bucciarati if he could borrow the tape and copy it for himself. 

He had to admit - the impressive album collection, along with book-stacked shelves - classic and modern literature, foreign volumes of queer fiction - quite a number of them, with an English-Italian dictionary and a pencil sat beside it - all of it brought to mind a sense of domesticity, of averageness he did not expect the gangster to display at all. 

And yet. 

Upon further investigation, Abbacchio found framed photos displayed around the flat - Bucciarati, Mista, the kid the goth had seen at Libeccio the other week - and some other unnamed teenager with an orange bandana poking through his unkempt dark hair; Bucciarati, an unknown tattooed woman with a black bob - and a navy suit with his face cut out of the picture, posing under a massive rainbow flag, hidden behind a transparent listing the main four gender and sexual identities in various colors - Roma Pride 2000, Leone knew because he had been, too. 

Was the blue-clad faceless man the ravenette’s ex , the goth wondered, a situationship gone wrong? Did the man mistreat him? Or did he simply convert to straightness, bicurious with the intention to see if he truly liked swinging both ways, only to decide boobs were better in the end? 

And most importantly of all: Was the man still alive? Or did he end up decapitated, the photo - a mere suggestion of it? 

Abbacchio wished to know. 

On the wall in the tiny hall, just above a table with a simple white crochet doily sitting under an empty flower vase rustic in design, he found a set of what appeared to be family photos from different stages of Bucciarati’s life. 

There was the ravenette, in black-and-white, older not much more than seven years, posing with who looked like his parents, judging by the common features - on an Aztec-patterned blanket laid out on the beach at sunset. And then a pre-teen, lanky, with pride shining in his blue eyes, holding a fish like a trophy, his father’s hand resting on his shoulder. 

And sixteen, Abbacchio supposed, not much different from what he looked like in the morning, maybe slightly more baby-faced, there was the gangster named Bruno and his old man again, both more tired, more worn-out, and in some way more sickly, too, though, it seemed to the goth, in different ways. 

Then, tucked behind the same frame, there sat a smaller polaroid picture of modern-day Bucciarati forcing a smile as he towered over his mother standing beside him - and shrunk under the size of her, Leone presumed, new partner, a foot taller than the ravenette - a set of twins wearing a matching set of clothes to the man’s right. 

Quite on autopilot, Abbacchio reached for the photo and flipped it around. 

Milan, Christmas 1999 ~ family reunion, it read on the back - and then, in sharp cursive: my ass. 

The goth couldn’t help but chuckle at the little remark Bucciarati must have added. The ink differed in color, the handwriting style did not match either - it only made sense to deduct the ravenette’s doing. 

Was he not on good terms with his mother? 

Abbacchio assumed so - the man had mentioned his parents’ divorce and the woman not being keen on visiting afterwards, the night before. 

Though the goth did not mean to pry any further. 

Somewhat ashamed of uncovering the note at the back of the picture, he tucked the polaroid back behind the frame on the wall. 

He supposed Bucciarati would open up in due time if he wanted to - when he wanted to, should there be another meeting between them. 

And a part of Leone wanted it to happen. 

***

Cooking dinner was not on Abbacchio’s schedule for the day - surely, boredom and hunger eventually brought him into the kitchen but it was not until he discovered a tupperware box of frozen seafood that the idea occurred to him. 

He wanted to repay Bucciarati for his kindness. 

And in the end, the simple act turned into a small victory of his, as the man’s eyes lit up the moment they fell on the pan sitting on the stove, shortly after he walked into the kitchen just past five. 

Abbacchio could even ignore the bloodied traces on the gangster’s white suit - and the presence of a gun sitting in a cupboard, an accidental discovery he’d come across while looking for a small knife to disembowel defrosted shrimps. 

“How are you feeling?” Bucciarati’s question carried a hint of genuine concern when he reentered the kitchen, his hair damp, a set of casual clothes covering his frame. 

He looked just as hot with his fringe brushed back. 

“Faster,” Abbacchio begged his face to remain as pale as it tended to be as the thought hit him. “I think I’m back to normal now.”

“Normal?” Bucciarati tilted his head playfully. “You got a stand and stayed over at a criminal’s, I don’t think you can simply retrace to the baseline now.”

If it were not for the past twenty-four hours the goth had spent in the ravenette’s company, he would have considered the man’s words a threat. Now, though? They seemed a mere tease after a long day of work matters, whatever those were. Leone didn’t really want to know. 

“I can pretend,” he grabbed two plates and placed a couple of spoonfuls of pasta on each. “I won’t really need this stand thing anyway.”

“Do you think so?” Bucciarati accepted his portion with a grateful smile. “Is that what you’re going to do now?”

Abbacchio hummed in response and placed a carafe of water on the table. Ice cubes, mint leaves and lemon slices swam in it - the contents of the ravenette’s fridge emptied ever so slightly.

Reaching for his own plate, the goth caught a glimpse of something like a blend of compassion and contempt in the other man’s eyes - directed at him, discontent with his answer, perhaps. 

“What else am I supposed to do?” He slid onto the spare chair at the table and rolled his eyes. “I’m on sick leave until the end of next week, fair enough, but then? I’ve got a job to return to. One that you should worry about, by the way.”

It was a half-joke, Abbacchio knew - a remark Bucciarati caught on to right away as he rolled linguini onto his fork, snorting in response. 

“Handcuff me for existing, officer?” He teased and stabbed a shrimp before shoving the portion of food into his mouth. Then, to the goth’s horror, he rambled on, each word growing more serious: “And then what? Fara was a mistake because idiots happen to work for Passione. All muscle, no brain, you give them a target and a map, and of course they’re going to fuck it all up because they’ve been holding it upside down the whole time - so they get the wrong person from the wrong location.”

Abbacchio blinked in surprise, his loving expression of Bucciarati gone in a matter of seconds as the realization hit him - that despite of the little sweetness of his, the man was still a remorseless criminal valuing his own comfort above everyone else’s. 

Though it seemed the gangster must have caught on his horrified expression as he waved his hand - and the fork with it - in a dismissive way. 

“I wasn’t involved in that, by the way,” he spoke, his tone suddenly more grave. “I never had to - don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I was, to be honest. But it was a hot topic in all Passione circles for a week. A girl lured in through a dating website was going to be the target but the people responsible for her abduction turned the map upside down, I kid you not - so instead of San Giovanni, they ended up in Chiaia and got the wrong person.”

Abbacchio was not sure whether or not he should buy into the man’s explanation - certainly, Bucciarati had an alibi for everything. Even if the mention of guilty conscience made him feel suddenly human in the goth’s eyes. 

“Yet, you still allowed it,” he remarked and pierced his fork through a curled-up spinach leaf. All of which Bucciarati pushed to the side of his plate. “Noble attitude or not.”

“I don’t think you understand how the mafia works,” there was a hint of contempt in the ravenette’s voice. “Certain decisions simply cannot be made. Not because I fear for my life but because losing it wouldn’t change a thing. Everyday I’m forced to watch atrocities happen and all I can do is passively look away. I’m entangled in the very same business that caused my father’s death. And the police aren't doing anything about it, either, not because they don’t want to but because they can’t. Passione is too big of a system to be taken down. That’s why I told you to stay away from the sex trafficking case. Sorry to break it to you but you would have figured it out in due time anyway.”

Abbacchio slowly placed his fork back on the plate. Stunned, he sat in front of Bucciarati for a few more moments as the air around them thickened. 

Suddenly, there was no trace of the sense of domesticity he had felt in the morning. Thoughts of the future seemed rather futile, too, considering the gangster’s words. 

All that lingered was a sense of threat looming in the distance, gradually approaching him and the fragile sense of safety and purpose he’d built in the last couple of years. 

A part of him wished he’d broken his back instead of just a leg back then, six years ago. Or better yet, his neck.

The remark of the man’s father simply slipped his mind.

“I take it, this is an ultimatum,” he finally spoke, not daring to look Bucciarati in the eye. “Should I just drop the case?”

“It’s more of a warning,” the gangster spoke - and his voice carried unexpected softness in it. “Just be careful, that’s all. Do justice to Fara but don’t touch the whole network. You won’t get to the bottom of it anyway. If anything, they’ll find you first. And trust me, you don’t need to be a Kate Moss lookalike to end up in the industry. Quite on the contrary, actually, they’re looking for people who stand out. Tall, goth, androgynous? Your father’s reputation won’t save you, Leone. It won’t if they get you.”

Against his will, Abbacchio scoffed in response. Perhaps it was the fact of being addressed by his first name. Or simple disbelief. 

Bucciarati raised an eyebrow in surprise - as though to ask the goth to elaborate on his reaction - and the man did:

“How can I know you’re not simply trying to lead me away from your business?” He asked, somehow irked by how uncaring the ravenette seemed as he pushed yet another cooked spinach leaf to the pile on the side of his plate. “You said you’re not involved in this kind of stuff. How can you be so sure about what’s going to happen to me, then? And if you’re not involved, why were you assigned to return Fara to her parents? I’ve seen you around literal kids before. How can I trust you’re not some kind of a sex trafficking creep? Maybe you like grooming them to get laid because it’s easier to go with someone if there’s an imbalance of power? Maybe you’re simply insecure, given all your,” he regretted he’d allowed himself to get this far, but there was no way to backtrack now. “ ...Issues? ”

Bucciarati scoffed in response. For a moment, Abbacchio expected to be pinned against the table for his insolence, given the look in the man’s eyes that followed - but the gangster just shrugged instead. 

“I’ll simply assume it’s your own insecurity speaking since you don’t seem to have had much dating luck. Seeing as you’re still living with your parents,” he bit back before his gaze softened. “Answering the rest of your questions, though - they’re all very valid but rest assured I wouldn’t be so nice if I were directly involved in that stuff. I wouldn’t have let you go on for so long - so I’m assuming they don’t know yet - or don’t see you as a threat given the case is going nowhere. I had to return Fara to her parents only because the guy who had originally been meant to do it earned a bullet in the head the day before and a quick replacement was needed. My evening schedule was free, so,” Bucciarati spread his arms helplessly and pushed away yet another spinach leaf. “You don’t really get to choose the jobs you wanna do, you know? I tried to make sure she didn’t suffer much on her way back home, I promise. Why do you consider me a creep, though? I think I’m offended,” he offered a smirk and stabbed a shrimp with a fork before setting his curious gaze on Abbacchio. 

“I saw you with a kid that day, at Libeccio,” the goth explained. “And, well. They followed you out - I’ve seen enough bullshit by now to safely assume it could have been grooming.”

“But it wasn’t,” Bucciarati cut him off sharply. There was a glimpse of growing annoyance in his eyes - even if he was not outwardly showing it. Though Abbacchio was not scared anymore. 

“They all say that. Why’d you need a literal teenager with you, then?” He bit back just as fiercely. His mind wandered off, courtesy of a sudden adrenaline rush - the gun in the cupboard was within arm’s reach, family photos be damned. 

“Because they’re a part of my team. Because that’s the only place in society that won’t harm them. Because they’ve been through stuff you can’t even imagine, officer, with your rich family home and comfortable life. You don’t join the mafia as a fad, you know? And the contemporary stability you’re so used to might be gone, just like that,” Bucciarati snapped his fingers with a mocking smile and rolled a portion of pasta on his fork. As though he did not care about the seriousness of the conversation. Like he were only trying to prove Abbacchio how wrong he had been with his judgements, with his trust. And he wasn’t done just yet: “You wanna know how one joins a gang? It goes like this: One day you watch your father go on a fishing trip. In the early morning hours of the next, your hands are forever stained with blood because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then you’re left with no choice but to turn to the very source of the problem, asking for help. The following week you find yourself the property of your capo, an errand boy. Then you grow just old enough to not make impotent officials feel weird about fucking a child. And suddenly you’re half-naked in a hotel room, ridden into unconsciousness and no one gives a damn about your flares, your inflamed insides, your age, your dignity, your humanity. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

Bucciarati must have found a sick sense of satisfaction in the way Abbacchio’s expression grew more and more shocked with his every word. It certainly provided entertainment - the man’s eyes widened in horror and the lack of words of consolation to offer - a silent plea for the ravenette to stop talking, to save them both the trouble of facing the ugly truth, the clear indication which the gangster deliberately ignored as he went on. 

And indeed, the goth sat stunned at the table, his eyes moving slowly between Bucciarati’s face and the pile of spinach on the side of his plate. Was he supposed to apologize? To show compassion? To take notes? Perhaps he ought to admit his failure, his mistaken ways - he supposed - caving in to avoid the heated discussion turning into a fight - though truth to be told, he could not find any words that would seem appropriate. 

That the mafia was bad enough as it was, he knew. That the man before him had been forced into sex work, had been through the very same path the victims of the case he was working on, followed? It seemed too much to handle, despite all the sensitivity training he’d been through at the academy - as though textbook theory failed to prepare him for the uncertainties of real life. 

“Do you not like spinach?” He asked instead, earning a soft chuckle from Bucciarati, as though the last couple of minutes had never happened. 

“More like: spinach doesn’t like me. I’ll tell you in detail when we get closer, people have different perceptions of appropriate conversation topics, after all,” the ravenette attempted to joke, as though he interpreted the abrupt question as a suggestion to switch topics - but Abbacchio was not in the mood to pick up on it. Disenchanted, the man then pulled out a familiar set of Alfa Romeo keys from his back pocket and laid them out on the table in front of the goth. “I brought your car here, by the way. It’s parked across the street.”

Abbacchio did not even want to wonder how and when Bucciarati got a hold of said keys.

***

The air-conditioned interior of his own house welcomed Leone with open arms. 

The place was empty - and the goth could not have been more grateful as he uncorked a bottle of white wine and took a sip straight from it, not even bothering to grab a glass. 

Ignoring the familiar dull ache in his knee, he tossed his cane onto the kitchen floor and, limping, made his way onto the terrace. Somehow it only felt sensible to suffer. 

Grateful for the area to be shaded from prying eyes with a row of juniper trees, he leaned against the wooden box hosting his mother’s herb garden and took yet another sip of alcohol. 

Reality tightened its grips around him without warning - and suddenly, the events of the last few weeks combined became too much. 

He needed a break. 

Colliding with Passione’s atrocities and the conflicted feelings for Bucciarati which he could not get rid of resulted in a sense of frustration manifesting itself as tears that rolled down his cheeks before he even knew it. 

Sniffling, he wiped them away - the ache of injustice in his chest tightened as he did - and more salty traces followed. 

He hated the way in which the safety of his privileged life collided with the ugly reality of the corrupted world. It was not what his father had promised him when he’d talked about a career in the force. 

It was not what he signed up for, either, when he first discovered he were not into girls at all. 

And yet, here he was, unable to shake off his crush on Bucciarati, regardless of how tensely each of their interactions ended. 

Here he was, ashamed of his initial thoughts of domesticity and the idea of how hot it would be to date a car thief. How exciting it felt to snatch one, along with the perspective of fast rides under the open roof, sunset or not, wind in his hair, Summer Jam on full blast. 

And it hurt, too, the naive sense of hopefulness when it turned out they were both disabled - an unexpected common trait bridging their separate worlds, a sense of understanding Abbacchio longed for for so very long - not needing to prove himself to anyone, anymore, not having to suck it up when it hurt for his struggles would simply be acknowledged. No questions following, no doubts expressed. 

A part of the goth wanted to believe giving Bucciarati a chance was worth the while - before reality kicked in, the necessity of accepting the man being a part of the underworld and what it meant for a police officer, too. 

Certainly, they should never be seen together. 

Yet, Leone refused to let go. Of the kind smile, the freckled cheeks, the gentlest of touches. The horrible jokes and the uncalled-for confessions. Like the gun in Bucciarati’s kitchen cupboard had been just a toy. A costume house party leftover, the man’s impressive collection of records soundtracking the gathering. 

Cigarette smoke dancing around them and pizza laid out on the table, the way Leone wanted to see them. The photos on the walls - a lucky charm covered up as the music quieted down, dancing people - just a memory - and the two of them, an entanglement of limbs on the ravenette’s bright red Ligne Roset. 

La petite mort, the gentlest of touches - and how the goth’s sexual frustration ached. 

About a warm summer night, he wanted to fantasize - the chill of an evening breeze brushing past him somewhere down in Marechiaro as though it wanted to compete with the warm, gentle touch of his lover. 

And the taste of sweat and perfume he longed for - androgynous, herbal and musky Hermés - or perhaps Valentino - a blend of salt and bitterness on his tongue - a flavor he wished were not simply the ache in his chest and the taste of his tears. 

And the saline trace he swallowed with wine - he wished - were the other man’s own little death of pleasure and fulfillment. 

Chapter Text

Bruno Bucciarati stopped believing in happy endings at the age of seven. Misfortunes, regardless of their magnitude, became his middle name - his parents’ divorce forming only a prelude to the tragedy of fate’s doings. 

Or perhaps he grew so used to the faithlessness surrounding him, he eventually gave up any sparkles of optimism. 

Accustomed to the takeover of primal instincts for the majority of his childhood and adolescence, he did not allow himself the space to dream. To hope. Pain - physical, twisting his insides, its grand finale bringing only momentary relief; and emotional, ripping apart the safe haven he had considered home, over and over - was all he knew. Like a principle to live by, it formed a constant reminder of his own placement between the devil and the blue sea. Of the cruel reality of the underworld and how it sucked him inside before he even knew it.

And yet. 

The unexpected introduction of Leone Abbacchio in his life put in question all the beliefs he’d held on to thus far. 

And he wished he could simply give in to the temptation. 

But love was dangerous, their worlds, their lives - the polar opposites of one another. With no space for a compromise, Bucciarati already knew the graceless ending awaiting his love story. 

Though a part of him, in its childish naivety, craved the other man’s affection. Maybe it was Abbacchio’s smile that made Bruno’s knees go weak. Maybe his cooking skills. 

Or perhaps simply the act of the goth perceiving him as a human being, the acceptance of all the little burdens of existence that came by. 

The ravenette could not find the right words to express how much he appreciated such an attitude. 

There were not many people who had the pleasure of meeting his true self. The Bruno behind the mask of Bucciarati. To most, he was cruel. Cold and calculated - and a little weird - because he had to. As a strategy to assert dominance, necessary in the world he was a prisoner of, his stance lacked his innate kindness. 

Yet, some got to see it. He didn’t always have to play around to get things set his way. Polpo’s way. The elderly ladies in his neighborhood formed just a tiny exception - although he would sometimes grow sick of their expectant tone, as though he were their lord and savior, sent to save them from the burdens of real life. 

Abbacchio became one of those few people who met Bruno , too. 

Bucciarati was not planning for it to happen, not initially. There was no space for love in the mafia - and, consequently, no happy endings - he had originally hoped to ignore his crush on the officer for however long he needed to, all the way until it ceased to exist. 

Only that it didn’t. 

And here he was, just a few days ago, caressing the man’s skin, hoping - in vain - to comfort him in light of the unknown. 

That the goth was scared of him came as a surprise - he did not look the type, six feet tall, heavy boots, a police uniform - and all.

And because Bruno never had the chance to grow up properly - or to learn how to support people in need - he trusted his instincts instead. 

In hindsight, inviting an almost-stranger over to his place seemed an unwise idea. Certainly, his little Marechiaro flat (the same one he inherited after the few years he and his father had spent living in it, when it had become too difficult to manage Paolo’s deteriorating health and Bruno’s frequent, half-a-month-long flares, despite their joined efforts) was not a safehouse or a place discovering the location of which posed a certain degree of risk; but if Abbacchio decided to turn his back on the ravenette, he knew where to find him with an arrest warrant.

And Bucciarati knew the police would come for him after he’d made himself visible around Fara’s place. 

In fact, he expected Bistecca to knock on his door sooner or later - the man seemed the type - overly confident, loud and pretentious, virgin mustache and handcuffs.

The ravenette was certain, the officer would abuse his power in ways no one could prove for they fell within the limits of his workplace rights - passive-aggressive threats, coerced testimonies and the like. They were all like that. Noble hearts.

Though Abbacchio was not. 

It pained Bucciarati to see the man try so hard to fit into a world that was not cut for him - and never would be, with his sense of justice too prominent in the way it noticed the senselessness of the system as a whole - and accepted rules only so long as there was a point in following them - if they served a purpose. 

In a way, Bruno was the same. 

Too soft for the mafia, too human for its atrocities, too rich to belong among his own, Portici kind, too uneducated to make real impact, too sick to consider himself cured, too healthy to complain, too kind for those who did not care, too harsh for those who did not get to know him well, he made no sense to the world and it, in turn, made no sense to him. 

Too inexperienced in love and affection he was, too detached from his sense of self, his body - a vessel - too infatuated to care.

***

The moment the train moved heavily from the platform, taking off in the direction of Milan, Bucciarati regretted ever wishing he had not become a gangster. 

Surely, life in the mafia was as unaccommodating as it got - but at least it provided him with the comfort of a new car, the convenience of cutting through lines of waiting people, of back entrances and infinite possibilities. 

Facilities he certainly could not hope for, travelling incognito for his quarterly family reunion. 

He’d hoped he would be able to skip it - dismissing the initial September invitation with heavy workload, holding on to the lie for as long as he could - yet here he was, almost two months later, forced to visit, as though his mother had not once broken her promise of coming by every weekend only to show up twice a year. 

To say they were not getting along would be a grave understatement. 

Though Gloria was Bruno’s mother after all - and a sense of responsibility drove the man’s unwanted, yet faithful trips. 

She was the only one he had left from his closest relatives - the only one he could turn to in times of need, all because he’d once been stupid enough to confess that yes, he’d gotten himself in deep shit trying to bring his father to safety - and it just so conveniently happened that her very own new husband - a respectable businessman - still engaged in smuggling electronic appliances through the border. 

Bucciarati couldn’t stand the man. 

Acting as though he were the most knowledgeable of all, Bruno’s mother’s new husband flexed about his adventures of having a truck worth of Sony TVs investigated at a checkpoint - and, as adorable as it sounded, the ravenette wished the man would never have to make the calculated choice of who - or what - to save. That he would never end up pointing a gun at someone’s head. 

Overall, though, Gloria made herself a decent life up in Milan. And Bruno couldn’t really blame her - she was not fit for the modesty of suburban residence down south. Coming from the riches and entertainment on demand, she surely grew bored of her rather introverted husband, his strong opinions on food waste and upcycling, along with his rather pitiable reading list. Ten years of marriage - she would often say, once Bruno got older - ten years of her life taken away. 

No wonder she quickly settled in Milan and remarried a man of her kind. She - a fashion designer by degree, he - a businessman by profession; together, they ran a company which sold fine fabrics to some of the world-known brands. And they raised a pair of twins in their free time. 

Bruno wished he were not forced to interject between the little family of four, even if just for the weekend - clearly unwanted, queer and a walking mystery - a relic of the past, his mother’s mistake from the first marriage. 

She always claimed she loved him. And for the first few years of his life, Bruno really felt cherished. Then he got sick and - although he knew it were not the case - began to consider himself a problem with the way his mother would have to take days, then weeks off to look after him. Her job as an art teacher at the local school made it easier, Bruno supposed, to stay home than his father’s occupation with its early mornings and late sunsets, the smell of fish that had so often made him feel even sicker during flare-ups. 

He just accepted it as the truth - the fact that he owed Gloria a visit after all that she had once done - sacrificed? - for him. Years of radio silence be damned. 

In fact, it was only after Bruno’s surgery that his mother retook an interest in his life. A part of him felt grateful it took the woman so long - certainly, if it were otherwise, by then, she would have figured out that her son’s necessary evil of a mafia job was not all about innocent smuggling and stealing car radios, the way he had told her. 

It was easier the way it was - safer for her - more feasible to keep her away for as long as possible, going to the extreme of Bucciarati listing Polpo as his legal guardian when he went in for a routine checkup sometime between Paolo’s death and his eighteenth birthday. 

Yet eventually, Gloria reappeared - carrying plastic boxes of boiled rice and carrot, and a set of branded pajamas customized to fit her son’s newly acquired stoma bag in a waist pocket she’d added herself (so ingenious she was), she showed up at the hospital one rainy morning shortly after Bruno celebrated adulthood with treating himself to a rather drastic improvement of life quality - she walked right in through the door, knowing he had no means of escaping her now - she invited herself in, offering an accusatory Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t well? as a greeting. 

It took Bruno forever to convince her that he had, in fact, been feeling better than ever in the last week, his inflamed colon removed, his ass sewn shut - meaning no more forced anal sex; blow jobs and submissive clientele only until he found a permanent solution to being forced into the oldest occupation in the world (the latter of which he saved for himself). 

And now - and ever since then - Gloria expected Bruno to show up every three to four months so they could, as she put it, keep in touch. 

It was quicker to get to Milan by train. 

And Bruno Bucciarati hated every second of it. Even if it meant avoiding the risk of getting caught in a stolen car somewhere on the way to his mother’s place - or worse, while already there.

The compartment felt unusually cramped - its air stuffy with heat, the last warm weekend before the gloomier half of the year collecting its harvest. It smelled a mixture of cheap perfume and snacking food - the kid tucked into the corner across from Bruno had been finishing a pack of fromage chips when he’d walked in, after all.

The woman sitting opposite from the ravenette would send a glare every so often - as though there was something wrong with the worn-out denim jacket or the khaki cargo pants he was wearing. 

And then, there was the man sleeping by the window. Snoring like his life depended on it, his mouth left agape, he had been that way ever since Bruno got on the train. Which meant the stranger either was a fast sleeper - or perhaps Naples had not been the starting point of the journey, despite the tracks ending at Centrale. 

The ravenette was certain he would go insane within the next four or five hours if at least one of the people gathered around him did not get off somewhere on the way. 

Surely, he could zip the poor snoring stranger’s nose shut - thus stopping his sequence of steady grunts and huffs, interrupted every so often with an unexpected stir and a deeper breath - though he did not accidentally want to suffocate the man. 

Or he could change compartments if his patience ran short - standing in the passageway was, perhaps, a much better way of spending the rest of the journey than putting up with the fidgety kid’s greasy fingers tapping at every surface within their reach. 

And it would save him from the glares of the woman opposite him - unless he gave in to the absurdity of the moment and simply asked what her deal was. 

***

“Travel went alright?” Fredo Barbieri - or Bruno’s step-father - dug a spoon in his bowl of minestrone and, not waiting for the ravenette’s reaction, continued, as though he were talking to himself: “Good? Great then, I hope the train wasn’t too packed.”

Bucciarati hated the man. 

Sat across from him, beside his wife, one of his kids on each side of the dinner table, Fredo grinned in what was probably meant to be a welcoming smile - showing a golden canine in a grimace that came off rather sardonic. His hair was greying ever so slightly - leaving silver traces in the otherwise jet black strands tucked away with gel, curling only at the ends. 

With the heavy rings on his fingers and the way he smelled of expensive, yet tasteless cologne, he was the embodiment of a person who should not be trusted. 

Yet, he thought he had so much in common with his step-son. 

And Bucciarati wished he could just so casually mention how he’d blown someone’s brains out for treason just the week before - simply to see the man’s reaction, his shocked flinching as the realization that the ravenette was not at all the ever-so-kind car radio smuggler he’d considered him to be, hit him at last. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not with the twins present at the table - Ale and Cleto, or Cale and Leto, he could never remember their names - much too young for such revelations; and certainly not around his mother - he owed her that much. 

“Just a bit crowded,” he offered a neutral response instead. “But it’s a Saturday so it makes sense.”

“Certainly,” Gloria nodded from above her bowl of soup. “Do you not like the food, my love? I made it so that you could eat it without worrying. It’s from a fitness brochure a friend of mine gave me - I’ve been really enjoying the recipes there.”

The ravenette suppressed a sigh. Surely, his mother had poured her heart and soul into making the minestrone - though he wished she’d reconsidered the choice of her words. 

Gloria had a tendency to express her worry by announcing it to everyone involved - whether or not they were willing to listen. That Bruno’s body shape was a direct result of her own genes being passed onto him, she knew perfectly well - for years he had seen her ineffectively try and win the fight with nature as she’d tried any miraculous weight loss trend that would come by. 

And he felt sorry for her and for her fruitless struggle - while being at peace with his own looks at the same time. Perhaps it came with the sense of detachment he’d mastered with his clients’ inches deep inside him - a degree of separation between the mind and the vessel - or maybe he simply liked himself for the way he was. 

Gloria would be devastated to hear that he never wanted to return to the lanky, pre-teen figure of his for it was a direct effect of a flare that lasted for weeks on end. He was not exactly keen on repeating the experience. 

And the mention of his dietary restrictions, she could have given up, too - surely, his IBD had never been a secret as it was - but people’s reactions only had so much to offer - and Bruno wished to last through at least one family dinner without receiving a warning look from Fredo - as though the man wanted to ask if his step-son could potentially leak again, the way he had for Christmas the year before, like it were his own fault that the adhesive gave out overnight. 

“I do like it, mom,” the ravenette lied, taking a spoonful of soup fluid to his mouth. The minestrone was not that bad of a choice - only that, all vegetables combined, the amount of fiber in the food left little space for imagination. Bruno’s metabolism would surely boost to its maximum capacity if challenged, considering the blend of spices added to the dish. Fredo’s pristine sheets and Bucciarati’s peaceful night be damned. “I’m just not really hungry? I guess.”

It was yet another lie, he knew - though one worth the while as long as he could snack on something safer once the dining area was empty. 

Somehow, Abbacchio knew exactly how to cater to his needs. Probably because he was limited to the contents of Bruno’s fridge - yet still, nicely so with his pasta virtuosity. 

And normally, Bucciarati would not even have minded the addition of spinach - though his body refused to break it down for whatever reason and with a dirty, violent job awaiting him the next day, the ravenette wanted to save himself the inconvenience of pulling out green leaves from the shower drain after washing grime off his clothes if things went wrong. Because they tended to. More than often - it only took one bad hit - and Sticky Fingers offered no immediate solution besides patching up the torn plastic surface. Bucciarati’s illness - and the solution for it - were far from graceful. 

“You must be tired after the trip, I take it,” Gloria concluded - oblivious of, or perhaps resignant towards her son’s reasoning. “Why don’t you rest up for a little bit? I’ll let you know when supper’s ready.”

“Any hopes for focaccia?” Bruno asked in response, genuinely in favor of the possibility. Bread couldn’t really hurt him - and with the right amount of olive oil, it understood the struggle of being stuck in a city he hated. 

Even if just for a couple of days. 

***

The thoughts of Abbacchio caught Bruno off-guard. Hidden in the comfort of the shaded building gate - its barred underpass leading out onto the gardened inner yard - cigarette in hand and an old, forgotten hoodie around his frame, he was surprised by the memory of the man - and the reminder of his own feelings regarding the matter. 

Though the truth was, he longed for the goth’s presence. Every conversation they’d had so far - regardless of their tense outcomes - brought to the gangster’s mind a feeling of deep connection. As though he had known Abbacchio - Leone - for ages. Like they were soulmates. 

Bucciarati had never been convinced by any spiritual beliefs as they stood - yet he could not deny, he felt a strange sense of attachment for the white-haired man. A mutual, he hoped, longing for their little talks to never, ever end.

Opposite him, a movie rental was closing up for the night - posters of Coyote Ugly and Titanic stared back at him from behind the window bars. 

And just like that, Bruno began to wonder about Abbacchio’s cinematic taste. He was curious to know if a movie date would work out for the two of them - a bowl of popcorn and some wine - or coke, perhaps, to make it feel like a proper one - to go with it. 

They could watch 10 Things I Hate About You - even though Bruno had seen it thrice by now. Certainly, the title fitted their interactions quite well - and offered a teasing opening to something more, perhaps. An allusion towards the backseat and panties to be collected after the seance. 

Was the ravenette in love? 

He supposed it must have been what was happening to him - a strange feeling of butterflies in his stomach and the way the mere thought of the goth lifted his mood instantly. 

Was he allowed to be in love? 

His surroundings would certainly disapprove, he knew it. Polpo would mock him for idealism, then order someone to clean up after his lover quietly, without traces - if he ever found out. Though Bucciarati was not going to break the news to the man. 

And maybe just a little bit, naively, foolishly - he wished for his feelings to be reciprocated. 

Deep down, he knew - he hoped - his mother would cheer for him. 

Even if he didn't believe in happy endings.

Chapter Text

The beginning of December brought with it the reintroduction of Christmas decorations all over Naples - a dissonance of design disagreeing with the city’s sun-bathed streets in place of snow; ripe oranges adorning park trees - the only festive addition which did not feel out of place. 

Inevitably, the start of the final month of the year meant Abbacchio’s return to work - although quite frankly, the goth was itching for his sick leave to end. 

The couple of weeks dragged on forever - after a few days, boredom crept in, uninvited, and with it, the dangerous temptations of the insatiable mind. 

Innocently, they introduced the curiosity of Leone’s newly acquired superpowers - Moody Blues’ capabilities tested every evening - and with it, the reestablishment of an old hobby of his, one that he had dropped for once and for all upon realizing he had not been immediately good at it. 

Years and years of such a dismissive belief proved him wrong, it appeared - and as he finally dug out a forgotten set of charcoals and pencils shoved under a half-filled sketchbook dating back to his teenage years, a pastime activity which had faithfully kept him company at the hospital, his unfulfilled potential resurfaced.

With the green-haired gangster to blame, Abbacchio picked up art again - the few composite sketches of Moody Blues’ replays of the criminal offering more insight than the photos which, upon development, revealed no more than the empty walls of the goth’s room. Clearly, the ghost in the police station backyard had been right when it said some people were chosen. Destined to see stands. 

Drawing provided a good distraction from the overall atmosphere in the Abbacchio household - though Leone could only hide away for so long. 

The situation improved briefly when Aurora flew in for a visit - bringing with her the privilege of the eldest daughter, the success of the golden, firstborn child - though as soon as she left, something - perhaps the unanticipated distraction in his otherwise well-planned week of yet another retirement adventure of reading the newspaper and hovering where least expected, ready to complain about the decaying state of the world and its morals - set Niballo off, as though the woman pulled a trigger of inconvenience with her departure. 

Leone’s unannounced disappearance for a night out, along with his lustful attire, the smell of foreign, yet masculine cologne brought back home upon his return, became the cherry on top of the cake of his father’s ice-thin patience - as though the man had not been confused enough as it were, his son’s mysterious sick leave at fault.

Niballo had no proof but he held on to the hints - grumbling, complaining, not responding - or yelling. Whichever method seemed of convenience at a given moment. 

And so the younger Abbacchio began looking forward to his return to work. 

With the night spent at Bucciarati’s, commenced what he considered to be a new era of his adulthood. Irked by his father’s never-ending complaints and the perspective of facing years and years in Bistecca’s tiring company, while tempted into the unknown by the couple of days in Marechiaro, a part of the goth longed for more. He wanted to experience the rawest form of human emotion, the viscerality of love, of madness, of seduction. He was ready to make mistakes. To allow himself to. 

To unleash the traits he had so long been taught to suffocate within. 

He craved recklessness, restless in the cage of formal expectations, bound by the tight fabric of his work uniform. 

Certainly, if he’d been able to accept bribes for so long without anyone complaining, he could pull the string a little bit further. 

Everything was legal so long as one did not get caught.

And so, with innocent composite sketches and dutiful replays, there soon came a set of familiar features, smudged against the coarse paper. Short fringe in disarray, red crayon lines accentuating the dyed strands framing the face of the gangster Abbacchio longed for, the dangerous criminal, the killer kid, double murderer, at that. 

Though these days, the goth was not scared anymore. A solitary trip to Marechiaro, the street name and the building number scribbled down in his notepad, he rediscovered the unexpected signs of old-fashioned romanticism in him. 

And as he weighed out the various pros and contras of his possible decision, it finally occurred to him that the creative flow and the black-haired man occupying his mind successfully distracted him from the bottle. Before it became too late, he supposed - this unhealthy coping strategy of his dismissed, at last. 

Thoughts of Bucciarati - Bruno - acted like a protective shield against Niballo’s complaints and brickbats. Somehow, they made the grave atmosphere in the household bearable. 

And Abbacchio accepted them. Hell, he welcomed the gangster’s introduction into his conscience with open arms (and open legs). 

He was in love - and in love he wanted to be. 

He craved it. Lust, sensuality, devotion. Enamoration. A reciprocation of his feelings, at last - and the mutual trust that would follow. 

His collection of sketches grew and with it, a sense of frustration manifesting itself between his legs. As the drawings became anatomy studies, paint me like one of your French girls and the like, he finally caved in - picking out the best couple of portraits, he dug out the almost-forgotten Marechiaro address inscription. 

A love letter would not be necessary, he supposed as he shoved the folded sheets into an envelope. A little note scribbled across a gift tag accompanied them - more like a symbol of sorts, a quick sketch of a single rose beside the writing - ‘ ~ If you’ll have me?’ - for there were no point in lying. 

***

“Guys, do you think I should propose to her?” Bistecca asked from above the two tramezzini resting on a plastic single-use plate before him. 

Abbacchio did not expect to start his first day back at work offering matrimonial advice - yet, here he was, remnants of ruchetta salad on his plate and a rather unamused Canaderli beside him. 

“Depends on how you feel about it, I guess,” he shrugged, fixing his gaze on the few leftover chickpeas staring back at him from the ceramic. “How long have you been together?”

That Bistecca had a girlfriend had been a revelation on its own - although it appeared to be true, Abbacchio remembered several mentions of the woman in the last few months. 

Yet, a proposal idea took the goth by surprise. He did not expect to enter the weird age of half of his friends still living in their family homes and their other half starting independent families just yet - then again, Aitano’s twenty-eight birthday was coming up next summer - perhaps nearing it meant settling down. At just a little over seven years younger, Abbacchio could not really tell. 

It would be different for him anyway, a state-approved wedding of his own unattainable in the near future - Canaderli would know. Then again, asking her about marriage advice when she was just about to rest the love of her life six feet under felt rather inappropriate. 

“A year at the end of the month,” Bistecca grinned in response. Something like victory was painted on his face - a cheerful grimace which made him appear younger than he was - and for a brief moment, Abbacchio was willing to buy into the casualness of the man’s question, into genuine love the way he saw it, the intimate details of it not touched upon - though the redhead followed up: “I mean, it seems appropriate. I took her out on three dates before we became official, and we go out for dinner twice a month these days - which makes a steady relationship progression. Then, considering the fact that we had our first time around the end of sum-,” here, Abbacchio buried his face in his hands while Canaderli attempted to silence Bistecca with a gesture - to no avail, as it appeared - for the man continued, oblivious to the change of mood and to his listeners’ discouragement of sharing rather obnoxious details about his sex life: “-mer and have made it a regular thing every Saturday evening since, it seems about time to propose, then get married next summer and have two kids by the time we’re thirty.”

“Damn, casanova,” Canaderli took a deep breath to steady herself. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

Abbacchio desperately tried to save face at the woman’s words - though the Lothario allegations towards the redhead, along with a resurfaced memory of Bucciarati referring to the man as a “clusterfuck of a companion”, taken together, resulted in a rather poorly suppressed snort of laughter - which escaped his nostrils in the most unfortunate moment, that of Bistecca offering a genuinely affirmative answer to Canaderli’s rather ironic remark. 

And so, the redhead’s expression changed and his gaze locked with Abbacchio’s.

Something like rage - blending with confusion and genuine hurt - burned in Aitano’s eyes as he stared right into Leone’s soul, like he were expecting an explanation. 

“What?” He finally spoke, seeing, probably, that Abbacchio was not going to elaborate upon this rather unexpected connotation. 

“Nothing,” Canaderli took a deep breath, steadying herself before she finally cared to elaborate - exaggerating every word as she did, clearly still amused with the situation as a whole. Though could she - or Abbacchio - truly be blamed for it? Neither really signed up for Bistecca’s sex life stories. “What I mean is that your approach is very methodical. Schedule-like, almost. But love is spontaneous. If you feel like it, propose to her. Just don’t plan the rest of your life so meticulously, or else it will lose its meaning.”

“What, because the next item on the list is a funeral?” Bistecca finally caught on, it appeared - though again, in the wrong way. 

Another wave of laughter died down in Abbacchio’s throat. Canaderli simply took a sharp inhale and sent the redhead a glare - earning yet another confused look in response before she got up and grabbed her empty food tray. 

“Precisely,” she offered a cold smile of agreement. “Get your tickets ready.”

***

The briefing was dragging on forever. 

Cases unrelated to Abbacchio’s own, insensitive jokes interjected throughout. A glance at Bistecca, then another one. The man’s thumbs dancing together in a steady rhythm - the focus of Leone’s attention. 

The sleepiness of the afternoon, the unnecessary gathering. Rapes, murders and abductions treated with lack of care and dignity. Slut-shaming. Mocking distressed relatives behind their back. Dismissing clear signs of abuse. 

Law and order at their finest. 

“And finally, I would like to praise the hard work of lieutenant Aitano Bistecca,” Seppie glanced around the room until his eyes met the redhead’s hunched figure. “Thanks to his dedication in the last couple of weeks, we have been able to get a hold of Massimo Volpe, thus crumbling down a piece of the cocaine chain plaguing our beautiful city. We’ve also made great progress in the case of recent sex trafficking incidents. Would you like to elaborate, officer?”

Abbacchio watched as Bistecca hesitantly stood up from his seat and took a look around the room, meeting the expectant glances of his senior colleagues. 

“I, uh, well,” the man cleared his throat. “First of all, a huge thank you to the chief officer for his consideration,” here, Seppie offered a self-satisfactory grin in response. Abbacchio’s stomach twisted. And Bistecca continued, somehow synchronizing the pace of his blinking with the number of syllables in his words. The goth had never seen the redhead this stressed. This absorbed in the situation: “We know that the coke case and the sex trafficking one are related, Massimo Volpe being the common thread. The drugs Passione sells are the same ones used to intoxicate abducted girls. Massimo is also involved in the recent rise of car thefts around Italy, it appears. Along with Bruno Bucciarati, alias Sticky Fingers, they seem to be a part of the same scheme, with the latter doing the dirty work while Volpe takes care of the legality of paperwork for each vehicle. I’ve been able to confiscate a few falsificated registration documents put forward for Naples alone and it’s, well, it’s not looking good.” Suddenly, Bistecca’s demeanor changed. It appeared as though the man gained some confidence in his own words as he went by, his position suddenly altered ever so slightly, a proud smirk dancing on his lips - yet his arms remained crossed like a protective shield against the world. “A lot of officials seem to have ordered vehicles from abroad. The method is similar to what we heard about in the 1980s - Bucciarati secures a deal with the owner, takes their keys and the car along with it, while they report a theft. Then they share the loot, in this case: the insurance money and however much is made upon delivering the car to the one who ordered it. Of course, there are more details to the case, such as all the other parties involved and stuff but that’s how it works for the most part. The downside is, we can’t just up and knock on the officials’ doors because they’re the ones who fund the force so we can’t really get a hold of Bucciarati to put him behind the bars along with Volpe and Polpo that way; but it just so conveniently happens that our very demanded gangster is also associated with the sex trafficking case. He was seen on the Nastro estate - let me explain,” Abbacchio was sure Bistecca only added the interjection to boost his own ego. “- The daughter of the company’s CEO was accidentally kidnapped by the mafia and suffered irreversible brain damage as a consequence. Long story short, with the evidence at our fingertips, the next step is to talk to him. A warrant should come through within the next couple of days.”

Abbacchio sent a concerned glance at Bistecca when the man finished his monologue, at last. With Seppie’s nod of approval and the room bathing him in an applause, Aitano lowered back into his seat - and only then did his eyes meet Leone’s. Though judging by the encouraging smile the goth received in response, his worried look must have been misinterpreted as troublement with the workload of some kind. 

A lot, it seemed, happened while he was on sick leave - he only wished he’d had the time to catch up with all the revelations before the briefing - simply so he could warn Bistecca to drop the case before it was too late. 

With the updates listed as they were, the impossibility of solving the issues of sex trafficking - and all matters associated - stood rather clear. 

Though Abbacchio knew, with Seppie’s praise and the room’s approval, Aitano would refuse to back down - especially when he was - he believed - so close to solving the mystery. The goth’s concerns would end up dismissed with accusations of jealousy. 

His genuine worry? Blamed on nepotic selfishness. 

Bistecca’s hurt pride at fault, the act of ridiculing the man with a simple one-liner at lunch turned against the goth.

The best he could do, it seemed, was to warn the other side of the conflict before it were too late. 

***

“Good afternoon, gimp officer.”

