Chapter Text
“I never felt like I was ready for, well, any of this.”
Fugo sat up from where he’d been slouching on the couch cushion, breathing a deep sigh from his nose.
“But I didn’t have a choice, did I? Bucciarati, rest his soul, was counting on me. All my precious life, from the day I got pulled into the gang to now, was leading up to this moment. The day I stepped up. So I did what I could to prepare—I did the daily meditations, went to therapy, took counseling for my emotional issues, tempered my anger to something more manageable, more constructive. I took better care of myself, translated that to better care for my friends. Because they are my friends and they deserve better. I did all that and more. And yet I still didn’t feel like I’d step up at all.”
Giorno took all this in, nodding his head to indicate he was listening even as his gaze shifted to scanning the room. They were somewhere he could only describe as being born from a dream. A turtle with a stand in its shell; a room larger on the inside than out; a couch, two chairs, overhead lighting and a fridge all functional as if Italy's infrastructure extended even to the metaphysical. They resided here as the turtle rode the express train to Firenze, free passengers on this journey through the countryside. Safe, so long as their reptilian friend remained out of sight.
And what a journey it was to get there. Between the mad frenzy that was the race to find Polpo’s treasure and the sudden plunge into their first direct order from the boss, the team had their work cut out for them. Giorno silently thanked whatever divine force it was that granted him this small respite from their constant battles. He’d hoped, yet knew otherwise, that the worst of their trials was over. But just for this moment… he could afford to be delusional. There were more pressing matters that required his attention.
“Certainly, Fugo,” Giorno said, quiet insistence in his tone. “But, again—no one can say they are fully prepared for any obstacle that comes their way. Nor can they claim they’ve done all they should. Only what they can.”
The stand user in the mirror crossed his mind just then, as if to remind Giorno of his own mistakes and futile musings. He’d almost lost Fugo that day. If not for his persistence and wild ingenuity along with Abbacchio’s (somewhat forced) help, they wouldn’t have been sitting there, arguing on matters of leadership and baseless denial. Like Polpo before him, that man was a test. One that Giorno only passed by a sliver of a margin.
Fugo looked up from where he’d been staring holes into his lap, directing an intense gaze onto Giorno. “Was that what happened to you back there? You did ‘All that you could,’ and it happened to be saving us all? Some of us have got it all together. But most of us have nothing, Giorno. We have to catch our willpower out of thin air.” His expression softened. There was his own sense of insistence now in the way that he caught Giorno’s eyes. “Not all of us are geniuses like you. We would never have made it out of there without you. Never.”
“How humble you are. Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?”
“It’s the truth. I’m not cut out for this, I’m just not!”
Fugo flinched, realising his voice had gotten louder on the outside than in his head. The two of them glanced around for a beat at the rest of their team sleeping soundly on the couch and chairs around them. Not a soul stirred. They turned back to the matter at hand.
“Giorno, listen to me.” Fugo’s palms rubbed the backs of his hands, over and over. “I failed back there. If it weren’t for you, I would have died and Abbacchio would have likely been next. What kind of leader does that make me, falling further and further like this into the depths of my incompetence? I’ll lose everyone soon enough, I just know it…” He trailed off, looking away towards a space behind Giorno’s ear, his attention gazing inward.
He’ll “lose everyone soon enough,” he said. But it was Giorno who was losing them, he knew. If not for another stand user, Giorno was sure he’d sooner lose to Fugo’s own excuses, his own shortcomings. When that domino falls, the others will too in short order.
Those threads again, slowly unraveling, needed to be thread again by his own hands.
Find that golden path again.
“Fugo… I must confess something to you, before we move on.”
Fugo’s attention returned to the boy in front of him, to his salvation.
“Back there at the restaurant, I wasn’t being entirely truthful about my decision to end Polpo. Yes, his actions disturbed me to the point that I truly believe he deserved the judgment I meted out to him. At the same time… you could say it was only an excuse.”
“W-What—” Fugo’s eyes opened wide, his eyebrows shooting up behind his hairline. His tone cooled, turned flat. “What do you mean.”
