Chapter Text
Isabella heard him before she saw him: a huffy spiral of Italianate vowels bouncing off old wood as she neared Cardi's office.
"...my polso, eh? The wrist—my wrist! He does the—flick! He steals! Ladro! And look—look!"
She slipped inside. The office was a lived-in reliquary: heavy desk in neat chaos, incense curling from a dish, fan gifts—rosaries, cat trinkets—guarding the in-tray. Four Ghouls had squeezed around Cardi's chair like bodyguards at confession. Phantom held a phone aloft with the damning clip on loop; Swiss draped himself over the filing cabinet; Mountain anchored the door; Sodo had commandeered the arm of a leather chair, boot tapping time.
Isabella's black dress skimmed her knees, lace sleeves floating when she moved. A silver gruifix lay at her throat, bright against the black; her thumb found it by habit, rolling the cool cross as she took in the scene.
Onscreen: Papa V in purple, black gloves and a coy pause, then that quick flick—the wrist trick—and the room detonated in cheers. The Ghouls watched, then did the same silent shrug. It was harder for them; sometimes they went with V, sometimes with Cardi. Split loyalties, careful seams. Isabella patched those seams daily with schedules, coffee, and jokes.
Cardi looked up, saw her, and brightened like stained glass catching sun. "Bellissima! Come, subito." He beckoned with both hands, urgent as prayer. "You are unbiased. Scientific. You tell me—è il mio movimento? Is this my move?"
She slid into their little constellation, shoulder brushing Phantom's, and took the phone like a chalice. She watched twice, feeling him fidget beside her; he smelled of old paper and clean smoke.
"Hmm." She handed the phone back, thumb still resting on the gruifix. "It is yours."
He inhaled triumph—then caught. "Ma...?"
"But he does it like he's asking for permission," she said, eyes dancing. "You never ask, Papa. You don't need to them to adore you. They already do. That's the difference."
Swiss snorted; Sodo's grin went knife-bright; Mountain's shoulders suggested a smile; Phantom vibrated with pleased fairness.
Cardi straightened, pride knitting itself whole. "Sì. I tell. I command." He tugged his sash, somehow two inches taller. "And he... requests. Prego, per favore, applause."
"Exactly." Isabella let her grin turn wicked. "He's a beggar. You're a thief."
The Ghouls broke at once—Swiss clapped a hand over his heart; Sodo cackled; Phantom wheezed; Mountain rumbled like distant thunder.
Cardi tried not to smile and failed extravagantly. "A thief of hearts is... acceptable crime."
"Bare minimum for your job," she said. "Also, head of the clergy can't be seen sulking about wrist movements in the hallway—good thing this is your office. Fewer witnesses."
He glanced at the glass-front bookcase, catching a ghost of himself: cassock half-buttoned, gloves tucked into his belt, a smear of kohl at his jaw where makeup had kissed and lingered. He wiped it away, then looked past his reflection to the framed crowd photos on the shelf—faces lifted, hands outstretched toward a stage light.
"It is only..." His voice thinned. "When they cheer for him, I hear an echo under the cheer for me. I do not know if it is mercy or mockery. Do you understand?"
The gruifix was warm now beneath Isabella's fingers. She stepped closer, the little cross resting against the backs of her knuckles as she reached up and, with showman's care, set two fingers under his chin. "Look at me."
His mismatched eyes snapped back to hers.
"You were my first Papa," she said softly. "That doesn't wash off."
Behind them, the Ghouls made a courteous screen of bodies—averted gazes, a hush that said: this moment is allowed to be private.
Cardi swallowed. "Grazie."
"And for the record," she added, brightening the moment before it could tip into melancholy, "your wrist is classically and clearly better. Everyone prefers the original to the sequel."
Swiss gag-laughed. Sodo slid down the leather arm to save himself from collapsing. Phantom offered both hands like scales—Copia's wrist, V's wrist—and tipped dramatically toward Cardi. Mountain's shoulders shook in silent mirth.
Now Cardi's smile turned sly. "You will write that on the official letterhead?"
"I'll put it on a pillow," she promised, the gruifix clicking lightly as she dropped her hand. "But first—paperwork for V's tour. Or do you want me to schedule another fifteen minutes of righteous indignation?" She flipped open her notebook. "I can pencil in a tantrum, color-code it mauve."
He made the face he only made for her, a theatrical little grimace of embarrassment. "No. We do the paperwork. I will sign the things—" he flicked his wrist once, precise, "—without begging."
"Good boy," she teased, wicked and fond.
He blinked, then let the praise land where it wanted.
Swiss saluted. Sodo shot finger-guns. Phantom gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Isabella lingered one heartbeat longer, hand on the knob, eyes on Cardi. "You don't need their tricks," she said. "They need yours."