A car stopped by the pavement where Abbacchio stood, attempting to shove two VHS tapes into the overfilled space of his backpack. Paying a visit to the local movie rental on his way back from work had seemed an excellent idea - until he collided with the reality of the perspective of carrying Clueless in his hand out in broad daylight (even if the sun was setting) all the way back home. Then again, it wasn’t his fault that he enjoyed watching cheesy romantic comedies in his free time. Besides, he also rented The Matrix to counterbalance. “What you got there?”

Abbacchio took a deep sigh before turning to face Bucciarati who sent him an innocent smile from the inside of his car - a new one, this time - and, how predictable of his tastes - a Ferrari. A recent release, the 360 Modena.  

The goth could only wish the man luck outside of the city with that infamously low suspension. 

“Call me gimp officer again and I’ll have to think of something just as offensive,” he rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, earning a scoff from the gangster. 

“More than happy to judge the originality of your ideas,” the man grinned, then leaned back into the car, only to open the passenger door - as though he did not care about the incoming traffic. 

Then again, the couple of vehicles that overtook the Ferrari did not even dare to sound the horn before passing by - certainly, they suspected what the consequences of their actions might be. “Come on, get in, darling.”

And Abbacchio obeyed, unsure whether it was to prevent the poor door from eventual damage or simply because deep down, he’d been longing to see Bucciarati. 

As he slipped into the beige leather-upholstered seat, the gangster grabbed one of the two VHS cases sticking out of his half-zipped backpack. The goth only raised an eyebrow at the directness of the gesture - though the ravenette paid him no mind.

“ Clueless, how cute,” he concluded, flipping the box around in his hand. “Got any plans for the evening? We could watch it at mine if you’d like. I have some microwave popcorn, I think.”

Mindlessly, Abbacchio nodded in response and shut the door, then placed his cane in the narrow space between its surface and the seat. He was more than interested in a movie night.

“How did you find me?” he asked, grateful - to an extent - for Bucciarati’s unexpected arrival. As he straightened his legs under the dashboard, a familiar ache reappeared - certainly, a walk home, even if it took ten minutes, would have been painful. “I’m beginning to think I’m being followed.”

“You called on me and I came,” the ravenette laughed. The car slowly gained speed - as it did, Bruno sent Leone a quick glance, a smile dancing on his lips. “Thanks for the drawings, by the way. They’re really good. Where did you learn?”

“Self-taught,” Abbacchio shrugged. Reaching for the volume button, he turned the radio down to a degree - Sonique’s It Feels So Good becoming only as much as a quiet background track to their conversation. “For the most part. My sister helped me a little when I was a kid. She’s an illustrator now so I guess she knew what she was talking about.”

Bucciarati nodded in contemplation.

“Impressive,” he added, stopping at a red light. “Have you got more?”

The goth thought of the collection of sketches in his desk drawer, the ravenette’s face drawn from different angles, highlighting his blue eyes and angelic features - then the anatomy practice, several sheets of it, the gangster draped in velvets like a modern god, the fabric gradually slipping down his frame to reveal his nakedness - or Leone’s imagination of it - at last. 

“No,” he shook his head, putting extra effort in the gesture’s convincingness - only to earn a laugh from Bucciarati. 

“Liar,” the gangster teased - then, before Abbacchio had a chance to react, he leaned in closer - and just when the goth was expecting a kiss, there came a sensation of something wet and warm against his cheek. “A cute liar, but still. A liar.”

“What the-,” Leone raised an eyebrow, wiping a trace of saliva away from his skin. “ Did you just lick me? ”

“I might have,” Bucciarati sent him an innocent look. “Aw, did you expect a kiss?”

“Duh,” the word escaped Abbacchio’s mouth before he knew it. As it did, the goth felt his cheeks flush with warmth - and the more he thought about his response, the less appropriate it seemed. 

Though Bucciarati just sent him a playful smile - just as the traffic lights changed from red to orange. 

“Bad timing, honey,” he shamelessly brushed his fingers against the fabric of the goth’s uniform pants covering the man’s left thigh and put the car in drive.

The reflection of the green light flashed in his eyes. 

Chapter Text

“You know what, there’s one thing I’m struggling to understand,” Bucciarati’s fingers traveled all the way up Abbacchio’s chest, caressing his skin through the fabric of his work shirt. “How on Earth did you end up in the police force?”

The goth laughed in response, teasingly forcing the ravenette’s hands away from his frame - only to be met with more insistence. The man truly had sticky fingers. 

Though Leone didn’t mind it. 

“You know, one does not exactly choose to join,” he bit his lip, moving away from Bruno as he reached for the yellow plastic case of Clueless. His word choice was deliberate, too - and he hoped the gangster picked up on it, on this dialogue banter alluding to his own confession from just a little over two weeks ago. 

As he got up from the sofa to push the tape into the VHS player located under the TV, Bucciarati let out an unhappy hum, loosely grabbing at his hand while it was still within reach. The short touch sent shivers down the goth’s spine. He wanted more. “My father was still the chief officer around the time he completed my thirty-year-plan so he simply forced me into it. Bribed the examiners so they could let me in without the endurance test, at that.”

“Speaking of which,” Bucciarati sat up straight, his brows furrowed. It only now occurred to Abbacchio how much the thick, dark arches fitted the gangster’s face. How nicely they accentuated his eyes, bringing out their deep ocean blue shade. “Should you be walking around like that?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the goth laughed in response. There was something adorable in the sight of a remote control pointed at him in a somewhat accusatory manner as Bruno nodded towards his cane tossed carelessly on the floor. “I do it all the time when I’m at home.”

“But should you?” The ravenette crossed his arms. In the look which he sent Abbacchio, there sparkled a hint of genuine worry. It did not go away when the man suppressed a hiss, briefly resting his weight on his bad knee when he leaned in to push the tape into the VHS player.

“Look, that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he laughed in response, hoping the sudden shift onto his left side moments later was not as noticeable. “Can you rewind, please?”

“Sure I can,” Bucciarati pointed the remote at the TV. As the image on the screen sped up, moving backwards, tape waves running across the picture every so often, he crossed his arms again. “Besides, you’re stealing my lines, dear. Now come here.”

The gangster needn’t even have patted the empty space beside him - Abbacchio obeyed the moment the words had been spoken and limped his way back to the red plush illusion of a giant cushion that the man’s Ligne Roset was. 

Bucciarati lay sprawled across its length, the cozy crimson inviting the goth to join him where the shape of the piece arched to fit into the corner of the room.

And Leone accepted the offer - high on the elevated state of his spirit, running on endorphins, the gangster’s innocent touch back in the car at fault, he dropped onto the softness of the sofa and allowed Bruno to rest his head in his lap. 

He craved more. 

The sweet taste of enamoration left him longing, his desire forever unfulfilled. 

There were no place for rationality. 

That he was willingly spending his time in the company of a criminal did not matter - the opinions of his respectable co-workers and family members alike carelessly dismissed.

He wanted more. And Bucciarati was offering him the sweet taste of pleasure, bringing with it a sense of belonging, at last. 

Perhaps Abbacchio was enabling the man to go too far. As he allowed the soft, sticky fingers up his shirt and under his collar, the ironed stiffness unbuttoned before he knew it - it came down on him - he did not want to stop. 

And when the familiar hands dived under the freshly washed, white fabric, he offered no resistance. 

On the screen ahead, Cher was listing all the advantages of her privileged life, her sweet voice bragging about the jeep kindly gifted to her by her father because obviously, she had to practice for her driving test. 

On the black, polished coffee table before them, popcorn was cooling down - its greasy smell barely noticeable under the contrast of Bucciarati’s perfume, notes of citrus and herbs embracing Abbacchio as his own hands brushed past the gangster’s tattooed shoulders, before he pulled the man closer, letting the soap-traced scent of sun-kissed skin intoxicate him. 

It brought to mind richness in its simplicity, the combination of luxury in modesty, fresh linen sheets, early sunrises - and the sound of waves lazily hitting against the seashore. 

“Can I kiss you?” The question followed unexpectedly as Bucciarati’s gaze locked with his own, the familiar ocean blues asking for permission. 

“Of course you can,” and there came a reply - or so Abbacchio thought. He might have well nodded - it did not matter moments later, once the ravenette leaned in, his soft, warm lips sliding between the goth’s own, passive for a brief moment until they both found their common rhythm, a steady fight for dominance as Bruno’s tongue slipped in-between. 

When did they switch positions, with the gangster atop of him, Leone could not tell. 

And he did not care much about it, either - Bucciarati’s hands fumbling about the buttons of his chest before he gave in and zipped it open, allowing the cotton folds to fall sideways, exposing the goth’s pale skin - the only thought on his mind. 

“I didn’t know you had a nipple piercing,” came a curious remark, quickly followed by a series of kisses tracing Bruno’s way down Abbacchio’s neck, until he stopped at the collarbones. “Why just one, though?”

“I pierced both,” Leone suppressed a moan when the gangster pressed his lips against his skin once more and let out an interrogative hum, looking up briefly, as though he were expecting the man to continue. And Abbacchio did: “It was a drunken bet from the academy, shortly after I turned eighteen. Hurt like a bitch and then I lost the screw-on bit after showering one day. Never found it, had to take it out, now there’s only one ring left.”

Bucciarati laughed softly and laid his head on the goth’s chest. 

“Quite an invasive birthday gift,” he concluded, gently caressing the silver stud piercing Abbacchio’s right nipple. “Suits you, though.”

“Thanks,” Leone placed a lazy kiss on top of the man’s head, then reached to idly play with his hair, braiding it half-heartedly. He dismissed the question of the appropriateness of the acts they were committing to - what mattered was the present, there and then, the weight of Bucciarati’s head against his chest, the touch of his silky, black strands - and  the background noise of partying teenagers, Rollin’ With My Homies, a song that would be stuck in his head for the next week or so. But he didn’t mind it. Taking in every aspect of his surroundings, the ravenette’s cologne, the softness of the sofa, the reds and brasses of the sunset outside, the goth only realized how little they knew of one another. And how much there was yet to uncover. 

Taking advantage of Bucciarati pulling away for a brief moment, he grabbed at the bottom edge of the man’s red t-shirt in hopes of undressing him, too, simply so he could caress that citrus-and-soap-scented, tattooed skin - though the ravenette’s hand stopped him before he as much as revealed his lover’s abdomen. 

“I’d rather keep it on for now,” behind the request in the gangster’s tone lingered a sense of insecurity - and Abbacchio obediently withdrew his fingers, returning to braiding the crown section of Bucciarati’s hair instead. “If that’s okay with you.”

No follow-up questions were asked. The goth offered only as much as a nod and a reassuring smile - he was not planning to pry any further. 

“Seems like we’re not gonna watch it tonight,” he motioned at the TV feeling somewhat sorry for Cher as she lay on the tarmac of an empty parking lot, mourning not only her new shoes but the dress she was wearing as well. “Poor thing.”

“Poor thing indeed,” Bucciarati agreed with a pitiful smile and grabbed the bowl of rather cold popcorn. With an innocent smirk, he laid his head in Abbacchio’s lap, situating the dish on top of his stomach and grabbing a handful. “You’re comfy, you know that?”

Abbacchio’s expression melted at the gangster’s words. He couldn’t quite believe the man before him was the same person he had once feared - the dangerous criminal, a killer kid, a double murderer. 

How innocent Bucciarati appeared, now, smiling at him from below - the goth could not help but appreciate as he leaned in and placed a kiss on the ravenette’s forehead. Grabbing a handful of popped corn moments later, he successfully averted his attention from the movie playing on TV. 

“I thought it would be better, honestly,” he remarked, nodding at the screen. “It’s quite boring. Don’t you think?”

“I take it, groping about would provide a lot more entertainment?” Bucciarati laughed in response. As Abbacchio nodded, blush crept up his cheeks - all the more when the ravenette sat up and placed a kiss against his lips, biting off half a seed of popcorn dangling off the goth’s mouth, at that. He truly was irredeemable. And yet: “I suppose it would make our third date, wouldn’t it?”

“Was there ever a first?” Leone teased, earning a displeased pout from the gangster. “On a serious note, though, as a hopeless virgin, I don’t think I’m ready to have sex just yet. I don’t even know what to do, how– where to start.”

The confession caught him off-guard, along with its vulnerability and the fact of how unexpectedly it came, a sudden switch in the mood - a necessity to make matters clear - while he still had the guts to do so. 

“That’s okay,” Bucciarati sent him a smile. “Quite frankly, considering how detached I am from my own body thanks to… work matters, if you’d like… How about we get to know each other better before we go any further? Just so we don’t mess it up? We can play twenty one questions or something.”

***

Perhaps this was how they should have started in the first place. A coffee out and a walk, followed by a nice dinner date - the way Abbacchio’s mother had once advised. Never have I ever, a game of preferences. A sequence of oversharing continuing until late night, growing more tactile the darker it got outside. Somehow Bucciarati was unable to keep his hands off the goth. 

“Teach me how to DJ?” He asked, neatly plaiting Leone’s white strands into a loose braid, sending a relaxing wave of tingles down the man’s head and spine. The sensation caused the unexpected mention of Abbacchio’s favorite pastime activity to pass by without notice - until it hit him that he had never even once mentioned it around the ravenette. 

“How do you know I can do it?” He raised an eyebrow and turned to face Bucciarati who just shrugged innocently. 

“I might have ignored your request to be left alone once,” the man confessed, raising his arms in a self-defensive manner and laid on his side. “Only once though, I promise. You’re really good at it, you know?”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. Despite his best efforts, he found himself unable to find even as much as an ounce of annoyance within - as though the few stolen kisses on the ravenette’s sofa left him utterly smitten, irrational - like an adolescent in love. 

And yet, he did not mind it at all. Nor did he care about the rush of the moment, the way he and Bruno seemed to have jumped into intimacy, ignorant of the sensible principle of the brightest fire burning out the fastest. 

It did not matter. All they had, Abbacchio thought, was there and then, like an act of rebellion against social conventions, the rotten system - and his parents, at last. 

High on love, he saw the future so bright - as though some leftover sense of longing for the better days lingered on a year into a new millennium, regardless of how unfitting it felt now, twelve months after the y2k problem had brought nothing but meaningless speculations; and  naive hopes for the changes of modernity, whatever they might have been, died with time. 

There, on the softness of Bucciarati’s king-sized bed, nothing mattered. Abbacchio’s job, his coworkers and their issues, the mundane reality, ceased to exist. For the few hours he shared with the gangster, lying beside him, breathing in the smell of the man’s shower gel they both shared because yet again, unexpectedly, though unsurprisingly - the goth was staying overnight. Only that neither of them claimed the couch tonight. 

“I can try to teach you,” Abbacchio offered - earning a smile from the ravenette - and laid down too. “But I can’t help you if you’re not gifted.”

“Suppose I am,” Bucciarati sent him an innocent look. “All it takes is just pressing buttons at random, right?”

The goth laughed in response, resisting the urge to roll his eyes ever so playfully. 

“You’re so cute when you’re clueless, you know that?” He smiled and fumbled for Bruno’s hand under the covers. As he grabbed it, he entwined their fingers and placed a kiss on the man’s lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you what all these buttons and knobs are for, honey.”

“Honey?” The gangster raised an eyebrow. Abbacchio simply shrugged and reached to turn the bedside lamp off. Though Bucciarati demanded his answers: “Come on, you can’t just drop pet names straight out of Mariah Carey’s songs and go to sleep.”

“Yes, I can,” Leone laughed, pulling the man’s hand closer to his lips and placed a kiss against his knuckles before cutting the light. “Goodnight.”

What he got in response was the ravenette’s frustrated groan. Whether or not the man feigned it, he could not tell. 

Movement was what came next - a rustle of sheets and a sensation of warmth as Bucciarati turned onto the other side, his back facing Abbacchio. 

For a few minutes, the two lay in silence beside one another - the goth weighing out the pros and contras of unexpected spooning. Though he had to admit - Bruno’s position was perfect for it. Together with their slight height difference and the way the man curled into something like a fetal posture, stealing three quarters of the duvet for himself, the opportunity asked for a sleepy hug. 

And Abbacchio gave in to the temptation. Gently, he wrapped his arm around the ravenette’s waist, relaxing instantly at the warmth of the man’s body touching his own. 

Seeing as Bruno did not protest, he tightened the grip ever so slightly - the softness of the gangster’s stomach and the slippery plastic texture of his bag under the fabric of the man’s t-shirt pressed against his bare skin. 

Though Bucciarati stiffened. And Abbacchio moved his arm further up, wrapping it around the man’s ribs instead. 

As the bedside clock evenly ticked seconds away, it appeared both of them stopped breathing for a moment. Bruno - for fear of rejection, perhaps. Leone - reconsidering his decision, worrying he’d crossed some unexpected boundary of the gangster’s without meaning to. 

He loosened his grip around the man’s body, close to withdrawing his arm completely as the air around them thickened. 

“Do you mind it?” Bucciarati’s question cut through the silence - and in his words, there was a hint of uncertainty. Of fear of abandonment, perhaps. 

“Of course I don’t,” Abbacchio’s arm stayed where it was. He supposed he owed the gangster some elaboration of his words, an explanation of his decision process - and so he tried, choosing them carefully: “I just didn’t want to cross the line of intimacy without your consent. I appreciate it might be different for you.”

Bucciarati stayed silent for a while. Abbacchio wondered just how much he’d hurt the man. And whether he would be granted forgiveness. 

“I don’t mind,” the gangster finally spoke, turning to face the goth. In the dimness of the room, illuminated only by streetlight faintly pouring through carelessly closed curtains, Abbacchio could see as much as the vague lines of his features - though even such an incomplete image made it clear, uncertainty danced on the man’s expression. “But I’ll understand if you find it… offputting, if you’d like. I mean, it gets fussy a lot of the time. Noisy. Does what it wants, like an unruly toddler. Then there’s leaking part and all the–”

The gangster was not given a chance to finish as Abbacchio pulled him close and silenced with a kiss. Running his fingers through the man’s unruly hair, he closed his eyes - seeing that Bucciarati did the same. And after a moment of hesitation, the ravenette’s body relaxed under Leone’s touch. 

“I don’t mind,” the goth repeated when they pulled apart - their fingers remaining entwined. “I really don’t. You’re allowed to be sick and you’re allowed dignity. It doesn’t bother me.”

In response, Bucciarati simply sighed. He stayed quiet for a moment, with only his eyes fixated on Abbacchio as though he were studying the man’s features in the darkness. 

“Thank you,” he finally spoke - and something like a hint of an uncertain smile flashed across his face. “I’ll hold you on to that.”

“Please do,” Abbacchio reciprocated the expression, leaning in to steal yet another kiss from the man. “So can I spoon you for the night?”

***

And slowly, they fell into a steady rhythm. Like kids in love they could not keep apart, be it hideout dates or takeaway coffee walks where no one could see them. 

As the chilly December air embraced them, they both craved more. Cooking dates at Bruno’s or the man sneaking into Leone’s house, zipping through the wall of his room, snickering at the goth’s desperate attempts to shush him, the man’s parents in the adjacent room - completely oblivious to the unexpected presence of a gangster under their roof. 

And with enamoration, there came trust. Slowly but surely, it replaced the fear Abbacchio had initially felt for Bucciarati. Quite irrationally - unwisely, perhaps - it made the man cross the boundaries of good taste and basic safety - the ravenette’s car parked around the neighborhood and with it, the sweet taste of adrenaline as they drove down the ring road in all the stolen ones, a new vehicle every day - as though Bruno was doing it on purpose, to impress - or maybe to amuse the goth. 

And Abbacchio didn’t mind. 

Like kids in love they were - inseparable, loud and obnoxious - at the mere age of twenty, on the verge of expected maturity and the very contradiction of it, their brains yet to fully grow up - warm bodies pressed against one another, taking it step by step, principles of respect - Bruno refusing to undress, keeping his hands away from below Leone’s waist. 

“Alright, so you might wanna start by cutting out the high tones,” and like kids in love they were, promises valued in gold, Abbacchio’s chin resting on Bucciarati’s shoulder, his hands guiding the man’s fingers around the turntable, two vinyls spinning steadily on either side while together, they twisted the respective knobs corresponding to the sounds of interest. “And now you just start mixing the new track in.”

“Like that?” The ravenette hesitantly pushed up the right slider, a surprised expression painted on his face - and how it melted into a frown when the rhythm of Millenium Stringz did not quite match that of Fable. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Abbacchio smiled, pressing a couple of unnamed buttons to the left side of the mixer. “I looped it for you so it blends in nicely, alright?”

“Alright,” Bucciarati reached for the percussion knobs, turning them down ever so slightly - and hesitantly, followed suit for the lows. 

And - tell me a fable, a fable, a fable, a fable, a fable - over and over it was until he pushed the right slider up again slowly, pulling the left one down at the same time - allowing the words to melt into steady synths cutting the vocal part out completely before Abbacchio leaned over his shoulder, pressing yet another mysterious button and twisting the knobs all the way to the right so that the melody transitioned into a steady beat with anticipatory electronics atop of it, soon joined by repetitive piano chords. “Damn, it’s complicated.”

“Only if you don’t really know what you’re doing,” the goth laughed. “You’ll figure it out, honey.”

“But will I?” Bucciarati crossed his arms and sent Leone a hesitant glance. Unconvinced by the man’s reassuring nod, he pressed a random button, accidentally looping a tact or two of the piano-featured electronics, turning the song into chaos. “Oh my god, oh god.”

“You have to count them,” Abbacchio laughed and brought both sliders down, then placed a kiss on the ravenette’s cheek. “That aside, you’re doing great for a beginner. Keep it up and we’ll do a joint set for New Year’s Eve.”

To that, Bruno sent him a terrified glare. He shook his head rather vigorously, watching the goth swap the Miles vinyl for a Magnetic Pulsar one - and moved aside, allowing the man to take control over the mixer completely, as though learning by passively watching was a more successful method. 

“I’ll leave it to you,” he leaned against the wall with an innocent smile. “But you can dedicate a song to me. Or the whole set if you’re brave enough.”

“Sure enough, Agharta, ” Abbacchio shot him a grin and silenced the piano chords. “Hand me Sunshine? It’s the blue one with a seagull on the cover. Says ‘Take You There’ in brackets. This one’s not cutting it quite well.”

Bucciarati offered as much as a nod in response - as he dug his way through the box of vinyls situated on the edge of his own kitchen table. He had to admit - the sudden introduction of a nickname alluding to his favorite record - and, as the goth had recently informed him, to a Westbam classic-to-be as well - took him by surprise - though it stole his heart, leaving him completely smitten, head over heels for the man. 

As though he had not been before. 

“Where are you gonna take me, then?” He joked as he glanced at the record title and removed the vinyl from its case. 

“Love Parade,” Abbacchio took the disc from his hands, then placed it on the empty platter on the left-hand side of the mixer and pressed down the loop button. “What do you say?”

Chapter Text

“And what do we do when a stranger is offering us candy?” Bistecca beamed at the few rows of schoolkids sat before him, countless pairs of eyes fixated upon him in anticipation. 

“We say no ,” a cacophony of voices answered him, loud and screechy in their demeanor, together with the ever-moving mass of tiny humans it belonged to, children squirming in their seats, gap-toothed smiles of pre-teen innocence. 

Abbacchio was not made for a babysitter. 

Certainly, he never wanted to have kids of his own. 

He did not even sign up for a series of anti-drug talks given at various schools in Naples, the yearly necessity which formed a part of elementary education - and he was not fit for an archetype of a good cop. 

Though Bistecca seemed to have settled right in. And his habit of talking back to Seppie earned them both yet another punishment, seeing as they got used to traffic control and grew to like it - regardless of how pointless of a task it appeared with the level of corruption surrounding the force. 

Schools, though? The chief officer surely must have been euphoric when he came up with the idea, a price to pay for a sick leave and for actually getting closer to solving the case he had deemed too complex to lead anywhere. 

On top of which, Bistecca seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. 

Abbacchio resisted a scoff at the thought, mindlessly handing a sticker sheet to the man so he could award each kid equally for their participation in the workshop. 

As the children lined up to claim their paper badges, chattering loudly, talks of lunch, Powerpuff Girls and The Cramp Twins, some rather timid guy screeching unexpectedly soon after he gingerly accepted the offering of an electric shock chewing gum toy, the goth rested his eyes on the clock across from him, the digits ticking away the seconds that separated him from a free evening. 

Or as free as it could get with his workday only ending at seven, thanks to siesta, Seppie - and Bistecca in tow. 

He was not made for this. 

Perhaps he was not even fit for an officer at all, seeing as he was enjoying Bucciarat’s company much more than he should be - the few rides around Naples in stolen cars forming only a prelude to his strange infatuation with the man. 

Abbacchio had never been the type to seize the day as it were - with his future carefully planned by Niballo and an ingrained sense of thoroughness in all aspects of life, he found it rather strange how comfortable he felt not having to concern his mind with any of the issues of consequence. 

He supposed he would eventually have to pick a side. 

Yet, for now - perhaps briefly - none of it mattered to him. All that there was, was the image of Bucciarati ingrained in his mind, countless snapshots of the man - illuminated by the setting sun, behind the wheel, against the window sill of his own kitchen, lying beside him in psychedelic-colored sheets. 

Or the few polaroids Abbacchio snapped of them both, adding to the few frames of just Bruno - engaged in fierce rivalry of tic-tac-toe, a pen in his left hand and a frown on his pretty face. 

Leone cherished the photos dearly. 

He buried them deep under the mattress of his bed, away from bystander reach - like evidence of his wrongdoings they pruned back at him whenever he uncovered the sheets. 

He never wanted to stop. 

Be it the ravenette’s personality, his demeanor, his ways - or simply the experience of the many firsts, a kiss that felt just right, an understanding of boundaries, the warmth of a lover he wanted to keep by his side forever - Abbacchio refused to let it go. 

What he had considered happiness, the accomplishments of his education and earning his proudful badge, regardless of its low rank, the momentary appreciation expressed by his parents only so they could boast about their offspring’s respective success both at home and across the sea in Sardinia, simply to show off their great parenting skills (dismissing their questionable practices of a leather belt and emotional abuse); proved to be momentary. It felt a mere sense of gladness in light of the raw, visceral euphoria brought by his reconnaissance with Bucciarati, nevermind its briefness - promising to only deepen the ecstatic delirium he held on to so dearly. 

And he never wanted it to end.

Was he in love, or was he simply stupid, he did not care to know. It did not matter anyway - nor was he concerned with the impending necessity to inevitably pick a side, the boundaries which would, no doubt, separate his and Bruno’s honeymoon phase with a harsh introduction of reality. 

Their respective worlds should not have crossed in the first place. 

And yet, Abbacchio could not be more indifferent to this fact. 

“Cheer up, Elvira, mistress of the dark,” Bistecca snapped his fingers in front of the goth’s face, offering an overly cheerful grin for consolation. The man ignored the remark and the movie reference. Though Aitano could have tried better, his hair was as good as that of Patricia Morrison’s, was it not? Only flatter. “You look like a thunderstorm.”

“Quite fitting for the weather, isn’t it?” Abbacchio rolled his eyes in response and motioned at the downpour outside, streams of water pouring down the window glass. Lovely winter. 

Though the brunet (his hair redyed yet again) did not seem too bothered with the man’s grumpy attitude - without offering as much as a side glance (how rude), he simply proceeded to put away the leftover leaflets and stickers. 

The kids surrounding the two officers seemed to have dispersed, too - only a few of them were still hanging around, appearing rather lost - the poor guy who had gotten electrocuted just minutes before and a few of what appeared to be his friends - just standing there idly. 

In a sudden wave of unexplained kindness, Abbacchio turned to face them, offering a smile, planning to follow it up with a quick wellbeing check - to no avail as they all sent him rather terrified glances in unison and ran out of the auditorium in which the session had been set. 

“Hey, at least you tried,” Bistecca placed a hand on the goth’s shoulder in a gesture of support. “Skip eyeliner next time and they just might grow to like you.”

“Since when did you become so outspoken?” Abbacchio snapped in response. To say he was annoyed would be an understatement - only a few hours of work separated him from a free weekend - and seeing Bucciarati the following day - with Aitano’s uncalled-for digressions and his leg acting up thanks to the rain, his patience was on the verge of running short. The kids’ shyly averted glances as soon as they saw him walk in with a cane simply became the cherry on top. 

Times like these, he wished the surgeons had done a more thorough job - without blaming him for alleged lack of cooperation at physio later on. 

He was going to wear as much eyeliner as it took to scare snotty brats away. 

“Since I got a warrant to arrest Sticky Fingers,” Bistecca’s reply came unexpected - or perhaps it was simply the rattle of a collapsible whiteboard folding before the man managed to save it from hitting the floor. Abbacchio barely registered the erie wave that ran down his spine at the mention of Bucciarati’s stand - or the name he went by among regular people. “I will get him first thing tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t,” the words escaped the goth’s mouth before he knew it. Earning a surprised - suspicious - glance from Aitano, he forced an explanation: “Wait until Monday, at least. No one’s going to be at the station tomorrow anyway - and his mafia friends will certainly bail him out before the weekend ends. He’s been wanted for so long - surely you need to make everyone see who you got. Impress Seppie. Get that promotion. Wait till Monday, alright?”

Was Abbacchio good at manipulating people? He had never given it much thought - then again, he had to admit, there’d been times in the past when he’d needed to resort to dirty techniques simply to obtain what he’d wanted. Strict parents raised rebellious children - or, as the goth preferred to put it - resourceful. He didn’t want his date canceled simply due to Bistecca’s ambitions. He had to warn Bucciarati the man was coming for him. He owed the gangster this much if he wanted to be in an honest relationship with him. Even if they had not yet defined the feeling between them.

Besides, Abbacchio knew, he’d already teased Bistecca a thousand times by now. What was a simple attempt to steer the man’s plan slightly to the side in light of them all? He did not feel sorry for the brickbats and banter anyway. Rivalry was a human thing, was it not? One had to side with the winners in order to survive. 

Or so he had learned growing up in Niballo’s company. 

“He might be abroad by Monday,” Bistecca protested - in vain, though, for Abbacchio had a counterargument ready at his fingertips. 

“Keep an eye on him, then,” he suggested - that much he could deal with. A simple text would resolve the issue; and the brunet stood out well enough with his beloved Multipla anyway - he would be easy to spot. “If he acts up, arrest him - but I feel like you’re gonna get more recognition if you drag Bucciarati into the station in handcuffs on Monday morning. Certainly, it will be an event.”

And to that, the goth offered a reassuring smile - a rarity he usually spared Aitano - then again, he spent so much time around the ravenette gangster, he was inevitably picking up his mannerisms. 

***

“Bistecca is after you,” Abbacchio slid into a baby blue cabriolet Toyota Solara and placed a kiss on Bucciarati’s lips. “How are you?”

“Now that you mention him, I’m actually quite worried,” the ravenette offered a playful smile in response. “It’s a good thing that it’s raining today, otherwise I would have kept the roof open and he would be able to see you with me," he gently tapped against the canvas roof of the vehicle. "Though you don’t seem too bothered about him, do you?”

Bucciarati was teasing him, Abbacchio realized instantly. Not even a hint of concern clouded his freckled face - if anything, the man appeared rather amused. 

And the feeling grew on the goth, too. There was a certain kind of pleasure in avoiding his responsibilities. In mocking Bistecca, even, that clusterfuck of a companion of his . 

“Why would I be?” Leone laughed, rolling down the window ever so slightly, allowing a humid seaside breeze in. “You’ll see him before he sees you. He drives a Multipla with a Christian fish sticker at the back. Unmistakable for any other.”

“Is he actually?” Bucciarati overtook a couple of cars on the ring road and swerved into the highway entry lane as though driving sideways was nothing. “Christian, I mean.”

“Fuck if I know,” Abbacchio shrugged, glancing at the signage above them. Somma Vesuviana, Torre Del Greco, Pompei. A date trip to the ruins while it was raining to avoid hordes of tourists - and a lunch in town afterwards. “He always gets worked up when you mention Sinead ripping the pope’s photo on stage, though.”

“So a seasonal by culture, then,” Bucciarati concluded, speeding just ever so slightly - as though to tease Abbacchio, knowing well he would not be fined for breaking the law (yet again). “Why’s he after me, anyway?”

The goth took a moment before offering a response. He lit a cigarette, then passed it to the ravenette, waiting for the man to take a drag and return the cancer stick. Then, he simply shrugged and blew the smoke out through the window. 

“Fara and some conclusions he made while I was on sick leave, probably,” he said. “He’s got, like, three leads or something. The Nastros’ security footage being the main one.”

Unexplainably, as though prompted by a gut feeling, Abbacchio decided against mentioning Massimo Volpe and car thefts to Bucciarati. Perhaps a part of him remained distrustful of the man - regardless of the intimacy they had so far shared. Or maybe he was simply loyal to the civilian world - a lot could, after all, happen in the next forty-eight hours. Much more than Bistecca’s suspicion of the ravenette’s alleged plan to flee the country. Someone could possibly try and torture the gangster for information. Blowing the police’s plan to save the kidnapped girls in due course. Abbacchio owed them justice. Or protection, at least. 

Besides, he seemed to be swinging both ways as it were, too. Prompted by a guilty conscience, he’d dropped by his partner’s flat early in the morning and passed the few composite sketches he’d made of the green-haired man involved in Fara’s case. He’d lied his way out of Bistecca’s questions by mentioning that the girl had allegedly given him a description of her abuser and it had simply slipped his mind to pop them into the station earlier. Aitano did not inquire further.

Certainly, if the green-haired sicko was directly involved with Bucciarati, there was more to uncover. An element of surprise was only necessary - and it did not breach the established trust between the goth and the ravenette. 

“Easy, then,” Bruno took an exit off the highway and switched the radio on, Chicane’s Saltwater adding an unsettling vibe to the car ride - as though it going by surprisingly quickly was not a concern on its own. “He’ll be delighted to know I smuggled a container of brand-new VCRs to Malta last week.”

Abbacchio forced a laugh and rolled the window up. 

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t telling me all this,” he said, hoping his voice came off as a tease. “I can never know whether or not I should arrest you for it.”

“I mean, you haven’t as of yet,” the ravenette laughed. “Is he annoying, by the way? Like, the type to keep you in for hours, waiting for you to break? Or the violent one, forcing a testimony out of you via emotional blackmail? I want to come prepared.”

Abbacchio sighed in contemplation. He did not quite have an answer for Bucciarati - only hints of what he’d concluded about Bistecca’s interrogation style so far: down to the point, unamused, serious. He wondered if the man needed to know at all - or whether he was simply being teased, yet again.

“I feel like you’d get into a lot of polemics with him,” He suggested carefully - anew giving in to the gut feeling of protecting his own kind. The brunet was his best friend, after all, was he not? “He’s wordy. So are you. But,” he stubbed out the cigarette butt in the roll-over ashtray hidden in the door, then opened the window ever so slightly again to toss it out. “He might want to pat you down. Will certainly ask you to strip naked if he feels anything, uh, suspicious. Knives, a forgotten tissue in your pocket, a necklace. He’s not exactly violent but he might resort to a little shitshow of humiliation if he gets you. You’re quite popular in our unit, everyone wishes they could get a hold of you. It’s promotions and reputations. People will do anything for them. I know you don’t care much about the bag and all but Bistecca might use it to your disadvantage, so–”

“Empty it before he shows up and take all the guns out, got it,” Bucciarati laughed, taking a turn into a narrow, uphill road. They were almost at the ruins, Abbacchio remembered the location from a school trip.

“I was gonna suggest I’d give you a pat-down since I’m at work on Monday but whatever works for you. It will certainly make my life easier if you come unarmed,” he rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, then glanced at the shrine they just passed. “And make it seem like we don’t know each other, alright? I can’t afford explanations at the moment.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Bucciarati offered a salute as he drove past the site entrance, looking for a parking spot to claim. “He's coming on Monday, then?”

“Get up early,” Abbacchio smiled apologetically. “He’s got a morning shift.”

Chapter Text

Aitano Bistecca did not expect Bruno Bucciarati to await his arrival at thirty four past eight in the morning on the penultimate working Monday before Christmas. Certainly, he must have hoped for an element of surprise - all to no avail as he found the gangster smoking a cigarette in front of an interbellum tenement of flats he supposedly lived in. 

“I thought you’d never come,” the ravenette greeted the man and the few officers accompanying him with a hint of a relieved smile. Taking care to stub out the cigarette properly, he knelt down and pressed it firmly against the concrete slabs paving the way to the building entrance. Unamused, he even offered his wrists for handcuffing, putting on the most saddened facial expression he was capable of. Did Bistecca find his lack of concern about being approached like that suspicious, he did not exactly care to know. “What am I arrested for, anyway?”

The brunet (he must have touched up on his hair color since Bucciarati had last seen him) scoffed in disbelief as he stopped within what he must have considered a safe distance from such a bad criminal. 

It amused the ravenette how obvious the man’s contempt towards him was.

“Clearly, you must know the reason if you willingly gave up,” Bistecca answered curtly. There was a hint of superiority in his voice, as though he believed in some higher moral reasons for his decision. How adorable. 

“Is it not your job to state the charges when you handcuff an alleged criminal, though?” Bucciarati cocked an eyebrow and rolled his eyes ever so slightly at the lack of delicacy an unnamed officer accompanying the brunet offered, locking his hand behind his back. “Surely you can't just up and arrest innocent civilians?”

Bistecca let out a deep sigh. The ravenette found watching his frustration rather amusing.

“Suspicion of theft and involvement in sex trafficking of minors,” the man stated, ignoring Bucciarati’s smirk as though he did not see it at all.

Though the gangster wasn’t done. A snap of fingers, a zipper manifested out of nowhere cutting through the inner mechanism of the handcuffs locked around his wrists - a simple gesture - as much as the officers gathered around could see when they fell to the ground with a clunking noise. 

“Oh,” he glanced at the silvery metal and sent a pitiful smile at the older policeman beside who knelt down with a grunt to pick the item up. “No wonder the state of law and order is what it is.”

Bistecca scoffed angrily in response. Clearly, the man had a short temper. And lacked a sense of humor, at that. 

Though , Bucciarati realized, it would only make him a more unpredictable opponent to fight - unamused and direct, unwilling to pick up on the banter the ravenette was offering, a game of cat and mouse, forcing the gangster, in turn, to alter his strategy on the go. 

Curt and direct, Bistecca would be focused on his job more than anything - nothing further contrasted with Bruno’s innate unseriousness than a sense of bluntness. Distractive, it would catch him off-guard - increasing the chances to trip over his own words, to give the man a sense of satisfaction and thus plead guilty without meaning to. 

Surely, prison walls could not hold him captive for long - but caving in like that, allowing Bistecca to triumph a meaningless victory in the corrupt system, would certainly tarnish Bucciarati’s reputation beyond repair. 

“Now, don’t you worry about that,” the brunet grinned and pulled out a set of hinged handcuffs instead, then moved behind the ravenette. 

Surely, the pleasure of locking his hands in stack, preventing them from easy finger-to-finger contact, the man had to indulge in, the restraints’ diameter borderline tight, digging into Bruno’s tanned wrists.

Either Abbacchio had not told him everything over the weekend or he underestimated his own abilities, the other cops’ amiability towards him thus far, at fault.

Regardless, he tried again to tease. 

“I take it, you can’t be bought, officer?” He asked, offering an innocent smile to accompany his words - but Bistecca only glared and pushed him towards the cruiser parked on the pavement. Then again, humiliation came with satisfaction and each sword was double-edged. Bucciarati loved to have the last word: “What a shame. Clearly, those loafers must have survived Irpinia. Did you get them at goodwill afterwards?”

Blushing, Bistecca glanced at his dated, brown leather moccasins and surveyed the permanent creases on their sides. They looked nothing like the gangster’s black Rubinaccis. 

Bucciarati noted a victory of his own.

***

The drive to the police station did not take long. Bistecca stayed silent the whole way, despite the other officer in the car desperately trying to start a conversation. 

Maybe small talk was not in his fashion. 

As they drove, Bucciarati resisted the urge to zip himself out of the cruiser. 

It was not that he couldn’t - with a little effort, he would easily be able to get out of the handcuffs, too - a part of him simply did not want to. Giving in to the desire to watch the shitshow unfold, to see how far he could go with Bistecca before either of them broke, he sat back and enjoyed the ride. 

“You know what, I should probably call my lawyer while at it. It’s unbeknownst to a respectable officer to interrogate a suspect without giving them the right to defend themselves,” he informed the two policemen when they were finally approaching the station. As he leaned against the bars separating the back of the cruiser from its front, Bistecca moved away, like the mere proximity of a gangster invading his personal space disgusted him. In a way, Bucciarati found it rather funny that of the two sedans and a van which had come for him; he'd not been escorted in the latter. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t already, seeing as you were waiting for us,” the brunet officer spat back without sparing a glance at the gangster. And yet, Bucciarati noted, Bistecca was capable of talking when provoked.

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect to be arrested,” the gangster would have raised his arms in a self-defensive manner if he could. Instead, he only offered a saddened look and sighed rather theatrically. “I was just out for a morning smoke. Guess the habit really has bad consequences, does it not?”

“And how does one relate to the other?” Bistecca raised an eyebrow before he frowned, as though he realized he’d been lured into the conversation trap the dangerous criminal (a double murderer!) had prepared for him. 

The other officer snorted with laughter under his breath, clearly having caught the allegory behind Bucciarati’s reasoning. As the brunet shot him a glare, the gangster almost felt sorry for the man. How this clusterfuck of a person and Abbacchio were friends, laid beyond the ravenette’s comprehension. Then again, the moment gave him an advantage over the embodiment of law and order - and he made use of it. 

“What I mean is,” he spoke, excessively dragging out each syllable, dropping the typical Neapolitan way of speaking with its cut-off word endings: “I was out smoking. Smoking is bad. It is also a habit. Cigarette companies always list the dangers of it at the front of the pack. I went out for a smoke and got arrested. A consequence of my horrible habit.”

By the time Bucciarati finished, he was sure the officer behind the wheel must have been pissing himself with laughter. And he did not blame the man. Yet, even with the extra care put into the explanation, Bistecca remained rather unfazed. 

He blinked, as though gathering the courage to glance at the dangerous criminal in the back of the car before he actually did. Then he blinked again, more slowly. 

“I still don’t get it,” he concluded, his voice rather offended. As Bucciarati laughed out loud, he seemed to have caved in on himself ever so slightly, before he added more timidly: “You got arrested for theft and sex trafficking allegations, not smoking.”

Bucciarati did not even resist anymore. He snorted out loud, realizing he found his winning strategy. 

If he could not convince Bistecca (not that he had been planning to in the first place), he was going to confuse the man.

***

For a Monday morning, the police station was buzzing with emotion. Perhaps the news of capturing the infamous Sticky Fingers got out, at last. And Bucciarati did not blame the people he and Bistecca passed by as they walked across the shared office space all the way to the interrogation room, for their excitement. Judging by the presence of a shabby coffee machine downstairs and no cafés located in close proximity to the building, the arresting of a gangster offered more means of awakening on the ungodly hour of eight fifty five, exactly two weeks before Christmas Day.

Though he had to admit, he was thoroughly impressed by everyone’s ability to work and focus in such a noisy environment, the sounds of phone calls, ruffling of papers, chairs being dragged across the floor and eating; all blending together in a steady cacophony. 

For once in his life, Bucciarati was glad he had never graduated. He wouldn’t have been able to deal with an office job. 

People glared. For every scowl, he repaid with a smile - though unreciprocated, even when they reached Abbacchio waiting for them in the short corridor leading to the interrogation room. 

The goth looked hot like that , Bruno realized, with a faint trace of eyeliner decorating his eyes, his white hair tied back into a low ponytail. Though the strands themselves begged to be touched up - yellow tones were beginning to show through and a trace of dirty blond roots contrasted with the fair dye. 

“Did he behave himself?” The question, directed at Bistecca, caught the gangster off-guard - and it took him a moment to reestablish the pre-agreed relationship dynamics, as though he and Abbacchio did not know each other at all. 

“He was a bit too talkative on the ride here but that’s it,” the brunet rolled his eyes and moved past the other officer, accepting a pile of paperwork from his hands. “Pat him down, will you? I’ll wait inside.”

Abbacchio offered a simple nod in response, his eyes following Bistecca down to the door before the three of them - though the man suddenly stopped mid-step as if he remembered something important. And indeed, so it was: “By the way, check if your handcuffs are working. Piccata’s broke this morning.”

Bucciarati watched with growing amusement as the dynamics between the two officers unfolded in a controlled environment they both felt comfortable in - enclosed by the protective walls of the station, gangsters in minority, Bistecca and Abbacchio grew in confidence - for the first time since the ravenette had the (dis)pleasure of meeting them both.