“I was killing him either way.”
There. That was the moment the pieces started falling into place in front of Fugo’s very eyes. Giorno could tell those gears were spinning in his head. He was flitting his eyes from side to side, meeting Giorno’s before dashing them away again in… fear? Agitation? Perspiration piled on his neck and his breathing looked ragged.
“You killed Luca to get our attention.”
Giorno nodded. Accidentally, but the purpose was there. I only wished I had been more prepared.
“Then, you killed Polpo because… because he was in your way.”
Another nod.
“An obstacle is all he was. To what exactly? To what…” He gazed more intently at Giorno as if the answer was inscribed on his face. It wasn’t long before his expression grew taut. A haunted look came over his features, frozen like a photo captured seconds before.
“...to the boss. Y-You’ve got your sights set on the boss, don’t you? A capo killer, that’s what you are. Dismantling Passione’s leadership, brick by brick until even the boss can’t run from you.”
He backed away from Giorno on the couch. “W-What the hell, Giorno… w-w-w-why are you…”
Giorno studied his trembling figure, poker-faced. “I didn’t take you for a fan of Passione’s… exemplary leader.”
That seemed to break the spell for a moment. Fugo’s face pinched together. “I-I’m not?!” He sputtered.
“The drugs, then? Is that your concern?”
His expression contorted further. Fear gave way to confusion and with it, that flat tone returned. “What the hell are you talking about, Giorno.”
Giorno sat up straighter, hand over heart. Time to thread that needle.
“I have a dream, one that I know is just. This gang you call Passione—these people you’ve made peace with, call your comrades—is a festering tumor in the heart of Napoli. The drug trade that sustains its business feeds like a parasite on the innocent populace, women and children being the most at risk. I dream of a Napoli free from its sickness. For that, I needed to climb the ranks and dispose of the boss who infected all of us. I needed—”
“You’re INSANE!” Fugo hissed, the anger and trepidation returned. “Absolute insanity! T-This dream of yours, it-it’s so incomprehensibly stupid! You realise the boss has eyes everywhere, there’s no way he’d let a little traitor run amok in his organisation. Are you suicidal? Because that’s the only justification I see to you doing this all yourself.”
Giorno grinned, a wry look on his face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, Fugo.”
“I— WHAT?!”
“You’re a sharp one, Fugo. That I’m sure of. You, alone, saw through the lies written on my face and knew what I had done. You reasoned my plan together before I even told you what it was. You tracked down Polpo’s treasure and propelled yourself into the role of capo. I can see where your strengths reside—uncovering the web of lies and deception in a world fraught with crooks taking advantage of the less privileged. In tactics, you struggle. The battlefield is not where you belong. But I don’t need you there.
“My plan is a tough sell, I know. It is indeed one I can’t do alone. That’s why I need you all, and you, Fugo, especially. Together, all of us can take the boss down and rescue Napoli from its fate. If it helps, Mista is already fully on board. But I need someone who can lead us, to plan and to disseminate. Fugo, while you have turned a blind eye to the evils of Passione for far too long, there is still a chance to redeem yourself. So I ask you, what side are you on? If you’re on the side of Napoli, then can I count on you to rally the others behind our cause?”
Fugo's long silence had Giorno wondering whether he thought he could get out of answering the question with a stalemate. Giorno, however, had no intention of losing this game.
“Fugo, I need an answer, please.”
“I… I need some time to think.” Fugo let it all out in a single breath. Once he did, another deep sigh expelled from his chest and he slumped deep into the couch cushion. Down his eyes went, to his lap if only to avoid Giorno’s piercing gaze.
He went silent again. This moment lasted longer than before. Giorno counted the seconds that turned to minutes that turned to thirty. Above them, the train winded on, occasionally jostling the turtle and the room it housed with a rhythmic rumbling echoing through their bones.
It seemed to… lull them both, a sweet lullaby that slowly beckoned the boys to slumber.