He held her gaze, the shy-cat smile returning.
"After you, Papa," she said, and slid the top folder across his desk.
The Ministry's outer office sounded like rain, though the windows were dry. It was Isabella, drumming a steady patter of rubber stamp on paper as she bulldozed through V's tour paperwork: permits, logistics, insurance riders that used the word egress enough times to become a threat. A neat line of highlighters stood at attention beside her blotter. The gruifix at her throat clicked gently against the desk each time she bent to initial.
She had just conquered a particularly smug indemnity clause when a familiar shadow eclipsed her notepad. Cardi strolled into her periphery with the tentative swagger of a cat entering a room that might already contain a vacuum.
"Ciao, bella segretaria," he said, hands tucked behind his back like contraband. "Hypothetical question."
"Mm?" Isabella didn't look up yet; she finished her signature, dotted the i with ruthless mercy, and set the page aside. "If this is about the coffee machine again Papa."
"Not coffee. My... camminata. The walk." He rocked heel-to-toe, experimental. "Maybe I should have a new one."
Now she looked up, mouth already curving. "A new walk, Papa?"
He nodded gravely. "Perhaps I must stand out more. He"—the pronoun arrived like a draft under a door—"does the... museum guide stroll. Polite, yes? Per favore, this way to the reliquaries. The people love it. Perhaps mine is... old. Maybe I am, how you say, antique."
"You are many things Papa," she said, uncapping a highlighter with her teeth. "Antique isn't one. Show me what you've got."
Cardi glanced left, right, then squared himself on the threadbare runner that stretched from her desk to his door. Swiss and Sodo's muffled bickering leaked through the corridor, along with a soft thunk that could only be Mountain depositing something heavy somewhere it would never move again. Phantom's hum skated past like a tuning fork testing the air.
Walk #1: The Panther. He slid forward, shoulders low, too many hips for a holy building.
Isabella tilted her head. "That's... bedroom. You are a dark lord."
Walk #2: The Relic. He stiffened into solemn procession, each step a Latin noun.
"Funeral," she said gently.
Walk #3: The Metronome. He tried to sync heel strikes to a rhythm only he could hear; his hands, restless, did little chirps at his sides.
She winced, affectionate. "That's nervous energy" She patted the desk. "Come here."
He obeyed at once—good boy lived under his skin now, warm and mortifying—and she rose to stand with him on the runner. The gruifix glinted when she moved; he tracked it like a sailor watching a lighthouse.
"Rule one," Isabella said, placing a fingertip between his shoulder blades. "Your shoulders are a stage. Don't let your doubts rent front-row seats." She pressed lightly; he let the tension drop.
"Rule two: You don't need more movement. You need less. Stillness reads as power. Save the flicks and flourishes like you save dessert."
He nodded, chastened, delighted, both. "Minimal dessert. Yes."
She crouched, tore two strips of tape, and set them on the runner—one a few paces from her desk, one just before his door. "Marks. Start here, stop there. The moment you hit the first tape, you belong to the room. The moment you hit the second, the room belongs to you."
"Ah." He considered the marks as if they were riddles. "And my hands?"
"Pocket and rosary," she said. "Right hand pockets the glove, left hand carries the rosary. If you need to punctuate a sentence, only then do you use the wrist."
He brightened. "Il polso."
"The famous one," she agreed. "But ration it."
He set himself on the start mark, breathing shallow. The ridiculousness of rehearsal in a hallway where she also fought insurance clauses did not touch him; he was absolute when he chose to be. Isabella stepped aside, but not far; her shoulder almost brushed his sleeve.
"Again," she said.
He walked. Not panther, not relic, not metronome. Just Cardi: a grounded glide, a patient weight through the heel, a pause on the first tape to let the air come to him. On the second tape, he stopped and looked—not at her, but at the empty door, as if a thousand people were gathered in its wooden grain. The quiet wrist—tiny, certain—sealed the claim.
Isabella exhaled like she'd been holding a match. "There he is."
A soft knock: Phantom's masked head popped around the corner, eyes bright. He gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up to nothing in particular and retreated.
Cardi looked sideways at her, hungry for verdict. "It is... acceptable?"
"It's you," she said. "And that's the point." She nudged his elbow. "One more time. This time think: I am the only cathedral in town."
He did it again. Fewer steps, more claim. When he stopped, she almost applauded; the gruifix clicked against her collarbone instead, a gentler percussion.
He squinted, suspicious of his own pride. "Is this how he does?"
"No," she said, bright and merciless. "It's how he'll try to do after he sees you."
His laugh came out surprised. Then his face softened. "You make me brave," he said quietly, as if admitting to a misdemeanor. "Even for walking."