And in a way, it was a reassuring sight, he had to admit - the subtle ways in which the two completed one another and how they seemed to wordlessly get along. 

Overall, Bucciarati was not jealous of Bistecca. He simply could not comprehend how someone as bold as Abbacchio decided to acquaint himself with such a bland individual that the brunet was. 

Though he could see now - wrongly perhaps - how the two operated. The goth - because it became an effortless routine to keep the man around; his clusterfuck of a companion - because for once in his life he felt welcome. 

Or maybe Bruno misunderstood it completely. 

“Seriously?” Abbacchio’s voice - or perhaps the touch of the man’s hands on his arms - snapped Bucciarati out of his thoughts. He missed the moment Bistecca headed into the interrogation room, leaving him alone with the goth - though it did not matter much once a scornful spark flashed in the officer’s eyes. “I take it his handcuffs broke on their own?”

“Exactly that,” Bruno shot him an innocent smile - and winced in surprise, feeling his arms being unexpectedly freed from the metal embrace they had been locked in up until now. Briefly so, though, as Abbacchio clasped a new set of handcuffs, more comfortable to move around in and larger in diameter, joined together with a short metal chain; around his wrists. “Thanks.”

“You could have avoided that, ” the goth rolled his eyes and nodded towards the reddened skin just above the ravenette’s hands. “If you hadn’t pulled a shitshow earlier on. But you’re welcome.”

Bucciarati simply smiled in response and flexed his wrists, twisting them around, testing the limits of comfort of his new handcuffs. 

“I should get a pair for shits and giggles,” he decided just as Abbacchio returned to the pat-down - arms, torso, then hips - until the man frowned suddenly, only to be met with the gangster’s innocent look. 

“Seriously?” He raised an eyebrow, pulling a switchblade out of the pocket of Bucciarati’s white pants. On reflection, the ravenette realized, wearing the shade given his distrust towards the adhesive paste, came with a sense of bravery. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed living on the edge. Hence the knife. 

“I’m only checking if you’d truly ask me to strip naked if you found anything suspicious, officer ,” he sent the goth an innocent look and flashed a grin at the man. 

“I wouldn’t,” Abbacchio pulled up a nearby chair, then sat down to pat the gangster’s legs and glanced up with a slight expression of disbelief dancing on his face. “Bistecca, though? Very much so. Got any other knives on you?”

Bucciarati simply smiled in response before he bent ever so slightly to retrieve a couple more blades from an unzipped space in his thigh. Handing them to the goth, he noted a brace on the man’s leg and sent him a worried look. “You feeling alright?”

“Just the usual. Winter weather changes,” Abbacchio must have caught on his gaze as he shrugged and arranged the three knives in a neat row. “I’ll be alright. You can claim your weapons back when you’re discharged. If. God knows what he’s up to today.”

“Well, then, he’s going to find an empty cell,” Bucciarati smiled, earring yet another eye roll from the goth as the man walked him to the door of the interrogation room. 

He couldn’t wait to get one-on-one with Bistecca.

***

“Bruno Bucciarati, born on September twenty-seventh, nineteen-eighty,” Bistecca switched on the tape recorder placed on a table between himself and the black-haired gangster. He skimmed through a page of notes arranged neatly in a pile, then sent the ravenette a disgusted look. “Have you got any form of identification to confirm your identity?”

Bucciarati shrugged in response. 

“That’s a bold assumption,” he teased, watching contentedly as Bistecca inhaled sharply, careful not to show his annoyance. “Though I don’t think you could mistake me for anyone else, officer. ”

“Well, I’m afraid I’ll need a formal confirmation anyway,” the brunet leaned back in his chair and clicked his tongue. “It’s your choice. You can either provide a document or have someone verify your identity. Until then, you will remain detain-”

The door slammed against the wall, cutting the officer off as it opened abruptly, revealing a man in a navy suit. Holding a briefcase, he glanced briefly at both Bistecca and Bucciarati, then walked up to the policeman and outstretched his hand in a formal gesture. 

“Umberto Prosciutto, lawyer,” he introduced himself, ignoring the amused gaze the ravenette sent him from across the table. “Please excuse my tardiness. The traffic was awful this morning.”

Not waiting for Bistecca’s reply or even a reaction, Prosciutto pulled up a chair and situated himself on the side of the table. Bucciarati surveyed him briefly, taking a note of a trace of silver in his otherwise platinum hair, neatly brushed back into a set of intricate pigtails which made him resemble a dinosaur, in a way. And the idea was not quite that wrong, considering his stand ability. 

Though Bruno was surprised Umberto showed up. Perhaps he simply wanted to put on a show. Or maybe he had been ordered to, the boss or whoever stood above Polpo in the hierarchy, not wanting the capo’s boytoy in jail as well. 

Yet, the ravenette did not exactly want to find himself in the same room as Prosciutto. Even if the man would only sit back and watch, interjecting every once in a while simply to throw in an objection. 

Personal reasons at fault, Bucciarati regretted making the joke about calling his lawyer earlier in the morning, back in the cruiser. It seemed Bistecca took his words too seriously - a representative of the justice system had not been required to be present during prior interrogations the gangster had been a part of thus far. 

And yet. Of course Polpo’s - and by extension Bucciarati’s - most-trusted lawyer was Passione’s most-trusted assassin - Bruno’s ex-situationship by coincidence. 

The ravenette really hoped to never see the man again after he had been cornered about a possible relationship and left in shards upon his own refusal. He even cut the bastard’s face out of the one photo they had taken together. 

Certainly, while innocent kisses and a trip to Pride with Paxe and Prosciutto earlier in the year had been fun, there was no space for love in the mafia - or so Bucciarati had thought back then. Besides, he didn’t exactly want to end up with a man fifteen years older than him for a boyfriend. 

Clearly, Prosciutto did not take being turned down very lightly. Insults followed and with them, attempts at humiliation, revealing, in due time, what their relationship would have eventually looked like if Bruno caved in. Shaming of all kinds, the blond’s blind fury and words of humiliation - simply because his advances had not been acknowledged. 

And yet, six months was all it took for Prosciutto to collect himself and walk into Bucciarati’s life - if ever so briefly. 

“Can you confirm the suspect’s identity, sir?” Bistecca’s voice snapped the ravenette out of his thoughts. The man clearly had a rather annoying way of speaking, dragging the syllables on unnecessarily, taking time for his pauses - always calm and collected, and a little emotionless. He perfectly contradicted Abbacchio’s own raptness, Bruno realized - which grew frantic, almost, as the goth’s level of excitement about a topic rose in importance. Perhaps that was what brought the two together in the first place - Aitano’s blandness giving space for Leone’s boldness. 

“He is not a suspect, as far as I’m aware,” Prosciutto rolled his eyes and rested them on the plain grey wall whose glossy paint reflected the artificial light above the table ever so slightly. “But the man you’re interrogating is indeed Bruno Bucciarati. Alias Sticky Fingers.”

The ravenette resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he suppressed the involuntary manifestation of his stand. He was certain the blond did it on purpose - the man’s sardonic smirk a confirmation - as he winced, forcing his soul extension back into his body. 

“That concludes it,” Bistecca shuffled through the pile of sheets before him and pulled out a couple of black-and-white still shots from a security camera footage. “I’ve got a few things I’d like to confirm.”

Prosciutto offered a nod and leaned back in his chair, occasionally eyeing up either of the men on the opposite sides of the table. 

“Go on then, I’m an open book,” Bucciarati crossed his arms with a cocky smirk. Taking a glance at the pictures, he recognized his own silhouette and the familiar surroundings of the businessman’s villa. He suspected the brunet would start with the “hard evidence” first. 

He wondered whether Abbacchio was on the other side of the window separating the room from the rest of the floor - though the venetian glass of the pane prevented him from taking a glance. 

And he was genuinely curious. Or perhaps simply missed the sight of the man. 

“Just about a month ago you were seen on the property of Fabiano Nastro, the CEO of Nastro Limited,” Bistecca spoke calmly and rearranged the photos on the table, then pushed them in Bucciarati’s direction for a better view. “The security cameras recorded you carrying his unconscious daughter and leaving her by the door. You laid her on the porch and pressed the doorbell, but left before her mother managed to get a hold of you. Why was that?”

“Good Samaritan, I suppose,” the gangster sent the brunet an amused look. “Is it a crime to tend to the needs of worried parents?”

Bistecca let out an irritated sigh and shuffled through the pile in front of him again, pulling out a typewritten sheet yellowed at the ends. 

“Yet, you didn’t take her to hospital,” he remarked. Bucciarati shrugged in response. The officer remained unfazed: “Why?”

“It would have taken several hours before she got admitted. It was better if she had an ambulance called on her from her house. These are a priority in the emergency room,” the gangster lied swiftly. 

Much to Bistecca’s displeasure, it appeared. Unamused, the brunet pulled out another photo, this time depicting the front of a BMW 8-Series, then passed it across the table towards Bucciarati, though he did not address it right away. Was he playing for time or hoped for the man’s expression to crack, it was difficult to tell. 

Though the ravenette recognized the car. 

“How did you even get a hold of Fara Nastro in the first place?” The officer asked straight up, ignoring the photograph. The ravenette simply made a gesture alluding to sewing his lips shut in response. Bistecca rolled his eyes. 

Prosciutto let out a sigh. 

“My client has the right to refuse to answer any questions that might put him in danger given his profession,” he interjected. 

“Which one?” Bistecca turned to face the man and sent him a stern look. “Restaurant management, as officially listed?” He flipped through the stack of papers for a better effect before he pulled out another sheet and continued: “Or are we going to address prostitution and alleged car thefts?”

Bucciarati rolled his eyes. Prosciutto sent him a warning look. Not that he cared much. 

“Sex work,” he corrected the brunet and leaned in, resting his arms on the table, the handcuffs jingling in motion. “And it’s legal in this country anyway, so what’s your point?”

“As long as it’s not organized. Besides, stealing is prohibited,” Bistecca objected and tapped the photo resting between them. “This vehicle was confiscated during an attempt to send it across the border. Clocked and reregistered in Naples by a guy named Massimo Volpe, arrested a couple of times by now for the possession of illegal substances. He confessed your involvement in the process of getting the car all the way from Germany and kindly described the process to us. It’s an old but trusted method which constitutes the owner tricking the car insurance company that their vehicle had been stolen while being paid to do so. And that’s only one of the cases we have recorded. There’s plenty.”

Bucciarati let out a bored sigh, then rested his chin on his palm, playing for time. Certainly, Abbacchio had not told him everything. DId the man not know all of Bistecca’s extensive research or did he simply decide to side with his profession this once? The ravenette supposed he could forgive both cases as long as he got out of the room without any charges - because for now, he was at a loss of words. 

He’d underestimated the Neapolitan police. Or perhaps, having never given them a reason to look out for him, he let his guard down. 

And now Bistecca was demanding human sacrifices. Suddenly, the pile of paper before the man appeared rather scary.

“I can see you’ve done a thorough job, officer, ” Bucciarati offered a sardonic smile in place of lack of confidence and leaned in closer, debating a choice of words to follow, when Prosciutto interjected again. 

“And do you have any evidence of my client’s direct involvement?” He asked condescendingly. “Fingerprints, other DNA extracts? Camera footage, perhaps? Volpe could say anything - still, it’s one word against another. And with no solid evidence, Mr. Bucciarati remains innocent.”

As Bistecca let out a sigh of poorly masked frustration, the ravenette realized, to his own displeasure, that he owed Umberto one for saving his stitched-up ass. 

Though the officer wasn’t done. 

“That is true,” he agreed after a moment. “We only have leads at the moment but we will keep monitoring any suspicious activity in the transport department. Nevertheless, I would like to address the matter of prosti– sex work again, if I may.”

Prosciutto offered an amicable nod. Bucciarati just rolled his eyes. 

“Why did you make yourself visible at Nastros?” Bistecca asked, again flipping through the stack of papers at hand. “You knew you'd get caught.”

“Occupational hazard, right?” The ravenette unfolded his hands as though to half-assedly demonstrate a gesture of defeat with his wrists restrained. The handcuffs jingled as he did. Prosciutto let out a scoff. Bistecca only rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

“Or perhaps you wanted to put a stop on the sex trafficking net,” he suggested, carefully watching Bucciarati’s expression - though the man did not blink an eye at the idea. “By taking the role of the bait, you would have, you thought, interrupted the process. Because if a gangster was involved, it would turn the police’s attention onto the mob and make it more difficult to kidnap teenagers for this purpose.”

The ravenette laughed out loud once Bistecca was done talking. 

“That’s a cute little story, officer,” he ironized. “Did you come up with it yourself or did your corrupt boss help you put it together?”

The brunet’s cheeks reddened - embarrassment or anger, Bucciarati could not tell. As the man flipped through the stack of papers, he exchanged looks with Prosciutto - surprised that they both agreed on the amusement of the situation as a whole. 

Though Bistecca wasn’t done just yet. 

“You had a motif,” he stated and laid out a typewritten sheet before the gangster. October 5th, 1992, the date in the top right corner read. Bucciarati let out a bored sigh.

He supposed the police would eventually get a hold of his records, despite Passione’s best efforts to make them disappear. Someone within must have spilled the information in the meantime, it seemed. As Bistecca continued, he simply rested his head on his forearms, bored and insolent, laid out on the table as though he were about to fall asleep. “You were charged with a double murder in the fall of 1992, though the case was eventually dismissed as self-defense and, having been bailed out by an anonymous donor who generously offered a large sum of money to get you out, you went off the grid until 1996. Where were you, Bucciarati? Education is mandatory until the age of sixteen, yet, you were not registered with any of the schools in Naples and the neighboring towns. Why?”

“I was homeschooled,” Bucciarati shrugged, dismissing the memory of his attempts to study between flare-ups and the teacher’s annoyance with his irregular patterns of focus and dedication, thanks to the limited energy resources. “But you probably know this already, seeing how much effort you put into my background check.”

Bistecca simply smirked in response. 

“Why were you homeschooled, though?” He asked. “Was it so you could make time for your capo’s tasks for you? You know, as a victim of pedophilia, you have the right to seek out legal protection. Only if you cooperate, that is.”

Bucciarati rolled his eyes in amusement. The brunet truly was adorable with his efforts. 

“I was ill and so was my father. That gave legal grounds for homebound education,” he shrugged. “You probably have it written somewhere in your pile of conspiracy anyway, so why ask?”

Bistecca took a moment to respond. He only offered as much as an initial nod, then flipped through the stack of sheets and pulled out a few loose ones. 1987, 1988, twice, 1991, 1992, Bucciarati noted the dates on each as the man arranged them on the table. Hospital documentation. How adorable. Was the brunet going to coerce him into pleading guilty by bringing up his medical history? The gangster was looking forward to seeing it go down. 

“It says here you were hospitalized multiple times as a child with abdominal pain, fever,” Bistecca tapped against one of the paper sheets. “And, um–” He took a pause - but Bruno finished for him: 

“Diarrhea, spit it out,” he rolled his eyes with a pitiful smile. “Shit happens.”

The brunet’s face reddened as he looked away, probably unsure of what would constitute an appropriate reaction and whether laughter was included. Prosciutto simply scoffed in disbelief. So nice he was after listing all the physiological conditions contributing to no one else wanting Bruno when he’d been turned down - and bringing up his generosity of offering love despite the man’s deficits, as he put it. Though maybe he was right, after all - at the end of the day, the ravenette was missing half of his guts anyway. 

“That could stand as the official reason for your homeschooling but we know well it was not. And it seems like you never graduated, why?” Bistecca regained his ability to speak after a few moments and glanced pensively at Bucciarati who just shrugged in response. 

“I got a job as a restaurant manager. Guess I didn’t really need a highschool diploma for that. I was never quite scholarly either, so,” he offered the brunet an innocent smile.

“And it just so happens that said restaurant hosts gangsters and officials. Who knows what’s going on behind those walls,” Bistecca flipped through the stack of papers again and pulled out what looked like a sketchbook sheet, though he did not show it to Bucciarati right away. “Money laundering, drug dealing, document falsification.” 

“Like half of the places in this city,” the ravenette rolled his eyes. “Shut them down and the owners will come at you because it's a means for tourism as well and this is what drives our economy. Does it not?”

Bistecca let out a sigh and glanced helplessly at the door. He must have realized by now that the conversation was going nowhere. 

Bucciarati could well end it there and then. 

“Are you going to accuse me of something actually substantial or are we just going to play cat and mouse?” He scoffed with a playful smile before the suggestion to do so occurred to Prosciutto. 

“One more question,” Bistecca leaned in and laid out the sketchbook sheet before Bucciarati. “Do you happen to know this man?”

Truly, Abbacchio had not told the ravenette everything. Deliberately or not, Bucciarati did not care as he put the two and two together. 

Perhaps the goth had to stay true to his obligations. Bruno hoped it was the reasoning behind the man’s decision. 

Too bad though, that a simple mention of actually using his stand’s ability could have saved him from the approaching disaster of Passione waging a war against the law and order with the exposure of their most trusted medical professional. 

“No, I haven’t seen him,” Bucciarati forced a reassuring smile, hiding behind it the shock of the unexpected discovery brought in with Abbacchio’s artistic talent. 

From the sketch on the table, Cioccolata stared back at him with malice in his eyes. Like a warning. 

And a warning it was, indeed. 

***

Festive decorations illuminated the street outside the police station when Bucciarati turned the corner later in the evening that day, on the last working Monday in December, two weeks before Christmas.

Flipping a pocket knife Abbacchio had earlier briefly confiscated, he approached a Multipla parked some distance from the main building entrance. 

Under the colorful light of the holiday decorations, its shade resembled grey more than it did pea grin - but the fish-shaped sticker he was looking out for pruned at him from the trunk door anyway. He needn’t even have checked the registration plate number - though he did anyway, the set of letters and numbers located between two blue stripes matching that he’d looked up over the weekend. 

The car clearly was Bistecca’s. 

In the distance, a faint trace of some techno hit was blasting - so unfitting for the season, especially with all the Christmas songs playing on repeat everywhere Bucciarati set his foot. 

"Arrivederci," he said quietly, crouching down on the cold ground by the left rear wheel. “Although I hope you’ll come to your senses before it’s too late. It would be a shame to lose such a thorough officer, truly.”

Hidden behind the shape of the car, the gangster remained unseen - safe to deliver his warning message without risking yet another arrest (his wrists still hurt from the handcuffs, at the end of the day). 

He thanked mother nature for the cold weather as he took a glance at his gloved hands and the switchblade he was holding. Swiss. Expensive. So obvious and yet, no fingerprints to find a culprit. 

The ravenette smiled at himself as he pushed the knife right into the rubber of the tire. 

It hissed in pain, clearly not expecting the attack - and for a moment, Bucciarati felt something like a trace of compassion for the object. And for Bistecca, too, by extension - yet to discover he would not get home so fast tonight. 

The gangster could only hope the man had a spare wheel in the car. 

Then again, a flat tire was the least he could suffer from in the coming weeks - and the most, if he got the message. 

Otherwise, Bucciarati could only wish him well as he watched passively the strings being pulled, Passione protecting itself. 

Tying Bruno’s hands on impact.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio stayed the night. 

Like a faithful dog, naive, yet loyal - or perhaps simply a lunatic in love, irrational, oblivious or ignorant - he dismissed the familiar switchblade in the slashed tire - a warning of sorts, he supposed; along with Bistecca’s complaints at the damage and his own initial alertness. The man would not have listened anyway, too absorbed in his hatred towards the gangster to believe in any form of amiability on the man’s side. He had not managed to put the ravenette behind bars like he’d thought he would, after all. 

What came after the interrogation, had been a walk of shame for the brunet as it turned out - Bucciarati’s triumphant exit followed by Aitano’s own, received with a selection of double-barrelled remarks concerning his effectiveness as a cop. 

Abbacchio was glad he’d missed most of it - torn between his feelings for the gangster and his long-standing friendship with Bistecca, he was not entirely sure where he would have put himself in the equation. He could have ended up among the ridiculing crowd, at the end of it. 

Then again, he had only managed to witness the very beginning of the interrogation before Osso and Buco forced him into collective report writing - Bucciarati’s cockiness at its finest and the arrival of the navy blue suit, greeted with a look of slight dismay coming from the ravenette - the best experience he could get.

And then he stayed the night. 

He listened to Bistecca’s endless complaints about vandalism, helping him as much as he could, without kneeling on the cold pavement, to change the slashed tire for a spare one - his initial offers of giving the brunet a ride home and picking him up before work the following day carelessly dismissed with the man’s determination to get his car fixed right there, right then. 

The switchblade had certainly been a warning like he had initially presumed - a sign to stay away from the sex trafficking case, Abbacchio supposed - and tried to communicate to his partner - though the man snapped back, too absorbed in his contempt towards Bucciarati, as he screwed the spare wheel in place. 

And then the goth sent him off, bidding him a pleasant evening, at last - only to find himself with no pastime activity of his own - so he stayed the night. 

Bucciarati called him on the phone, after all, an irresistible temptation - Leone’s longing for the man and the curiosity to be filled in on the interrogation as it were. 

Replaying the couple of hours did not quite work, as he eventually realized - as though he needed some kind of connection to the moments of interest to materialize them. 

He supposed it was the case, the way it had been around Fara - the green-haired gangster having been directly involved with her. Then, for the composites, he figured, he must have been replaying a recall of his own watching the scene originally back in hospital. 

A bottle of wine in the passenger’s seat, black lipstick on, he eventually made his way to the all-too-familiar Marechiaro flat, past the modern blocks and the lined-up historical edifices. 

It wasn’t too far, anyway. Were it summer, he would have walked. 

Though instead, winter was approaching, its cold gusts and downpours embracing the streets of Naples - and so, Abbacchio stayed the night. 

They shared the wine. Cooked some pasta to go with it. Headed out just before midnight to drag the whole of the goth’s DJ setup up the stairs, thankful for the man’s forgetfulness resulting in the turntable being driven around the city for the last couple of weeks. 

Drunk on white semi-dry and love, they stayed up until the early morning hours, Bruno too absorbed in learning the skillset to give in, Leone left with a grand impression of the man’s unpolished musical talent. The collection of records came with a purpose, it appeared. 

Eventually, though, fatigue crept in. In a mutual embrace, hazy with intoxication, the two fell asleep, at last - limbs and sheets in disarray, clothes and canes carelessly discarded on the floor.

And Abbacchio stayed the night. 

Ignorant of his responsibilities, Bistecca’s wrath and Seppie’s complaints - or perhaps at the very fault of these commitments - he set his mind on calling in sick the following day, the thought barely articulated with Bruno’s soft, warm chest against his cheek - a worthy opponent to neglect work for. 

***

“Shit.”

Abbacchio stirred, awoken by a sudden movement on his left side. 

The sun bathed the room in late morning light, getting in through the open curtains - as the goth turned to glance in the general direction of the cause behind his sleep disruption, the rays blinded his eyes, causing a hiss. 

“Huh?” He offered instead, his brain still half-awake - and a little hungover - expecting an elaboration on Bruno’s side as he finally figured out whose bed he found himself in. 

Though the gangster was just as enthusiastic on a Tuesday morning, it appeared. 

“Everywhere,” was all he offered in response, forcing Abbacchio to produce yet another interrogative hum in turn - prompting, at last, some elaboration: “Or more like: It’s going to get everywhere in a moment. Can you get me a towel?”

Confused, the goth sat up. The change of position seemed to have woken his mind up - the light headache certainly more prominent, yet, the remnants of sleepiness brushed away. 

He rested his eyes on Bucciarati, hunched over as he clutched the duvet around his torso - or stomach, more accurately - in a tight embrace, as though even the lightest of motion could result in some kind of threat. 

Or maybe it did. 

“A towel?” Abbacchio repeated mindlessly and got out of bed, reaching for his cane. He didn't bother to find his pants as he made his way to the door, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and yesterday’s boxers. 

The ravenette offered only a single nod in response - barely visible, at that. No verbal acknowledgement of the question followed - in a way, the man’s pose screamed of shame, of sorts, like he hoped, through caving in on himself, to disappear. 

And Abbacchio wanted to comfort him, somehow - as he headed to the bathroom, fetched a clean towel in a deep blue shade and came back - earning a grateful look from Bruno. 

“Do you need anything else?” He asked, tactfully averting his gaze when the ravenette slowly moved the duvet away from his body and rolled up his t-shirt, inspecting the damage, perhaps. A quiet, yet well-pronounced ‘thank fuck’ followed. 

A blowout. 

“An hour, a shower, coffee and a croissant,” Bruno spoke - and his words surprised the goth so much he instinctively looked straight at the man, as if to ask for an elaboration of his thought process - though the ravenette only offered as much as a beaten look. 

Placing the, it appeared, not anymore needed towel aside, he rose from the bed and let his t-shirt folds fall loosely - as they did, Abbacchio caught a glimpse of russet-colored traces under the film keeping the man’s bag attached to his stomach. A blowout. 

Unprompted, Leone simply opened the nearby closet, fetching a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for Bruno. Certainly, it must have been uncomfortable to move around like that as it was - the bulge shaping up under the right-hand side of the man’s top surely weighed its presence in unease as it was - the ravenette, Abbacchio would bet his bribe money on it, must have been longing for a shower. 

“Pistachio filling for your croissant?” he asked, handing the folded clothes to Bucciarati - and earned a surprised look from the man, as though outrage, or perhaps disgust, was a more expected reaction than that of help. Though Abbacchio couldn’t care less. It only broke his heart to see Bruno’s bold, cocky persona shrink in on itself. “Or are you more of a classic, hazelnut type?”

The ravenette averted his eyes, clutching the fabric bundle close to his chest.

“There’s a bakery round the corner which does strawberry filling,” he replied timidly. “Can’t really have pistachios. Personal dislike.”

“Noted,” Abbacchio offered a smile, then walked up to Bruno and placed a kiss on his forehead, earning a surprised gasp. Though the man eased a little and sent him a softer, albeit uncertain look. Leone only leaned in with another caress: “Now get all dolled up, princess and tell me how spinach does you dirty when I’m back, alright?”

“...Alright,” the ravenette agreed quietly - and sent the goth a hint of a smile, at last, as he turned around and disappeared for the bathroom. 

***

The bakery round the corner did sell croissants filled with strawberry cream - or so the chalk writing on the wooden blackboard set up by the entrance promised. 

It was a rather charming place - hidden behind a white-painted wall - a couple of steps and a low entrance with a double, hinged red door leading inside. Shamelessly named Mazzo Di Rose, it only made so much sense to be Bucciarati’s favorite place - and a perfect recommendation for Abbacchio to follow, the ravenette’s wit not gone completely despite the rather poor start of his day.

Certainly, bouquets of roses were to jumpscare the goth for as long as he went out (or stayed in) with Bruno.

The place smelled of coffee beans and baked treats - hosting a couple of small tables by the wall across from the glass counter - and a wide selection of pastries displayed behind the pane, dirt cheap in light of market prices. 

Was it a money laundering location or a meeting point for drug dealers, Abbacchio did not care. Did not want to care, if he were honest, whatever the reason behind the bakery’s possibility to sell its products half price. 

He was off sick - a quick call he’d made on his way from Bucciarati’s flat - then again, even if he were not, he knew no one would bat an eye at the scheme hidden within the establishment’s stone walls. 

For once in his life, he did not feel like being overzealous with his actions. Putting a hat on a hat would not serve him right anyway, certainly, not with Seppie in power. 

Besides, he had a-– situationship (he really needed to define his and Bruno’s relationship by now) waiting for a croissant and coffee back home - work could be cast aside for now. In light of his youthful enamoration and the dopamine it brought, the importance of his job diminished notably. 

“Abbacchio, hi.”

The goth spun around, surprised by a familiar voice - and was met with a pair of green eyes studying him from under bleached blonde curtain bangs. Certainly, Canaderli must have gotten a haircut between managing Bistecca’s sex life and traffic control. Last time Abbacchio saw her at work, her fair strands had been all even. 

Beside the woman, there stood a pink-haired teenager - clad in a woolen winter jacket adorned with geometric patterns; and a pair of flared jeans to match her burgundy boots, she paid more attention to the labels accompanying the pastries on display than she did to him and Canaderli. 

Though Abbacchio couldn’t really blame her - with a discman for company, she certainly entertained herself better than she would have been engaged in a conversation between two work colleagues. 

She must have been the woman’s step-daughter - the one over whom she was desperately trying to find custody rights, for after her girlfriend’s death. Abbacchio wondered how the fight was going and whether the court finally gave up attempts to hunt down the girl’s absent father. Though it wasn’t like he could outrightly ask, anyway.

“Hey,” he forced a smile, hoping Canaderli would not later mention running into him out in town - especially that he was supposed to be sick. “Do you guys live nearby?”

Certainly, the question was a better shot than a borderline rude ‘What are you two doing here?’. The goth could always back it up with a mention of the proximity of his own family home, with Posillipo situated just a stone’s throw away. 

“My mother does,” Canaderli explained with a soft smile, then glanced at the girl beside her. “We were visiting. Meet my daughter, Trish, by the way. Trish, honey, this is Leone Abbacchio, my work colleague.”

The teenager seemed rather unamused by the introduction. She shot a quick glance at the goth, then offered a barely audible greeting - and focused her gaze on the intricate selection of glazed fig cookies behind the glass. 

“Nice to meet you,” Abbacchio forced a neutral expression, not quite sure how to handle the usual tense formalities, and rested his eyes on Canaderli again. “Getting anything nice?”

They were both equally bad at small talk, it appeared, as the blonde simply offered a smile in response. 

“Just some gluten free berlingozzo,” she said, then, as though prompted by a necessity to elaborate, added: “Trish has celiacs. And it reminds me of home. The cake, I mean,” she laughed nervously as though to disguise her own tongue slip.

“I didn’t know you’re Tuscanian,” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. “Also, while at it, you guys go first. I’m only getting some croissants but hopefully there’ll be less chance of cross-contamination if we flip this around.”

Or so his reasoning had it, prompted by a sense of doubt as to whether gluten free products were actually handled separately in the bakery. He hoped it was the case.

“Thanks,” Canaderli sent him a grateful smile, then made her way to the counter. “And yeah, Tuscanian born and raised. I was moved from Florence to Naples. Too ambitious for their unit, I was, it seemed. But I guess it’s the same shit everywhere, isn’t it?”

“Alas,” Abbacchio agreed with a slight eye roll. Six months ago, he would have been eager to defend the status of law and order. Now, though? Dating a gangster, taking bribes and getting no shit for it? 

He couldn’t care less. The conversation was going nowhere anyway.

***

When Abbacchio returned, Bruno was still in the bathroom. 

The goth placed the sweet treats on the kitchen table, switched the coffee machine on with an espresso cup atop of it to preheat both, then lightly knocked on the door. 

“Do you need anything?” He asked, disguising a sense of worry in his voice with softness instead. 

The water wasn’t running on the other side of the wall - and he did not mean to pry into Bucciarati’s morning routine, but he felt an unexplained urge to check on the man. 

“Yeah, no, I’m good, thanks,” came a reply from the other side of the wood. “You can come in if you want.”

And come in, Abbacchio did. Even if only to clean his hands with actual soap, not washing up liquid, the way he had upon returning from the bakery.

Before him, on the edge of the bathtub, there sat the ravenette, shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, his feet bare, his toenails painted red. 

Pressing a ring-like structure against his stomach with one hand, as though he were waiting for some kind of glue to seal underneath; and holding a tissue by what resembled a deep-red open wound surrounded by the plastic, with the other, he sent Leone an inquiring gaze. 

“Did you get the croissants?” He asked before the goth managed to fully register the surprise of seeing the man bare-chested in contrast to his initial hesitance to undress. 

Black tattooed lace decorated Bucciarati’s arms and the front of his torso, edging his stomach, just above where it folded into a couple of soft rolls adorned with stretch marks. It circled behind onto the man’s back - their sight reflected in the mirror panes tiling the wall above the bathtub - the skin marked with scars forming letters, a vulgar expression in the language of the Kingdom, which Abbacchio had memorized by heart before he turned twelve - and a lacy tramp stamp inked underneath. 

Dirty whore. A set of pink cicatrices marking Bruno’s back, acid burns, no doubt, inscripted in Neapolitan like a memoir of torture - or a warning, perhaps. Abbacchio wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know.

Bucciarati snapped his fingers in front of his face without warning and zipped away the tissue he’d been holding thus far. “Did you?”

The goth blinked in surprise. Returned back to the present. To the croissants and the morning request. 

“Yeah, sorry, yes, I did,” he uttered, unable to take his eyes off the scarring. “I also got some buccellati since it's the festive season. Though now that I think about it, maybe I shouldn't have. As the stuffing is dried fruit.”

And there he was, still, gaze fixated on the reflection of Bruno’s back. 

The ravenette must have interpreted it as a shock of some kind, at his careless gesture of shoving paper tissue into nothingness, though - as he offered a reassuring smile and reached for a couple of film pieces, carefully sticking them on either side of the plastic frame on his skin. Not yet caring to elaborate, he then grabbed a flat synthetic bag sitting on top of the washing machine. He took a bottle of some liquid the name of which Abbacchio did not manage to decipher; and shoved its nozzle into the hole decorating the top side of the pouch, seemingly pouring a little bit of the contents inside, before finally bothering to answer.

“Don’t worry, that tissue was clean. I thought I’d need it but I didn’t,” he informed, referring to, Abbacchio realized, the piece of paper he had zipped away; as he placed the bag against the plastic on his stomach. Only now did Leone fully note a burgundy, chestnut-sized bulge that disappeared under it. The sack caught on with a soft click - and Bucciarati finally straightened, offering a grin. “And don’t worry. I’m sure I can have one cookie without it hurting me. I could probably have the whole bag as well, but I don’t wanna shit myself in bed again.”

If he was hoping to make the goth laugh, he miscalculated. 

Eyes still fixated on the ravenette’s scarred back, Abbacchio simply knitted his eyebrows. 

“Who did this to you?” He asked before he gave himself a chance to reconsider the intrusiveness of his question - and followed up, when Bruno tilted his head in confusion: “Your back, I mean. Who hurt you?”

“Oh, that,” Bucciarati waved his hand dismissively then turned around to give Abbacchio a better view. “It’s an old thing. I got all inked up so I didn’t have to whore whenever my ca- my pimp pleased because the creeps who fucked me only cared about androgynous cherubs with naked skin. Although he was rather displeased with the result. Sent his people out to get me.”

Abbacchio took a moment to let the information sink in. It appeared as though he had - yet again - underestimated his understanding of the mafia. 

“Why didn’t you report it?” He asked dumbfoundedly, not entirely sure why he did at all.

Bucciarati scoffed in response. 

“To whom?” He asked, tugging on a t-shirt. “The police?”

Abbacchio resisted the initial urge to nod as he finally processed the grotesqueness of the situation. And Bruno’s tragedy in its light.

“Sorry, you’re right,” he admitted, then averted his gaze. “Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” Bruno cupped his chin and climbed on his toes to place a shy kiss on his mouth. “It’s a good thing that you did. It’s not your fault the world doesn’t make sense, alright?”

***

“So what’s up with your grudge against spinach?” Abbacchio asked from above a cup of green tea, resting his eyes on Bucciarati who was absorbed in picking his croissant apart, only to eat the strawberry filling out with a spoon. The goth did not dare to question the preference. 

“It comes out in full,” Bruno offered an innocent grin - though it quickly faltered, like a mask that did not quite fit. “Seriously, though, sorry about the morning. I didn’t mean to– you know. ”

“But you did nothing wrong,” the goth protested, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “It’s not your fault, okay? I don’t mind it. Even if you leaked on the sheets or wherever else.”

The ravenette sent him an uncertain glance, then placed his croissant flatly on the plate. 

“Do you mean it?” He asked. There was a sense of vulnerability in his voice that shattered Leone’s heart into a million pieces. “Because it will keep happening and it’s not up to me, and might get worse than today, and, and–”

“Hush, honey,” Abbacchio got up from his seat, wincing ever so slightly as his weight briefly rested on his right leg. He made his way closer to Bruno and dropped on the empty chair beside the man. “Of course I mean it. I want to be intimate with you and I want to love you, I want to respect you. I want you to feel comfortable around me. Alright?”

The ravenette sent him another uncertain gaze. His eyelashes were damp with tears - as he blinked them away and took a deep breath, Leone leaned in to place a kiss on his nose and offered a reassuring smile. Hoping it would help. Even if it didn’t.

“Alright,” Bruno agreed quietly, then locked his eyes with Abbacchio’s. “But promise me you’re not going to dump me the second it gets ugly, okay?”

The goth nodded in response. He grabbed Bucciarati’s chin and exchanged another look with him. The ravenette’s eyes gleamed with hope. With the desire to be loved for who he was - as though he had been refused this right before. 

It broke Abbacchio’s heart to consider it a possibility. 

And yet. 

“I promise,” he swore, taking Bruno’s hand in his. “If you’ll let me be your boyfriend.”

“Only if you’ll be mine,” Bucciarati sent him one of his mischievous grins - softened by his teared-up eyes, yet still teaseful. “I can’t have anal sex, though. That means no topping me, hole’s sewn shut.”

Abbacchio let out a soft laugh and placed a kiss on the ravenette’s forehead. How was it possible that the man before him, so open and vulnerable with his feelings, his heart on his sleeve, was the same person who drove his work partner insane on a regular, he didn’t know. Didn’t care to know. 

“Lucky for you, I always bottom. Or I will, I suppose, I’m a hopeless virgin,” he smiled - earning an all-too-familiar snort from Bucciarati. “Ready when you are, darling.”

Chapter Text

“So this is what you’ve been hiding from the world while wearing boring police uniforms, then?” Bucciarati opened Abbacchio’s closet and set his arms akimbo. “Huh.”

The goth was not even given a chance to protest. Bruno had walked in on him carrying a handful of ironed band t-shirts, shamelessly zipping himself through the wall - as though he could not have rung the doorbell. 

And he knew the house would be empty either way. Abbacchio had mentioned. With his parents away on Capri for a couple of days for an extended family visit, he’d made use of the rare opportunity to invite Bruno over. Somehow it felt just right to swap places every once in a while. He only wished he had considered the ravenette’s unpredictability. 

“They’re not boring, just formal,” he protested in vain. All of it to receive a pitiful smile from Bucciarati. 

“They are,” the man took a step forward and began browsing through the hangers until he pulled out a black turtleneck top and a forgotten, half-transparent cape-like purple scarf Abbacchio had been trying to find for about a year now. It warmed his heart to see the item again after so much time. “Goth me up?”

“If you want to,” he shrugged with a disapproving smile. Sometimes, dating Bruno felt like raising an adult toddler. Though he didn’t mind. “Put these on, I’ll do your makeup.”

And he truly had nothing against it. As the gangster’s eyes lit up with excitement, he could only shake his head in mock disapproval, leaning against the structure of his desk, watching the man take off the red merino wool sweatshirt he had been wearing. 

Of course there was nothing underneath. 

In the last few days, they seemed to have progressed beyond the line of insecurity. And Abbacchio was glad about it. With nothing left to hide, he no longer feared bringing up his lack of sex knowledge. 

Though Bruno had been more than understanding. Drawing on theory and personal experiences, he slowly walked the goth through the process, from the initial act of washing his ass beforehand through the positions and what to truly expect (the few gay porn tapes teenage Leone had been able to get a hold of ha seemingly lied to him), all the way to the inevitable aftermath of anal sex concluding the act beyond the bathroom doors. At least he knew what he was signing up for.

Though he still did not feel quite ready to try. 

Bruno understood - a repetitive assurance stated a thousand times by now. Besides, they could still cuddle, kiss and lay about. With the ravenette’s innate clinginess, Abbacchio doubted he would ever find a way to force the man aside. Not that he wanted to. 

As touch-deprived and weird as he was, Bucciarati was also insanely cute - so much so that the goth was willing to forgive every single idiosyncrasy. Or so he thought.

“Where’s your finger?” 

Bruno paused with Abbacchio’s longsleeve turtleneck, makeshift zippers on the sides to fit, halfway down his torso. He sent the man a surprised glance, then flexed his right hand forward, giving it a thoughtful look. Like a ring, gold zipper teeth wrapped around his middle finger, marking its half - though the top bit was missing - its owner rather unbothered by this fact. 

“I’ve been asking myself the same question for a few days now,” came the response, followed by a nonchalant shrug. Bucciarati tugged the top on and glanced into the closet mirror as if to decide whether or not to tuck it under the waistband of his black corduroy pants. “Wish I knew.”

“What do you mean: You wish you knew? ” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow - then another, since the situation demanded it. “What did you do with it.”

The question came out a statement - and the goth hoped it came through the way it was supposed to - only that it didn’t.

“Do you not fidget with stuff when you’re bored? Or trying to focus?” Bruno pouted with a saddened expression. “Fingers just always come in handy. It's not my fault I lost one.”

Abbacchio pinched the bridge of his nose praying for patience. Bucciarati truly was irredeemable. 

“Any idea of where it might be?” He crossed his arms, not entirely sure whether he wanted to hear the reply. He probably didn’t.

“I think I might have put it in the trash by accident,” Bruno offered a sheepish smile and wrapped the semi-transparent scarf around his shoulders. “It’s alright, though. We’ve always got plenty of spare fingers in the mafia.”

“That-,” Abbacchio raised his arms in a self-defensive manner, then shook his head, giving up the attempts to argue with the man, let alone to understand him. “Whatever. Nine or ten fingers, you look great. I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Bucciarati sent him a teasing glance. He brushed the scarf backwards and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Where’s the unconditional love you promised?”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes in response. He dropped on the milky white comforter beside the ravenette and pulled him closer, placing a quick kiss on his lips. 

“Always looming in the background,” he teased back. “I’m stealing my sister’s foundation for you, by the way, mine’s just gonna make you look like a death metal bandman.”

Bruno sent him an innocent glance.

“Wouldn’t that be cute, though?” He asked with a playful smile. Abbacchio simply let out a sigh and rolled his eyes.

He reached over to a bedside table cupboard, pulling out a cosmetic bag and a couple of hair clips. Years of reduced mobility introduced practicality in his life - doing his makeup in bed meant less standing. Less moving around, at that - a very fair deal in exchange for eyeshadow dust on his sheets. 

He placed the bag on the comforter beside the ravenette and moved to sit in the man’s lap, his right leg hanging idly off the bed. It did not bend quite right anyway. 

Clipping Bruno’s freshly trimmed bangs upwards, Abbacchio placed a soft kiss on his nose. The gangster giggled like a teenage girl - and Leone resisted an eye roll as he began applying foundation onto his face. 

“You’ve got a pristine complexion,” he remarked, then reached for bronzer and a brush to contour Bucciarati’s features. 

“For now,” the ravenette tucked his hair behind his ears. “I get an acne blowout every once in a while. You’ll probably see me like that after Christmas but it’s worth my mother’s mostaccioli. Panettone, too, but that’s about as much as I’m willing to tolerate about Milan.”

Abbacchio raised his eyebrow in response, as if to wordlessly ask for an elaboration - and expand on his strong opinions, Bruno did: “Fucking tight-up northern pricks.”

Leone only offered a sympathetic nod of agreement. 

He was no stranger to the longstanding north-south divide of the country - and he shared a certain sense of ingrained animosity - a dose of suspicion - towards the feigned niceness of those from the top part of the Italian Peninsula. It had never been hostility per se - he simply kept his distance, occasionally earning a glare or two if he happened to reveal his place of origin - or whenever his accent did. 

He only cared about the whole situation because everyone else seemed to - individual objections would only backfire at him, he knew - like punishment for naivety confronted with people’s outdated beliefs. 

“So I take it, you’ll be spending Christmas with your mom, then?” He asked carefully and pulled out a palette of dark eyeshadows. 

He supposed it must have been the case. Bruno had never gotten into the details of his father’s passing but he had mentioned it - and even if it were otherwise, Abbacchio would have figured it out eventually, considering the trajectory of events and the two murders on the ravenette’s conscience. It only made sense for the man to visit his mother instead. Gangsters had families, too. Of course they did. Leone only wondered about their relationship - did the woman know her son had killed in the past? How did she react? Or had the matter been brushed away, thanks to her absence in his life, perhaps? 

There were so many things about Bruno Bucciarati that Abbacchio did not yet know, it made his head spin. Perhaps it was better if he remained oblivious to them. Hoping the gangster would walk him through his biography as though it were a museum trip, instead. 

“Alas,” Bruno agreed and laid comfortably in the pillows underneath him, forcing Abbacchio to bend down, too. 

Using one arm for support, the goth moved upwards and situated himself on Bucciarati’s hips for better access. His leg protested at the sudden change of position, but he ignored it. For a moment, he could handle discomfort. And the ravenette looked mesmerizing before him. 

“How so?” He raised an eyebrow and applied a faint trace of dark brown eyeshadow to the man’s eyes and thereabouts - deepening the shadows on his face, accentuating the line of his nose, aiming for a somewhat traditional gothic look tribute. It suited Bruno. 

“I wasn’t really given a choice,” the ravenette answered Leone’s question with a sigh. As the goth drew purple and black winged lines on his eyelids, he continued with a hint of disenchantment in his voice: “And my step-father is a wannabe gangster. I’ve got two loud siblings, both ten years old. My mom’s probably gonna be trying out a new weightloss trend as well and we both know there’s only as much as my guts can handle. I just don’t want to be the hot topic at the dinner table, especially that the kids’ grandparents surely will come. They only see a criminal in me but let it slide because Fredo is trying to be the vanilla version of the same thing.”

“Fredo is your step-dad?” Abbacchio ensured, rummaging through his lipstick collection, looking for a shade to match Bucciarati’s warm complexion, one that would not make him look like a halloween witch. 

The man simply hummed in response, then reached to adjust the folds of his top, wincing uncomfortably as he attempted to scratch at the skin underneath - unsuccessfully so, it appeared. “You good?”

Bucciarati nodded again.

“It’s itchy under the film but I can’t reach it,” he explained, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “I don’t know why but my zippers aren’t quite helpful to get there, either.”

“I feel that,” Abbacchio pulled out a forgotten lipstick in a dark purple shade. It had a warm tint to it but reflected blue tones - a perfect match for Bruno. “My knee just aches deep inside where the screws are. Sometimes I wish there was a way to stick my hand in there and readjust them all in hopes of relief. A screwdriver wouldn’t hurt either.”

“That’s quite drastic,” Bucciarati laughed. “I just get an itchy rash cause my skin doesn’t exactly breathe under plastic. It’s manageable but sometimes slips out of control. I suppose that’s slightly better of the two.”

“I mean, if we’re competing for comparisons,” Abbacchio grabbed Bruno’s chin and gently painted his lips purple, careful to stay within the lines. “At least I can eat what I want.”

“And I can run faster,” the ravenette bit back with a grin. “Let’s go out tonight, what do you say?”

***

Bucciarati really nailed his outfit, Abbacchio had to admit. With the addition of zippers, the stolen top fitted him just right, not exactly hiding the roundness of his body but rather, accentuating the curves in a way that made Leone question his morals. Temporarily, the purple scarf had been turned into a loose throw-over, miniature fasteners folding the fabric into a sleeved cardigan. A short trail of zipper teeth acted as a nose ring, too - the corduroy pants completing the gangster’s look, a roll under the fabric of the top just above the waistband resting right where it was supposed to. 

Was Bruno hot or was he breathtaking, Leone could not decide.

Though he wasn’t much worse off himself, either - clad in a genderbending set of faux leather leggings accentuating his height, and a pair of clasped combat boots to match, he made heads turn as he followed Bucciarati into a student gay club he had no idea even existed. 

The bouncer eyed up his low-cut ripped tank top revealing more than it covered. Perhaps he wondered whether Abbacchio was a femminello. And maybe he was. He liked the idea. The space for it in his own culture and the amicable attitude towards it. 

Maybe both he and Bucciarati were exactly that. 

He would be lying that the concept had not inspired his outfit in the first place - the visible nipple piercing, two crossed strips of black tape on his other nip - and his hair loosely falling on his back, down to the lower line of his ribs. Sexy, Bruno had concluded it when Abbacchio had stepped out of the bathroom all dolled up, having swapped his usual cane for a pair of black crutches. 

With a leg brace in a crowd of people in the cold of a December night, it certainly was easier to move around that way.

If it weren’t for Niballo’s complaints throughout the years, Leone would have partly switched to crutches on a daily basis by now. He supposed he’d eventually have to in the coming years, seeing as his injury pain was only getting worse. And with it, his need for extra support. 

The music in the club was deafening. A poorly done transition between No Diggity and Try Again - one that did not pay justice to any of the songs . 

Abbacchio would have certainly done it much better.

He had not been out like that for ages. Perhaps ever since his time in the academy. 

Save for playing sets at parties and raves, he shied away from clubs. He’d never been much of a going out person anyway - easily trading a sweaty night with mediocre music (even though the venue Bruno had picked wasn’t half bad in this regard) for a gathering of friends at one of their houses. Food and a setlist of choice included. 

Recently, he supposed, he avoided clubs solely for the fact of them tying to the unsolvable case he had been assigned by Seppie. 

Now, though he did not care much about any of it - it would only be a few weeks more before the matter became outdated. Put to rest in the archives, along with all the other corrupted crimes certain higher-ups did not want solved any time soon, forgotten, it would quietly meet its demise.

He only needed to convince Bistecca to drop his enthusiasm and temporarily put away his dreams of promotion. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon anyway. 

“Abbacchio! I didn’t expect to see you here!” A familiar hand slapped his bare shoulder just Up and Down jumped right out of yet another r&b classic.

As a straight man, Bistecca truly had a way of choosing his entrance songs from the repertoire of Italian drag queens. Abbacchio appreciated the allyship. Probably. He supposed. “Are you here on a date as well? Have you met Corinna?”

It took the man a moment to realize the baby bat beside Leone was no one other than the dangerous gangster who had mocked him just a few days earlier. 

Before he realized, he managed to push forward the woman accompanying him - a rather short, slender, dark-haired twenty-something clad in a sequined fuchsia dress and a pair of matching block heels. Corinna. Or the girlfriend he had mentioned, the one he had been planning to propose to. 

Maybe he already did , Abbacchio realized noticing a rather basic diamond ring on her finger. 

Straight culture truly laid beyond his understanding. Then again, at least heteronormative partners did not lose their fingers at the fault of boredom. 

Were he sober, he would have found himself in conflict concerning the explanation behind his affair with a gangster both he and his police partner were supposed to hate. 

Having consumed a glass of wine each back home with Bucciarati, he did not even register such a worry crossing his mind. 

If anything, it was Bistecca who finally clocked it - as he sent the ravenette a suspicious glare, his animosity growing by the second. Perhaps he regretted bringing his fianceé over to the club. Or ever becoming close with Abbacchio in the first place. Maybe both. 

“What is this supposed to mean?!” He yelled over the music and reached forward to grab at Leone’s forearm, stopping mid-motion upon realizing the man was on crutches. “Are you fucking a criminal behind my back?!”

Abbacchio, Bucciarati and Corinna exchanged glances in silence. The gangster appeared rather amused - contrasting with his pitiful smile and the goth’s own disapproving look, the brunette’s confused expression did not quite fit in. 

“When you put matters that way, it kind of seems like you’re his secret lover or something,” the ravenette remarked, watching with satisfaction as Bistecca’s face colored in crimson under the pink, purple and blue strobe lights. “But I don’t like sharing.”

“No one asked for your opinion,” Aitano crossed his arms. He looked hurt - as though an image he had of Abbacchio fell apart, at last. Thong Song came on. Bistecca turned to face the goth, then spat out: “Just because your father was the boss once doesn’t mean you can do whatever the fuck you want. I bet Seppie is going to be delighted to find out you’ve been screwing a gangster while pretending to be a justful cop.”

Leone raised an eyebrow in amusement. 

“Go on, tell him, you little snitch,” he sneered. “Like it’s gonna earn you respect. Because that’s what you crave, right? To finally matter, to fit in, for people to like you. So desperate you are, loser.”

The words came out before he knew it. As they did, he felt his adrenaline levels rise. Was he angry? Not quite. No tears showed, the usual indication of annoyance for him. Rather, he was having the time of his life. Something was happening, at last. 

Though Bistecca was having none of it. 

“It’s easy for you to say,” he replied coldly. Or yelled through the music, his look - countless daggers aimed at Abbacchio who waved them off like smoke. “You’ve got it all. Wit, an inherited position. I had to work for it all. After all those years in the force, I still haven’t been able to get where you started simply because I don’t have a famous name or good one-liners. So don’t you go at me and–”

“Whoa, why don’t you two take it outside?” Bucciarati chimed in, ignorant of the glare Bistecca sent him. “Corinna, let me get you a drink while the girls are fighting. Platonically, of course. With all due respect, you’re not my type.”

Aitano only placed his arm protectively in front of his fianceé. 

“Don’t you dare hit on her,” he sneered. “And would you stop making fun of me for once? Both of you!” He pleaded. 

Abbacchio wondered if he was going to burst into tears within the next five minutes. 

“Actually, solving it here and now might be a good idea,” Corinna suggested and slowly lowered Bistecca’s arm. The man balled his fists in response. “Otherwise this night out isn’t going to work out. A platonic drink is fine,” she turned to face the ravenette. “But platonic and platonic only. You’re not my type either, whoever you are, mysterious gangster.”

She clearly was drunk enough not to care.

“Bruno Bucciarati,” the ravenette bowed in an exaggerated gesture of introduction. “Pleasure’s mine.”

***

“How long have you been going out with him, then?” Bistecca’s directness hit Abbacchio as soon as they stepped into the small yard behind the club.  

The bass thumped against the walls - it seemed the DJ was playing Aaliyah for the second time tonight - and the air carried the scent of cigarettes and a faint trace of early December morning chill - but the place was better than nothing for a long overdue conversation. “When were you going to tell me?”

The contempt for Bucciarati was obvious in the man’s voice. For some reason, Abbacchio found it laughable. He was still itching for a proper fight. 

And he brought it on. 

“Never,” he shrugged as much as leaning on crutches allowed him. “My love life is none of your business.”

Bistecca inhaled sharply. Hurt flashed in his eyes - then anger replaced it. 

“It is my business. We’re friends. A boyfriend is something you should have mentioned by now,” he complained. Abbacchio scoffed. 

“Yet, I only found out today that your girlfriend’s name is Corinna. And I’ve known you for how long? A year and a half?” He remarked. “Some things just go unmentioned in workplace-based friendships.”

Bistecca rolled his eyes. 

“That’s not relevant,” he said. “ You are dating a criminal. One that is wanted, too. I’m just worried. Like a friend would be.”

Abbacchio pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket in place of answering. He offered one to Bistecca - but the man shook his head. 

The goth shrugged in response, then lit one up, shielding the lighter flame from the cold wind gusts. They made his skin chill. He wished he had his jacket on. 

Though it sat somewhere in the depth of Bucciarati’s zipper void - shoved there along with the man’s fur bolero (borrowed from the pile of clothes Abbacchio’s sister had left at home when she moved out) as soon as they both realized neither had any spare Euro coins for a cloak room deposit. For some reason the club only accepted the new currency. 

“Are you going to answer me?” Bistecca complained, shivering as a gust of wind embraced him. Clearly, the colorful shirt he was wearing was not much protection against the cold. “I’m concerned about the relationships you make.”

“Or are you simply pissed because you can’t seem to wrap the case up like you hoped you would? Because it’s beyond your comprehension that justice doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to?” Abbacchio blew the smoke out right into Bistecca’s face. He wanted a fight now, simply for fun. He was going to worry about the consequences later. “Don’t embarrass yourself like that, Aitano. You’re the one who taught me to take bribes in the first place. Who are you to complain about who I date? Worry about your own sex life instead. Have you met your monthly goal of a shag per week, by the way? The clock’s ticking, December is coming to an end.”

The remark clearly was unnecessary - and the goth was well aware of it. Yet, all he wanted was entertainment - watching Bistecca get all worked up for nothing provided exactly that. 

“Would you stop making fun of me?!” Aitano raised his voice in response. He looked furious - fists balled, eyes glaring right at Abbacchio, as if he was trying to pierce his soul. Stab it with the countless daggers contained in the look, perhaps. 

And Leone simply laughed. 

“Just drop it, dude,” he tipped the ash off his cigarette. “That desperate attitude and the case. Do you not get it? The slashed tire was a warning. You can’t win. It’s like bribes, only on a much larger scale. Trust my sources.”

It was the best he could do to try and plead that Bistecca remained sensible.

Though the man only exhaled angrily. 

“Trust your sources?” He scoffed. The wind blew again, the cold air sharper, in some way eerie. “A warning, my ass. Like I would ever listen to a gangster. As if someone like that can have good intentions. He’s a murderer, do you not get it?”

A lightning cut the sky. Abbacchio rolled his eyes dismissively. 

Heavy raindrops hit the ground.

“He’s my murderer,” he simply said, then put out the cigarette butt on against the wall. “Deal with it, asshat.”

Chapter Text

“Nice kitchen,” Bucciarati leaned against the beige island piece in the middle of Abbacchio’s family home’s spacious dining area. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

The goth rolled his eyes with a soft chuckle. Popping in for the weekend a few days after the confrontation with Bistecca, Bruno was in his usual demeanor - self-confident, cocky - and a little weird. 

Abbacchio did not mind. 

“It would have been rather difficult to get you all the way from my room with my parents in the house,” he remarked. 

The gangster simply sent him an amused gaze, then rested his eyes on the landscape photo decorating the otherwise bare white, clay-coated wall. He stayed silent for a few moments.

And Abbacchio used the opportunity to take in the total of his beauty.

Clad in a blue hoodie - so unlike him - the ravenette looked rather casual, considering his occupation. If anything, he fitted right in the middle of the kitchen image, a boyfriend’s afternoon visit. 

“Would you like to go to Milan with me? Just before Christmas,” he finally offered, not bothering to look at Abbacchio - a casual suggestion, it appeared, though a rather surprising one. 

“I thought you’d be spending the holidays with your mother?” The goth raised an eyebrow, remembering their conversation - but Bruno simply shrugged. 

“I had to amend my plans,” he sighed and rested his elbows on the counter, then locked his eyes with Abbacchio’s. “Can’t leave my team alone for Christmas. We’re a family. So I’ll be going to visit my mom a few days before the twenty-fourth. I borrowed her car, need to return it, at last.”

Leone nodded slowly, trying to make sense of Bucciarati’s reasoning. Somehow, it seemed unnecessary to value a few strangers more than those of one’s own blood - then again, the ravenette had mentioned a strained relationship with his closest relatives. Perhaps it was only right to offer kindness and care to those of choice. 

Abbacchio wished he could so simply understand. 

“Why do you want me to go with you, though?” He asked, regretting stating the question as soon as it had been spoken into existence. Certainly, as Bruno’s boyfriend, he would have been expected to meet the man’s family sooner or later. 

And the ravenette only confirmed his suspicions. 

“I mean, you know,” he leaned a bit lower on the counter, sending Leone one of his mischievous smiles. “As it’s impossible for me to officially meet your parents given the circumstances between the legality of the two systems - or lack thereof - I was hoping to at least be able to give you this chance instead. My mom will love you, trust me. She’s still a little bit on the fence with myself being a murderer - even if in self defense - but she’ll be delighted to know I now have a boyfriend.”

There was no sarcasm in the ravenette’s voice. If anything, his words sounded like an offer of genuine importance - so casual in meaning it almost felt as though they were both regular young adults in a relationship - the mafia business taken out of the equation entirely. 

Sometimes, Abbacchio wished it were so. 

Then again, he did not exactly have any plans for the upcoming couple of weeks anyway. With Bistecca upset with him beyond repair, his social possibilities diminished drastically. 

Nonetheless, he did not quite blame the man for his reaction. 

With time, he was beginning to wonder whether his own response back at the club was appropriate - calling Aitano out on his own hypocrisy might have been the final straw, sure - though Leone need not have sympathized with his boyfriend’s criminal past. 

It had been a momentary reaction, back then - a creation of circumstance which backfired eventually, resulting, inevitably, in their falling out - so much so that the last few days back at work, both men spent actively ignoring one another’s presence. A rather difficult task given the joined office space - and a shared desk. 

Abbacchio wondered whether they would eventually make up. That Bistecca would forgive him, one way or another - or get over the matter, perhaps - remained a possibility - then again, he were not sure whether he himself wanted to put any extra effort into rebuilding his friendship with the man. 

It was only a question of time before either of them got promoted - and moved to a different desk, at that - perhaps it made no sense at all to try and settle things. 

Or maybe it simply was Abbacchio’s pride which did not allow him to reach out in the first place. 

“Are you sure it’s not too early for that?” He answered question for question, unable to shove his doubts aside. As much as he wanted to accompany Bruno on his trip to Milan (he’d never been there, himself), the contras appeared to be outweighing the pros - and so he had to know. Even if only for the sake of not feeling like an intruder. 

“Why would it be?” The ravenette raised an eyebrow and situated himself atop of the kitchen island. Abbacchio sent him a puzzled glance. And Bucciarati dutifully offered an explanation: “Sorry, it just looked like the perfect place to sit.”

“What are you, a cat?” Leone rolled his eyes, earning a soft laugh from Bruno. 

“Not that I know of,” the gangster laughed. “But I suppose my ass has justified reasons for indulgence, does it not?”

***

The car door slammed shut as Abbacchio slid inside the navy blue Subaru Legacy and let out a deep sigh. He still wasn’t entirely convinced of Bucciarati’s plan to introduce him to his family. The relationships between its members were tense, as far as he was aware. 

Pushing himself into the ongoing fights and past wrongdoings appeared a rather ludicrous idea. 

And yet, here he was, in the passenger’s seat - as Bruno slid the key into the ignition, the car coming to life with an average hum - so casual it felt rather unfitting for a gangster to drive such a vehicle. 

“Is this one legal or stolen?” He asked, partly to fill the silence - and partly to confirm or dismiss any of his lingering suspicions. As much as the car appeared genuine - a suburban treasure of a mother of two (or three) - a Wunderbaum tag hanging off the rear-view mirror, a stack of tapes shoved carelessly in the compartment between the seats - Leone could not bring himself to trust Bucciarati completely just yet. Despite the signs of use and domestication, of the habitation of the Subaru. 

“I wouldn’t put my mom in trouble, even if we don’t get along,” Bruno laughed, then zipped open a compartment on his chest and retrieved a wallet-sized leather document case. With a courteous smirk, he handed the item to Abbacchio and moved from the parking spot on the side of the road. “It’s the registration certificate. Have a look.”

The goth opened the folded piece obediently - only to be met with a summary of ownership, some parameters of the vehicle - dutifully registered under the name of Gloria Barbieri, no photos attached. 

A part of him felt stupid for asking for clarifications. Another - was relieved to discover he had not been lied to in the first place. 

Suddenly, the trip to Milan appeared as casual as Bruno had initially painted it - returning the vehicle to his mother, staying over for a couple of days and heading back south on the train. 

Abbacchio could deal with it. 

“What’s your mom like?” He asked, handing the documents back to Bruno who carelessly shoved them in the small space between the seats. 

Perhaps it was an insensitive question. Perhaps he had the right to know. 

“Peculiar?” The ravenette sent him a quick glance as he took a turn onto the A1, carelessly shoving the car between two other, razorblade style - earning a cacophony of horns in response. “By the way, do you wanna swap seats somewhere between Rome and Florence? It’s a long drive.”

“Closer to Florence, I don’t mind,” Abbacchio leaned back in his seat. “Peculiar how ?”

Bruno clicked his tongue in response, taking a moment to come up with an answer. Seconds passed in silence as they drove forward, being overtaken only occasionally - and the goth could tell Bucciarati did not want to get in trouble with the law this once, seeing as he allowed it. Perhaps he truly cared about his mother’s car. Like the good son he was (supposed to be). 

“Clearly, she cares,” he finally spoke - a hint of sadness of sorts could be heard in his voice. “Only that she doesn’t exactly do it in the way you’d expect her to. You’ll see she’s got a habit of announcing her next move to everyone around. And it’s not to fulfill some selfish desire. It seems to me she’s simply like that. She wants to do good. And she’s certainly too kind for her husband.” 

Abbacchio nodded in understanding. A part of him could relate to the account - his own mother putting up with his father’s idiosyncrasies for over two decades, to date. 

Then again, he did not mean to criticize the man’s traits in such a harsh way - despite the attitude, Niballo was still a parental figure Leone wanted to keep in his life. An arm’s length distance appeared a good enough measure to do so - yet still, cutting his dad out completely seemed rather unjust. 

He was not all made of disadvantages. 

Sometimes, the younger Abbacchio would find himself caught up in the black-and-white thinking regarding his parents. The urge to receive some kind of reimbursement for all the wrongdoings tended to overthrow the overall positive image of the family - because he did not have it all that bad, anyway. 

He supposed it was the most difficult aspect of all - the realization that even though certain misdemeanors had been present throughout the years, he was hesitant to refer to them as abuse - or anything of the sort. At the end of the day, both of his parents were overall supportive - materially and emotionally, to an extent which their own upbringing allowed. 

Whether or not Leone was justifying their actions, he were not sure. Sometimes - he certainly tended to; others - he simply wanted to make peace with the past, seeing as he was unable to change or fix it anyway. Establishing a sense of distance proved the most efficient strategy, he supposed - allowing both his parents to exist in their own comfortable sphere while gathering the means to move on to the life he saw comfortable for himself. 

“What are you thinking of?” Bucciarati’s hand traveled up Abbacchio’s cheek, breaking the man out of his thoughts - rudely so, though very much in fashion - and time, it appeared, with his own thoughts drifting away from the main conversation topic. 

“Parents are like that, I suppose,” he shrugged, loosely entwining his fingers with the ravenette’s before he moved them back onto the steering wheel. “You can’t really truly fix them, can you? Circumstances alter cases and they shape generations. I suppose.”

“You might be right,” Bruno nodded, then fumbled around the between-seat compartment in search of cigarettes. Certainly, he could not keep both of his hands on the wheel. “Fetch me a lighter?”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes in response. Dutifully, he dug out a single-use lighter from the pocket of his pants - then lit up Bucciarati’s cigarette without the man even asking, as if he were hoping to care for the safety of them both while on the road. 

As though the distraction of smoking were not dangerous in itself. 

Or maybe they were not. Perhaps he simply did not yet realize the true dangers of the path he had stepped onto.

***

Abbacchio leaned against the side of the car and rested his eyes on the open highway before him. 

There was something almost hypnotic in the steady car movement, he reckoned - or perhaps in the idea of traveling as a whole. 

And he did quite enjoy it. 

Bruno had gone off to the bathroom and to fetch them some snacks for the remainder of the drive - and it was Leone’s turn to get behind the wheel. 

Quite frankly, the goth could not wait - whether it was the perspective of sharing a few days with the ravenette; or the idea of the man inviting him into the intimacy of his family - he grew rather fond of the idea.

As though they were a normal couple. 

Yet still, perhaps, in its own peculiar way, they were. With their little dates and outlawed pastime activities - who was there to lecture them about the appropriate way of love, anyway? 

Bistecca, Abbacchio supposed - though the man’s own relationship did not appear a model one, either. Certainly not for the goth, at least - with the rigid pace at which it moved, it seemed a torture, of sorts, lacking the spontaneity of intimacy he had found with Bruno. 

He never wanted to let it go. 

In the few weeks since he had gotten together with Bucciarati, Leone realized the thrill of walking the fine line between the socially expected and the frowned upon was exactly what he had hoped to settle for in life. 

Perhaps naively, he was more than happy to follow the man into the fire - then again, the only alternative remained a tense relationship with Aitano - and occasional encounters with Canaderli - the little touch of the queer world he so desperately longed for. 

“Pepperoni or margherita?” - and the little surprises, the unexpected appearances of Bruno’s, he wanted to cherish forever, too. 

“Margherita,” he turned to face the man who was now standing at the front of the car, holding two pizzetta bags, nursing a bottle of water under his arm. 

“No mercy for me, no mercy,” Bucciarati shook his head in mock disapproval but obediently handed the appropriate snack to Leone - who only rolled his eyes. 

“You’ve no nerve endings for it to burn twice anyway,” he laughed - then glanced at the pizzetta he retrieved from the ravenette. “Or we can split both in a half. I suppose you’d have some wet wipes if we got dirty.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily put them around food anymore but yeah,” Bruno laughed, leaning against the side of the vehicle next to Abbacchio. “For social acceptability reasons, I mean. They’re clean otherwise.”

Leone let out a soft laugh and ripped his pizzetta in half, using the paper wrap as protection. 

“I know they are,” he said. Then stole a bite of Bruno’s pepperoni before the man managed to grab a proper hold of it. 

Certainly, he could act as a menace, too. 

***

“Bruno, darling, it’s so nice to see you,” a woman whose features resembled the ravenette’s opened the apartment door and pulled her son into a tight embrace before her eyes rested on Abbacchio. 

The goth did not need to take another look to recognize who she was right away. 

At around five feet tall, she barely reached Bucciarati’s shoulders - her figure much rounder than that of her child’s - though she had the same set of kind ocean blue eyes. 

Gloria Barbieri, Abbacchio realized, recalling the name printed in the car registration certificate. “And you must be Leone. Bruno told me all the best things about you. Would you like to sit down? There’s a lot of stairs up here, certainly.”

Not given a chance to respond to any of the questions one by one, the goth froze in mild surprise at the realization that the ravenette’s mother was exactly what he said she would be - peculiar in the sense of caring about other people - certainly, seeing as her worried gaze slid past his cane. 

“I’m alright, thank you,” he finally offered, forcing a hint of a smile - and common courtesy, at last: “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, ma’am.”

“Come on, call me Gloria,” the woman waved her hand dismissively - as though the idea of being addressed in a more formal, polite manner, offended her somehow. Abbacchio did not question. Certainly, she and Bucciarati shared the same attitude - only that it manifested differently. “How was the journey? Would you like some pasta? There’s dinner leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry, both of you. Fiber-free, to cater to Bruno’s needs, of course.”

Abbacchio caught a slight eye roll from the ravenette as the words had been spoken. 

‘I told you, ’ was mouthed carefully while they both kicked off their shoes - a pair of black Demonias and a matching set of loafers - though Abbacchio only shrugged in response. 

He liked the sense of domesticity Gloria brought - along with the scent of home, or what he supposed a hearth should smell like. 

A mix of herbs and cookies, a slight hint of French soap, a touch of wood. 

Suddenly, having agreed to accompany Bucciarati on his family visit did not seem a bad idea at all. 

If anything, Abbacchio only found himself at ease.

Chapter Text

Bucciarati winced as the exterior mirror wall of Torre Francesco reflected the low-hanging December sunlight, momentarily blinding him on impact. He never quite liked the sudden contrast between the city’s original architecture and the introduction of the modern, glass skyscrapers of Centro Direzionale. 

He hated being forced to do what he was about to do. And himself, on impact, too, for not having the guts, reason be damned, to object. 

It was the last Monday before Christmas. 

Certainly, the circumstances matched the location - fancy and modern for shiny and festive. The least he could do was to lie his way out of the matter - protecting, he hoped, Abbacchio, on impact. Along with the man’s clusterfuck of a companion. 

Still, he wished to just avoid the job entirely - not needing to deliver the two’s schedules, altered as they were for the sake of their own safety - Passione planning to clean up its new enemy, a thorough ginger-haired officer; and his partner, while at it, to make life easier. 

Bucciarati hated being the one directly involved. 

He supposed it had to do with his closeness to Abbacchio. Surely, he should have been more careful about being seen together with the man - in a city where every wall had a pair of eyes and desperation dictated the price for information, it was only a matter of time before his stroke of luck ran out. 

It was a trap - both his own relationship and what he’d unwillingly become a part of, the conspiracy to teach Bistecca a lesson he would certainly remember until his very last breath. It was the consequence of his own actions, too, Bucciarati supposed - then again, he wondered what exactly it meant for society if those destined to protect it could not fulfill their duty for fear of being disposed of in the process. 

As much as the ravenette hated Bistecca, he knew the man did not deserve to meet his demise shot away like a stray dog simply for doing his job. 

Would his mother disown him for real this time, if she realized just how bad her firstborn turned out to be? Willingly or not - a killer - complicit in the death of an innocent civilian only because his capo ordered so? 

He thought back to the few days he and Abbacchio had spent in Milan - and how loving, how detached from the ugly reality that time felt. 

There, for a moment, he could pretend to be a regular citizen. A son from his mother’s first marriage, a stray, to an extent, a black sheep - with a boyfriend and a past conviction, one which he could convince everyone around if he tried hard enough, he had gained only for teenage recklessness, petty thefts, property damage and pickpocketing. 

Up in Milan, somehow, everyone was willing to put on an act no one involved seemed to mind. There, he, Gloria and Leone went sightseeing. There, as much as he had to worry about, were Fredo’s insensitive comments - the man’s careless mention of his little sister developing the same symptoms he’d had as a child - followed by questions on hoping they would pass with time for certainly, whatever bad genes stood at fault of the illness itself, must have come from Paolo Bucciarati, that loser. 

And perhaps a nobody, Bruno’s father had been, indeed - lost and confused after the divorce, never quite social in the first place - the extent of the impact of those traits, the ravenette was only beginning to realize now. 

Then again, he cherished the time they had spent together over the years - from cheesy sea shanties Paolo would hum every now and then, descaling fish - or sing at full volume, the few times some other fishermen came by; through being taught sailor’s knots (if only the older Bucciarati had known his son would end up using them as a torture method, zipping people apart into ribbons and tying them up in various styles until they broke and spilled the information needed), all the way to the quiet weekends spent at home, parallel play, almost, crosswords and books, an occasional game of chess. 

Ale, aged ten, did nothing wrong to deserve the slander her own father was disguising as jokes, either. For all the pain and suffering Bruno remembered from his own childhood, the lack of understanding and the making peace with his life once he was finally hoping to announce to his loved ones he was feeling better, at last, with the inflammation issue technically solved (or rather, disposed of) - only to be met with the disgust and lack of understanding of strangers, their miseducation - a facade to hide behind. 

Sometimes, Bucciarati wished he could zip Fredo apart and tie him up like a sailor knot simply to teach him a lesson, too. Even if only to pull a show for Abbacchio.

Certainly, judging by the brief interactions between the two, the goth would find it rather amusing. 

Bruno could only avoid real-life responsibilities for so long. 

As he walked down the brightly sunlit modern hall, he wished to disappear. Or to swap places with the Nastro girl, never to remember, never to recall, never to have to worry about the mafia business ever again. 

Noting the little decorative red peppers planted by the lift, he felt as though they appeared a rather mocking sight. It seemed unreal to think just a few days ago, he had so fondly glanced at a similar arrangement in his mother’s apartment, a tradition she had brought from down south, means for good luck. They used to have those, too, back home, Bruno and Paolo. And did they truly work as intended? He wished it were so.

He hated himself for what he was about to do. 

So much for naivety and kindness, for hoping he could avoid gangster’s fate. 

Perhaps he should have never given in to the hope of finding space for love in the mafia. 

He could only hope for his white lie to be believed in - accepting the consequence of insubordination, whatever it might be. A new set of acid burns, he supposed, only that he was running out of places to host them on his body. 

Sighing heavily, he pressed the lift button, playing for time as the floor count above it diminished by the second until the metal box stopped on the ground level and the door opened with a quiet hiss, revealing a modern, mirrored, metallic interior. 

There was glitter implanted into the floor lino.

Bucciarati wished the path he was about to walk down on were just as shiny. 

Slowly, he reached for the designated floor button - high up, with a thirty-two engraved just beside it - almost missing it as he realized how much his hands were shaking. 

They never did. 

He hated the passivity forced into him, the sense of obedience he had learned over the years - and how it backfired the moment he dared to dream of scraps of freedom, ignoring, on impact, the principle of distrust. How could he be naive enough to believe there was space for romancing a civilian - an officer of the law, at that, he wished to know. 

The worst, he supposed, was the realization that he did not have a long-term solution for the matter. Bistecca and Abbacchio would still be targeted, ‘less they caved in and became Passione’s puppets - the way Seppie did - though Bucciarati doubted he would ever be able to convince either of the men to side with the underworld for the sake of their own safety. 

The redhead was certainly going to refuse on grounds of moral superiority - his own ego earning him a bullet in the head one way or another - though Leone simply could not join the opposite of the law and order given his father’s reputation and the willingness to maintain family connections. 

Yet, regardless, Bucciarati was going to make a suggestion alluding towards choosing a sensible solution - now that the sex trafficking case investigation had gotten out of control. 

Perhaps if the police hadn’t gotten a hold of Cioccolata’s face, it would have been easier to avoid the whole ordeal - then again, Bruno could not really blame the goth for wanting to set matters straight. He couldn’t have predicted the outcome - or so the ravenette decided to foolishly hope. 

Because could he, after all?

***

“Any schedule changes I should be made aware of?” Pericolo accepted a couple of handwritten paper sheets from Bucciarati and glanced up at the man with a hint of suspicion painted on his face. 

“No, sir,” the ravenette forced himself to maintain a firm gaze - the capo’s divergent squint making it somehow more difficult to decide which of his eyes to look into. “That’s the most recent I’ve been able to get a hold of, assigned this morning.”

If there existed one thing Bucciarati hated more than being lied to, it was the act of fabricating the story in itself - stressful and detailed, the process always made him worried about blowing his own cover. 

Even if Pericolo seemed not to have noticed anything suspicious. 

Then again, there was no way to truly judge the authenticity of the work schedule in the man’s hands - if Passione needed one of its soldiers to go out and look for it in the first place, certainly, it were impossible to confirm the realness of the report. 

And if no one realized before the end of the week, Abbacchio and Bistecca were going to be safe - a raid against them, a trap for them to be lured in to die planned for their respective day off, marked as a working one on the sheets the capo had just gotten a hold of - sending a couple of other nameless officers to the scene, only that they would never make it to the location - Bucciarati risking an arrest for yet another car theft (and speeding) - a distraction from work for the sake of their protection. 

Pericolo didn’t need to know. 

“Any other news?” The capo spoke, hopping off his seat and making his way towards the glass wall overlooking the city. 

A familiar pop song was playing quietly in the background - with a glance to the side, Bucciarati noted the presence of a boombox, the ending chords and chants he knew all too well slowly transitioning into a possessive intro usually accompanied by a not-at-all obscene music video.

Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s debut record - a choice he would have never accused Pericolo of making. Perhaps the old man had good taste, after all. 

“I, uh,” Bucciarati joined the capo by the window. Down on the street, the cars and people appeared the size of Lego toys. If Pericolo had a stand allowing him to push people out of the window, if he had one at all and decided to use it against the ravenette, certainly, he would not have even been able to find the time to gather his final thoughts before hitting the ground. Then again, maybe it would have been for the better, given his forced two-facedness. “I got interrogated by the police the other day but I assume you already know that. Cioccolata should stay low for a while, though. Massimo spilled everything about the car business, too. I don’t know if it’s safe to continue at the rate we’ve been working thus far.”

Anything to steer the conversation away from the planned job involving Abbacchio and Bistecca, Bucciarati hoped as he sent Pericolo an expectant glance, expecting to see an ounce of concern on the man’s creased face - though his expression remained unbothered. 

“It’s not like you can’t escape a prison cell, right?” he turned to face the ravenette and winked - forcing the younger one to glance away, unsure which of the two eyes to look into, again. “There’s a big order coming up. An official from abroad would like to get himself a new toy. Lamborghini Diablo GT, to be specific. If you can track one down and get it all up and running by the end of the year, that would be great.”

Bucciarati suppressed a sigh of annoyance. 

“That’s in a week and a half,” he remarked - earning a heartfelt laugh from Pericolo. 

“And a half of that week is off ,” the capo sent him a vicious grin. “Come on, Bucciarati, what’s it to you? Live up to your nickname. Now is the perfect time for such an expensive theft - to be delivered as a new year’s gift now that the twenty-first century is properly starting. Unless you’d like to oversee the big coke transport we’ve got coming into the port on Christmas Eve?”

Bucciarati winced just ever so slightly, the mention of drugs touching a nerve in a way he did not expect. He hoped Pericolo hadn’t noticed. 

“No, I’ll take it,” he said quietly, his gaze absently resting on the glimpses of sun against the Tyrrhenian waters glistening in the distance. “The Lamborghini job, I mean.” 

“Good,” the capo clasped his hands with a paternal smile. “He would like an orange one.”

***

“Don’t come to work this Friday,” Bucciarati tucked a strand of Abbacchio’s hair behind his ear, enduring a sudden confusion in his eyes - which had just moments before been full of comfort and safety. “And tell Bistecca to take a day off, too.”

“Why?” The goth’s eyebrows furrowed. “Neither of us are working then, anyway.”

The ravenette sent him a long look before answering. The stuffy air around them thickened, the overheated room becoming a cage, of sorts - the drawn-in curtains successfully keeping the light out, the decision to plug in an old electric heater - suddenly rather unfitting. 

Bruno hated the duality of his life and how it affected his relationship with Abbacchio. He dreaded the possibility of being forced to tell the goth to move separate ways, for the sake of the man’s own safety. 

“Just– Just don’t come in. No extra hours, nothing. You’re away. Unreachable. Both of you. They’re after two overly ambitious officers snooping around, threatening their precious business,” he explained, naively hoping his words would satisfy Abbacchio’s demand of figuring out the magnitude of danger around him. Knowing well none of them would be sufficient. 

He hated to be breaking the news to the goth in the way he did - moments after they had shared trust and time; in the minutes following Leone having his virginity taken away. 

It felt like betrayal - tarnishing the man’s love and faith, along with the little sense of confidence in his own good intentions, which they had managed to build so far. 

Yet, the clock was ticking. A switchblade warning hadn’t helped - forcing Bruno to resort to desperate measures, risking with it not only his relationship but also his own self-confidence. Certainly, bringing up criminal business while half-naked in bed could not have been a wise idea.

Putting himself out in the open, exposing himself to the possibility of hearing exactly what Prosciutto had once said to him, words of unworthiness, talk of ridiculing, remarks ingrained deep inside him, comparable only with the insensitive takes Fredo would sometimes state, bringing up Gloria’s weight and shape as though he had not willingly wedded himself to a fat woman in the first place, claiming to have been in love - all those could follow if Leone reacted in the way the ravenette feared the most.

Though Prosciutto’s words had alluded more to what Barbieri had to say about little Alessandra - tarnishing Bruno’s sense of confidence, introducing insecurity - for who else would want to touch you - a look of disgust and a poke in the ribs. 

Bruno hated how he could still relate the possibility of losing Leone’s trust to his own insecurity. 

“Who’s they?” And there came the question, Abbacchio’s worried gaze meeting his own - a desire to know and the impossibility of finding out. 

“It’s for your own safety,” Bruno hated himself for the lack of directness, the way subtle mentions brought protection - for the less the goth knew, the bigger his position of security against Passione grew. “Please, just trust me this once. Take a day off. It’s unimportant who they are.”

Was he naive in believing Abbacchio would buy into his words? Or was he cruel for manipulating the man like that, feeling him relax in the loose embrace of his own tattooed arms - a look of acceptance, that of reassurance - as Leone’s head rested against his chest and he felt him wince at the ticklish sensation of growing out hair, a portion he had not yet waxed away?

“Okay,” the goth agreed sleepily. “I’ll take Bistecca out for lunch and some drinks on Friday, then. I owe him an apology anyway.”

It pained Bruno to notice just how easy it was to convince Abbacchio to do as told.

Chapter Text

Are you fucking a criminal behind my back?

Abbacchio would always come up with a perfect one-liner days, weeks following the initial confrontation. Revealing his virginity, taking in an excess of details, a hint of spite and a touch of irony, he was ready to give Bistecca a tailored, artisan answer to his question from the unfortunate night at the club. What was a straight man doing in a queer venue, anyway? 

“Quit staring, I’m still upset with you,” the redhead rolled his eyes from across the desk, then shuffled through a pile of sheets on his side of it. “You’re lucky I haven’t told Seppie.”

“And who would believe you, lieutenant Bistecca?” Abbacchio resisted the urge to laugh him in the face - settling, in turn, on only as much as a sardonic smirk. “Do you think he’d care much, anyway?”

Their friendship was never to be saved. 

Though Leone didn’t mind it for now. If the alternative was fucking a criminal behind Bistecca’s back, he was more than interested in the opportunity. Now that he could finally confirm the accusation. 

And he liked the (un)fortunate turn of events. He could even deal with the soreness of his lower back, down where the sun did not quite reach anymore - courtesy of Bruno’s lubed fingers paving their way for his manhood. 

The way he eventually lost his virginity differed considerably from what he’d initially imagined the moment to feel like - to be like - compulsorily heterosexual, heteronormative, even, himself dominating some girl without a face, her curveless, boyish , almost, figure - the only detail in his imagination. He supposed it had been a way of his mind’s attempts to make his gayness explicitly clear to his own self. 

And in the end, he got it. A short curtain of black hair there, above him, obscuring the view - ocean blue eyes locked with his own, a trace of ink all over the familiar olive skin - faint stretch marks he hadn’t noticed before decorating some of the space between the tattoos. 

There were no place for Bistecca’s complaints between them. Not even for his scoff and an accusatory glance - as the man’s virgin mustache disappeared behind a coffee mug, he ceased to exist, swept away by Abbacchio’s imagination, his reminisce of the night before - and how much he wished to live through it all over again, Moody Blues’ capabilities brought to life in the early morning hours offering only a passive account of the events as they were. 

Bruno had been so delicate with him. So gentle, yet so professional - patient, too, alleviating Leone’s initial concerns about the other man’s former occupation affecting his mannerisms. 

As they started slowly, for there were no rush, no other place to go to, the tiny Marechiaro flat - the only space to call home - the goth allowed himself to sink into the sense of safety building gradually, the worries of dissatisfying or being the one dissatisfied, of expressing the wrong reaction, perhaps - swept away in waves, the closer together they got. 

And in between the discoveries of pleasure, there was just enough space left to address any lingering concerns - so Abbacchio did, allowing Bucciarati to guide him through the process, to explain the expectations and to voice those of his own. 

And - boy - was the goth loud about them. He could only hope the gangster’s neighbors were out for the night. 

Then again, no slamming the broom against the radiator followed, the only banging - that in the bed, the wood of the door quiet throughout the act of sodomy happening amongst the stillness of the neighborhood.

Although whether Abbacchio was truly fucking a criminal behind Bistecca’s back, he were not sure. At the end of the day, it went the other way around. 

He had never been the one to lead, anyway. 

As seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours until time no longer existed, Leone allowed himself to be taken care of - cherished, manhandled, loved and depraved. 

They started in the shower. 

Impulsively, an innocent suggestion, a joke at fault - for the goth simply wanted to as much as get the smell of the station off himself. He’d spend half a week at Bucciarati’s place anyway these days.

And the man knew no shame. 

What followed the casual decision was innocent touch - a set of fingers brushing past the skin on Abbacchio’s back - and so, with a scornful look just for the sake of it, the goth reciprocated. Down the lace on Bruno’s chest and below, tracing along the scarred tissue until a familiar thumb nudged his hand slightly to the left side of it - for it feels like I’m gonna burst open any moment if you drag on it too hard - only to stop at the fairer line of skin, where the fading summer tan never reached. 

Moments later, the ravenette’s breath hitched - and did he whimper, at that?

I could suck you off here and now, Abbacchio offered, then - surprised by the sudden wave of self-confidence - only to be shrugged upon, dismissed with a remark of kneeling sending him straight back into physio - and, as much as Bucciarati was still yet to see the infamous granny walker photoshoot , he reminded, he’d much rather keep it a picture, not living history. 

So impatient was the goth, was he not?

Kisses followed - a trace of caress all over their respective bodies, like a fight for domination, of sorts, first come, first served - as soapy foam and hair conditioner circulated down the drain, Abbacchio playfully avoided Bucciarati’s lips whenever the other man tried to mark his way around his lover’s - his boyfriend’s - torso; frustration in exchange for taking no care to leave no traces. 

Though the goth quickly paid for his insolence. 

It only took as much as slipping on the wet surface of the bathtub, frantically grabbing at the nearest towel holder to regain his balance, the anti-splash glass pane not offering much steadiness as it swung open - a split second long enough for Bruno to grab him around the waist and throw over his shoulder, then carry him to bed, the paleness of his bare ass shining through the window where voile panels should have been - but of course, the ravenette seemed to have never heard of them. 

And then, all that there was, was pleasure. A curtain of short black hair just above Leone, moments after Bucciarati dug out a black lace waistband from a bedside cupboard and tucked the bag, folded in half, underneath. To keep it out of the way, he said as his fingers caressed the goth’s face, his cheek, then jawline, and finally the softness of his bottom lip until they invited themselves inside his mouth - like a tease. 