She tipped her chin toward the paperwork stack. "Speaking of bravery—riders for V's additional dates. We need signatures and a blessing and probably an exorcism."
"Maledizione." He sagged into her guest chair, took the top folder, and flipped through with honest pain. "They want three kinds of sparkling water. Tre. Why?"
"So he can choose," she said. "Or so someone else can't."
"Petty," he said, awed. "I like." He signed, flicked the page, signed again. After the third signature he paused, eyes on his hand. "If I am... more still, will they see me?"
"They already do." She set her stamp down and, with the same motion, set her hand over his gloved one. "Stillness makes them lean in. You've always been worth leaning toward."
The silence that followed was comfortable and edged, like a couch with a ceremonial dagger tucked under the cushion. In the corridor, Swiss whistled something that nearly tried to be a love song before it remembered where it was and behaved.
"Another hypothetical," Cardi said at last, still not looking up. "If I needed... a new signature besides the wrist. Something small, but—how you say—mine."
Isabella's eyes lit. "Easy. You already do it."
He blinked. "I do?"
"You listen with your whole face," she said. "You tilt, you receive. Most leaders beam. You absorb."
He tried it on instinct—head angled, eyes intent, the makeup turning concentration into benediction. Even empty air felt chosen.
"There." She shivered and laughed at herself. "Weaponize that."
He touched the gruifix chain where it lay against her collarbone, not quite a touch to skin, asking and not taking. "You are very... good at this."
"I'm very good at you, Papa, years of practice" she said lightly, before the moment could drown them both. She slid the next folder over. "Initial here, sign there, and please do not adopt the anymore cats. HR will combust."
A beat, then his mouth went cat-sly. "But maybe a little... tail, for me...yes?" He swished an imaginary one; she swatted the air, scandalized on principle.
"Stand out by being the still point," she said, fighting a smile. "Let him skate. You anchor."
He signed the last page, set the pen down, and stood. The walk was already different—quieter, claimed. At the door, he paused on her second tape mark and turned, giving her the smallest nod as if she were a balcony full of devotees.
"Lunch?" he asked. "I will not beg." The faintest wrist.
"Good," she said, stacking the conquered forms. "I wasn't going to let you."
He offered his arm, mock-formal. She took it. They had made it exactly three steps toward the door when the floor tremored once—a polite earthquake that always meant Mountain was in a hurry.
The drummer skidded to a dignified halt in the doorway, mask slightly askew, phone held out like a sacrament. Behind him, Swiss and Sodo jostled for position; Phantom peeked around Mountain's shoulder, already vibrating with mischief.
"New song!" Mountain rumbled, breathless with the effort of using only one word. "Lachryma." He thumbed the screen. The video sprang to life: V center-stage, a swelling melody that curled like smoke—and then a flourish. A broad, airy sweep of the arms, cape flared wide.
Cardi gasped, hand flying to his chest. "Le mie ali! My wings. He has my wings!"
Swiss made an innocent halo shape with his hands. Sodo failed to smother a laugh. Phantom immediately mimed the move with embarrassing accuracy, little cape-flips and all.
Isabella rolled her eyes skyward so hard the saints probably ducked. "Boys. Behave. Or no dessert for anyone."
Four world-class agents of chaos deflated in unison. Shoulders slumped. Swiss tucked his hands behind his back. Sodo stared at the ceiling as if it had betrayed him. Phantom hid half his mask behind Mountain, who very deliberately locked his phone and put it away.
"Thank you," Isabella said sweetly, then turned to Cardi, voice dropping to a softer register. "Papa. Look at me." She touched his sleeve, then the gruifix, then—briefly—his wrist, grounding him as surely as if she'd set a candle in his ribs.
"He can flap all he likes," she murmured. "You don't need wings. You have gravity. Different magic."
Cardi's breathing eased; the first flare of offended-cat smoothed into something wryer. "Different magic," he echoed, testing the words. "Yes."
Isabella tipped her chin toward the sulking Ghouls. "Now. Apologies to Papa for tormenting him before lunch?"
Swiss bowed with courtly flourish. Sodo executed a melodramatic stage-penance. Phantom signed a sloppy sorry in the air; Mountain added a small, sincere nod.
"Accepted," Cardi pronounced, magnanimous again. He looked to Isabella for confirmation like a child winning back recess. She gave him the smallest smile.
"Lunch," she repeated, reclaiming his arm. "And afterward we'll watch Lachryma together and make a list of the things only you can do. Let him keep the flapping."
"Va bene," he said, lighter now. On the runner he paused at her tape mark and shot the Ghouls a look that was all stillness and claim. The tiniest wrist. The Ghouls shivered, chastened and delighted.
"After you, Papa," Isabella said, and this time they made it to lunch.