And Abbacchio sucked. Swallowed the salty taste of human skin, shoving away any cannibalistic allusions as he did. Ignored the slight trace of bitterness lingering, citrus soap and shampoo. Wondered what it would be like, in the moments to follow, once Bucciarati made way inside him, at last. 

We’re wetting the sheets, he only dared to remark as water dripped down on him from the ravenette’s moist strands - his own post-shower body resting on the soaking cotton fabric. 

We’ve been through worse, Bruno smiled, then - a careless remark alluding to the weeks before (and the croissants that marked the day) - and licked his way down the goth’s torso, earning a hiss of pleasure, one that the man did not quite expect to articulate. 

As he did, a question of consent followed - and Abbacchio appreciated the extra care, the attention to check in with him, the ravenette’s sense of responsibility. 

His own confirmation - his wanting to proceed - prompted a pause in their activities - as Bucciarati reached to the side to grab a tube of lubricant - pouring a little of it on his own fingers. The middle one mismatched, Leone noted - a sign that the man had indeed found a spare replacement in the end; and a confirmation of his unhingeness, incurable as it were. 

Yet, here he was, below the dangerous criminal in question. Watching, with his eyes half-open, as the ravenette descended just enough to comfortably reach his ass - slipping a rather cold finger inside in the seconds that followed. 

A whimper was not how he expected to react. 

I’ll try to be gentler, Bruno apologized, then - only for Leone to shake his head, to encourage a further step - an addition of a finger and another inside his tight self - before the man slid them out, at last - and placed a kiss on the goth’s abdomen - a pause in pleasure and a wellness check. 

Though Abbacchio wanted more. And more he did get, minutes later, as Bucciarati sent him an unreadable glance, one that held a sense of desire to it, lust burning in those ocean blues he’d grown to love. 

Turn over, a demand followed - and an explanation as Leone’s face expressed only as much as confusion - an addition of a pillow for his bad leg; and an elaboration on the favored positions. 

Abbacchio obeyed. 

It started with pain - a sensation of uncomfortable pressure reminding him, gracelessly, of the long-gone times his mother would stick a fever suppository up his ass every flu season - for if there were anything he’d been good at as a child, it surely had to be sickly throwing up all kinds of medication given to him. Briefly, he debated a cease of the act - a decision unfulfilled as pain turned to pleasure - and yet again, unexpectedly - he whimpered. 

His face buried in the nearby pillow, his breath hitching every so often, he allowed Bruno behind him to fall into a steady rhythm - as the man’s inhales became sharper, and his exhales deeper, louder , he found himself quite the opposite - wanting - needing - to hold the air in just for a little bit, as if that additional compression, of sorts, helped him reach complete fulfillment. 

The way it did for the ravenette. 

Abbacchio longed for more, needing, wanting to go– to come just a little bit further - as he felt warmth spread inside him, imprecisely, so that he could not quite pinpoint an accurate location within. 

Then, panting, Bruno slid out - yet another weird feeling the goth did not expect. He couldn’t decide whether to classify it as unpleasant. 

Now I can suck you off, seeing as you need some more, the ravenette remarked moments later - and without a second thought, Leone agreed with a nod, his fingers entwined with the man’s dark strands as he took in the whole length of his cock. Truly, he was a professional. 

And Abbacchio did not mind. 

***

The last Friday before Christmas, true to his promise, Leone spent at home. Bistecca had not agreed to lunch and some drinks as an apology - only snapping at the goth when he’d offered - though eventually, he turned out to be safe and sound the following morning in the office, anyway. 

Perhaps Bucciarati had been overly cautious at the fault of his own excessive worry. Surely, Abbacchio would have sensed if something was off, if he was being played with - or made a target of some kind - yet, his gut feeling had not flared up when the ravenette had brought up the necessity to lay low. 

Maybe it was a mistake. A guard let down thanks to the goth’s own feeling high on love, in love - and the very acts of it that followed. 

Certainly, he would know if he were thinking straight, romancing a gangster could end only ever so well. 

Then again, the festive spirit of the upcoming holidays had gotten into him, too - the street decorations, the colorful lights hanging off the lamps above the main streets - and himself feeling like a kid again, as soon as Aurora arrived for the upcoming Christmas long weekend and they put up the old fake spruce tree. 

He only wished he were not made to work on Saturdays. And certainly, not on the very Saturday preceding the start of the festivities - even though he’d avoided being assigned a Christmas Eve shift. Perhaps Seppie had some mercy over him, at last. 

“Mustacciuoli for good vibes?” He offered as he approached the office desk shared with Bistecca - the redhead already sitting on his side of it, giving only as much as a glare for a greeting. 

Abbacchio placed a paper bag filled with cookies in the middle of the tabletop and nudged it towards the man with an encouraging smile.

He couldn’t wait for broccoli di Natale the following evening. Or another portion of vermicelli with clams, as if the one he’d shared with Bucciarati a couple of days earlier, since they would not see one another until after Christmas, had not been enough.

“No, thank you,” Bistecca rolled his eyes and focused his gaze on the PC screen to his side, blatantly ignoring Abbacchio’s offer. “I’m still annoyed, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Sorry, my boyfriend’s cock’s so big it’s blocking the view,” the goth bit back and dropped on his chair. He pulled up a pile of case folders someone must have left at his desk earlier in the morning and suppressed a heavy sigh at the dreadful thought of the reports awaiting him, reports to be written on the basis of the information provided in the bundle. Then he grabbed himself a cookie. He couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Truly, it was criminal to keep him at work just before the holidays. 

And to make him write reports. 

Idly, he distracted himself from the responsibility, watching Bistecca get up and make his way down to the coffee machine across the room. The steady sound of the brew being made drilled through his brain - and the slam of ceramics against the table moments later almost scared the living shit out of him. Aitano seemed to have brought him coffee. 

Some of the dark liquid spilled on impact of the collision with the desk - mindlessly, Abbacchio used his blazer sleeve to wipe it, then rolled the cuff up ever so slightly. The fabric was navy blue anyway, an equally inky patch would not, he hoped, stand out much. 

He was pretty sure Bistecca would have spat into the mug if he could. If he had the guts to. 

“Thank you,” as he grabbed the cup, preparing for a scalding sensation against his tongue, Abbacchio felt, for a brief moment, a trace of guilt on his conscience. Hit by the sudden clarity, he almost began to realize just how wrong his actions had been in the last few weeks - the bribes, the choice of company, romancing a criminal - then again, he was not quite ready to face those just yet. And carelessly, he pushed them away, allowing himself to focus on the reports, in turn. 

***

And eventually, the day came to an end. As the clock hit seven, Abbacchio rose from his seat, moments before Bistecca did - and froze in place when Seppie emerged from the door across the room, panting and wheezing, hastily making his way in their direction. 

“There was a break-in near Via Roma Verso,” he uttered once he finally stopped by the desk. He was certainly winded - and Leone noted a trace of pink icing on his mustache. “I need you two to go there and do a quick check before you leave tonight.”

“Why us?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, responding insolence for insolence, for the act of his boss making him stay afterhours - out of sheer spite, it appeared. 

“Everyone else has gone home by now,” Seppie offered an ugly grin of self-confidence, then tucked his hand into his back pocket. “And I need to leave early since I’m off to Trieste tomorrow morning.”

Abbacchio resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Something about the case seemed off - though whether it was the uncommon way of receiving a call directly from Seppie; or the very urgency of it, the unnatural haste with which the man appeared right on the dot of the hour, he could not tell. 

And as the chief officer made his way out, the goth turned to Bistecca to bring up his concerns - though the redhead was already getting ready, putting his uniform jacket on as he crossed the room, running, almost. 

Abbacchio caught up on the stairs down to the weapon storage room, ignoring the growing ache in his knee. 

“Screw that,” he said, grabbing at Bistecca’s shoulder - only to earn an outraged look from the man. 

“Screw what, ” Aitano spat back as he slid a gun into the harness he was wearing. “Do you hear yourself, Abbacchio? I don’t even know whose side you’re on, anymore.”

Leone let out a heavy sigh, not making an effort to grab a weapon of his own - he was hoping to skip the trip to Scampia entirely. It was, after all, the one and only infamous district , of all places. Perhaps it was the location which was the most suspicious of all. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Abbacchio placed a hand on Bistecca’s arm when the man grabbed an extra gun. “He barges in right when we’re about to leave– And I’m sure that ass Vitello is still around somewhere. Canaderli came in an hour ago for her nightshift, fucking hell. I think it’s a trap. Because you- we ’ve been snooping around too close to the solution to the case. And they don’t want to be taken down.”

The redhead only scoffed and yanked his arm free. 

“Oh yeah?” He spat out in response. “Let’s go and get them arrested, then. Surely, they can’t harm us, as you put it, if they’re in jail.”

Abbacchio resisted the urge to slam his head against the wall. 

“How can you be so dense?” The question slipped his tongue before he gave it a second thought. Hurt flashed in Bistecca’s eyes. The goth tried to save face: “No, that’s not what I mean– Simply, do you not see how fake it all seems? Why not send Vitello or Canaderli but us? Why would we–.”

Heavy footsteps and wheezy breathing cut him off. 

“Because Canderli and Vitello are out investigating a car theft from this afternoon,” Seppie said and pushed himself between the two men, then handed Leone a gun from the locker. “Delaying an intervention can earn you a disciplinary action, you know that, officer Abbacchio. Now, off you go.”

And off - they went. Bistecca buzzing with some weird kind of energy, like a desire to save the world. Abbacchio - dragging behind, certain he was about to walk right into a lion’s den - a collocation with his own name be damned. 

The mention of the car theft only confirmed his suspicions. 

And suddenly, he were not sure who to trust anymore. And whether giving himself away to the charming ravenette he had fallen for, was a good decision.

He could only hope he and Bistecca would make it out alive. That they would reconcile, at last, laughing at the memory of the fight in the end, as soon as next weekend. 

He was due to play a New Year’s Eve set anyway.

Chapter Text

Dying on the job was an occupational hazard Abbacchio had been made aware of on his first day in the police academy; an occupational hazard he’d known of much earlier than that, having grown up with an officer of the law under his roof. Talks of passing, of tragedies, of corpses washed up on the shore, babies found in the trash, had become a common part of conversations at home long before he turned twelve. 

And in a way, he supposed he would be used to the topic of death by now. So far, it always felt distant - detached from reality, like watching the news. The lives lost were not his - nor did they belong to anyone he knew - and in a way, Abbacchio eventually realized he was not much too bothered by their occurrence. 

Yet now, sitting in the car beside Bistecca, counting down the minutes separating him from visiting the crime scene - the trap, he presumed, set by Passione to get them both, he found himself on the verge of a panic attack. Certainly, dying on the job was an occupational hazard he was not willing to take.

He supposed matters appeared a little different once his own life was at stake. Or that of a person he knew. At the end of the day, this once, passing meant breaking the continuity of his own existence. Of the existence of his - was it still? - best friend. It would, if fulfilled, bring an end to consciousness, a ridiculously unbelievable price in light of the awareness of his own being alive - a state he had so far taken for granted. 

And as the cruiser took a turn into the infamous northern part of the city, one corner and then another, Abbacchio forced himself not to flee from the vehicle in motion - hoping, instead, to focus on keeping his breath even and steady, his focus hooked onto Crazy Town's big hit playing on the radio, rhythmic, careless - and mockingly contemporary as it transitioned into Last Christmas, reminding him, yet again, of the tragedy of his own circumstance. 

He felt sick. 

His stomach twisted as it tied in knots, clenching and loosening, sending waves of nausea up to his brain - and an aching sensation down to his abdomen, making him wonder, ridiculously so, if, all stress considered, sharing his boyfriend’s fate for the sake of not worrying about the eventual outcome of the feeling of daggers within, would not have been a more feasible solution. There he was, wishing for sickness in light of death - hoping to swap one anxiety with the other - surprised, to an extent, by Bistecca’s own unworried expression. If anything, the redhead appeared rather determined, his jaw clenched and his gaze focused on the road ahead - as they passed by run-down buildings, spray-painted walls and empty, boarded up storefronts. 

Abbacchio wished he was capable of convincing him to turn the car around and leave. 

Though he knew - Aitano simply could not afford it. Disobedience equaled disciplinary action - and without a retired chief officer for a father, he would have nowhere else to go, no workplace alternative. Where Leone’s dad could simply pull a few strings to arrange for his son to be stationed in a nearby department - as close as Sorrento - the redhead relied fully on Seppie. 

With a recent engagement on Bistecca’s plate and the cost of living slowly but steadily climbing upwards, Abbacchio could understand the reasoning behind the man’s decision to remain at his post until the ship sank - even if a sense of justice played a part in that. 

The collision with reality, the realization of its simplicity and coarseness - and how mercilessly it approached human existence - felt almost grotesque - a moment which Leone had hoped he would never find himself in, simply for the selfish sake of his privileged upbringing and the sheltered view of the world implanted in him. 

He couldn’t save Bistecca. He couldn’t even save himself - looking back and seeing how he had gone against all orders, all good advice given to him by his parents - how he’d turned his back on safety only to balance on the fine line between the life meant for him and the underworld, taking sick pleasure in the addictive, forbidden love - which he thought, hoped, would last forever. 

Only that it didn’t. 

In hindsight, Abbacchio wished he had been wiser - more mature, more foreseeing - it was, it would be, in any scenario, only a matter of time before other gangsters realized one of them was swinging both ways - distrustful, they were eventually bound to seek revenge - and if he had to pay for it, he hoped Bucciarati would, too. 

Suddenly, he no longer wanted to see the man. He regretted ever becoming close with him, attachment be damned. Losing his virginity to a criminal only made him feel tarnished. Used and abused, like an old, dirty rag, regardless of the intimacy of the moment and the momentary pleasure he had mistaken for trust and safety. 

Certainly, if these had been there, Bucciarati would have told him to stay careful. Would have been detailed on the magnitude of the danger ahead. A mere warning, the vagueness of it, brought up while Leone was still lulled by the rush of oxytocin, endorphins and his usual favorite - dopamine, did not matter much. Perhaps it had been a deliberate choice, even, that exact moment - the gangster’s awareness of happy chemicals clouding Abbacchio’s clear judgment. 

The goth owed Bistecca an apology. For the ridicule, for the weeks of neglect, for turning his back on the man. And he owed him safety, protection - a way to get them both alive out of the trap set up by the mafia. 

Yet, he found himself immobilized - passively watching as his partner parked the car on the side of a shabby street, then following the man down the nearby aisle round the corner - barely noticing the steady sound of an alarm piercing through his brain, drilling right across, making him wonder, in turn, if it were not better if he met the same fate as Fara Nastro instead. 

“Abbacchio, go in from the back,” were probably the first words Bistecca spoke to him willingly that evening - as they sounded, the goth was finally broken out of the trance he had found himself in, frozen in fear - now ready to fight or flee. 

A sudden wave of anger came to him with a nod of his own he barely registered - and he released a portion of it kicking the back door open, as if his bad knee had never been injured. He wasn’t going to, he decided as he parted his ways with Bistecca, let a bunch of gangsters off his best friend - or himself. 

The inside of the place showed only surface-level damage - shelf contents scattered on the floor, a couple of furniture pieces turned over - putting on an act, it was, Abbacchio realized as he stepped past a broken vase. Whether the building resembled to him a store or a residential space, he could not tell for certain. 

Flashing a light attached to his gun at the door ahead, he quietly made his way into the adjacent room - feeling his heart up in his throat and his muscles all tense, ready to flight. 

Here, too, signs of attempted mess-making could be seen - certainly, a trap pretending to be a break-in - and Abbacchio nearly gave in to the temptation to roll his eyes if it were not for the trace of a human figure caught in the flashlight. 

Suddenly, he wished he had had the guts to jump out of the moving cruiser - injuring himself, surely, but at the same time allowing a change of plan, saving Bistecca - and his own self. 

For only now did he truly realize he was standing face to face with someone who had been set out to assassinate them both - or so he presumed as he flashed the light at the stranger again, only to recognize a set of familiar features. And to regret ever giving in to the parental pressure of becoming an officer of the law. 

“It’s you, again,” the man before him spoke, his red bandana - and a single strand of hair which Abbacchio knew all too well, poking through - as he moved away from the half-open window he appeared to have been attempting to get out through. “Listen, I have made a big mistake– Would you not let me go this once, officer? You’re such a good man, you know what’s the right thing to do, don’t you?”

The goth froze in surprise - recalling a day sometime in early fall, up here, in Scampia - the very man before him offering him a bribe - and a hazy-eyed woman standing impatiently beside him; and an event dating back to the summer, a narrow alley - accepting his first ever batch of dirty money - the way Bistecca had said everyone in the force would. 

He was unsure whether the man put on an act, too - or if he simply had been drugged into oblivion, judging by the way he kept moving in place, restless, his eyes all over the room, speech hasty, breath shallow. 

For the first time since falling off the fence in Arena Flegrea six years ago, Abbacchio was not sure what to do. 

Wasting a few seconds, suddenly oblivious to the possibility of someone else, a gangster - another gangster - surprising him with an entrance from behind, he simply stared at the stranger ahead, pondering a choice of action - until he caught a glimpse of a dead body slumped in the corner of the room. 

Blood was splattered all over the wall behind the corpse. A hole decorated the center of its forehead. 

The man must have realized Abbacchio noticed the victim, too - as his movements became even hastier, both of his hands up and a rather panicked expression on his face. 

“Look, officer, it was all a misunderstanding. Let me go and we’ll forget about this whole thing, alright?” He pleaded, taking a small step towards the window - though the goth only shook his head.

“No, you’re arrested under the charges of suspected murder,” he protested and felt some kind of eerie strength come down on him as he spoke - his gun pointed at the stranger, the flashlight mounted on top of it illuminating the man’s scrawny figure. 

The sound of Bistecca’s steps came like salvation - though he barely registered it as the criminal ahead attempted to negotiate. 

“Look, officer,” he began, his hands still up in the air. “If you arrest me, the truth about the two bribes you accepted from me will get out as well. Surely, you wouldn’t want that, would you?” He flashed a sickly sweet smile at Abbacchio - and in that moment, it occurred to the goth, to a certain extent, he resembled Bucciarati. Then again, they were both criminals, at the end of the day, were they not? “So let’s settle this quickly, alright?”

Caught in surprise, Leone found himself frozen for one moment too long - as he lowered his gun on an impulse he barely registered, entangled in the trap of the realization that the stranger was right - and no decision of his own was good enough to save him. 

In the seconds that followed, everything seemed to have happened at once. Whether it were the shots which fired first or Bistecca’s warning preceding them, Abbacchio would later find himself unable to recall. 

Light cut through the darkness and a passive force pushed him onto the nearby wall - there was a thud among the shadows in which the room bathed; and a hiss, though not that of pain. Rather, it appeared to Abbacchio as though a tyre had exploded somewhere, the air released from it in an instant. 

For a second or two, the world fell quiet. Truly, a thought occurred to Leone, people only passed away in silence. 

There was a sensation of familiar warmth against his ankle - as he realized it, he registered a dull ache of excess weight on his bad leg. Shifting it, he noticed his police cap was missing - though where it went or when it decided to, he could not tell. 

Then, the world picked up the pace again. And just like that - anew, everything happened all at once. Whether the groan of pain and the yell that followed, or the flash of car lights passing down the street, illuminating the scene for the briefest of moments, came first, Abbacchio did not care to remember. 

From the floor, lying in a pile of blood, its head on his loafer, a corpse stared up at him with unseeing eyes. There, in the dark puddle, laid a police cap - though to whom it belonged and how it got there, Leone could not care less. 

Before him, kneeling on the floor and wailing, a strange figure clenched their arm, the sleeve of their cloak soaking black - or crimson, as the lights of the next passing car revealed. 

And down on the floor, a corpse laid staring back at him - a set of familiar features, big blue eyes frozen in surprise and determination - and a gaping hole on his forehead, misaimed, placed above the brow, ruining the symmetry where it should have been positioned in the middle. 

And there was a hat. Soaking with blood by the second, a familiar police cap with a single white hair attached to its side - though Abbacchio later supposed he’d simply made it up at that moment. 

He was standing in a pile of blood. Surprised, in what was probably shock, that there could be so much of it. That it was so red, black and red, lights of the cars passing outside making it appear crimson only briefly. He was surprised that it was what five liters looked like. That they took up so much space.

The corpse by his foot - on his foot - seemed to be the source of all this blood. It leaked from the dead man as though he were no more than a broken container - and for a moment spent in mourning, Abbacchio was thankful for the muffled sobs beside him - for someone was at least crying for the poor life lost. 

And then the whines grew in volume - and suddenly, he were able to make out the words. One’s own fear - as the world rewound. 

There was a corpse by his feet. A pile of blood he was standing in. A police cap - his own - soaked in crimson right through. 

And there was a killer. Wailing, whining, right beside him, there, ahead - clenching his arm, grazed by the bullet shot by the dead officer there, down on the floor. 

And the familiar features. The gaping hole amongst them. The memory of an infectious laughter and the seriousness of the importance of their work. The hiss of a deflated balloon, of an exploding tyre. The life forever lost, making its graceless exit. The silence of death. 

There were no mourning. And the corpse by his feet, Leone realized, did not deserve to die. 

Allowing anger in, inviting fury to take up the emptiness within, for no thoughts seemed appropriate and no other emotions guided the sense of an unexpected loss, Abbacchio heard another two or three shots fire, one after the other, the impact of a handheld gun in use traveling down his arm before he registered them - and then there he was, finding himself at loss, surrounded by three corpses, the selfish whines and cries silenced forever. 

Only then did he allow himself to kneel down in the pile of blood - as he closed Bistecca’s eyes forever frozen in surprise and pressed the man’s cooling hand to his own lips, whispering an apology - knowing well there existed no words that could express the regret of failing to save a life, of taking away everything the man had - and of fear of letting him into the unknown, beyond consciousness, into nothingness - like the life he had lived were completely worthless.

Only after that pathetic rite did Abbacchio dare to scream.

And then, as seconds turned into minutes, he sat there, in the pile of blood, unable to form a coherent thought - sat there until his body shook and shivered, forcing him to crawl away, an adrenaline crash and the realization of having killed a man - there, to the farthest corner where his stomach turned, at last, releasing its contents, bringing with it a momentary relief - until familiar blue-and-red lights appeared - and he just passively gave in. 

He did not utter a word when they came to question him. Did not protest as he felt the cold metal of handcuffs around his wrists. Mindlessly, he watched, stealing a glance over his shoulder as Vitello leaned over the corpse of his best friend, snapping photos for evidence - Osso and Buco far there, in the corner, numbering leads and distributing black-and-yellow tape around. 

In silence, he allowed himself to be pushed into the backseat of the police van, there, behind the bars. Wordlessly, he watched the landscape change as they drove him down to the station. Passively, he ignored Seppie’s victorious grin - and the set of questions he asked, the photos he brought, the suggestions he made. 

He only allowed his heart to sink a little when his eyes met Canaderli’s - as she locked the door of the holding cell for the night, a hint of disappointment and a glimpse of hope in her eyes. 

She wished him a Merry Christmas and walked away, leaving him down in the humid, cold basement, alone with his thoughts - and the uneasy presence of the mafia capo further down the same hall. 

Dying on the job was an occupational hazard, Abbacchio knew. Simply, he never expected it to happen before his own eyes. Nor did he suppose he would kill a man - and how easy that would be, a split second to take a life. 

Perhaps a part of him still hoped what had happened in the last few hours had simply been a dream. Maybe it was easier this way, to just pretend - the emptiness within pushed away, the feelings of guilt and regret ignored along with it - as though Bucciarati never existed, as though he never made his way into Leone’s life, as though Bistecca was still alive, as though the sunny September weekend and pulling over that teal-colored Maserati Ghibli had never even happened at all. 

Dying on the job surely was an occupational hazard. Abbacchio only wished someone had told him of the elaborate emotional mess surrounding it. That someone had warned him not to get attached - that someone had cut his pitiful existence short before he took the innocent life of his workplace partner. 

Dying on the job was an occupational hazard - and Leone were not sure anymore whether it truly was worse of a punishment than living through it, complicit in the act.

Chapter Text

“Bruno, darling, could you please come here for a moment?” 

Bucciarati let out a sigh, allowing the front door to shut quietly behind him, leaving the crisp morning air and the smell of cigarettes outside. Nursing the remnants of a food poisoning, he slowly made his way into the spacious living room, wishing a stomach bug hadn’t taken up the better part of his weekend up in Milan, a forced stop on his way from Florence, a favor he needed from Fredo - clocking the newly-stolen Lamborghini Diablo he’d been assigned to snatch; and repainting it orange, while at it - Passione’s Naples-based garages no longer safe enough for the procedure, not under Bistecca’s watchful eye and with the police snooping around. 

Bucciarati hated not being able to do without his step-father’s help this once - enduring the man’s unfunny jokes for the whole two days he had so far spent at his mother’s; and brickbats picking on the food poisoning that followed, the food poisoning which nearly sent him into a flare-up scare. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have had that remaining pizza slice before he left the house for the job. Now he knew for certain - a fridge life of a few hours stayed true to its reputation - and keeping takeout for a couple of days straight only resulted in appropriate consequences. 

The brief illness pushed his return to Naples back by a day - lingering nausea kept him at his mother’s until the Saturday preceding Christmas Eve, leaving him with barely enough time to make it home for the holidays. 

Then again, having suffered from motion sickness for the better part of his life, he caved in, allowing himself some extra rest and care, not wanting to risk getting caught in a stolen car simply because he pulled over for a throw-up stop. Having to leave before the sunrise to avoid the rush hour and traffic control was enough of a burden on its own. 

The last thing he needed was to worry about waves of nausea. Of the two, his mother and her husband were a lesser burden to endure.

And as he made his way to the living room, he thanked himself for the decision - as his stomach churned again, bringing with the sensation a wave of nausea he somehow managed to suppress - or perhaps it was simply the content of the breaking news stripe that grasped his attention instead, the feeling of uneasiness no longer important. 

Bribes tied to officer’s death, the navy blue lettering on a white background read, the spokesperson’s voice a mix of sounds Bruno’s brain failed to register as the headliner revealed a follow-up to the story, two victims of a break-in in Naples. 

There was footage of a female police officer being interviewed in front of a tape-guarded, run-down building somewhere in the city. The camera briefly caught a sloppily-sprayed piece of graffiti - black paint against the sandy yellow wall, a double-headed arrow pointing north and south, three hexagonal shapes cutting it horizontally in the middle. 

Bucciarati’s knees went weak. 

He’d used the same symbol too many times to count. It marked locations, targets, chalked on walls, boxes, containers; scraped on the surface of wood, inked in people’s skin, his own included, a tiny initiation mark dating back to eight years ago tattooed just behind his ear, where only those meant to notice would know to find it. 

“Maybe you should take a few more days off, wait until it’s safe again,” Gloria’s voice appeared distant when she spoke - and it took Bruno a moment to register it as he caught a glimpse of long white hair on the screen - the owner’s face blurred out, yet the silhouette all too familiar as it was being walked up to the police station’s main entrance, a blood-stained shirt, a crumpled navy blue blazer and a limp noticeable in the man’s slow pace. A low-quality video shot specifically for the purpose of spite, the ravenette concluded the moment Seppie of all people came into view, covering the camera lens with his swollen hand - though not quickly enough to hide a malicious smirk that crossed his face. 

A relative of the retired chief officer arrested for bribery, another white stripe read, Leone Abbacchio (20) to face charges of manslaughter and corruption. 

“Is it not that friend of yours?” Gloria spoke again. Concern was prominent in her voice - as though she were trying to decide who to side with with the little she knew of the criminal world. Surely, with her husband posing for a petty gangster and the moral ambiguity behind the prosperity of her own business, she wanted to stand with her son. Then again, it only made sense to give the news some credibility - to keep her eldest away from the bad influence of another murderer because, all things considered, killing was only forgivable if a child committed it in self defense. Or so she’d tried to excuse Bruno’s past for nearly a decade. “I think you should stay for Christmas.”

“I think I should go back, if anything,” Bucciarati spoke. “It’s all my fault.”

“Your– fault? ” Gloria’s question carried a hint of disbelief to it, as though she begged her son to deny his criminal affiliations - in an idealistic version of reality she must have invented for herself after the divorce. Loving a sick child came easy. Loving a renegade? Surely, she found herself struggling. 

“I knew what I was getting into, what we both were getting into,” Bruno ran a hand down his face. “But I failed to tell him. I kept him oblivious, foolishly hoping we’d make it. That this once, we’d be forgiven because it was about us. I guess I believed we were special, entitled… And I forgot, they wouldn’t play about this. I’m sorry, mom.”

“Sorry?” Gloria’s face went pale and she grabbed the armrest of the sofa for support. “What would you be sorry for?”

Bucciarati took a deep breath before answering. Suddenly, he began to regret his words - the way they carelessly slipped out, ruining the illusion of a petty gangster his mother considered him to be - and with it, threatening to reveal the ugly truth, the acts of disgrace which would only break her heart. 

“For disappointing you like that,” he spoke, at last. “And for not staying over for Christmas this year. But I don’t have a choice right now. I really need to go and sort things out before they get ugly, alright?”

To that, Gloria did not respond. The look of disappointment she offered instead, Bruno realized, was probably the most heartbreaking one he had ever seen in his entire life. 

***

Bucciarati pulled out a set of car keys from the pocket of his pants, mentally thanking himself for packing some formal clothes for his journey back to Naples. Showing up outside of Polpo’s cell wearing sweats would take from his sense of seriousness - and would offend the capo, too, though the ravenette did not care much about the latter. 

He owed Fredo a favor. He hated the realization, the perspective of indebtedness, indebtedness to a man who could not even be trusted to treat his wife with respect, of all people - yet he had to admit, the professionalism of arranging the pickup of the stolen car for him spoke for itself. 

Waiting in the cornered shade of the penultimate floor of a multistorey parking lot in the outskirts of Milan, covered with grey tarpaulin, the repainted Laborghini Diablo was barely noticeable amongst the darkness of the concrete space. 

Bucciarati slipped inside, involutarily smiling with a sense of contempt as the door opened upwards. Truly, he realized, something to expect from a car that looked as though it was a Hot Wheels toy magnified to a real-life size. 

And as he put the key into the ignition, allowing the vehicle to start with an aggressive murmur, he realized he hadn’t been given a location to drop it off at. Usually, it would have been passed to him by now - yet, it never came through, not a text in sight - and there appeared to be no complaints about the delay in delivery. With Pericolo quiet on the other end of the phone and no specific instructions, Bucciarati realized, remembering the morning news, that he had simply been tricked out of Naples - for if he had been there during the break-in, he would have set out to protect Abbacchio - saving the very person Passione ended up successfully getting rid of, in the process. 

Certainly, someone down the line must have realized he’d fabricated the schedule of the two police officers - though, seeing as he hadn’t yet earned a bullet in the head for it, a threat of death was not on the plate. 

Perhaps there was more to the case. A follow-up task, a dreadful thought - unless the higher-ups simply wanted him to watch his boyfriend hurt, an empty warehouse scene following a holding cell disappearance - or the other way around, to induce a false sense of safety in the ravenette just to tie him up and pour acid on his skin again before his lover’s eyes - or set him on fire, make the other man watch the agony of becoming a human torch - only that it made no sense for why else would Seppie, just as corrupt as half of the city itself, make such a hassle out of the arrestment of his predecessor’s son? 

Surely, there must have been more to add to the picture - and suddenly, Bucciarati no longer worried about traffic control, of being pulled over on his way back. He would be of no use to Passione in jail - if anything, he could put their businesses in danger if he spilled, wanting to save his own ass. Every gangster had a breaking point - certainly, both Polpo and Pericolo must have known that. 

Driving back in broad daylight appeared safe - the stolen vehicle seemingly a consolation prize for allowing to be made a fool of, to cheer him up after the life of a person he cared for had been ruined. 

He hated the exaggerated revving sound the car let out as he made it onto the highway, accelerating past the speed limit - tempting fate ever so slightly, wondering just in what state he would be found if he failed in his attempt to shorten the average eight-hour driving time down to five or six. 

***

The familiar dampness of the basement level of the police station embraced the ravenette as he zipped through the barred ground-level window, swiftly landing on the uneven brick floor. 

He didn’t care about being noticed. In a place so secluded, there were no CCTV - and no need for it, with only a single path leading up the stairs, a walkway guarded by a police officer, a locked gate separating the holding cells from the remaining part of the building. 

Lightly, he knocked on the metal door behind which his capo stayed in detention - waiting for a few moments before he got a reaction. 

“Bucciarati, it’s good to see you,” Polpo’s voice spoke from inside the cell - and suddenly, the nearly gone feeling of nausea the ravenette had been battling for the last couple of days, returned in full force. 

“I beg to differ,” he spat out, forcing himself to sound as neutral as possible - though the circumstances did not allow it - and at last, he lost his composure: “Why’d you do this to him?”

A chuckle was what he received in response. Like a punch in the gut, it nearly made him gasp as it echoed in the age-old space, interrupted only by what sounded like munching. 

“Aren’t you forgetting yourself, Bucciarati?” Polpo asked, sending a wave of fear of consequences down Bruno’s spine with the amicable reminder of hierarchical obedience. “Did you really think your affiliations with a cop would be excused? I warned you about the consequences of insubordination back when you went out of demand with all those tattoos of yours. And yet, you seem to be doing the exact thing just now,” the capo took a bite break, it appeared, as he continued with a mouthful of food: “Don’t you ever forget this, Bucciarati. You belong to me. You have belonged to me since the very day you pledged your loyalty to the organization, is that clear?”

The ravenette resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A wave of disgust ran through his body - bringing with it frustration he forced back in. Lashing out would only amuse Polpo. It would give him more reasons to take revenge. 

Bucciarati had to lube his way through, bending as required - hoping he would not break in the process. 

“Yes, sir,” he took a deep breath and stepped back a bit, then bowed just ever so slightly. “Please accept my apologies.”

“Alright then,” Polpo clapped his hands - or took a really loud bite, the ravenette couldn’t tell for sure. “It’s good to see you back just in time. I suppose you have been wondering about the purpose of the recent events. Though I’m certain you understand their necessity. You’ve always been smart, after all. I suppose you should have graduated. Never knew why you dropped out of high school.”

“I got too sick to continue, sir,” Bucciarati remarked as amicably as he could - his words only prompting Polpo to reminisce further. 

“Right,” the man admitted. “Still, after you recovered, you could have returned to the usual business full-time if it wasn’t for those tattoos. You received a lot of praise for your, dare I say, oral skills. ”

“I think I’m much better at car thefts, though,” Bucciarati dared to object. He feared Polpo would find him a new source of clients, ink enthusiasts or other sick fucks, fetishists of some kind, at that, if he allowed the conversation to follow the direction of sex work for too long. Being forced into the position again stayed out of the question. With the mindset of an adult, he would not be able to handle it again. 

“That and managing a team, yes,” Polpo agreed from inside the cell. “Which brings us back to yesterday’s events. It’s time to recruit a proper adult for your team, Bucciarati.”

Bruno’s knees felt weak. He should have expected where the conversation was going - and, while a part of him was grateful the suggestion appeared to have spared Abbacchio’s life, he still hated the idea of the man being forced into the gang - which he supposed had been the secondary purpose of the break-in the previous evening all along. Polpo must have found out Leone had a stand. Perhaps he even tricked the man into reigniting the lighter. 

“What do you suggest?” Bucciarati asked out of common courtesy. The answer, he knew already - and with it, the logic behind the arrangement of the last few weeks and the tasks he had been given. 

“Normally, we would have gotten rid of that crippled cop along with the redhead nuisance,” Polpo clicked his tongue and moved closer to the door, heavy footsteps following his words. “And while he’s never going to make it big in Passione due to his affiliations with the police, I see some potential in him. The lighter didn’t seem to have killed him,” here, Bucciarati resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the confirmation of his own suspicions. “And I could sense Black Sabbath’s presence activated nearby a few weeks ago. We’ll spare his life if he’s a stand user, provided that he obeys and starts working for you. Otherwise, you’ll be ordered to clean up this mess as you’re the one who started it.”

Bucciarati bit his lip, only ever so glad that the metal door obscured him from the capo’s view. It would be another few weeks before the man got transported to a proper jail - there, the ravenette supposed, the visiting hours and what not would allow that extra insight of body language. 

For now, though, he was safe. Furious only, with the way Abbacchio’s future had been ruined by a greedy gang leader, leaving no crumbs to pick up - and no other choice for the man in question than to give in. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, earning yet another chuckle from Polpo. “Do you have a plan in mind or should I arrange everything?”

He hated himself for how eager his words came off.

***

“And you’re out, son,” a familiar voice made Bucciarati pause as he walked up the basement hallway, heading for the ground-level window he’d used to get into the police station. It overlooked the street, facilitating the task of slipping in and out without raising any suspicions - though getting there meant risking being noticed. And while he didn’t care much about being caught on his way in, with the change of plans and his new assignment from Polpo, he wanted to remain unseen. 

“Too bad for you, isn’t it?” Abbacchio’s raspy response carried a hint of mockery in it as he fought back against the chief officer’s remark. “You couldn’t even hold me in for long. There it goes, your superiority complex. It must have hurt your ego when my father bailed me out, didn’t it?”

Bucciarati was surprised by the amount of animosity coming from Leone, standing, he presumed, just round the corner. The man had seemed pretty resignant in the news footage, after all. Then again, perhaps realizing he, too, had been tricked by the very people he was supposed to trust, fueled his anger, at last. 

Bruno could only be glad the man was being let free. Certainly, spending the whole of Christmas in a holding cell would have been a nightmare. 

And momentarily, as Seppie’s furious groan answered the spite in Abbacchio’s words, the ravenette was tempted to step out - thanking himself for secondary reflexes as he resisted the urge, realizing he would have probably made matters even worse for his boyfriend. 

He supposed Leone didn’t even want to see him, now - after he’d failed to warn him to stay back, even when he were not to blame for the last-minute change of plans higher-up. Besides, the man definitely needed space for grieving. He’d just lost his best friend - and even though Bucciarati had never been too fond of Bistecca, he couldn’t help but hold a certain kind of respect for the redhead, respect he could not quite explain. Certainly, Aitano, or whatever his name was, did not deserve to die at hands of the mafia simply for doing his job - and doing it right, as the ravenette managed to conclude. 

Abbacchio deserved some time to process the excess of events. To figure out his position, too, Bruno supposed - and just as much, he, himself, too, needed a few extra days to decide how to best approach the man - and to fully recover from the food poisoning which again threatened to nauseate him as soon as Polpo’s chewing sounds became too much. 

He was exhausted - mentally and physically, from the stress of the car theft and the break-in situation - and from simply existing, too, yet again, having forgotten his body was still the property of a chronic illness. While feverish flare-ups no longer posed a threat, it was the ever-present fatigue that got him every time, forcing a pause, clouding his judgement - making him realize he would probably resemble a walking dead at the Christmas Eve dinner the following day. 

He didn’t consider the rest of his team mature enough to handle a chronic come-out, an explanation behind his malaise. Appearances needed to be kept up - and with them, his position as a leader. Pity would get him nowhere. Nor would it convince Abbacchio to side with him, to deny his stern principles - even though the man’s moral compass remained rather feeble.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio always stuck to the rules. Be it an ingrained sense of justice or simply sanity, he considered principle sets a useful addition to the life manual. Bending them to his liking did not quite count - surely, the sense of doing something he should not brought a feeling of sick satisfaction, especially when said rules made no sense to him - though at the end of the day, he was at peace with them existing for a reason, and with that reason being only sensible. 

He had been taught to stick to the rules. Conditioned to opt for them, tossing convenience aside - for only an orderly, organized approach offered peace of mind. It kept one away from danger. Knowing the rules, it were easier , he had been told, to foresee the consequences - and so, Leone gave in, at last. Or rather, he surrendered to the viewpoint implemented in him by Niballo - the fear-reliant outlook, inducing anxiety at the mere thought of breaking the fragile system of rules and schedules. As years went by, it never occurred to him to question the setup, to introduce an ounce of doubt into the otherwise steady mix of rigid logic - and so, not even once did he question the suitability of it for his own self. Surely, if the approach worked for his father, it was bound to work for him, too. 

Only that it didn’t. 

Piercing his nipples, briefly dating the marine academy guy had been the only crimes on Leone’s conscience up until he met Bruno. 

He had shied away from drugs, dutifully avoided alcohol inebriation past the point of tolerance, never partied beyond the socially acceptable, reasonable style - let alone in high school where he could have easily gotten in trouble for having as much as a glass of wine. Risking the punishment of grounding stayed out of the question - it were not worth the hassle, the tirades to follow - and so he obeyed, fooling himself in his sweet oblivion that he had given in to the teenage rebellion through music and dark clothing instead - until the strategy proved inefficient, a condescending talk breaking out into a set of yells on the way back from hospital after he’d fallen off the fence at Arena Flegrea. 

For no matter how hard he tried or how much he attempted to follow the clearly established life outlook his parents had set out for him, he was never good enough. Not when he studied hard - for he focused on the wrong subjects. Not when he passed his finals with flying colors - for the joy only lasted for half a day, any other failure of his talked about for far much longer. He wasn’t even good enough when he became a police officer, either - for Niballo had completed his own training first. 

And the futile efforts to keep up with expectations stole most of Leone’s adolescence, in a way - leaving him lost, wishing to break away but seeking touch with his family, once he started getting along better with them, as though to make up for the turmoil of his teenage years - only to discover he was looking for a place that did not exist anymore. Perhaps it never did in the first place. 

Sticking to the rules got him nowhere. It never saved him from the unpredictability of real life, it didn’t teach him how to react in time, to push away the hesitation that came with the criminal’s words - for there were no proof of his bribe-taking habit. It didn’t even protect him from the aftermath - the endless accusations and the feeling of loss, of confusion that followed once a mix of emotions he could not quite name or process hit full force, amplified only with the disappointment his father made clear - and which his mother echoed like a mantra, a nod of approval towards her husband’s self-proclaimed genius. 

Looking back, Leone could have easily given in to the temptations of adolescence. Avoiding them had all been for nothing - and when he finally did surrender, he failed to calculate the risk he was taking - for he lacked the experience of his youthful years, the one which would have inevitably saved him - and Bistecca, too - prompting an appropriate reaction, a solution - whenever it was needed. 

“You’ll spend Christmas with us,” Niballo’s voice broke Leone out of the train of racing thoughts where frustration met pain and where it collided with a sense of unfairness, with wishful bargaining to turn back time. Suddenly, he again found himself in his parents’ car, the thoughts of regret only amplified by the surroundings. In the driver’s seat, Niballo appeared a king, of sorts - his position undefeatable, his wife just beside - as he continued with his one-man’s wisdom: “I’m not heartless - although I reckon I should be - and you won’t be kicked out of the house during the holidays. But afterwards, you’ll have to go, Leone, I hope you understand. After all this shame, this disappointment you’ve put us through, I’m not sure if I can call you my son anymore. If I want to. This is more than a breach of trust, I suppose you know that.”

The younger Abbacchio resisted a scoff. As a sudden wave of frustration pushed away his guilt for Bistecca’s death, he wished instead to scrape his family name off himself. A change of identity, an erasure of all the features he had inherited from his father would be ideal - he did not want to feel or be associated with someone towards whom he felt so much contempt. 

And yet. Sitting in the back of the car, he succumbed to guilt - a sense of ungratefulness as he second-guessed his thoughts - and what they meant for the way he saw his relationship with his father, a figure he was supposed to worship, he reckoned - and which he could not quite bring himself to do. 

He was glad Niballo did not expect a response - for he had none to offer, no words to express his feelings - and the conflict within, the emotional storm threatening to get out at any moment - and which could not find an outlet, it appeared, as he wasn’t even able to make himself cry. 

What came instead, was a reaction of numbness - a sense of passivity upon the acknowledgement of his thoughts and evaluation thereof, one by one, trying to separate the contradictions within. Was he feeling sick or was he simply exhausted, he did not know. 

Nor did he want to spend the upcoming Christmas at home - the source and the object of disappointment in everyone’s eyes, the air so tense it could be cut with a knife - and the unspoken accusations towards him, the last-minute cancellations for he had brought shame upon the whole family - a piece of information his parents shared as soon as they showed up to bail him out of Seppie’s custody, the breaking news coverage, his face covered, his - and Niballo’s - name infamously tarnished. 

Quite frankly, Leone enjoyed the thought of being disowned. 

He did not see a place in society for himself anyway - outcast for a crime he was not quite sure whether he committed - and the rumor that followed, the new chief officer trying to frame him for murder which had been all an accident. 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about being a killer. He supposed a sense of guilt - and the inability to live with himself - would follow, though for now, all that there was, was a sense of confusion of how easy it had been - and how little it had taken to end a life. 

Perhaps he would have had a different outlook on the matter if the victim had been a regular citizen. With a criminal scum on his conscience and the classist rules Niballo had once explained to him in detail, the act did not weigh so heavily. Though whether he had done society a favor, he were not sure.

He wondered if Bucciarati - Bruno - had felt the same when he’d killed the two people at twelve. And then he realized he never asked the reason behind the decision - seeing now that it could have well been just pettiness, the way their whole romance appeared to be, the ravenette playing with his naivety. 

Surely, Leone was heartbroken - though there were no space for Bucciarati in his mind just yet. It was all too early to focus his attention on the feelings he had for the man - and in a way, it appeared disrespectful to distract himself from Bistecca’s death and existence so early, too. Only that, a part of Abbacchio wished the ravenette very unwell. Spitefully, or perhaps simply because he was hurt, he hoped the man would mess up just as badly really soon. He could die, even, for all that Leone cared - or humiliate himself, at least, in front of his capo, in front of his higher-ups, thoughts and ideas as petty as the adhesive coming completely off without the man noticing, simply so he could experience the same level of embarrassment, of a sense of wanting to disappear, to annihilate, which the goth was going through. 

He’d let everyone down, after all. And, just as much as Bucciarati, he was only a disgrace to society, bringing no value to it with his current position - the same way criminals did. 

It was only right for his parents to disown him. Even if a tiny part of him was grateful for being allowed to stay for a couple more days - and even though he hoped for a reconciliation of some kind. For at the end of the day, he had nowhere else to go. 

***

“Here,” a familiar piece of cold metal made its way into Leone’s hand as he felt Aurora stop beside him by the kitchen window, away from the colorful, bright lights of the Christmas tree and the joy they were supposed to express. The room smelled of food, a mix of spices, earthy, sweet and savory, a constant reminder of the festivities, the traditions the goth had been looking forward to for the last few weeks - and which he only wished to avoid as they finally approached. “It should give you some peace. A place to stay.”

Leone clenched his fingers around the key, allowing its sharp side to dig into his skin, not even bothering a look at the all-too-familiar carabiner attached to it, tying together the means to enter not only his sister’s old flat, premises their parents had long ago meant to rent out; but also the underground garage, wide just enough to barely fit a car. 

Why are you doing this, he wanted to ask, for it felt appropriate to do so - though where he expected to find piles of guilt, there were none. 

Uneasy with the thought, he simply nodded instead. 

“Thanks,” he said after a while, avoiding Aurora’s gaze - though moments later, she forced him to look her in the eye. Who do you consider me to be, now, a question came to him - and he dared not say it out loud, fearing the answer. 

Was he grieving, he wondered; remembering his best friend, mourning the life cut short much too early - or was he only as much as struggling to comprehend what he was truly feeling, the contradictory opposites of remorse, longing and fondness coming in waves, prompting the need to relive the necessity to apologize for having let the redhead down, to allow him to die like a stray dog, unexpectedly, gracelessly - only to bring with it a sense of sentiment, sentiment for all the good moments they had shared - and hit him with the realization, at last, that Bistecca had inevitably saved his life. Though whether it were worth living just for the sake of gratefulness, Abbacchio could not tell. 

“I’ll make sure Befana gets your new address,” Aurora forced a smile, her childish allusion to the tradition of the Epiphany coming up in a couple of weeks somehow just careless enough to make Leone chuckle. “Seriously, though. How are you feeling in all of this?”

The goth only shrugged in response. Somehow, words were not coming to him - the incoherence of his own thoughts bottled up within lacking means to be articulated. It amazed him, how it was possible to feel so much and yet to find himself unable to express - or process, more accurately - the whole of it. Yet again, clearly, the emotions were all present there - down behind his sternum, clenching his chest, tight and heavy, making him wish the dead man himself would walk into the kitchen and tell him it had all been a prank from the start, alleviating the unpleasant sensation with his words. 

Yet, none of it happened - and it never would, Abbacchio knew as he slid the keys into the pocket of his pants. 

“I’m sorry they’re pulling this shitshow,” Aurora said, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the counter. “Our family, I mean. Not to mention making it all a national scandal.”

“Don’t mention it, then,” Leone rolled his eyes in response. He caught a glimpse of surprise in his sister’s eyes - though no ideas to follow his words up with came to mind as, riddled with guilt and a necessity to apologize, he trotted behind her outside and into the backyard for a smoke. Clearly, she cared - trying to offer help in a situation as unfamiliar to her as it was to him - yet, in the moment of darkness that encompassed him, he only wished for peace instead. A sense of calmness he were not sure how to ask for - or whether he was worthy of receiving it, at all. 

***

And after anger and frustration, there came disdain. Disownment followed a family Christmas dinner - and soon enough, Abbacchio found himself in the dusty, forgotten apartment his parents had originally purchased for Aurora when she’d gotten into university - and which stood empty since the woman’s graduation and move to Sardinia, a rental space to-be, one which never quite fulfilled its purpose. 

In a way, Leone was grateful for such a turn of events. 

It was evident his parents despised him - Niballo had really meant it, it seemed, when he’d said he’d wished not to remember he’d had a son - though at the same time, they were not outrightly cruel about their attitude. The goth noticed it in the small gestures - the way he had wordlessly been allowed into the little flat and found the kitchen all stocked up, a fresh set of sheets pulled over the duvet in the bedroom; and a set of painkillers for his leg - all the little acts of kindness which still, inevitably, carried fondness - making him feel looked out for - and by extension, unsure whether he were worthy of such care.

Though a sense of unfairness had already followed the anger and frustration, the successors of the sadness he had initially felt - and he found himself rather cynical, though not apathetic, anymore - as he rediscovered the forgotten corners of the flat just to pass the time, wiping a thin layer of dust off the slightly outdated furniture, daring to fill the little space with music as he waited for the news to die down a bit so he could go outside in peace, without risking being recognized - or mugged, simply for existing. 

And with the feeling of unjust which came, arrived a sense of disdain towards Bucciarati. 

Truly, Abbacchio realized he hated the man - as though he had never felt any kind of love, or rather, romantic attraction, for the little time they had known each other. 

He never wanted to see the man again. Bruno - Bucciarati - had left him feeling dirty, tarnished in a way which could not be redeemed, he felt - and at the same time, victimized. Used in every meaning of the word, made fool of. 

He wished he had been able to foresee the consequences. To think broader of what he was getting himself into. Surely, he had been gullible in thinking he could get away with dating a gangster. 

Seppie had proved him wrong five minutes into the interrogation following the break-in. A set of colorful photos laid out on the table perfectly depicted his crimes - still-frames of his and Bucciarati’s little dates and outings, three different cars, a restaurant, a city walk. There was no getting his way out of the mess his brief fling had brought. 

He wasn’t sure what felt worse - his boss and the aloof prick Vitello laughing him in the face, mocking him not only with their homophobic takes; but also for his youthful naivety - or his own father bringing out a stack of polaroids no one was ever supposed to find under the mattress of his bed, polaroids depicting his fond moments with Bruno, moments gathered over the last few weeks; the last few months. A forced coming-out at the fault of the snapshots only poured oil on troubled waters. 

And so Abbacchio promised himself to move on. He couldn’t revive Bistecca - coming to terms with the realization carried pain he wished he were not feeling; though at the end of the day, no amount of bargaining was going to affect the matter. 

Of course, he had skipped the funeral. He did not dare to venture out into the graveyard on his own either, just yet - the wounds much too fresh for the act to feel respectful, to form a tribute, of sorts. And in a way, it was easier this way - out of sight, out of mind, he could pretend Aitano was still around for as long as he didn’t see the coffin or the grave with his own eyes.

Still conflicted with his own emotions, Leone simply tried to last. To push through, to wait it out - or so he hoped, bracing himself for the feelings yet to come as he hid in the tiny flat or escaped to the small balcony overlooking the bridge to nowhere located just across the road. Tempted by the bold thoughts of decorating the dated railing with plants for spring, in an attempt to move away from the ever-present guilt, avoiding the very confrontation with it, he focused his attention on the concrete atrocity down there, a stone’s throw away instead. 

And in a way, in the structure - or the very idea of the bridge - he found a reflection of himself, a promising project which went downhill as soon as it collided with the harsh reality, the locals protesting against having a ring road running close to the blocks which formed the residential neighborhood. 

Was he, too, supposed to remain forever exposed like an exhibit of a plan that went entirely wrong - a somber relic of bad decisions sitting amongst the greens, bricks and pastels of its surroundings - or would he be reclaimed by those who came for him - for they would eventually, he began to fear as he pulled the hood lower over his head and put the unfinished cigarettes out on the wrought, rusty railing every evening, seconds before hiding amongst the safety of the flat, in hopes to lay low. 

And would Bucciarati show up to own him, take him over as he pleased, the way a group of local teenagers had reclaimed the unfinished bridge, cardboards to breakdance on and empty soda cans littering the cracked concrete surfacing it?

And if the man did come, indeed, Leone wondered, would he allow himself to be charmed again, only to be mistreated the way he had been before? 

He wished he had an answer to that, a definite which would, inevitably, make him feel all the more peaceful as he braced himself to meet his fate, be it the nature of a follower he was; or unexpected assertiveness, one he hoped he had finally built. 

Then again, he would often realize with horror, the few moments of absolute peace of mind he had ever experienced in his life so far, the opportunities to truly express himself, had only happened with Bucciarati around.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio entered the year 2001 barely registering a change in date. Through the haze of alcohol inebriation, muffled blasts of fireworks reached him - but he paid them no mind, only pulling the blanket a little higher over his head, allowing it to cover him whole, to cut out the flow of oxygen ever so slightly. 

He was supposed to play a set at the party celebrating the new century. To dedicate it to his boyfriend, Agartha , Westbam for a start, the familiar tones of Miles Davis mixed in-between. 

Where he found himself instead, he supposed must have been the legendary rock bottom. The little apartment only provided so much shelter - and soon enough, with the rent due, his sparse savings diminished considerably, forcing him, in turn, to cave in and find an occupation of sorts, a temporary one, he hoped, as he tried to figure out what the rest of his life would be like. 

Though no one was hiring. Or, more specifically, no one was willing to offer a job to a crip with a criminal record. The news coverage must have done its part too, employers shying away from binding promises as soon as they found out who Leone was. 

Growing more desperate, the man ended up leaving a voicemail on his family phone. A cry for help, putting a good word in, anything. Too bad, he eventually realized, asking favors from his father almost always carried unexpected consequences. 

Certainly, caving in finally landed him a job at Ugo Niutta, though after suffering his way through day one, he wondered whether it had not been better if he’d resorted to going on a dole instead. 

He supposed his ingrained classism, courtesy of growing up amongst the upper middle class, was at the fault of his attitude. And as his duty and position in society inevitably forced him to reevaluate, he could only give in, passive, humbled by the unexpected reality check. 

Going from an ambitious young officer to scrubbing airport bathrooms surely had never been on the list of his career goals. 

Initially, while he was still trying to find himself a place in society, he considered it an ultimate defeat. Shortly after, his defense strategy of not allowing himself to be associated with his co-workers in any way proved inefficient. The belief that - as he had been taught - he was destined for much more than simplicity, special, gifted, even - only to be yelled at for wiping the floor the wrong way by his boss on his first week in, quickly turned out ridiculous. And inevitably, Leone mingled, blended in with the others, noticing that what he had grown up hearing about the world - the little value of essential jobs and the like - not only did not apply to reality in the slightest, but it also was worthless advice. Surely, he could brush off his older coworkers' suggestions to wrap a cabbage leaf around his bad knee and bandage it overnight, but at the end of the day, he could not avoid the realization that after all, they were all just doing their job, honest work to make a living - and it was only the rest of society, the people from the other side - like his family - who despised them for no apparent reason, claiming their occupation shameful as though they did not, themselves, consider the possibility of dying under piles of dirt if it were not for those lowlifes, as they often put it. 

A part of Abbacchio still hoped for his housekeeper position to be as temporary as it needed to - spending his entire life breathing in the fumes of bleach and floor wash did not sound at all appealing - though once he got past the gag reflex upon seeing whatever mess people would flagrantly leave behind ( did they run pissing competitions on who’d cover the greater part of the ceiling surface with their urine, he often wondered), it was not so bad anymore. He only wished moving around all day did not put so much strain on his leg injury, as if his limp wasn’t bad enough on its own, his job forcing him to put his cane away into the worker’s room locker for the whole day. Surely, he could lean against the cleaning cart every now and then - but suddenly, the curt joke his father had offered when he’d informed him about the available position, the seemingly witty remark of only having to work for a couple of months before qualifying for disability benefits to live off of, seemed much too realistic. And, Leone knew, not in the way he had imagined it to be. 

The only upside of his position was, inevitably, that the workload kept his thoughts away from Bistecca and the shooting incident. He no longer burdened himself with guilt of taking a life - or never getting to apologize. In a way, it seemed a closed chapter by now, the memories of Bucciarati remaining the only common piece between the life he had once lived and the scraps he held on to these days. 

He could swear he’d seen the gangster around the airport a couple of times. Always far in the distance, their eyes never meeting - but the very presence of the ravenette and the way in which he effortlessly carried himself, his demeanor, was enough to keep Leone on the edge of an outburst, frustration boiling within, threatening to spill out. 

He numbed it with wine. 

What he had initially considered a way to wind down after a stressful day at work quickly spiraled out of control - and with it, there came a sense of necessity. Not yet a dependence, the feeling allowed Leone just enough flexibility to only resort to alcohol a few times a week - still, his new habit began to worry him just ever so slightly - as it offered no alternative solutions to escape his mind. 

Inebriated, he would often find himself out of control - Moody Blues slipping out of his skin, replaying Bistecca and Bucciarati, the two people dear to him, both equally out of his reach, both of whom he still, against his will, despite the conflicted feelings for the latter, missed. 

Oftentimes, hearing Aitano’s voice over and over drove him to tears. And as he allowed them to fall, too drunk to care, he gave in to the temptation to watch. To remember, to recall the redhead’s quirks and mannerisms, his little sayings and gestures as they were being replayed, from his laughter through his determination all the way to the moments of pure cheer, emotions taking over, the man spinning in his desk chair with a wide smile, a little dance of joy; a long-forgotten success to blame. 

Abbacchio found himself missing Bistecca through all the details his stand showed, his partner’s springing steps, the sense of justice which, despite the corruption they were both balls deep in, shone in his eyes, the sharp gaze that never quite met his own eyes but which nevertheless seemed to be piercing right through him, the old man’s look, the way they both would often joke, bringing up Leone’s own heterochromia blues having a slight trace of the very expression - though whether it was innate or if he simply got it from Aitano remained a mystery unsolved. 

And then, there were replays of Bucciarati - reminding the goth yet again why he’d lost his work partner in the first place and how naive he had been in thinking he could truly be loved by someone so deceitful in such a rotten world. The memories recalled brought only pain as they made him realize he had never made up with the only person who had truly been a gift from the universe - and how he tossed that friendship aside as soon as a more exciting, forbidden acquaintance showed up. 

He wished Moody Blues were capable of turning back time in the real world. Memories could only do so much, causing him to be stuck in the past, inevitably making it more worthwhile than his current life was - the position he had dutifully accepted, wondering whether the reason behind it lay simply in making peace with being unworthy of any recognition, privilege or hopefulness for an improvement of his situation in the future, his wrongdoings at fault. 

***

“Rumor has it,” Abbacchio’s coworker stubbed her cigarette out against the wall and crouched on the ground, looking up at him. “There’s a notorious pickpocketer around the airport. Scams people for cheap taxi fares to the city and steals their money somehow, though no one knows how exactly he does it.”

Leone nodded mindlessly, not bothering a verbal acknowledgement of the information. Reminders of his former occupation, intentional or not - for even if the woman hadn’t recognized him in the last couple of weeks that he’d spend working at the airport - only irked, bringing to his mind, yet again, the realization of what - who - he would never ever get to be again. 

“GioGio, his name is,” she continued, oblivious to his reaction - or lack thereof, more appropriately. “The boss wants us to report if we see him act up.”

“Like I’m going to snitch,” Abbacchio scoffed, rolling his eyes, then lit up a cigarette. “Is it even worth it? We’re nobodies. Neither he, nor anyone higher up will care to recognize the effort. I’m not here to make enemies, I just want to survive.”

“Still,” the woman, Lilia or Lidia, the goth could never remember for sure, protested. “It’s good to do the right thing. He can’t walk around and steal, you know?”

Abbacchio took a drag on his cigarette before bothering to reply. He leaned against the concrete wall marked with countless burn spots from where cancer sticks already smoked met the surface in the hours, days, weeks, months and years prior. It felt unpleasantly cold against his back - yet it grounded him in the present, taking away the sudden wave of frustration and sadness as he realized just how much this struggling mother of two trying to make ends meet after leaving an abusive relationship, from the little of what he’d heard her share so far; reminded him of Bistecca. 

“Yet, he does,” he exhaled the smoke and waved it away from the woman, fixing his gaze on a familiar silhouette approaching them from the entrance onto the small, enclosed patio. A navy skirt and a matching blazer, a pair of heels, hair brushed away into a tight bun - he braced himself for the arrival and with it, he supposed, an announcement disclosing the loss of his new job. “What’s the boss doing here, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know,” Lilia - Lidia - shrugged in response. “Maybe she’s got news on GioGio.”

“Yeah, right,” Abbacchio scoffed again, then proceeded to stub out his half-smoked cigarette as the other woman approached. Suddenly, his rather poor choice of clothing - a pair of sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt hidden under a fluorescent yellow blazer with the word STAFF written across his back, appeared very out of place in comparison with the formal set she was wearing. 

“Good afternoon, both,” she offered a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. “Leone, do you mind coming with me for a moment?”

And there it was, Abbacchio knew it - his father’s contacts and handshakes could only do so much in a world that was ever-changing. Here he was, about to get fired. Finding himself at loss, worried because the potential job alternatives diminished considerably - and he still had bills to pay. 

Yet, there was little he could do to prevent the scenario from unraveling. Lowering his head, he followed the boss back inside and across the spacious corridor, all the way to the cramped space of her office. A disciplinary action, he presumed, could only take place in a place so secluded. 

“I’ve got some news for you,” the woman began as she made her way around the small desk which filled up most of the room, leaving little imagination for free movement. She picked up a white paper folder with Abbacchio’s name written across the front, then handed it to him. “Congratulations. You’re being promoted.”

“Promo-- what? ” Leone almost dropped the file as the reality of his boss’s words sank in. “ Promoted? ”

To what, he wondered, his mind racing, trying to find a trick in the announcement, an explanation to cling to, one that would make sense - for surely there existed not a single reason, not even a glimpse of hope for his situation to improve, seeing as he’d only become a lowlife - or so his father would say. 

And yet. 

“Promoted, yes,” the boss offered a hint of a smile and sat down at her desk, her eyes meeting Abbacchio’s own briefly. “Someone put in a good word for you.”

Stunned by the confession, the goth found himself at a loss of words. His thoughts wandered back to the relationship with his father - and how the man had, despite the disownment, helped him secure a source of income. For a moment, Abbacchio felt a sense of gratefulness - as he grasped the paper folder tighter, fearing it would be ripped away from him - and allowed himself to embrace a sense of joy, grief pushed aside - or coexisting with it, perhaps. 

“Thank you,” he said simply, unsure whether the words were truly directed towards his boss - or Niballo instead, a sudden wave of fondness for the man overtaking him unexpectedly. 

“There, now,” the woman grimaced, as though she were not used to accepting expressions of gratitude, then nodded towards the folder Abbacchio was holding. “You’re starting at the information desk tomorrow. Wear something nice,” she eyed his worn-out sweatpants up and down. “You’re dismissed for now. The bathrooms won’t clean themselves, will they?”

***

The sense of gratitude towards his father left Leone as soon as he opened the paper folder in the evening. 

Inside, a set of printed sheets was laid out neatly, the contents briefly covering his new role at the information desk, his responsibilities, schedule and salary. A job contract and a post-it note plastered in the top right corner of the front page, asking him to pop the signed documents back into the boss’s office the following day, sat underneath. 

A sense of joy lingered for a few moments longer as he flipped through the sheets briefly, his mind already wandering to his closet, pondering a combination of shirts and some formal bottoms, the perspective of a seated job filling him with relief as his leg ached from the hours he’d spent standing, scrubbing every body fluid imaginable from the places it was least expected to appear. A smear of bloody mucus against the tiles meeting the height of his eyes shouldn’t have surprised him - and yet, he always found himself amazed by the endless possibilities of human creativity and the lack of shame associated. 

It was only when he caught a glimpse of a handwritten note at the bottom of the folder that his sense of happiness faltered. 

Hesitantly, he picked it up to read - feeling his heartbeat accelerate as anxiety kicked in upon the sight of the familiar, sharp cursive inked in black against the scrap of paper.

‘Money can’t buy you happiness but I bet a Mercedes is far more comfortable to cry in, right?’ - the note read - and added in the corner, beside it, barely visible, a couple more words lingered: ‘Turn over.’

Speechless, Abbacchio stared at the line. Its blatant insolence seemed to only aggravate the sense of annoyance spilling over, quickly escalating into anger. Truly, Bucciarati had no sense of good taste. 

And Leone hated the realization of how trapped he was in the net of Passione’s influence over Naples and its establishments. He certainly wasn’t going to turn the note over, like the ravenette would want him to. 

A few weeks went by and no one showed up to behead him for simply existing, he realized as he crumpled the scrap in his hand - it only made no sense why the ravenette appeared to be helping him if the very gang he was a part of had gotten rid of Bistecca not too long ago. 

Abbacchio supposed there was more to the story. He braced himself for the perspective of being forcefully recruited into the mafia - left with no choice but to accept; or else to earn a bullet in the head. 

And to his own surprise, he found himself strangely at ease with the thought. While he didn’t want to die just yet, he saw no place in society for himself anyway. There was a part of him which did not mind being ordered around - he’d always been a follower, after all, obediently bending under the rule of his own father simply to be left alone. Sometimes, he knew, it was easier to suck it up and frustrate than to endure the unexpected consequences, watching the conflict escalate beyond what could have been resolved with a simple nod, giving the side in power a false impression of influence - and despising it silently, to one’s own satisfaction. 

Was his new position a part of some grand scheme he’d become entangled in, Abbacchio didn’t care to know. All that mattered to him was the realization that his occupation kept him relatively safe for the time being - and with a steady income, it gave him some time to figure out his position in the entrapment, to come up with, he hoped, some kind of an escape plan. 

It also made sense, he noted as he placed a signature on the bottom of the last page of his new job contract, why he had seen Bucciarati around the airport so many times. Or rather, why the man seemed to have deliberately wanted to make himself visible. 

Though Abbacchio wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of playing the role of a savior in his own miserable life. Bruno could shove the little note up his stitched-up ass. Surely, there was a way to zip it open and serve a purpose. 

Chapter Text

A quick and awkward phone call from his mother reassured Bruno about the shift in dynamics between them. Hearing her forced kindness, imagining his step-father lingering just a step behind, as though he were trying to protect the little family of his from the bad influence of that disaster kid from his wife’s first marriage - through means as questionable as his own morality - the ravenette couldn’t help but cringe before producing a set of Christmas wishes of his own, merry and bright - and until next time. 

But at the end of the day, he was at peace with the outcome. Gloria shying away from him again, retracing into the background position she occupied in his life meant he had to keep a minimal amount of contact with her - a conversation over the phone, a quick visit once or twice. It was easier to keep her safe that way - and it took away the layer of unwanted proximity he did not really want to deal with. Her discovery of him being more than a petty, morally grey person by circumstance appeared to have resolved the dilemma he was faced with, that of kindly - but firmly - pushing away her efforts to strengthen their family bonds. 

Inevitably, it was for the better if they stayed away from one another. Bruno would never forgive himself if his occupation put his mother’s kids - or herself - in danger. And while the same could not exactly be said about Fredo, Bucciarati appreciated the feelings his mother had for the man. Accepting, in turn, that he was probably someone important to her. 

And at the end of the day, Bruno supposed he was just childishly unhappy with the way she had swapped her first husband for a new, more entertaining model - without the consideration of her son in the process - or the consequences that came with the decision as she moved on without looking back. 

Down south in Naples, Bucciarati had his own family. It were the kids he’d spent Christmas with - forcing a smile, concealing the bags under his eyes before he hibernated in his apartment for a week, lying his way out by stating he was going to be away for the short period in question. The dynamics were different, as it was expected - he supposed the others saw him as a leader figure, of sorts - and he tried to live up to that expectation. 

So much they did not know about one another - basic preferences and hobbies tossed aside, the ravenette couldn’t even think of a set of heartfelt Christmas gifts for each of his recruits - and vice versa, he realized, as he smiled politely, unpacking a bottle of strong liquor (his stitched-up digestive system certainly was not ready for that), a rolex (that would only get in the way seeing how big, how chunky its face was) and a Cuban cigar (which he was probably never going to smoke, anyway). It amazed him, to an extent, to see how stereotypically his underlings still saw him as a team leader - and how seriously they seemed to treat him, while at it, regardless of the considerable amount of time they had now spent in Passione. Certainly, showing them his vulnerable side would crush that impression - and shake the dynamic within the group, as well, a consequence he wasn’t fully prepared for. He wasn’t yet ready to open up so boldly - surface-level kindness expressed with heartfelt gifts he briefly felt self-conscious about, realizing what they had gotten him appeared good enough for now - a PS2, a skateboard, a set of leather-wrapped books the contents of which made his head hurt. 

Showing his inner side, the one which still got unwell, which bore scars and was to rely on medical supplies for the rest of his life, simply felt too intimate. 

Mista, Narancia and Fugo were only allowed to see the superficial illusion of a calm and collected leader he had created. 

It wasn’t shame which guided Bucciarati’s decision, not really - simply, he could never find a good moment to bring up his human side, his hopes, fears and chronic illness. In a way, he supposed it were better to wait a little longer, fooling himself an opportunity would come before he got injured in a fight so badly his secret would quite literally spill out. That, though, he didn’t want to think about just yet. He wasn’t even sure how - or if at all - he would handle the mishap. 

The matters were better left untouched, he supposed - the reputation of an eccentric bisexual sodomite, kind, yet ruthless when the situation demanded it, kept up. 

Or so he thought until Narancia showed up at his doorstep one morning sometime in mid-January - an unannounced visit and a violation of the unspoken code of principles they held within the gang - to never bother each other directly unless a life was in danger. 

“Hey, Bucciarati,” the kid grinned, taking in the image of his leader standing before him in nothing but a set of dark blue flannel pajamas and a zip-up hoodie thrown over it - a necessity that could have been avoided if Bruno had bothered to install central heating in his flat - which he never had the time for, his busy schedule keeping him occupied otherwise. 

“Morning,” he moved to the side, letting Ghirga in, trying to maintain his composure as the reality of the casualness of the visit sank in. He could well offer the kid some breakfast, while at it. “What brings you here?”

Certainly, there existed better ways to frame the question. Unable to force cordiality, Bucciarati settled on formal calmness. Narancia’s actions were nerve-wracking as they were - though nothing beat the afternoon he showed up at Libeccio with a brand-new stand, forcing the ravenette to accept him as a team member. 

“It’s the guy you told me to watch,” the kid’s curious gaze wandered around the small corridor they stood in as he took in the little details of his boss’s private life - and Bucciarati wasn’t sure how to feel about it. “I think you might need to intervene again. He’s not been… very good at his new job, if you will. I think he’s not extroverted enough for the role and you said you didn’t want him to get fired, right?”

The ravenette nodded slowly in response. He feared it would be the case - Abbacchio’s otherwise bold personality withdrawn amongst the crowd fading almost completely when forced to deal with people all day everyday as soon as he started his information desk position - though he hoped the man would somehow push through. 

Certainly, he underestimated the effects of bereavement and trauma. And while a roll of bills could easily solve the issue and keep Leone employed, Bruno felt bad for forcing him into such an uncomfortable position - as he worked out the best way to approach him about becoming a gangster. 

He hated the realization it inevitably meant waiting until the man found himself in a dead end, with no other possibilities to cling to. 

“Breakfast?” He offered to Narancia who was now bouncing on his feet as though waiting for a proper response - though Bucciarati did not have any. 

“Yes please,” the boy darted off towards the kitchen before the ravenette managed to do as much as to take a step in its direction. 

With a shake of the head at the sight, he followed, then pulled out cinnamon-scented apricot jam and nutella from the fridge. Placing bread slices in the toaster, he returned his thoughts to the matter of Abbacchio’s temporary job. 

He doubted the man turned over the small note he’d left for him - missing out on the simple apology scribbled at the back of the scrap. Then again, he wasn’t surprised by it. Looking back, the writing appeared a little too bold, even for his liking - where he had hoped for light-heartedness, insolence crept in. 

Certainly, Abbacchio hated him now - and had every right to, considering the circumstances. 

Though at least Bruno knew the man was alive and vaguely safe, still - meaning that Polpo had truly seen some potential in him and, despite the insubordination, gave the ravenette some space to act. 

Bucciarati only wished the plan he’d come up with did not take so long. 

He’d already paid a visit to the airport twice - always in passing, hidden in distance close just enough for his eyes to meet Leone’s for the briefest of a second - an indulgence he allowed himself, selfishly - because he had feelings, too. Unresolved and unaddressed, conflicting with his position, the emotions made him feel more human than he would like, causing him to wish, yet again, that he was simply a regular civilian - not a gangster fated to obey. 

A part of him longed for the love and care of a romantic relationship in a way unattainable to him - long-term planning, forward thinking, considering a future together, the rest of his life stretching out before him seemingly forever. And he wished for appreciation, too. For the acknowledgement of his personality, for the acceptance of his body for what it was - the way Abbacchio had shown him kindness before he grew to hate him. 

Bruno wished he got a chance to explain. Even if his words did not bring any resolve. 

He couldn’t force Leone to forgive him - even if the fault wasn’t entirely his own - though he could show the man his point of view. 

“So what about this guy, then?” Narancia asked through a mouthful of nutella toast, snapping Bucciarati out of his thoughts. The boy’s gaze lingered on his superior’s face for a moment too long - inevitably reminding the ravenette of the recent acne breakout of his, an unexpected inconvenience he had not yet covered up with concealer for the day.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replied mindlessly, resting his eyes on the forgotten tote bag on the window sill. Pinacoteca di Brera, the imprint at the front read, a simple font in black contrasting with the beige fabric. Bucciarati couldn’t remember where from or when he got it - though he must have popped into the museum at some point if the souvenir was here - unless his mother had simply given it to him on one of his visits, merely as a container for something - a few jars of homemade food, a cake? - to take home. “I’ll sort it out this afternoon. You keep watching how he’s doing, alright?”

He wanted to mention the inappropriateness of the visit, to remind Narancia of the established rules - though it hit him the boy might have simply been looking for some kind of comfort. Perhaps the mafia life was too tough for him (then again, he had brought it upon himself). Or maybe he wanted to embrace the friendship which was - slowly, inevitably, and to Bucciarati’s great discomfort for the last thing he wanted was to get attached through fate so cruel - becoming established within the team. It felt as though the kid had finally found his own kind - a group who understood, who took him for who he was - in some way exactly the same as Bruno wished he had a chance to. 

A reprimand felt very much out of place, considering the circumstances. Somehow, even as much as a warning dictated a sense of inappropriateness. Or perhaps deep down, he enjoyed the brief visit, too - seeing as it did not shake the interpersonal dynamics at all, like Narancia had been totally prepared to see his leader still in his pajamas. 

Or maybe he did and it was Bruno who was overthinking it - raised by the mafia to believe he had to be wearing his Sunday’s best anytime and anywhere - for otherwise, he would reveal a weakness of sorts, a circumstance which might have been used against him then - and with it, the organization would suffer - the punishment focused entirely on him. 

“Why do we– why do you even care so much about his safety?” Narancia asked through another mouthful of food. “Isn’t he the corrupt cop who was on the news?”

The questions caught Bucciarati off-guard. He took a moment before responding, pondering the best choice of words. 

He couldn’t exactly reveal Polpo’s orders just yet - as loyal as Ghirga was, he struggled to keep his mouth shut. If the secret got out - and somehow reached Abbacchio, the man would be dead meat in no time - for surely, he would never agree to join the underworld even if to save his own life. 

And Bucciarati couldn’t bring up his fondness for the goth, either - in twenty years’ time, perhaps, he would - though the turn of the century was a time as unkind as society’s views on anything that looked slightly out of order, skewed a little too dangerously towards queerness. 

Narancia, with his wannabe gangster mindset and his aspirations to become a macho man, of sorts - looking up, it appeared, to Mista, as of recent; could not exactly be trusted on the matter of love confessions. 

“I’ve only been told as much as you know,” Bucciarati finally said, then finished his coffee. “I’ve got some matters to attend to in the north end of the city. Give me ten minutes and I’ll drive you back home, alright?”

He felt bad, to an extent, for cutting the discussion off with such a vague answer - an answer which clearly dissatisfied Narancia, at that, judging by the disappointed look in his eyes - though he had to keep himself - and his secrets - safe. With Abbacchio’s life at stake, it was only appropriate to avoid any further conversation, regardless of how entertaining it would have been. And how much he wanted to publicly admit to his feelings for the goth man.

***

The all-too-familiar beat of Still D.R.E., a song Narancia had insisted to play on repeat throughout the short ride to the city center only to forget to take the CD with him as he left the car, looped in Bucciarati’s head as he made his way down the concrete graveyard path. With his fingers clasped tightly around the couple of copper-colored chrysanthemums sold to him at a rip-off price by the entrance to the burial grounds, he forced himself to keep his pace steadily fast, so that it did not align with the piano sample he could not silence within. He supposed if the vendor hadn’t happened to be an elderly lady who, he knew, was probably only able to make ends meet thanks to the little extra cash she made off the flowers, he would soon send over a suited Mista ready to reestablish the trade rules on Passione’s territory - simply because he couldn’t allow any more mishaps while he worked out Abbacchio’s gang recruitment. 

He was too soft for this job. 

Yet, deep down he knew - his father would not be proud of him at all, even if he spared the old lady’s savings - with his strong sense of justice and a simple overview on life, Paolo would have made it explicitly clear if he was alive - this was not how he had raised his only son to be. 

Bruno dismissed a pang of guilt at the thought as he approached the familiar memorial wall and placed the flowers in a tiny vase situated beside a name plaque, one of the many rowed up and down, hiding cremated remains. 

Paolo Bucciarati, 1953 - 1997, it read, not detailing the birth and death dates - his father never celebrated and about the anniversaries of the latter, the ravenette didn’t want to remember. 

“Hi dad,” he said quietly and glanced to the side, taking in the misty, wintery view of what would have been the Neapolitan bay and the outline of the isles across from the shore if the visibility was good. Though the day started gloomy, the pitter-patter of rain absent only temporarily. 

Bruno tried desperately to think of anything else to say - though no words came to mind. The realization did not surprise him much - rather, it was a gradual observation he had made over the years, that the older he grew - and the more entangled in the mafia world he became - the less there was to report on daily matters. For there was only so much Paolo would want to know of his son’s (wrong)doings. 

Although, Bucciarati supposed, the man probably saw it all anyway - or so he wanted to believe, even though prayers no longer brought hope, foolish and naive in how they sounded - for how was it possible for rhymed lines to work out a miracle if it was recited from memory and there was no meaning in the words articulated?

He stood in front of the plaque for a few more moments, as long as it felt appropriate without guilt creeping in - then with a heavy sigh in place of blessing himself - for how could he, with so many sins on his conscience - slowly, he retreated towards the exit gate. 

The graveyard bathed in mist so unnatural for Naples - especially considering the area’s elevation level - that for a second, the ravenette thought there was an enemy stand nearby. Though as he approached the street entrance, the fog eased - the condensation of the humid January air somehow thinner, the further away from the dead he found himself. Perhaps it was just accumulated over there, in the space behind - or so he forced himself to think as he walked.

He passed by one of the final aisles of the newer side of the burial grounds - away from his established family grave - a site purchased by Paolo Bucciarati with his parents in mind, only for him to outlive them - which now only hosted his ashes and where, Bruno supposed, his own would eventually rest, too. He realized, yet again, it would be a wise decision to arrange for a will, considering his lifestyle - and Polpo’s unpredictability - yet somehow, even thinking about what would happen with his material possession and the wealth he had built in the last eight years, after his passing, felt like a death sentence in itself - sending shivers down his spine whenever he thought about it. 

There he was, a coward. 

The thought did not surprise him much, he realized. Self-loathing became a daily habit by now - for how could he look himself in the eye, obeying as he did for fear of losing his own life and knowing well, in his pragmatism, that his absence would not change a thing in the corrupt system which had long ago sucked him in. 

He wondered how selfish it was to want to matter, to disagree with the insignificance of one’s own existence. 

Everyone would eventually turn to ashes, he knew - yet, perhaps in his youthful delusion, he somehow hoped to dodge that bullet, to avoid the inevitable fate - careless in his wishes, unaware yet of what was in store for him. 

With a sigh, he reached out to push the exit gate open - and retreated it just as quickly, as the sight of a fresh grave caught his eye. 

He really did not want to do this - knowing well who was buried under the countless tinfoil-wrapped wreaths - yet, a sense of obligation drove his actions, it appeared, as he turned away and headed for the sight of the wooden cross stuck into the cold ground out there, in this newly added part of the graveyard where the dead were no longer walled up but simply lowered six feet under instead. 

Aitano Romeo Bistecca, 02/07/1973 - 23/12/2000, the plaque carelessly screwed to the wood read. Certainly, if the redhead were still alive, he would not have wanted Bucciarati around. 

Yet, Bruno supposed it was only appropriate to pay his respects. Wordlessly, he stood above the grave for a moment which dragged on forever - taking in the magnitude of the tragedy of the life lost, allowing his imagination to recount - and make up - the few instances he had the (dis)pleasure of interacting with the late officer. 

A stern gaze and actions drove by moral principles stood out in his memory. Desperately, Bucciarati wanted to believe that Bistecca had - just like he and Abbacchio - found himself entangled in a corrupt system and realized it only when it was too late to escape; simply if to erase the layer of hypocrisy - or rather, desperation - which drove the man’s approach amongst the countless bribes he’d taken. 

He wondered how the trajectory of the redhead’s life would have unveiled, had he not been killed for doing the right thing - a picture of promotions, a family of a few, perhaps even a nice house and a car that did not stand out as much as the pea-green Multipla even he would not have dared to steal. Simply if just for the sake of no one wanting to drive such an atrocity. 

Bucciarati supposed he would find some space for himself in there, too - breaking and bending the rules of law as he saw fit, annoying Bistecca whenever - and however - he pleased. He would anticipate the clenched jaw, the piercing glare and the hand gestures which grew nearly violent if the man was rubbed the wrong way. He would take (sick) joy in watching the confusion in Aitano’s eyes deepen with every joke of the ravenette’s which he did not quite catch - in the friendly way he handled banter in interpersonal interactions - if only the man was still alive. If he’d been given the chance to grow old and get back at Bucciarati.

“I’m sorry,” the gangster finally said and glanced towards the side where the entrance to the graveyard sat - but the flower lady was already gone. There would be no chrysanthemums for Bistecca. “You didn’t deserve any of it. And I’m sorry that I failed in protecting you and Abbacchio, thinking I’d done everything I could to keep the two of you safe.”

The silence of the burial grounds encompassed by the fog was like a mocking indication of how much the heartfelt apology mattered to Bistecca. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t planned. 

It hadn’t been in the first place, not an option Abbacchio was willing - or would dare to - consider. 

Death involved mourning, certainly - though it had to be done quietly, privately - an impromptu appearance at an underground rave on the four-week anniversary of Bistecca’s passing contradicted the very idea. With Leone being the least fit to pay a public tribute to the late man, it probably felt out of place for his relatives. 

And yet, here he was, his eyeliner just as heavy as the charge leading into the cumulative point of the nearly-forgotten Church of Ra, a song he’d dug out of the dusty pile of untouched vinyls which had, up until the previous Sunday, sat in his trunk, the way he’d left them after one of his blissful dates with Bucciarati. 

Here he was, unlike himself - hidden behind a curtain of white hair he would normally tie up in a messy bun, having grown accustomed to the neglect of his usual care routine.

Everyone knew who Leone Abbacchio was. Though no one was desperate enough to tie him to the persona of Sling Blade, the androgynous goth he sparsely allowed himself to become - and so, when he caught the glimpse of a leaflet carelessly pasted across a lamp post, he didn’t even bother rethinking his decision. 

Surely, he couldn’t spend his entire life in mourning. Moving on didn’t mean Bistecca would be forgotten - his premature death dismissed as though it meant nothing. Simply, Abbacchio supposed it was how the man would like to be remembered, at last - through a mix of songs Leone had, over the course of the previous year suggested to him; those which he had mentioned enjoying - or simply their shared discoveries overheard during the long hours spent in the cruiser, doomed by traffic control. 

It wasn’t the biggest rave Abbacchio had been to, nor was it the most prestigious one - though it gave him, at last, a place to start - and a possibility to honor Bistecca in his own, indirect way. He’d taken a moment to dedicate the set to ‘his late best friend’, though he hadn’t been any more specific, his identity - and that of the redhead - uncovered. 

And he had to admit, even if Bistecca was never going to forgive him - never got a chance to - he hoped the rave would do him justice - as he watched the crowd move about the empty warehouse, the countless individuals blending into one in the semi-darkness of the vast space, their motions fluid, as though they were swimming - living the very purpose of trance as it was. Whether or not they were high on acid, he did not care to know. 

Wine was his substance of choice for the night - a half-empty bottle sitting on the edge of the deck, where the light, transparent liquid reflected every so often the colorful strobes which, he hoped, caught the iridescent glimpse of the arrangement of crystals he had pasted on his face as well. The theme was outer space, after all - not being much of a Star Trek or Bowie fan himself, he was only ever right to comply with the futuristic visions of the last decade. He hoped the mirror-like docs he’d chosen for the night fitted the dress code. 

Though if that failed, at least he had opened the set with Spectre’s Spectrum. And indubitably, it had set the mood. 

The world was swinging a little, though Leone didn’t care. The excess of wine had numbed his emotions just enough to silence the ever-present feeling of guilt and with it, the hypervigilance he had come to accept as default in the weeks that followed the end of his career. He supposed he was at ease with it. 

He must have been, ever so briefly - as he allowed himself to swing along with the crowd for a moment before he leaned over the mixer controls, smoothly blending the all-too-familiar chorus of Can’t Fight The Moonlight, one of Bistecca’s (and the author’s) cheesy favorites, into a trance track. 

It was high time for him to move on. He knew - life wouldn’t pause just because he needed a break. Considering his work misadventures thus far, he supposed he had to push through. 

At the end of the day, the information desk position at the airport was a much better option than scrubbing toilets all day. It didn’t matter anymore that Bucciarati, of all people, had arranged it - whatever the man’s deal was, Abbacchio wasn’t going to comply with it. The act of courtesy, he simply took as the duly compensation for the ravenette’s complicity in Bistecca’s death. 

Certainly, his leg, at least, was grateful for the change. The cleaner position had earned him little money and a great deal of pain to live with - so much so that, if it were not for the lingering insecurity and fear of being fired if he showed up on crutches, he would have certainly made them a daily addition by now. 

Though a cane was less noticeable. It took up little space under his desk - and the last thing he wanted was to lose his job because his mobility aid went clattering to the floor. The array of responsibilities and information resources he was held accountable for were enough of a pain in the ass to deal with - on top of the growing complaints about a teenage pickpocketer and scammer offering taxi rides to the tourists around the airport premises, Abbacchio had enough to worry about. He wished he had a cop friend who would deal with the brat - though the man in question was buried six feet under, leaving Leone to deal with the consequences all by himself. 

No wonder he eventually escaped into the safe environment of music - where no one could truly recognize him for, lipstick aside, he had never showed up with a face full of makeup back in the force. 

He didn’t have that many friends, either - with Bistecca being the only partygoer amongst them, Abbacchio supposed his identity remained safely disguised under the DJ nickname for the night. With the warehouse’s remote location, rich teenage ‘rebels’ did not pose a threat, either. 

Worst case scenario, he was going to give himself a makeover and come up with a new alias - the length of his hair was growing difficult to manage, anyway. 

For now, though, no one seemed to mind him, anyway - if anything, matters appeared the opposite, with people below the little podium on which his deck stood, immersed in the music beyond imaginable. 

A lot of the time, Abbacchio wondered what it was in trance that made it flow so well - was it the purity of the electronic notes? The choice of the rhythm made? Surely, he knew, acid added to the experience - but even completely sober, he would always find himself in another dimension, somehow. The addition of wine tonight only made the experience even more prominent. For an hour out of his day, the looming threat of Bucciarati following him around - or watching his steps, at least, considering his mingling with Leone’s work matters - did not matter at all. Here, there were no dead, no living - existence was fluid, as was the sense of time - and was it egoistical of him to indulge in the euphoria that the music brought to the (turn)table? 

Possibly - though he didn’t care much for it - as he played Saltwater in its entirety - delaying his return to reality by nearly ten minutes as the fluid tones embraced the room yet again, a complimentary contrast to the cosmic Spectrum that had opened the set. 

Bistecca had loved Chicane. And although his favorite track remained the famous hit co-performed with Bryan Addams, he’d had, as he’d once told Abbacchio, a soft spot for the melodic flow of Saltwater - along with how it built up, gradually, opening one eternity after another, mystical, almost - as unreal as the dream of catching the infamous Sticky Fingers. It was probably the most eloquent Bistecca had ever been, the way he had described the experience - and how well it had fitted Abbacchio’s own. 

He rested his eyes on the crowd before him - immersed in the pure tones as though it truly were droplets of water - saltwater - casting down on them. Bodies swung back and forth, illuminated by the stroboscopes briefly enough to hide their identity - though long enough to create an impression of the vividity of the moment. It didn’t matter anymore that the song had once soundtracked Abbacchio and Bucciarati’s date.

The volume of the music completely silenced the goth’s emotional turnoil - taking him with it, like currents, out into a safe space where fear or remorse could no longer reach him. 

He allowed them to brush past as the song finished, the jungle-like beat, only slower, counting down the remaining runtime. The crowd must have sensed the end, too, as their motions slowly transitioned into stillness - and before he knew it, Abbacchio was raising his hand in a simple gesture of gratitude, allowing silence - and then, unintelligible chatter - to fill the space of the warehouse. 

In a post-performance haze, he packed away his vinyl stack - then made his way down the few steps on the side of the podium, grateful for the addition of a railing beside them. 

The possibility to indulge in the euphoria that came with each and every rave he had so far attended, felt blasphemous tonight, considering the circumstances - and how little time had passed since Bistecca’s death - though for a moment, Abbacchio allowed himself to be ignorant of it. He had paid his tribute - even if it was never going to take away the guilt he carried, it offered a step forward towards healing - or learning to live with the emotional baggage as it were, the way it felt appropriate to. 

Was it selfish to dismiss the remorse for a moment, he didn’t exactly care. Or so he thought as an all-too-familiar figure approached him, the sight of the piercing blue eyes making his stomach twist. Whether it was with disgust or fear, he couldn’t tell for sure. 

“Nice outro,” Bucciarati crossed his arms behind his back, stopping in front of Abbacchio with an amicable facial expression. “Pleasure to see you.”

“Unreciprocated,” Leone forced himself to say in response. He prayed his voice did not shake much - terrified would be an understatement used to describe how he suddenly felt. It wasn’t even the lens of dislike he saw Bucciarati through. Suddenly, all the bravado he had promised himself to charge at the man, evaporated. A sense of dread replaced it - as the realization of having been followed to the warehouse sank in. In a brief wave of panic, he didn’t even consider the possibility of Bucciarati simply seeing the lineup for the night printed somewhere across an advertisement in the city. 

It didn’t matter. 

What was of importance, though, was the apparent reason why the ravenette had taken his time to approach Leone when he least expected it. Surely, he was here with a demand. Perhaps he wanted some kind of payback for the help he had unsolicitedly offered - securing the information desk position for the man, as though it had been Abbacchio who had asked for support in the first place.

“Valid,” Bucciarati took a step back, as if to give the goth a false sense of personal space. “I’m not here to reconcile, though. It’s more like… I guess one could say, it’s an offer to consider. Although for the sake of us both, I’d prefer you to agree to it.”

Abbacchio scoffed - surprised by his own audacity to do so as he leaned heavier on his cane, eyeing the ravenette up and down. 

Bucciarati didn’t change much. It made sense, though - it had only been a few weeks since they had last properly seen each other. Save for the couple of times Leone thought he’d caught a glimpse of the man amongst the airport crowds, the last time they’d met had been December. Last year, Abbacchio thought, indulging himself in the cheesiness of the joke - although all things considered, he wished a whole year had already passed since the events that had followed their reconnaissance.

Bucciarati still looked the same, more or less. Dressed for the occasion, a Bowie lookalike - a shiny silver shirt alluding towards a spacesuit; and a pair of dusty pink flares covering most of the black, heeled platform boots on his legs. With a set of cheap faux-diamond-covered hairclips, metallic eyeshadow and acne-spotted face, he looked almost innocent - certainly, he could pass for a raver. 

“An offer or a threat?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. Bucciarati rolled his eyes in response. 

“Look, I’m not trying to convince you to give me another chance,” he said. “I couldn’t demand it of you considering what happened. But at least spare me five minutes of your time. In your car, on your terms.”

Abbacchio found himself surprised with the hint of desperation he noticed in the ravenette’s eyes as the man spoke. In a way, he liked what he saw - it brought to his mind a sense of power over him - a feeling he clung to, hoping it would fuel his confidence to dismiss whatever idea Bucciarati approached him about. Certainly, he wasn’t going to make any deals with a gangster. 

***

“What’s so important that you had to follow me all the way to a rave?” Abbacchio shut the car door and watched as Bucciarati leaned back in the passenger’s seat before offering him as much as a glance. “And by the way, I don’t want to see you again after this. Ever. We’re over, understood?”

“Absolutely,” the ravenette answered. Abbacchio noted a hint of disappointment in his voice - and couldn’t help but congratulate himself on the little victory - breaking the heart of a gangster who had led him astray; in exchange for all the wrongdoings he, himself, had experienced. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to comply with the first half of your demand if you accept my offer.”

The goth rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. 

“Then I’ll make it easier for you. The answer is no,” he shrugged and leaned forward to open the door for Bucciarati and kick him out of the vehicle - only to feel something strangely cold, like a piece of metal, pressed against his ribs. 

“Then you’re dead,” the ravenette stated matter-of-factly, forcing the gun he was holding a little harder against Abbacchio’s side. “Capo’s orders.”

Leone felt faint. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe - as his heartbeat accelerated beyond a reasonable rate and he felt a wave of coldness run down his body. 

“Are you blackmailing me?” He managed to choke out - realizing just how stupid it sounded the moment he stated it out loud.

“Unfortunately,” Bucciarati let out a disappointed sigh which appeared to be strangely genuine. “The organization is interested in your stand abilities. If you comply, you’ll be spared. If you don’t, you’re dead meat - and I’m really sorry but considering the state of sobriety, or lack thereof, of the rave attendees, no one is going to find you here for a couple of weeks, at least. It’s nothing personal, I promise. They just see you as an obstacle to be removed, the way they did with that clusterf– with your partner.”

Abbacchio wasn’t entirely sure why he’d allowed Bucciarati to finish his monologue. He supposed it was all thanks to the surprise at the gurgle that followed from underneath the ravenette’s shirt - and his frantic, automatic-almost motion to press his hand against the right side of his stomach. 

“Applauding your stupidity down there, I see,” Leone scoffed despite himself - though if he were to die anyway, he could be a little mean. 

“She’s a bit noisy today, yeah,” the ravenette let out a sigh, then pressed the gun up Abbacchio’s side. “Doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you if need be.”

“Bucciarati, you fucked me. Now you want to kill me?” Abbacchio asked in disbelief, playing for time. He supposed he was simply scared to find out what kind of offer the gangster had up his sleeve. Delaying the news surely must have been a protective strategy.

“Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t mourn your death for the rest of my life,” the ravenette offered something like a smile - though he kept the gun steadily pressed against Abbacchio’s side, digging into the man’s flesh. 

“Asshole,” Leone scoffed, resisting the urge to spit Bucciarati in the face. In retrospect, he often wondered what would have happened if he had. 

“I don’t have one,” the ravenette shrugged with an innocent grin. The gun clicked as he cocked it. “For real, though. Passione is coming after you because you interfered with their business. You were quite close to uncovering the sex trafficking network, sure - but sadly, it’s too big to be taken down. It would probably result in a gang war, if revealed, so the organization is trying to protect itself. The world is a cruel place, Leone and I wish I had some good news for you. I wish I didn’t have to drag you into this mess alongside me - but the thing is, you can save yourself if you shove that grieving, offended pride up your ass for a second and join my team because of the two of us, I have the means to protect you.”

Abbacchio raised his eyebrow at the uncalled-for monologue. Part of him felt annoyed by the careless - bossy - way Bucciarati addressed his mourning. Another piece of his mind couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction at the news that he’d nearly uncovered the mystery he had been working on - though the sensation sank down as soon as he realized that his near-success was most likely complicit in Bistecca’s death. 

Yet, he still didn’t want to side with the criminals. Even with a death on his own conscience - with the memory of firing a bullet at the briber as though the man was a mere puppet in the spectacle of a crime scene. 

“And if I refuse, you’re shooting me dead?” He asked, moving away from the pressure of the gun against his side. Bucciarati did not force it any further. 

“I might,” he replied and brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across his face. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

Abbacchio scoffed in response. He retreated, testing the limitations of safety, back into his seat, then placed the key in the ignition. 

“I’ll drive you home,” he turned to face Bucciarati for a brief moment. He didn’t care whether the man would have to return to the warehouse to retrieve his own car - or how he’d gotten here in the first place. He simply wanted an illusion of control: “That gives you about half an hour to convince me joining your organization, as you put it, is better than a bullet in the head.”

“In the gut,” the ravenette corrected him, fastening his seatbelt like a respectable citizen. “A bullet in the gut. They wanted you to pass away slowly and cruelly.”

Chapter Text

The last couple of weeks felt like a dream. A dream Abbacchio did not exactly want to wake up from, at that, with the way Bucciarati began spoiling him as soon as he’d agreed to join his team. The decision, while it wasn’t entirely independent, considering the circumstances, rewarded his pragmatism as soon as the following morning. It felt like something within had changed overnight - when he’d driven the ravenette home and stayed for the time being, prompted, to an extent by sudden fear that someone would come and get him if he’d returned to his own flat without offering the gangster a definite answer. Besides, it’d been pissing down outside and Bucciarati had insisted that Abbacchio stay.

The suggestion, regardless of it being a tough matter to ponder, a part of Abbacchio had already agreed to the moment a gun had been pressed against his gut. It had been the instinct of self preservation, he later decided - quite a convenient one, at that. 

Joining Passione, it appeared, came with plenty of advantages. And even though he had initially been hesitant towards Bucciarati splurging money on him during their ‘mandatory’, as the man had put it, high street shopping day, he quickly realized it was only right to revamp his style and aim for designer brands if he wanted an aura of respect. 

As a cop, Abbacchio had curated a series of gothic outfits, certainly - living by the subculture’s principle of keeping it affordable, the clothes had all been adjusted at home - though at the time, he’d been forced to keep his appearance casual enough to not be kicked out of his job. Seeing as that didn’t exactly work, he no longer restrained himself - leather platform boots and coats, expensive, delicate lace like the kind Bucciarati had recently grown to favor under his blazer, on the few unusually warm days of January. 

There was a sense of being owned in Passione, though - one that Abbacchio could not quite shake off as Bruno dragged him to a tattoo parlor the morning after the rave, as soon as he had agreed to join. The small gang symbol behind his ear hurt more than he’d expected - and as compensation for the pain, Bucciarati told him to get as inked as he pleased. 

So Abbacchio did. 

The tattoo artist was surprisingly talkative - small, covered in stick-and-poke artwork, with black-and-blue hair and plenty of random stories about her and Bruno’s early days in Passione, she introduced herself as Paxe. She was also nice enough to explain to Abbacchio the reason why it was better to get a shield armor of ink, considering his pretty looks and the preferences of high-ranking officials looking for one-sided fun. Polpo, Leone’s new capo, never refused them the pleasure. And in this regard, Bucciarati would be helpless, despite his promise of protection. Hierarchy, the goth figured quickly, did not differ much from the one he’d known from the force. 

And the initial bliss could only ever last so long. As soon as the array of tattoos on Abbacchio’s arm healed properly, Bucciarati approached with that sticky sweet smile of his, saying there was a job to be done. An easy one, at that, he added - not exactly a test of Leone’s fitness for the gang but rather, an act of convenience. So much for the goth’s superficial agreement to get back together as time healed some of the wounds inflicted in the final weeks of the past year. As a boss, the ravenette acted exactly the same way he had when they’d first met each other. Abbacchio supposed it executed power to some extent - though he was still unhappy to agree - knowing well he had no other choice. 

An easy job, Bruno had said as he’d waved him, Narancia and Mista goodbye, wishing them well in their adventures abroad. Abbacchio was glad he wasn’t the one driving for once - the two teenagers were unbearable on their own. If he had to deal with their bullshit while trying to focus on the road, he would have surely strangled them both on the spot. Though he had to admit, he was slowly growing fond of their presence within the gang. 

Mista turned out not to be a scary buzzcut looking to pick a fight - quite on the contrary, he was surprisingly entertaining with his endless shower thoughts. Abbacchio supposed he teased him about the number four too much at times, considering the man’s fear certainly had some logical grounds in it - though he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for the teasing. 

Narancia, then, was rather loud . In some ways, Abbacchio saw a reflection of some of his own traits, only that they did not bother him so much - trouble focusing, sitting still, impulsivity - where he’d restlessly bounce his leg, Narancia paced all over the room. ADHD, Fugo - the annoying addition to the gang, the kid Leone had previously thought Bucciarati had been grooming - said once. Whether it was mockery or a proper diagnosis, no one could tell for sure - certainly, it would be another two decades before the matter ceased to be a stereotypical joke synonymous with one’s impatience; misunderstood and dismissed even by the toughest minds. By then, Narancia would probably grow a set of coping strategies to get him through everyday life - Abbacchio wondered if he’d even bother getting checked out, whether he was still going to see it as an issue - or simply a set of traits to live with, the way he had grown to view his own. Though he couldn’t deny, at times he wished there was an explanation for his own ever-present feeling of not belonging. Bucciarati was weird but he embraced it. Abbacchio, too, felt weird - though in a more awkward way, like a misfit amongst the perfect gathering of his (now former) work colleagues, like they had all been equipped with a life manual which ran out of stock just as he was about to pick up his own copy. Perhaps there was more to it - he supposed there must have been - yet, he wasn’t excited about the prospect of being accused of abusing substances simply to get his medication - the way he had been when he’d first gotten Moody Blues. Narancia had mentioned trying some pills for his, as he’d put it, lack of focus, back in school - which prompted Leone’s own thoughts of the possibility - though he’d then said he’d eventually given them up after being constantly teased about it being ‘good drugs’ or ‘ legal meth, how lucky was he, was he not?’ - by his peers. The condition being diminished to a class clown disorder did not help much either - and eventually, Narancia - in a rare moment of openness - mentioned he’d attributed it as a kind of flaw to his own self. Certainly, Abbacchio presumed, Fugo yelling at him for getting the equations wrong, was not much comfort either. 

Though they were in a gang, anyway - and formal education did not matter much anymore, aside from Bucciarati’s insistence that Ghirga tried harder; insistence prompted by, likely, his own regret of never having graduated, despite repetitive claims of not needing a high school degree for anything his job required. 

And for a gang, Narancia was a perfect fit, Abbacchio noticed. They both thrived in emergencies - and though the younger man’s impulsivity often landed him in trouble - the consequence of a decision or two made too fast - Bucciarati had made a good choice to assemble him alongside Leone and Mista for the trip to Germany. Together, they easily passed for a bunch of friends on their way to one of the famous twenty-four-hour techno clubs in Berlin - no one could possibly suspect they’d only make it as far as Bavaria, soon be heading back down south regrouped, a borrowed - certainly not stolen - car in tow. Was it even a crime if it had been pre-agreed with all the parties involved, Abbacchio wondered as he clutched the handle above the passenger door whenever Mista drove too close to the edge of the serpentine highway far too high up above the ground for his liking. 

He dreaded the perspective of navigating the road on his own the day after tomorrow. It was cold enough already as it were - the experience of a thermal shock as soon as they’d made a stop right after the Austrian border. Abbacchio wished he’d taken something warmer than his worn-out aviator jacket to complete his forcibly casual outfit. Bucciarati had mentioned snowfalls before they set off - though whether or not it had been a joke, the goth couldn’t tell. 

Get to the safehouse and have fun, rest up before your journey back, was the exact instruction they’d been given - yet, the higher up the Alps they climbed, the less convinced Leone was that they would make it to their destination. 

***

Wurzburg was cold and gloomy - the kind of frost biting angrily at the skin as the temperature dropped below the zero level to which Abbacchio wasn’t accustomed. There had been a snowfall indeed - and he could only be grateful for the winter holiday weekend right before his eighteenth birthday which he’d spent at an aunt’s in Chiavenna because she’d taught him how to drive in tough conditions. Though a small town wasn’t a highway with tunnels and serpentines suspended in the air - and he dreaded the journey back, unsure whether it was the ride itself or the Swiss border control which stressed him out more. Why couldn’t the country join the European Union like its neighbors and simplify travel for everyone, made no sense to him. Why Bucciarati had requested the three of them to take a different route back home was just as incomprehensible. Surely, with no stops in and out of Austria, the way they’d arrived, no one would even notice they’d gone back and forth. With the number of cars passing through daily, it was even less likely. 

Though Abbacchio wasn’t the boss and he couldn’t exactly question Bucciarati’s reasoning. Maybe there was an approach dictated by experience involved in the decision - at the end of the day, he supposed he’d much rather take the more difficult way if it meant not getting caught. 

Though it amazed him nevertheless how it was possible to pass through just by saying the same lines over and over when questioned at the border - no, the car wasn’t his, it belonged to a family friend, he just borrowed it for a few days. Surely, the officers had to know what was up by now. The thing had been going on since the seventies or the eighties.

Perhaps they were just pretending not to notice - the same way he had once easily accepted one bribe after another, like Bistecca had taught him. 

Abbacchio was surprised to find himself not thinking about the man much anymore. Then again, it made sense - Aitano had been dead for nearly two months. There was no use in bothering his peace with morally grey choices. Even though Leone still found it ironic to be doing the exact thievery Bistecca had set out to take down. 

Wurzburg was cold and gloomy - freezing, in Abbacchio’s subjective judgment. The name itself sounded like dragging a nail across a blackboard. Even more so when he heard the host’s wife mispronounce it on purpose - the r and z taken together as one, collective, grating sound - her accent similar to Aurora’s best friend from abroad, the same one he’d gotten his military-style backpack from. 

He’d brought it along - it fitted a change of clothes and a couple of bottles of wine he got earlier in the day when he ventured out sightseeing with Mista and Narancia. Simply to see if the region’s vineyards were as good as their renown. He’d probably have to declare the wine at the border, he supposed - a thought which made him second-guess the purchase decision. 

He was left alone to overthink it. Narancia and Mista had gone out some more - though he’d excused himself with leg pain simply to stay indoors. The safehouse, contrary to the city itself, was rather cozy. With warm light coming from the mid-century-looking lamps and central heating, it made Abbacchio want, for a moment, to stay for longer. He wondered if Bruno would like to join him for a trip sometime simply to get away from the experience of freezing indoors during winter because it wasn’t that cold outside, was it?

And as much as he found himself surprised by his not-thinking of Bistecca much, he was also taken aback by how quickly he’d forgiven the ravenette for his wrongdoings. He’d simply taken the explanation offered to him - he supposed it must have been a subconscious strategy to find mental peace. What use was it to be upset with Bucciarati, anyway? He worked for the man now - and was bound to, until some enemy gang shot him dead. If he couldn’t exactly escape, he could at least make himself comfortable in the cage. 

***

Abbacchio fumbled with the lock for what must have been less than ten seconds. The car opened without much protest - and he was surprised to see no one in the busy street seemed to have paid any attention to him getting in. 

The keys sat safely tucked into the space of the glove compartment. Abbacchio took note of a small document case lying beneath it - he supposed the vehicle’s license, the way Bucciarati had told him two days before. Taking advantage of not being paid attention to - and ignoring his superior’s advice to get away as soon as he was in the car for the police could - and would - show up from round the corner when he least expected it - he quickly skimmed through the details. A 1998 Passat registered under the name of some Udo Stolzheim, aged forty five. Of course, it was a diesel. 

Abbacchio could only hope it wouldn’t act up high up in the freezing Alps. 

He slid the key into the ignition, welcoming the breeze of warm air as heating came on along with the engine - its low rumble unpleasantly shaking the frame of the car. Abbacchio could never drive a diesel - let alone a Passat, of all models available. The front of the vehicle reminded him of the Groke, a childhood fear which still gave him chills in the present day - the last thing he needed was to see it everyday. Udo Stolzheim clearly had no taste. He must have come to realize it himself if he’d struck a deal with a bunch of gangsters to get rid of it. Though Abbacchio doubted the man’s new purchase would differ much from the previous one. 

He was only glad the car was officially clean to go. They had about half a day, Bucciarati had said, to get to Como before Stolzheim reported a car theft. 

Abbacchio swore under his breath as he switched on the wipers to remove a fresh trace of snow. He was certain the ravenette assigned the task to him on purpose - to test his fitness, probably - or simply to play with his nerves, considering the fact that he’d denied it being an initiation. 

***

Abbacchio let out a deep sigh as he came to a stop in the line of vehicles waiting to be cleared to cross the Austrian-Swiss border. He glanced at Mista and Narancia’s car in the adjacent row, wishing them as much luck as he hoped to have, himself. 

They’d purposefully split up for the control to avoid raising any suspicion - though Leone wasn’t any less stressed about the possible mishaps. 

He could feel his heartbeat accelerate so much so that every other pulsation echoed in his throat. His palms were sweaty, despite the ice-cold sensation against the steering wheel which he gripped to steady himself. His stomach was twisting in knots, his guts threatening to act up through periodical, blunt aches on the left side of his abdomen. Suddenly, the bravado he’d been feeling for the last four hours disappeared completely - where there once had been a rush of adrenalin making the whole job feel as much fan as Narancia and Mista had repeatedly reassured him it would be, there remained only dread - growing in magnitude the closer to the control booth he found himself. 

“Can I see your driving permit, passport and car license?” 

Abbacchio spoke a little German, as much as he remembered from school - though the Swiss accent caught him off-guard, causing him to nearly start crying and confess before he actually realized what was being said to him. Praying for his hands not to shake, he handed over the three documents and waited, forcing himself to breathe calmly, as though the short time it took the border force officer to skim through the details printed in each, did not feel like forever. “The car’s not yours, is it, sir?”

He had it all rehearsed. Surely, he had. 

“I borrowed it,” he forced out, his German heavily accented. A cocked eyebrow passed for an answer, so dutifully, he continued: “It’s my uncle’s. I’m just off to Como for a few days. My cousin will be joining me later, him and his girlfriend - but they’re bringing over all of our luggage so we swapped cars as mine’s bigger.”

He wasn’t sure why he was explaining himself in such detail. If anything, the word vomit was only going to raise suspicion. And it did as the officer took another glance at the document - the goth’s hands now being on the verge of a delirium-like shiver as he forced them to remain firm on the steering wheel. 

“To Como in winter? Whatever for?” The man raised both his eyebrows this time and moved as if to return the documents - so Abbacchio shyly reached out, only to be met with a gesture of withdrawal. 

Though for a brief moment, the question caught him off-guard, too. Surely, the lake was the most popular in the summer, with its villas built just by the water, a set of steps guiding one straight into the turquoise abyss in the scorching heat. 

“Just a weekend away,” he said finally, forcing himself to look the officer in the eye. “It’s actually pretty cozy when you’ve got a fireplace and some hot chocolate, you know? We go every year in January or February.”

The officer nodded stiffly - though he didn’t seem keen to return Abbacchio’s documents just yet. 

“And your cousin is German?” He asked, taking another glance at the goth’s driving license. A hint of suspicion lingered in his voice - and Abbacchio felt like he was going to shit himself any moment now. 

“My aunt fell in love with a Bavarian on holiday back in the seventies,” he lied swiftly, praying for it to pass as the truth, to sound at least somewhat believable. 

“I see,” the officer gathered the documents and handed them over to Leone who nearly took off ahead in the very moment, driven by stress and mindless of the barrier right in front of the car. “Anything to declare?”

“Just a couple bottles of wine in the trunk. You know, for when Rudolf and Gudrun get there,” he forced a light-hearted reply - though he was not met with a smile.

“Please pull over for an inspection,” the officer said, gesturing vaguely towards a bay across from them. Abbacchio forced a nod and swallowed his own heartbeat, then rolled the window up - grateful, at least, to be able to do it with a button. For if he had to use a crank instead, he surely would have blown his cover, struggling to do so as his hands shook uncontrollably. 

He was only grateful for the steady tremble of the engine across the whole of the car frame, the sensation strangely calming, given the situation. 

Over in the bay, he made it out of the car and tried not to look in the direction of Mista and Narancia’s Citroen, as he waited for the border force officer to walk over - though he did pick up a vague gesture of what he interpreted as a suggestion to meet at the nearest gas station to avoid any suspicion. 

“Open the trunk, please,” the guard ordered when he finally approached. Briefly, his eyes lingered on Abbacchio’s cane, as though he were looking for signs of suspicious behavior - then again, Leone thought as he pulled the boot door up, who was the man to judge? He had every right to be disabled - all the more to head for a holiday. Worst case scenario, he was going to play dumb. 

Though it seemed unnecessary as the man took a quick glance at the two wine bottles tucked into a blanket so they wouldn’t shatter as they moved back and forth across the space of the trunk. He waved Abbacchio off, thus giving him permission to cross - and walked away, leaving the goth with an impression of his guts twisting inside out from stress. 

When he reached the gas station, the goth promised himself, the first thing he’d search for wouldn’t be Mista and Narancia. It would be the bathroom. There was no way he would make it home in his state - let alone if he was going to go through the whole border control ordeal again in a couple of hours. 

Chapter Text

Abbacchio only allowed himself to breathe once Mista and Narancia dropped him off in front of the all-too-familiar interbellum tenement of flats in Marechiaro. 

Early evening was falling all over Naples - and the static in the goth’s brain was progressively growing louder, the long hours spent in the company of the two teenagers at fault.

If there existed a finite limit of the times Snoop Dogg’s Gangsta Ride could be played on repeat, they had surely pushed past it. Though, the two probably remained oblivious of the meaning behind the lyrics. Abbacchio supposed he was the only one in the car capable of understanding them fully. 

Normally, he wouldn’t have minded it much - it was a catchy song and for the first few rounds, it was steadily growing on him - but as soon as Narancia chimed in with made-up lines, he was ready to call it a day. 

Once they dropped the Passat off at the safe garage and his adrenaline levels subsided, a dull headache crept in, uninvited. While it was a welcome distraction from his usual knee pain, which grew worse thanks to the Swiss cold; he wished it would at least have waited until he made it home. 

With Mista being the one driving, Abbacchio only felt nauseous throughout the journey back to Naples. 

He was glad they at least booked an overnight stay in Parma - were he forced to listen to the off-key attempts at keeping up with Snoop Dogg’s greatest hits for half of the night, he surely would have gone crazy. Then, he reckoned, he would finally fit the criteria of a psychotic break. 

Though they made it back home, at last - and for a moment, he allowed himself to sink into the comfortable silence of the dimly lit flat. 

The air smelled of olive-fried garlic and herbs, so much so that he instinctively headed towards the kitchen, relishing the hard, yet restful feeling of the wooden floorboards under his feet once they were freed from the hours-long embrace of the heavy combat boots he’d worn for the journey. 

The room was empty. With the lights out, Abbacchio was only able to see as much as the outline of a frying pan set beside the stove. Only then did it hit him that the flat was unnaturally quiet. Suddenly, the silence he’d allowed himself to indulge in, no longer felt comfortable. 

Slowly, he headed to the bedroom. 

Part of him wanted to grab a knife along the way - while another one forced him to stay put before he panicked. Surely, there had to be a rational explanation behind the apparent emptiness of the apartment. He would have noticed by now if it had been broken into. There would have been traces of a fight if Bucciarati - Bruno - had been forcibly dragged out of it. 

Or so Abbacchio tried to console himself as he slowly approached the room, well aware that the way his steps and cane creaked against the old floorboards was surely giving him out by the second - then again, he wanted to believe his fear stemmed only from his lack of experience with mafia life. Simply, he didn’t know what to expect - or when to expect it, which forced him to feel constantly alarmed, ready to fight or flight. 

Hesitantly, he turned the corner and glanced into the dimly lit bedroom. 

The blue-and-purple lava lamp in the corner was on. Its light flickered against the wall as the wax particles inside moved up and down, illuminating the figure curled up on the bed. 

With a sigh of relief, Abbacchio plopped onto the empty space beside it and closed his eyes. He allowed his breath to synchronize with Bruno’s for a few moments as the tension of the last couple of days escaped his body, taking with it the images of snowy, serpentine highways and border checkpoints. 

The softness of the duvet underneath his back grounded him in the present. 

And as the stress slowly eased up, the headache setting deeper into his temples, he lay there for a few more moments, breathing deeply, focusing on the occasional sound of cars passing down the street outside. 

It was only when Bucciarati’s soft snore snapped him out of the daze that he sat up and reached for a nearby blanket to wrap it around his boyfriend’s sleeping frame. 

Clad in a navy blue nylon tracksuit, the ravenette looked nothing like the kind, yet ruthless leader Abbacchio had come to know. Somehow, he appeared more vulnerable, curled up like that - and in that position, Leone noticed a fading familiarity, like a memory he had nearly erased - and which made him sit up straighter as it reappeared in his head. 

It couldn’t have happened much further than a few months into his job in the force. An intervention simply for the sake of it, covering up the death of a sex worker because a higher-up choked her a little too hard, a little too long. 

Freshly out of school, yet already filled in on the corruption surrounding him, nineteen-year-old Abbacchio could barely stand the sense of self-disgust which encompassed him - all the more when he and Bistecca descended down the stairs of the no longer existing nightclub infamously named Love Sexuality Devotion. LSD for short. 

As they approached the bar in search of the owner with whom they were scheduled to speak - to agree on a version which protected both parties - the official at fault, as well the interest of the pimp - he wished to turn around and leave - yet, he found himself unable to, as the sight of the half-naked hostesses tending to the venue’s guests glued him in place. 

Then he spotted the barely dressed teenager in some old man’s lap. Though his hair was a few inches shorter and missing the red accents, then, it had unmistakably been Bucciarati - clad in a tight corset and some kind of a nude undergarment which covered his tattoos. There hadn’t been as many two years ago, but indubitably, the pattern matched. 

Abbacchio remembered having noticed the man receiving the courteous treatment was his own chief officer as the ravenette unbuttoned his pants and lowered himself down under the table, giggling so hard it surely had to be a forced, alcohol-induced reaction.

Though it hadn’t, until now, occurred to him that the sex worker in question had been the notorious gangster he would pull over on the highway the following year. 

“...Are you back already?”

Abbacchio glanced over at Bruno who sleepily eyed him up and down. The ravenette ran a hand across his face, as though to wipe the remnants of his nap away, then let out a deep sigh and rolled onto his back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pass out.”

“It’s alright,” Abbacchio laid beside the man and loosely wrapped an arm around his waist - or a little above it, to save him the potential discomfort of pressing against a full bag. He mentioned he didn’t like being touched around the area, anyway. “Slept well?”

“Which year is it?” Bucciarati joked in response. He subtly nudged Leone’s hand a bit further up, then entwined their fingers. “The job went alright?”

“Down to the point, yeah,” Abbacchio leaned in and placed a kiss on the man’s forehead, brushing bangs away from his spotty forehead, while at it - earning himself a rather displeased groan. “But I’m never driving with these two again. Ever.”

“That’s up to me to decide,” Bucciarati laughed. “Or Polpo, worst case scenario.”

“Fuck Polpo,” Abbacchio traced an idle pattern on the ravenette’s shoulder. “Why don’t we just stuff him with lead? That’ll satisfy his hunger for once. Did you know he somehow managed to put a personal fridge in his prison cell?”

Bucciarati snorted with laughter in response. 

“Sounds like him,” he scoffed, fixating his eyes on the ceiling and placing an arm above his head. “Polpo likes to think he’s above everyone else.”

“Narcissistic,” Abbacchio remarked. He supposed Bruno held a lot of personal resentment against his - theirs, now - capo - so he was surprised to receive a murmur of disagreement from the man.

“More like a god complex,” the ravenette briefly glanced at him. “He likes to be in charge. And if something, anything doesn’t go according to his grand vision, he’s alarmed. More than necessary. Then again, who am I to disagree?”

He sighed and sat up, placing a hand over the right side of his stomach when it grumbled in protest against the sudden movement. He averted his eyes, as though in embarrassment.

Abbacchio only leaned in closer to steal a quick kiss. 

“Couldn’t you, like…–,” he started, waving his hand around, trying to find the right words to continue, though the ravenette cut him off before he managed to finish the thought. 

“No,” he said curtly. “It’s not worth it. Polpo loves pushing boundaries as he pleases. Unfortunately, he’s above me in the hierarchy - a hierarchy which makes no sense to me, like half of Passione’s stupid rules, mind you - so there is only so much I can do.”

Abbacchio let out a sigh in response. He understood what Bruno meant, both about their unfortunate entanglement, as well as the arrangements of orders and regulations which seemed to exist just for the sake of it - yet, he couldn’t help feeling frustrated at the impossibility of action. Or the disproportionate consequences which awaited them if they decided, indeed, to disobey. 

“So we’ll kill and steal for him until someone pips us, got it,” he scoffed. He moved to sit behind Bruno and wrapped his arms around the man’s chest, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Such a bright future.”

“I know, right?” Bucciarati let out a bitter laugh. He tilted his head ever so slightly, so that the warmth of his cheek was now resting comfortably against Abbacchio’s own. 

How was it that they found proximity and trust again, the goth did not exactly care to know. He supposed the pushing of boundaries which Bruno mentioned had played part in it. Together with the skewed moral compass and the lack of choices which left them both in a certain kind of despair, it made sense they held onto the few scraps of normalcy they still had. 

Yet somehow, there was a sense of beauty in this tragedy - or perhaps he’d listened to one classic gothic rock album too many in his adolescence and it was finally taking its toll. Surely, he couldn’t seek comfort in the underworld. 

And yet. 

***

“So I’m officially both feet in the mafia,” Abbacchio laughed, swirling his wine glass as he leaned against the balcony railing, taking in the first warm evening of the spring season. “Cheers to that.”

As of the afternoon, his contract at the airport information desk had finally ended. He was glad to let it go - this final step of his transition between civilian life and that of a criminal, a transition performed gradually to avoid raising any suspicion on either side - thus, protecting his family from both the backlash they could face and any unforeseen consequences. 

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Bucciarati grinned. He stood beside Abbacchio, both arms resting on the rusty railing, shivering only a little in the chilly March breeze, despite the denim jacket he threw on before heading out. “May we live a long life.”

“Would be nice, yeah,” Leone admitted. Having downed a glass of wine already, he no longer felt a wave of anxiety wash over him at the mention of the dangers awaiting him as a gangster. Here, at least, he was given a chance to survive. Had he not agreed, he would surely be dead meat by now.

He nearly jumped when a sudden display of fireworks registered in the corner of his eye. Somewhere across the city, it cut the darkening sky with a myriad of colorful sparkles. Abbacchio wanted to believe it was a celebratory confirmation of his and Bruno’s longevity - though he was disillusioned enough to know exactly why it had appeared in the first place. 

He was only lucky neither of them had to deal with cocaine shipments on a regular basis. 

“Am I being delusional if I wish I could end it all?” Bucciarati nodded towards the colorful display ahead of them. A hint of contempt lingered in his voice - and the goth could only imagine its magnitude in relation to the harm drug dealing had done to his family. 

Bruno did not expect a reply - it had been a rhetorical question, anyway - with a wine glass in his left hand, he simply stared at the colorful announcements before them. Abbacchio did not dare interrupt. 

“Don’t we all?” He only said after a moment. The fireworks slowly died down and with them, the warmth of the evening. It was only the start of March, after all - he blamed the sudden chill on the weather, as if it were not the familiar mix of frustration and anxiety he had by now grown used to. 

***

It was only at the end of the month when the stagnation of Abbacchio’s new life stirred a little. As the unexpected news of Leaky Eye Luca’s death drove Bucciarati out of Libeccio, the restaurant behind which he had his first closer encounter with the ravenette; the goth could only half-heartedly focus on whatever the unruly bunch of teenagers forming his team were up to. There was enough to worry about as it were - a desperate father demanding revenge for his daughter’s passing and the subsequent actions following said girl’s boyfriend which took up the better part of their early afternoon the day before. 

Abbacchio could only hope Luca had died at the fault of his own shovel because he’d been too drunk to hold it properly - then again it appeared not to be the case. Bucciarati had returned home unusually quiet - and though the goth tried as much as he could to get any information out of him, tickling torture included, he did not succeed.  

It had been a long week as it were, one which he started with a hangover following his birthday celebration the Sunday before. All he wanted was for the weekend to begin already. He and Bruno were planning to spend it in Capri, pretending that for once, they were not cold-blooded gangsters. Only hours were now separating them from the blissful trip. They were to set out in the evening, once the proper workday half of their Friday finished.

It felt weird to turn twenty-one. 

Abbacchio pondered the thought as he absent-mindedly watched Fugo and Narancia on the verge of a fight across the table from him. 

He supposed he was considered the most mature of the group - probably because of his age - though by no means did he feel that way. 

If anything, he found Mista’s monologue on cannibalism almost as amusing as the man himself did. He tried not to show it as he listened half-heartedly to the continuation of yesterday’s lecture, occasionally eyeing the cake on the side table. 

Mista had already thrown a tantrum over it ten or so minutes ago. Apparently, four pieces were disgraceful - they would bring bad luck, the man argued, as though he did not at all care about there being four people sitting at the table, while they waited for Bucciarati to show up. 

He was running late. 

Abbacchio tried to distract himself with music for the better part of the hour they had spent in Libeccio - and seeing as his boredom grew by the second while Guido again took on lamenting over the unfortunate cake cutting strategy, he slowly stood up and made his way towards the side table. He was hungry anyway. 

“See? Now there’s three pieces left, you can rest,” he informed Mista as he sat back down, regretting for a moment giving up his cane for the short walk from his seat and back - then again, he only had two hands and, considering the size of the slices arranged on the plate, the dish had to be held while he balanced his portion on the spatula. 

“You don’t get it,” the gunman threw his hands up in exasperation. “My neighbor’s cat had four kittens. Four. One of them ended up scratching her son’s eye out. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence.”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes in response. 

“A car has four wheels and yet, you get in every time without complaining,” he remarked with a mouthful of food. 

That seemed to shut Mista up for the better part of the next few minutes. He didn’t even bother arguing that there was a spare, fifth one in the trunk anyway. Perhaps he was too terrified to consider it. 

Abbacchio glanced briefly at Narancia and Fugo who looked ready to throw hands at each other over Ghirga’s math homework. 

Surely, sixteen multiplied by fifty five did not equal twenty eight - though whether the appropriate scolding method was calling poor Nara ‘shit-for-brains’ or some other low-effort insult, the goth were not sure. He couldn’t wait for the day he would finally grow used to the two’s bickering - then again, he hoped just as much they would simply mature within the course of the next two years. Surely, they couldn’t remain snotty brats forever. 

Abbacchio glanced at the clock across from the table. It was close to strike four in the afternoon - clearly, Bucciarati was running late. He hoped whatever stopped him was important enough to delay his arrival. They were set out to leave for their Capri holiday in an hour’s time. The team needed to be debriefed for the following week before then. 

“Would you two mind behaving?” He rolled his eyes watching Narancia point a fork at Fugo - or the other way around, he didn’t care much. He only didn’t want them kicked out of the restaurant their boss owned. 

Though his words seemed not to have done much - the two were just as badly up each other’s throats as they had been seconds ago. 

There were three minutes left until four. Abbacchio began to wonder whether he had an issue with people not sticking to their schedules. 

“Oh, he brought a chick with him,” Mista suddenly nodded towards the restaurant entrance. That seemed to have done the trick for Narancia and Fugo - as they froze mid-motion, staring in the direction he pointed at - and so, Abbacchio followed. 

Indeed, Bucciarati had just walked in. Though there wasn’t a girl standing beside him - even if the teenager’s features appeared rather feminine. He definitely had some Asian origins, too, but the blond shade of his hair revealed he most likely inherited them from only one of his parents. 

For a brief moment, his eyes met Abbacchio’s - and in those piercing greens, there lingered a hint of superiority, of sorts. If it could speak, the goth was sure, it would offer an explanation behind the stranger’s visit - elaborating, ever so kindly, on the perceived proximity between him and Bucciarati which inevitably stemmed from his body language and the confidence with which he stood beside the ravenette, like his partner in crime. 

“This is Giorno Giovanna,” Bruno spoke. The usual light-hearted bite, calling for some kind of banter to follow, was absent from his voice. Instead, the tone was descriptive, like an announcement he were forced to make - as though it were the aftermath of a decision made in haste. “He will be joining our team.”

The name sounded familiar. It was the topic of countless complaints at the information desk, the brief gossip exchanged with his co-workers back when Abbacchio had been part of the cleaning staff. The nuisance he had to deal with because tourists were being scammed out of their money, their belongings disappearing before they knew it.

The goth’s eyes crossed with the blond’s again, for the briefest of a second. Though polite on the surface, the brat sent him a challenging look. Abbacchio noted it with duly spite. Willingly or not, he had picked the next victim of his own light-hearted banter - the way he once had with Bistecca. Time would show, he reckoned, whether Giovanna would play along or consider himself too cool for the little group, striving instead solely for his new boss’s approval. 

He wondered what the brat’s story was. 

Though he did not dare ask - not even when Bucciarati was called into the restaurant reception to answer a phone call. 

Instead, he decided to make use of his temporary leader status, nevermind that it had only been ascribed to him because of his age. 

He glanced at Giovanna who had briefly turned his head away towards the reception, as though he were hoping to eavesdrop on the conversation Bucciarati was having. Had he minded his own business instead, he would have noticed the way in which Abbacchio swiftly grabbed the nearby teapot and hid it under the table. 

The goth did not think twice of what he was up to - the act was as disgusting and immature as it were - though it felt a challenge level with Giovanna’s superficial confidence, with the aloof way he carried himself (and the lowly pickpocketing he had up until now preoccupied himself with). 

Abbacchio simply wanted to see if he could humble the brat. 

“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?” He cooed, setting the teapot back on the table, then reaching for a clean cup. 

It was weird to turn twenty-one. He surely did not feel mature enough for it. If anything, he supposed deep down, he was still fourteen, hanging heads-down off the fence of Arena Flegrea, his t-shirt caught in the wiring. 

Would Bistecca disapprove of his disgusting prank? He was almost certain. Would Bucciarati second him on the matter? Probably. Was it worth winning the approval of the three teenagers gathered around the table? He supposed so as he smiled, passing the signature cup of tea towards Giovanna. 

His lingering sense of justice could not let a pickpocket run free, after all. 

Chapter Text

“The fat cunt killed himself,” Bucciarati announced casually as placed his cell phone face-down on the nightstand.

His morning could not have started better - even if the sudden call had interrupted his and Abbacchio’s Saturday lie-in. 

In a split second, the structure on which his obedience to Passione relied, cracked - suddenly, he was no longer subjected to his capo’s whims, decisions and ideas. No longer pimped by him, living in constant fear that he would anew be requested to accompany some old, slimy official for the night, even though he hadn’t done it for years, now.

He felt ecstatic. 

“Who’s the fat cunt, again?” Abbacchio muttered into his pillow. He took a moment to lift his head up and finally look at Bruno. In his sleepy eyes, there lingered a hint of confusion, as if he weren’t quite sure where - or why - he’d woken up in the first place. 

Bucciarati found it adorable.

“Polpo,” he explained curtly, unable to contain a grin. He could barely lay still in bed. “Fucking finally.”

Abbacchio sat up. He brushed away the few strands of messy hair which fell into his face and stretched. A barely audible acknowledgment of the news followed - expressed more through a flash of joy in his eyes than the quiet hum he offered. 

Though Bucciarati didn’t expect a follow up. Abbacchio wasn’t very conversational in the morning as it were. 

“What happens now?” He only asked, tossing the duvet aside and slowly staightetning his bad leg against the mattress as if experimenting with the discomfort. 

Then again, it made sense that it ached. The boat on which they’d spent the night wasn’t heated - even though the end of March came rather warm this year, the interior was still prone to humidity, the unwelcome shift in the air past sunset. 

Bucciarati’s hair became slightly wavier, too, thanks to the moist. 

“We need to head back to Naples, I’m afraid,” he said and finally forced himself to get out of bed. Grabbing a change of clothes from the duffel they’d dropped onto the box in the corner of the little makeshift bedroom - how did they both fit into that single bed, again? - he glanced out of the window at the clouded sky. The sun was beginning to come out - though he supposed it wouldn’t get much better than that either way, judging by the navy blue coloring of the firmament. He only hoped there would be no storms as inevitably, Polpo’s death meant returning to Capri in the afternoon - if only to retrieve the means to support his claim to rise in the ranks, to convince the reigning caporegime with an appropriate sum. “An official phone call will follow but that’s it for our romantic weekend together. I’m sorry. He could have picked out a better suicide date.”

“No, but I mean,” Abbacchio waved his hand around as if trying to grasp at the appropriate word choice. He was still sitting amongst the sheets - and did they compliment the paleness of his hair and complexion, Bucciarati thought. “How does this affect us?”

The ravenette shrugged nonchalantly. He grabbed his supply bag from the side pocket of the duffel, then headed for the small bathroom, earning himself a glare from Abbacchio - for his silence, perhaps - yet still, toying with people’s frustration, even if only to tease them, was one of his favorite pastime activities. 

“If we’re quick enough,” he finally said, halfway through the door, glancing over his shoulder at the goth. “There’s a chance I’ll be a capo by the end of today.”

Offering no further explanation, he gracelessly shut the door and turned the lock, the latter a gesture of sheer habit. 

***

The clouded sky eased up ever so slightly as the car rolled onto the tarmac of the mainland. For a Saturday morning, the port was surprisingly deserted - then again, the more Bucciarati pondered it, the more sense it made to see it so empty. The tourist season was yet to begin - and while he spotted some foreigners dressed rather inappropriately for the weather (certainly, twelve degrees did not call for as little as a cotton hoodie to be worn), the sightings were sparse, only as many as there were cheap flight deal hunters. 

He glanced over at Abbacchio in the passenger’s seat as they exited the port - out through the gate and down onto the multi-lane in the direction of Libeccio. 

The man sat fiddling with a broken cassette, attempting to roll the loose tape back onto the reels with the help of a pencil. Occasional swearing - or begging, depending as his desperation levels shifted - interrupted his workflow. Bucciarati worried the cassette was beyond repair. 

“Have you got a screwdriver, by any chance?” Abbacchio asked eventually as they waited at a red light to do a one-eighty turn towards the old town. “Or a small knife, as long as it’s thin.”

“Think so, yeah,” Bucciarati patted his cargo pants as if he truly were looking for anything to open the cassette box with in his pockets, then unzipped a space on the side of his thigh and produced a small flat-end screwdriver which he handed to Abbacchio. “Don’t strip the thread.”

He rolled his eyes at the look the goth gave him - half-amused, half-exasperated upon seeing the human storage box he was - and reached to turn the radio on instead. 

The intersection they stopped at was one of his least favorites - the traffic was terrible as it were, on top of the tram tracks crossing it right after the signal light. 

The latter scared the living shit out of Bucciarati regardless of the fact that he’d been driving - license or not - for a good few years now. 

Of course, a police station was situated right across from the lane they stopped in. And obviously, the Celica they drove was stolen. 

Suddenly, Bucciarati wished he’d broken the convenient habit of docking his father’s fishing boat in Capri to avoid it being directly targeted by enemy gangs if any had an issue with him. 

He supposed it must have been sentimentality, which guided it - this certain fondness for inanimate objects and the need to protect them like they were precious heirlooms passed down from one generation to another. 

Someone had once told him his feelings would eventually lead him astray. 

And perhaps he was too soft to be a gangster, indeed - too kind and too forgiving, despite the reputation he upheld over the years. 

He hated the guilt which came with it, whenever he were forced to commit an act of injustice. 

“My sister loves this song,” Abbacchio suddenly spoke, nodding towards the radio. Bucciarati only hummed mindlessly in acknowledgement as he put the car in drive, though he turned the music up a little bit to entertain the man - and allowed Peppino di Capri’s voice to fill the space. “Don’t tell anyone I said this but it became my guilty pleasure over time.”

Bruno snorted with laughter at the statement.

“It was one of my favorites, too,” he said when the chorus kicked in. He hated to admit it, fearing the words would prompt questions on the circumstances surrounding his fondness for the song - for surely it couldn’t have been as simple as the title lyrics E mo’, e mo’, followed by a love confession being too catchy for a four- five year old. 

He was unwilling to reveal that it soundtracked the better part of his childhood, back when his parents still were - or appeared to be - all over each other. Until they became over each other just as much - just as quickly. 

“No surprise,” Abbacchio concluded, unscrewing the broken cassette into pieces in his lap - to get better access, Bucciarati presumed. “You’re a cheesy bastard.”

“So what if I am?” The ravenette rolled his eyes. They made it back to their starting point, passing by worn high-rise residential blocks and occasional dated insertions of ruins or historical buildings. Bruno wished to know, specifically, why there was so much circling around involved in getting to Libeccio - as though a road crossing the multilane straight through to shorten the drive couldn’t have been built. He was glad when they finally turned into the side street and the traffic eased a little - though only temporarily, he knew. “Keeps me going.”

“Does it?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. Briefly, he paused fiddling with the tape in his lap as he looked up to eye the ravenette up in consternation. “Or does it just make you sappy enough that you accept random kids into your team left and right?”

Bucciarati’s initial response ended up being an array of curses - directed at the old hag on a battered scooter who decided to cut through right in front of the hood of his car, though judging from Abbacchio’s facial expression, it certainly was mistimed enough to appear a scold, of sorts. 

“Do you mean the new guy?” He asked instead, forcing a smile when they finally moved forward - out onto the roundabout and into yet another traffic jam. He supposed he’d misjudged his initial impression of the city’s deserted appearance. Surely there were more cars around than he would have liked. 

Then the cobbles started and he cursed under his breath again, just as Abbacchio offered a nod in response. So Bucciarati justified his choice: “It’s just… I don’t know. There’s a certain kind of spark in him that makes me feel hopeful about the future again.”

Leone scoffed. Bruno felt a little hurt. 

“He’s just a teenage brat,” the man remarked, inspecting a piece of mangled tape. “A pickpocket, at that. Thought you despised those. I’ll need scissors and some sellotape, by the way, if you’ve got those stashed up your ass, too.”

“I was also a teenage brat once,” Bucciarati rolled his eyes. He produced a roll of tape from a zipper on his left side, along with a swiss knife - not the same one he’d used to slash Bistecca’s tire a few months back, though similar enough for Abbacchio’s eyes to linger on it for a little too long. 

The pickpocket remark made sense, now that he thought about it - surely, there were only a handful of reasons to become cross with Leaky Eye Luca. Sending the man onto the verge of death clearly wasn’t the best solution to handle a situation - and judging from the conflicting behavior Giorno exhibited on the funicular later on, he supposed he should be more vary of the kid - then again, he couldn’t get rid of the gut feeling which told him to follow through and team up as soon the desire to overthrow the corrupt, drug-selling boss of Passione came up. 

Obviously, while the decision to get the blond involved with his team had come on a whim, Bucciarati was planning to sit down and explain the organization’s dynamics, along with the possible strategies to climb up the hierarchy and how long it would take; in more detail eventually. It was just that Polpo’s suicide came rather unexpectedly, leaving him with no time to think a strategy through. 

Then again, the capo’s death promised the first step up the ladder if he played his cards wise enough. 

He only wished he could let Abbacchio in on the plan - though at the moment, even revealing as much as the purpose of the return trip to Capri appeared too dangerous. 

“Your idealism will end up killing you, you know?” the goth scoffed, cutting the damaged fragments of the tape out of the roll, then sticking the remnant back together. “Guess I’m going into the fire with you, am I not?”

***

Abbacchio’s words lingered in Bucciarati’s mind for the better part of the afternoon. They became even more prominent as soon as the expected-yet surprising enemy stand attack on the way to Capri happened. 

Bruno hated the realization that he was truly dragging his team members down with him - yet the events played out too quickly for him to make an alternative decision and suddenly, he was being promoted, rich enough to move out of his little Marechiaro flat and into one of the coastline Posillipo villas if he wanted to; though gifted with extra responsibilities, while at it, be it territory oversight or special missions from the boss himself.

They came with the addition of the man’s daughter - a teenager so cold and aloof Bucciarati had a hard time sympathizing with her as she listed her demands of French bottled water - and Givenchy thighs, no less. 

He would offer her a glass of tap treasure, mineral aftertaste and all if he were not scared of angering her father. 

He couldn’t wait for the moment they dropped her off at the designated place, location yet to be revealed. Surely a family reunion would do her good. 

He’d give anything to receive the same opportunity. 

Abbacchio had been right in calling him a hopeless sap. Though he wasn’t all that naive - silently, he took note of the overly eager spark in Giorno’s eyes as soon as Pericolo revealed the details of the mission at hand to everyone gathered at the entrance to the public toilet. 

He didn’t like the way they matched the poorly hidden smirk of self-assurance. 

The hint of surprise in Leone’s own look, mutual as soon as his gaze met Trish’s, he did not pick up on.

***

Bucciarati was at ease with the bizarre unfolding of the events which took place in the morning following the team’s definite departure from Capri for the time being. It was April Fools, after all - that one fight happened after another couldn’t have been too serious, could it?

He only hoped Abbacchio was taking it just as well - even if the man’s looks and expressions said otherwise. 

Yet still, he was impressed by the sacrifice of Leone’s hand back in Pompeii - positively so, though so unexpectedly he found himself touched by the loyalty. 

He only did not anticipate running into his ex - the assassin, the lawyer and the lover - in the train they’d boarded back in Naples. 

In retrospect, it made sense - from the little Prosciutto had told him - and based on what he’d heard being passed around - La Squadra di Esecuzioni weren’t paid well enough, so it was only right of them to take on the opportunity to track the mysterious boss down on their own as soon as an opportunity came up. 

Bucciarati only wished personal dislike hadn’t been involved in his encounter with the older blond. 

Pushing his ex out of a moving train certainly wasn’t a light decision to make, even if it was an impulsive one - a desperate trade-off of endangering one life to save seven. 

Part of Bucciarati was glad to discover Prosciutto was still alive in the minutes that followed - even if the effects of his stand persisted because of it. 

Such a turn of events shifted the blame just ever so slightly - and the ravenette was grateful for it, for he were no killer. 

“Does it always get this crazy?” Abbacchio’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts - and suddenly, he was back in the car beside the man; heading for Venice. He focused on the road again, watching it grow emptier by the minute, the later in the evening it became. 

“Not really, no,” he shook his head in response. The highway cut through the Tuscanian green fields, barely visible at night. “I suppose it’s because the mess with Polpo and Trish piled up alongside my promotional responsibilities. We need to come back here once this mission is done, though. When it’s warmer. Just the two of us.”

“Yeah,” Abbacchio agreed. He pushed a cassette into the socket on the dashboard of the car they’d stolen just in the outskirts of Rome and leaned back in the passenger’s seat. It clicked and cracked for a few seconds - then Genie In A Bottle started playing. “I fixed the mixtape, by the way.”

“Truly impressive,” Bucciarati offered him a smile. “You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

“You never learned?” Abbacchio raised an eyebrow in what appeared to be genuine surprise. The song glitched briefly, jumping over the missing piece of tape, presumably - or maybe it was the record player which snapped. 

Bucciarati shook his head. 

“I was never good at it,” he explained with a hint of embarrassment in his voice. True to his word, though - he would always end up asking one friend or the other to fix a tape for him if it broke. Somehow, he lacked the (essential) skill. “Show me how once we’ve delivered the boss’s daughter? I’ve got an old Moroder compilation somewhere at home, one of those my dad bought me from that record store near the train station before the owners got big.”

“I don’t know if I’m a good teacher, though,” Abbacchio laughed. He glanced over his shoulder towards the turtle in the backseat, like he were worried one of the kids might be eavesdropping on the conversation. “Your DJ skills are below average as it is, regardless of my attempts to improve them. How can I trust that you won’t break a tape trying to fix it?”

“Strunzo,” Bucciarati retorted with mock indignation and an eye roll. Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Am I, now?” he teased, clearly unbothered by being called a piece of shit; then, picking up on the shift to dialect Bruno had so kindly introduced, he added: “I guess it fits, right? I’ll take pride in having the possibility to display it as a shapeful trophy.”

“Sure, do show me,” the ravenette blew him a kiss, then took a swerve to the left into one of the two Bologna-bound lanes at the approaching junction. “I’ll present you with a full display of undigested spinach leaves, then.”

Abbacchio let out an exasperated groan. Bucciarati grinned in response. The tape clicked again and, with the first few seconds snapped off of it, Zucchero’s Baila started playing.

***

It wasn’t the end of the world - was it, as the door of the disabled bathroom at a gas station in the middle of nowhere locked shut behind Bruno and Leone. The level of desperation with which they threw themselves onto one another surely called for an explanation - like tomorrow was to never come, cutting the little of their lives short abruptly. 

Surely, there were better places to make love. 

With a better soundtrack, too, Bucciarati noted as Abbacchio’s hand made its way down his pants while Coco Jambo played in the background, muffled just ever so slightly at the fault of the door separating the speaker in the hall from the secluded bathroom space. 

Not thinking about it much, the ravenette pushed himself onto the goth, lips-to-lips, smearing the familiar black shade just ever so slightly as the familiarly cold, long fingers stroked his manhood down below. 

It was purely animalistic - not quite desperate, yet just as demanding, a sudden need, a wave of desire they’d both given into as soon as the nearest Esso sign appeared on the side of the road. 

They had approximately fifteen minutes before the risk of Narancia getting in trouble with the station’s staff became a real threat. A little longer if they were chased even further - for surely, La Squadra wouldn’t let go of them so quickly - then again, the time between them discovering the death of the owner of the stand which had attacked them earlier on and the enemy catching up worked to their advantage. There existed, obviously, the possibility of Giorno being wrong in his promises of having ‘taken care’ of the user - then again, the kid had proven himself useful in the fight.

Bucciarati supposed it were the two near-death experiences separated only by hours which made him feel as bizarrely aroused as he was - though he didn’t mind it much. If anything, life, especially that of a gangster, was short enough to make gas station bathroom sex worth the while. 

“Turn around,” he ordered Abbacchio as he practically pushed him against the tiled wall, barely giving the man the time to lower his cargo pants. 

Leone hissed in pain when his weight rested briefly on his bad leg. As a heartfelt apology, Bucciarati placed a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. 

Then he spat into his palm and shoved two fingers covered in the makeshift lubricant between Abbacchio’s pale ass-cheeks, his condom-clad dick following suit. 

Normally, he wouldn’t bother much - getting tested regularly due to the nature of his past job and what made it a long-lasting habit, he knew he was clean - though he’d gotten a new tattoo recently, slowly expanding the laced design down onto his thighs and, as much as he trusted Paxe with his life, he was always rather careful around her needles and inks, mindful of the clientele she dealt with. 

Leone whimpered ever so slightly, pressed up against the wall.

“What do you need?” Bucciarati asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he traced the outline of the goth’s shoulder blades with his lips, the bare skin hot underneath his touch, the man’s extravagant cloak long disregarded in the dirty corner of the room. 

“Some extra…,” Abbacchio requested, visibly struggling against the pressure he was under. “Extra thrill, if you will.”

“Say no more,” Bucciarati giggled, reaching over to unzip a space right beside the edge of his bag. He pulled out a handgun and slowly ran it along the line of Leone’s jaw. 

It felt cold and heavy in his hand - just as it was several weeks back when they’d agreed to be no more than colleagues, as per the goth’s request which he were forced to accept, regardless of how heartbroken it made him feel. 

Then again, he wanted to give Abbacchio the space to grieve. It would have been inhumane to push himself in where he wasn’t welcome - and so he waited. 

First, it was a demand to be killed right there, right then. Then, the very same gun got thrown against the bedroom door where it left a visible dent before it clattered onto the floor, cracking the tile ever so slightly. 

An offer to share breakfast followed, dismissed - then, there were briefings and work meetings. A kiss he stole under dubious consent when they’d both had one wine glass too many. Then there came another - and with it, more followed, the distance between them diminishing, inevitably - for how long could they truly pretend to be hiding their feelings?

The gun remained a strange kink they both indulged in - whether trauma or simply lack of self-respect formed the cause. 

It wasn’t loaded - that much, they’d agreed on - though it still worked as expected when Bucciarati cocked it, the click sending a shiver down Abbacchio’s body before the man tensed and moaned again. 

“I’ll suck you off after this,” Bruno promised, pressing the revolver against the goth’s pale cheek. A layer of foundation edged the weapon where it came off with sweat - slight tan peeked from underneath the whiteness of the man’s skin, revealing his true complexion and how it reacted to the very first properly sunny days of the year. 

Bucciarati’s breath hitched as he climaxed, at last - then bent backwards just ever so slightly with a raw, animalistic groan. Panting, he lowered himself onto his knees, wincing as they met the dirty, cold floor of the bathroom, indubitably marking the pristine whiteness of his suit pants with a grey trace. “Now would you turn around?”

Chapter Text

“Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe*?”

For the first time since having agreed to work for Bucciarati, Abbacchio wondered whether a shot through the gut wouldn’t have been a better option. 

As the clock neared the early morning hours and the car they’d stolen in the outskirts of Rome approached Venice, he prayed to have just enough will to retain his sanity until the boss’s daughter was safely delivered to, he presumed, the man himself. 

It astonished him just how little surprise he’d felt upon finding out Canaderli’s kid was a mafia offspring. Then again, the more he thought of it, the more sense it made - the ongoing fight for parental rights which the woman would mention briefly, every so often, back in the force - for with no laws protecting queer relationships in place, Trish was surely to be taken away, following her mother’s death. 

Abbacchio couldn’t find even an ounce of respect for a man who had knocked her girlfriend up and left her only to reappear as soon as the threat of a loving home for his daughter loomed in the distance. Surely, Trish would have been better off at Canaderli’s. Leone could only imagine the dread associated with moving in with a relative he barely knew - after having been pushed around with a bunch of degenerates for three days before then, while at it. 

She was just as distant as he remembered her from the brief encounter at the bakery in Marechiaro - then again, how could he blame her if surely, as a respectable citizen, the last thing she expected - or wanted - was to find herself in the company of gangsters, one of which, surely she remembered, had been introduced to her as a cop just a couple of months earlier. 

He had never been good at comforting - nor would he dare to act, in light of the clear instructions from the boss. Earning himself a death sentence simply because he asked how she was feeling and receiving a response pertaining to any traces of her father’s identity was not the ideal start of the twenty-first year of his life - and so, he kept quiet, consoling himself with the perspective of Trish finding a home in a matter of hours, now. Certainly, he didn’t need to entangle himself in the family drama of people he only met in passing if there were consequences to bear. 

“If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe, I'd been married long time ago, where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe*?”

Of the two possibilities of time poorly spent, enduring Narancia and Mista singing Swedish eurotrash to keep each other (and Giovanna, behind the wheel) awake for the remnants of their journey was surely a better way to push through fatigue.

Then again, it only made sense for them to act up - and here he was, having promised himself to never take a ride with them again. So much for staying true to his word - as if he were not enough of a hypocrite already. 

He supposed he should be grateful to the late-night show presenter for keeping the music upbeat enough for the blond brat to focus on the road as they bypassed Padova at a speed much higher than the allowed one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour. Six months ago, he would have been outraged by such disrespect for traffic rules. Now, he fought the urge to snap at Giovanna to press on that gas pedal a little firmer so they could get the job done and over with before sunrise. 

When did he become so reserved and calculated, he didn’t know exactly - then again, he supposed part of him had always been that way. It only needed space to show through. 

Yet, he didn’t mind it - the gang was a weird bunch as it were. He did not stand out much when put next to Fugo and their anger issues; Narancia’s impulsiveness and lack of ability to plan ahead or consider the consequences (as they had seen through the news reports of a sudden fire near via Toledo the day before); Mista’s laid-back attitude which so often made Leone wonder if the man was right in the head; and, of course, Bucciarati’s unmatched weirdness. Hell, even the Giovanna brat fitted right in - though Abbacchio couldn’t exactly bring himself to trust the kid, no matter how hard he tried. 

It was a gut feeling, in some way, which guided the goth’s attitude. Simply so, the unexplained look in the blond’s eyes, like a sense of superiority and contempt of some kind, successfully assured him to keep his distance. 

He couldn’t stand the brat. 

He hated to be the only one able to see right through the mask of goal-oriented calm, for it put him at a disadvantageous position - surely, charmed by Giovanna’s superficial kindness, the other gang members would only as much as tell him he was exaggerating, through some kind of jealousy, perhaps. 

Leone wasn’t part of their team for too long either, at the end of the day. 

It made sense - and he could see the others’ reasoning in the way their behavior unfolded - yet still, he found himself surprised that Bucciarati seemed to also have fallen for the illusion of a righteous kid who, through polite smiles and eloquent answers, somehow appeared to possess the desirable traits of a leader. 

How desperate was Bruno, Leone wondered, to have let his guard down as soon as the promise of ending Passione’s drug trade had been stated? Surely, Giovanna must have chosen his words carefully, knowing exactly where to point to earn the allyship he so craved. 

Abbacchio wasn’t buying any of it. 

If anything, he picked up on the subtle changes in the pickpocket’s demeanor as stress levels rose. Bit by bit, crack by crack, his composure gave way to a sense of aloofness which introduced responses bordering on disrespect as he tried to explain his point - certainly, not in the way he was expected to treat his capo.

Abbacchio was surprised Bucciarati allowed the countless unsolicited suggestions to slip through - because he wouldn’t. Worse though, Giovanna seemed to have secured himself the position of an informal second-in-command under the ravenette - acting as his right hand even though nobody asked; offering useless advice when unprompted and, which especially grated against Leone’s nerves, exhibiting some kind of moral correctness, as if attempting to maintain non-existent discipline within the group where there was no need for it, none at all - a clap of hands, a fake smile and a command of ‘Right team, let’s get after it!’ followed by an uncalled-for elaboration on his noble dream (where Abbacchio’s own were nobler and surely more practical than the naivety the blond brought to the table).

The goth hated to think the trip to Venice was only the beginning of long-lasting teamwork - for he were not sure if he could handle Giovanna’s fakeness for longer than necessary. He only hoped the brat would end up killing himself by accident, somewhere in the process. 

A probable scenario considering his uncalled-for suggestions and attitude. 

Abbacchio leaned against the backseat, briefly scanning the fielded landscape outside. It was still largely obscured by the darkness of the night, yet every so often, they passed by a secluded house sitting solemnly in the middle of what would be greenness, if it were daytime - a light or two switched on - the end of a workday, the start of one or simply safety measures, he could not tell. 

He’d never been to Venice. Never wanted to visit , frankly, considering the unfavorable opinion he held of the north - though he supposed, of the two of them, Bucciarati was the more prejudiced one (and for a good reason). How was the man holding up, knowing he was on the enemy’s territory, remained an unaddressed question. 

Abbacchio found himself rather surprised with the ease at which he appeared to have adjusted his own attitude to fit Bucciarati’s - a couple of days ago, the fast pace and the supernatural fights he was to witness, had appeared as surreal as the idea of there being flying cars in the near future; yet, somehow, in a weirdly passive manner, he accepted the semi-transparent ghosts, the weird creatures, the distance to be kept from some and the adjustment of common sense to come out of a battle largely unscathed - or with necessary sacrifices. 

He tried not to think of the zipper around his wrist as he fought the urge to play with it, open and close, for fear of seeing his hand fall off would make him lose his sanity. 

Giovanna nearly earning himself an extremely painful death through his own bravado, still appeared a show-off. Certainly, it was riskier than necessary - and Abbacchio wondered just when exactly he became so cold and calculated, pragmatic, prioritizing the job over the people. He supposed Bucciarati must have mentioned it at some point - for it rang a bell, certainly, the bizarre idea that the other team members were not mere kids - and so, were not to be treated as such, on this merciless path down into the underworld. Rather, he was instructed, by joining they’d become soldatos like any others, obedient, with responsibilities resting upon them. 

Abbacchio hated how much he favored this approach over the family dynamics - for surely, though each of them were to stand up for the other team members, they were not there to baby one another. If anything, Leone only considered the bunch of teenagers the younger brothers of his - save for Giovanna, whom he would gladly punch if Bucciarati were not keeping an eye on him for the entire time, as if foreseeing the possibility of a fight. 

Keeping his frustration in check was becoming unbearable. 

Though it both scared and amazed Abbacchio just how animalistic he’d become in the last few weeks - in every meaning of the word. Certainly, Moody Blues was not a combat stand and so, he was left out of most fights so far, yet still, there rose and lingered, within him, some unexplained kind of raw instinct, emotions buried deep under - and he couldn’t tell whether it were some unaddressed grief following Bistecca’s death or simply the peculiar freedom of having become part of the outlawed and therefore, getting away with fistfights, thefts and robberies. 

He hated how comfortable he felt with those possibilities. 

He only hoped they would drop Trish off as quickly as possible - as indifferent as he were of the countless fights to come, he was growing annoyed with the rate at which new opponents were getting at them - or so he presumed as he finally hid back in the turtle (yet another bizarre addition to his mafia life), shivering with a sudden wave of cold which he attributed solely to fatigue. 

***

Abbacchio supposed the detailed knowledge of motorboat thievery was just another casual part of being a gangster. It made sense, though - simply a skill which would come in handy when he least expected it, a lifesaver, while at it. 

He was ready to reconsider his stance on Venice. 

Sure, the water stank of staleness - and something which reminded him of feces a little too much - but the surroundings made up for it. 

He’d ticked the Rialto bridge off his travel bucket list just minutes earlier - and he had to admit, the old, multi-storey buildings lining the canal on either side, in reality, looked much better than they did in photos. If he hadn’t been raised to frown upon the north, he would have even considered them charming - yet, the minimal acknowledgement of beauty was best he could give. 

Gondolas and small private boats swayed in bunches on the canal surface every so often. Now and then, a water bus stop appeared on the left- or the right-hand side of the bank - a white box mismatching the centuries-old estates, its modernity as jarring as the yellow stripe which read the location name, the contemporary cube illuminated with a lamp much too bright for the early morning, situated in its corner. 

Abbacchio’s leg was killing him. 

The cold temperature, together with the dampness just above the water surface, lingering in the low canal bed, offered no mercy for the poorly healed injury - and he couldn’t wait for the mission to be over, so he could do the mandatory sightseeing tour of the Doge’s Palace and the Basilica di San Marco, then return down south, to the familiar warmth as April unfolded slowly, bringing with it some decent weather, at last. 

He would never admit that going back home was a favorite hobby of his - the sole purpose behind any and all trips he agreed to sign up to. The familiar comfort of the space he called his own - however cramped and unrefurbished it were, now that he made himself comfortable in the Vomero flat, regardless of how much time he would spend at Bucciarati’s. 

He noted the sight of the Santa Maria della Salute, too, when they passed it by - simply so he could argue against taking the time to see it as well, in favor of a prompt comeback to Naples.

Briefly, he rested his eyes on the side lane of the canal, right before it unfolded into the open lagoon waters, the sight of their destination right across from it. 

He didn’t want to look that way. The tightness in his stomach as the unexplained stress rose within - be it through the perspective of ending the journey or simply, because of all the things which could go wrong; - was too uncomfortable to handle - and so he people-watched instead, for the brief minute it took them to head out into the open. 

Distracted, he barely paid attention to Bucciarati’s instructions from inside the turtle. There were four other people on the boat with him as well - they would surely fill in the gaps between the brief mentions of the detailed guidelines on how to deliver the boss’s daughter he managed to memorize. 

Up there, on a balcony overlooking a waterside restaurant, a marble statue crowning its now-empty terrace; a party was ending. 

A couple of young women leaned tiredly against the stone - or what it appeared to be - railing. One of them traced mindlessly the inside of one of the square-shaped empty spaces forming the barrier’s detailing. The other one downed a seemingly half-empty bottle of beer. 

From inside the apartment, the chorus of The Cardigans’ Erase/Rewind blasted, like a slow, calm anthem to end the night. 

The women on the balcony kissed. As they pulled apart, one of them caught Abbacchio’s sight. Briefly, their eyes met. She waved, raising the now-empty bottle, as if it were a half-hearted toast to the success of the mission he was on. 

He only acknowledged it with a nod.

He found it funny how casually average lives went on, parallel to his gangster one - and he couldn’t tell whether he missed that easiness or if he liked the extra thrill of having chosen love, the more he thought of it, as though it did not matter at all that he had thrown away the noble principles which had been, up to a point where he reevaluated their purpose, ingrained in him. 

San Giorgio Maggiore looked eerily majestatic in the early morning sunlight. As the boat approached it, Abbacchio slowly refocused on the job at hand - a single bodyguard and a suspiciously excited look on the Giovanna brat’s face, one which made the goth side-eye the blond with a dose of distrust - though he dared not say anything. 

They passed by yet another arrangement of gondolas - then cut through the open water, shivering at the unexpected gust just ever so slightly, more so in fear that the weird, screaming ice master guy had not been dealt with appropriately fifteen minutes ago than through an actual drop in temperature. 

Clearly, the pace at which the mission went was becoming overwhelming for Abbacchio. He was going to claim a week of sick leave - hoping the arrangement existed in Passione’s oh, so carefully organized structure as well. 

***

Quietly, the boat docked the island, swaying just ever so slightly as Mista threw the rope over the pole mounted on the edge of the land. 

A couple of steps separated them from it - right across from the church’s main entrance. Somehow, it felt cruel not to be allowed to climb up and sightsee yet another landmark. 

Abbacchio wondered just where his touristy spirit came from. 

Briefly, he glanced at the algae knots which, like dark hair, moved back and forth with the tide just under the surface of the water. Suddenly, he felt the urge to dare Giorno to stick his hand down there, for no specific reason - simply to see if the sewerage through which they got to their destination was poisonous. 

The brat had survived Purple Haze, after all. 

“So that’s the end of our mission,” Giovanna remarked, unprompted. A stray cat licking its paw on the stone pathway right on the mainland eyed him up, a quick bored glance before it returned to the interrupted hygiene task. 

“Seems like it,” Abbacchio said before he reconsidered his words. Then again, it only made sense for him to retort, in some way, seeing as the brat had effortlessly charmed everyone around - leaving him at a disadvantage, with his own reserved, difficult attitude. He was willing to bend and express concern, once, simply to avoid being othered: “Glad to see we’re all okay.”

He didn’t really mean his words. Or rather, he did - though part of him wished silently the golden brat had fallen out of the boat on their way to the island and drowned, thus, successfully preventing further interactions without Leone’s direct involvement. 

He moved away just ever so slightly from his seat beside Giovanna, as if the man was contagious - though maybe he was, indeed - fuck knew if surviving Purple Haze’s effect had any long-lasting effects. 

“Man, can’t wait to get this done and over with,” Mista announced suddenly and leaned back as much as the small space of the stolen motorboat allowed him. “I’ve heard they’ve got good food up here, in Venice.”

Abbacchio resisted the urge to roll his eyes - though deep down, he agreed with the man. A plateful of squid pasta and crab salad sounded like salvation after the hell of the last couple of days. 

His nonna would have been outraged if she ever found out he was more excited about northern food than he was about her own pasta e fagioli - all the worse that, if she were still around, she would have been met with a polite refusal from his boyfriend, all thanks to the presence of beans in the pasta. 

He only managed to smirk at the thought before Bucciarati snapped at Narancia for slacking off while the mission was still going - and he did not at all like the unpleasant yellow-colored warmth which settled in his stomach upon hearing the commanding tone, reminding him, yet again, of the power imbalance in his own relationship while on the job. 

Then Giovanna spoke up, volunteering to be the bodyguard of choice and Abbacchio fought the urge to slap the back of the brat’s head with his cane, simply because he could. 

Would you stop getting ahead of everyone, he wanted to say - then decided to stay silent instead, noting only a hint of surprise in Bucciarati’s eyes when the blond stated his suggestion. 

Of course, it were unwise to let him go off like that, considering his idealistic tendencies and naive dreams, for surely, he would try and reveal the boss’s identity - of that, Leone was sure, having remembered the look on the brat’s face just ten minutes earlier. 

Then again, the wrongdoings of an unruly soldato were not the capo’s direct responsibility. Rather - or so Abbacchio had managed to figure out from the little time he’d spent in Passione - Giovanna would be the only one to pay for his stupidity. A well-aligned team, obedient to authority, mattered more than a dead one - picking the brat as the designated bodyguard could be argued as a loyalty test. 

Abbacchio only prayed Bucciarati interpreted his look as cautiousness and reason, rather than pettiness - when they exchanged glances again, as if to agree on the best solution at hand, being the two oldest members of the team. 

It wasn’t like part of him wanted to pay back for the loss of Bistecca, somehow - taking advantage of the fondness he’d noticed Bruno had for the blond brat. 

Sometimes he hated how indecisive he was still - swinging between honesty in a relationship and the remembrance of having felt used, himself - coerced into joining a gang when he had no other options left, cruelly, like his emotions did not at all matter. He supposed changing his mind like that was, to an extent, justified. 

Besides, he found Giovanna really annoying. And, having seen death herself, he was well past the point of worrying about the consequences of other people’s bad decisions. The brat had wanted to join the gang by himself - he could well get the taste of true mafia life and the longevity which went with it. 

It was bizarre how quickly circumstances changed - just a couple of hours earlier, they were singing along to Cotton-Eye Joe, only to find themselves gambling with death as the new day unfolded before them. 

“No, it’s okay,” Bucciarati announced, placing his foot on the edge of the motorboat, as if to get out. “I’ll go.”

He didn’t seem too willing to fulfill the task. 

The clock was ticking. 

Abbacchio cursed his pettiness. 

“Shouldn’t we give him a proper initiation task, though?” He nodded towards Giovanna, then glanced around the team, looking for approval - which came quickly enough, as Mista slapped his knee. Surely, the piss tea joke did not count. 

“Yeah, let’s,” Narancia grinned and dipped his fingers in the grimy canal water, swinging them just under the surface. “Everyone should prove themself, right?” He asked, sprinkling wet droplets against Giovanna’s face.

Abbacchio nearly bit his lip to contain the smile which threatened to break his scowl when Bucciarati nodded in consideration. 

“Fine,” the man agreed, at last, then sat back down, motioning towards the golden brat to take over instead. “No acting up, though. The boss made it clear enough.”

Leone could swear the ravenette only said it to keep up appearances - surely he must have known, deep down, that, in his own sense of grandiosity, the brat would derive from the plan. Bruno must have been aware that he was giving the kid a potential death sentence - and for a brief second, Abbacchio nearly felt guilty for having manipulated the conversation so that he could set things his way. Then he remembered Giovanna would save himself if he learned to know his place. Whether he was going to, remained nothing of the goth’s responsibility. 

“Come on, Trish, let’s go,” the blond rose and stepped over onto the land, reaching out to grab the pink haired teenager’s hand and help her up, too. 

Abbacchio hated to see just how much she trembled when she climbed up the couple of stairs, scaring away the stray cat which had been up until now busy licking its balls. 

“Good luck, kid,” he only said, for it were a statement vague enough to be attributable to both the golden brat and the girl - and thus, it did not reveal their prior acquaintance. Quietly, he hoped Trish would, once of age, return to Italy and track Canaderli down to reunite - for surely, at the rate of secrecy the boss was keeping, she was going to be sent abroad with a new identity. A new face, too, he wouldn’t be surprised, considering what had happened to Fara - and how ruthless the act had been. 

In silence, he watched the two teenagers head towards the church entrance - until they disappeared in its dark interior and he leaned back just ever so slightly, his hand silently searching for Bucciarati’s - the sunrise reflecting the gold metal of the zipper of his wrist - and, he noted with a disapproving smile, another one, where Bucciarati’s long-lost finger was replaced with a random one. The skin tone mismatch was jarring - yet somehow, it fitted - and so, Leone placed his palm over Bruno’s, taking in the strange warmth of the fastener, breathing out a sigh of relief he did not know he’d been holding up until now, utterly unaware that his pettiness had forever changed the trajectory of his life for the better, saving his boyfriend’s own, while at it. 

Selfishly, he stole a quick kiss from the ravenette as he rested his eyes on the array of building facades across the lagoon. Mista, Narancia and Fugo had retracted into the turtle for a nap, anyway - there were no one around to witness their acts of lust, of love frowned upon. 

“He’s taking a while, isn’t he?” Bucciarati remarked after several minutes spent in silence, nodding towards the church tower. 

“Maybe he got lost,” Abbacchio shrugged indifferently, not really caring about the fate of the golden brat. If anything, he found himself annoyed that Bruno’s worry about the kid had interrupted their shared moment - just when he was beginning to feel ready to admit to himself that Venice was quite pretty, after all. 

A guttural, visceral scream of pain from inside the church was the only response he received. Bucciarati tensed, though he did not dare head over onto the land - immobilized by his own sense of obedience towards the organization - for if he did, he would only endanger himself and the rest of his team. 

Abbacchio found himself conflicted between the remorse of knowing he had been the one to trick the ravenette into the position the man found himself in; and the lack of concern about the kid who had indubitably gone against the boss’s orders. 

He supposed his kind-heartedness had died the moment Bistecca did - seeing as he kept moving lower and lower on the scale of human decency - and remained unbothered by it. 

“Did you know I pissed in his tea?” He only said instead, watching - with a bizarre feeling of satisfaction - how the worry painted on Bucciarati’s face slowly turned into disbelief - then disgust. 

Rapidly, the ravenette withdrew his hand from underneath Leone’s. 

For a moment, he looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to first bring up the initiation joke or Abbacchio’s unconcern of his teammate likely dying meters away while he were forced to sit through it as though nothing was happening at all. 

“What is wrong with you?” He said eventually, moving away from Abbacchio before he stood up. “Have you no compassion?”

“You didn’t have much either when you deliberately sent my partner off to die,” The goth crossed his arms in self-defense - though the stance only earned an exasperated look from Bucciarati. 

“I did everything I could to protect the two of you. Passione finding out your schedule had been fabricated was entirely out of my control,” the man said, then glanced worriedly towards the land, though the screams had by now quietened completely. “You just laughed at a kid’s death like it was nothing.”

Abbacchio scoffed in response. 

“Well, maybe that kid should have known what joining the mafia entails,” he rolled his eyes. “None of this would have happened if he followed the instructions he was given. Not my fault he decided to play the hero.”

“No, I get that part,” Bucciarati ran a hand down his face. “I only wish to understand why you’re so indifferent to an adolescent’s death. Unless you set it all up, suggesting he’d be the bodyguard, knowing he would try to show off. I should have gone instead.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Abbacchio scoffed. “And what would you have done, then? What if the boss turned out to be some sick fuck ready to sentence his own daughter to a meaningless life as a whore? Or offed her on the spot, given how concerned about privacy he is? Would you be okay with that? You’re too soft for it, Bucciarati.”

“I’m not heartless,” the ravenette retorted, clearly fighting to keep his voice firm as tears shone in his eyes. “I didn’t choose to be a gangster, no. But I can still choose to be human, you know?”

“Did you find those words of wisdom in this month’s calendar note, or?” Abbacchio mocked, surprised, to an extent, just how cruel he was. 

Part of him wanted to stop, certainly - though somehow, he found himself unable to. Maybe he truly was as rotten as Bistecca had said he was.

Surely, he must have been - as he reevaluated Bruno’s words and watched him turn away, wiping away a tear, then another while he moved to zip apart the line keeping them at bay on the side of the island. He didn’t mean it - then again, the longer he thought about it, the less sure he was of his true intentions. 

“When we reach San Marco,” Bucciarati spoke, his voice shaky as he fought the urge to cry, utterly broken - though whether by the price to pay for a successful mission; or by losing a soulmate, Abbacchio couldn’t tell. “I want you to go. Get out of my sight, disappear. There’s no place for you in my team anymore. It’s probably best if you leave the country, too. I don’t care. Just fuck off.”

Leone allowed himself a scoff - his pride hurt for no reason at all; as Bucciarati leaned over the motorboat’s engine. 

“Kind of hypocritical of you to say that, don’t you think?” He asked and made his way towards the front of the watercraft, as far away from the ravenette as he could in the small space.

“Va fancul' a chi ta muort'**,” the man only rolled his eyes and pulled at the engine starter wire. Whatever response Abbacchio had to the statement, perhaps wishing all the worst to Bucciarati and his dead relatives, too; drowned in the motorboat’s revving as it cut the peaceful teal waters of the lagoon, bringing them both to the undesirable end of the mission. 

In the growing distance, the island of San Giorgio Maggiori looked eerily unreal, as though it were a painting.

***

The impression lingered when Abbacchio returned to the crowded bank of the canal a few evenings later, the shades of red and orange only sharper than they were on that one specific Monet’s canvas, the photo of which he would dismissively look over in school textbooks. 

The sky was bleeding and the load of cash in his side pocket could do nothing to soothe it as he contemplated the view, reevaluating his life, taking in the cold firmness of the bridge railing he leaned against, his cane resting beside him. 

Tourists swarmed behind him, back and forth, digital and analog camera shutters clicking almost constantly, accompanying snippets of conversations in different languages blending through with the smell of food so praised by Mista not too long ago; and there he stood, contemplating the view, seeking for rationality in - or the explanation behind - his heartless behavior back then. 

Remorse was nowhere to be found - or rather, what could pass for it was the feeling of supposedness, by which he understood the principles taught to him, ones he never quite understood. Just what was wrong with him, he did not know - though deep down, there settled an uncomfortable heaviness, damp and grey, like a dripping rag in the space between his chest and stomach; the realization of the man he had fallen for and who - he wrongly believed up to a point, had tricked him into wasting his life away; - being disappointed in him. 

Eerily, he found himself at peace with the price he paid for his indifference. Truly, he had spent three days searching for an ounce of kindness for Giorno - though he barely found any. He only felt bad for the kid out of a sheer sense of responsibility - and while he hated himself for it, he couldn’t find a way to overcome it. 

In the safe situated in the closet of the small hotel just down the street, a fake passport sat waiting for him to take off abroad the following morning. Pulling the ropes to arrange a new identity for him in a couple of days must have been Bruno’s breakup gift goodbye - though in a way, he was grateful for the chance to disappear. 

There was nowhere for him to go in Italy, anyway - with the ravenette’s team being the last resort, he found himself utterly doomed once he was no longer welcome among them. 

Where he would go next, he had no idea - the blankness of the future and the lack of a plan to follow terrified him utterly - yet deep down he supposed, he would find himself a job somewhere, stacking the large sum which came in the same envelope as his new passport, delivered to him safely in a shaded street corner, away for an emergency. 

What he could devote himself to, he didn’t know, either - though he’d managed to contact his sister from a random phone box the day before, getting the details of some distant relatives away in the States, which gave him some hope for a promising start. 

With a heavy sigh, he stole one final glance of the island across the lagoon, then reached for his cane, cursing the array of tattoos on his arm, partly revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his hoodie. The zipper bracelet ingrained in his skin did not make matters any easier - yet still, he hoped, it would disappear once the injury healed properly. 

Somewhere in the distance, music was playing - likely at one of the canalside restaurants. It grew louder as he walked off the small bridge he’d been standing at; becoming familiar by the time he reached the nearest side street; only to reveal itself as some of the recent ambient classics he could not recall the name of. 

As he turned one last time to look at the distant church tower across the water, like he wanted to pay his respects to the Giovanna brat, he caught, in the corner of his eye, the sight of familiarly bobbed hair matched with a white suit blazer - though at a second glance, it proved to be a tourist wearing a patchy black-and-milky cardigan, their hair a few shades lighter - as they posed for a photo while sitting on the railing of the bridge far back, a grin plastered across their face. 

Abbacchio hated how his heart jumped momentarily, hopeful, perhaps for a reconciliation. 

He couldn’t find an ounce of remorse for the golden brat, after his moral compass had been skewed by trauma; yet, he supposed, falling out of love would take him a while - if he was ever going to get over Bruno at all, seeing as his affection towards the man had brought him to where he was - abandoned, conflicted, a gangster. 

Truly, he wished someone had warned him, traffic control was an occupational hazard.

Fin.