…
Fugo’s eyes shot open with a gasp.
“I saw him.”
Giorno’s eyes fluttered open, too. His vision was fuzzy, but he pressed on. There was an edge in Fugo’s voice that told him he needed to hear what he was about to say.
“Bucciarati… came to me. I saw him so vividly, felt his breath and heard his voice clear as a bell. I could see myself reflected in those stark blue eyes of his—they always made me feel calm, in control of myself. Like everything would be okay. That’s what he told me just now. But somehow, I can tell that wasn’t all he was trying to tell me. I’m not making sense, I know. It’s just that… I feel like he wanted you to know he was listening.”
To Giorno’s surprise, he understood Fugo all too well. Perhaps even more than himself. Giorno might even say he’d understood Fugo before he even finished his thought. It was, again, that once-disconcerting feeling engulfing him whole and leaving warmth where it went. He knew he was doing something right.
“I’ve done a lot I regret,” Fugo went on, “killed one too many people that… may or may not have deserved it. I’ve committed unspeakable acts in the name of our boss, the leader of Passione I hardly know. The same guy who’s kept us shackled to this criminal underworld for as long as we live. If you’re looking for someone clean, someone who’s completely in line with your goals then I’m not your guy. There’s blood on my hands that I can never cleanse. Could I really redeem myself, just like that?” A pause, and a yawn to accompany it. “But, then again… is it worth throwing Bucciarati’s sacrifice in the garbage? Would all those deaths, those sacrifices be worth it if I threw it all away? For… for your dream?”
“I can’t answer that for you, Fugo.” Giorno replied, biting back his own yawn. “You’re going to have to reach into your heart and pick it out. But know that if I was looking for someone who was ‘clean,’ I wouldn’t be looking within the gang. It’s foolish to dwell on this fact…”
He paused when he saw that Fugo’s eyes had fluttered close again. He was sinking further and further into the couch cushions, all traces of earlier hostility and alarm completely fizzled to nothing. Looking closer, Giorno could pick out deep bags under his eyes he hadn’t seen before. Even stranger were the set of wrinkles along his laugh lines and on the corners of his eyelids. He supposed Fugo was even more exhausted than he’d initially imagined, but… but—
But, what?
What… what was he thinking of, again?
…
The plan, that’s right. Giorno sighed, debating on whether to let Fugo savor his nap or rouse him awake. He didn’t consider himself a particularly impatient man, but he couldn’t imagine a better time to discuss their coup on the boss. And instead they’re… they’re… sleeping…
A yawn finally breached Giorno’s chest, his eyes slipping closed as it wracked his body.
When had he grown so tired?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. This, he could admit to himself, for the time being. He wished he hadn’t voluntarily taken so many watch duties while the rest of the team slept like they were taken by the sandman himself. He wished that his younger self, a perpetual insomniac due to an abysmal upbringing, at least had the foresight to not stay up as long as he did, waiting for parents who’d never love him to tuck him in. To think that a lifetime of poor sleep would only catch up to him on this very day, while he and… Fugo were… were talking about…
What were they talking about…? A… a plan—
He should have known better. He should have known the enemy infiltrated the train and sussed out their location. He should have known they’d try anything to flush them out, even if it cost the lives of every passenger on board. He should have known when he looked down at his hands and saw the aging flesh of a man much beyond his years. He should have known when he closed his eyes and felt the life slipping from him as the years piled onto him in the span of minutes. He should have, but instead he had to be roused awake by an equally aged Mista and forced to fit the puzzle pieces together himself.
It was all he could think of as he watched the corpses of their would-be assassins get dumped into the river nearby. Another victory, but more appropriately—another near-miss. Had Giorno not read his foe correctly, they wouldn't be standing there, in the face of their setting sun. It was a testament to his increasingly tenuous grasp on this team.
It told him that, if he couldn't pull Fugo to his righteous cause that golden path he saw may as well be forfeit.
–
San Giorgio Maggiore stood dark and spired, looming over them like a guillotine awaiting judgment.
That man was assuredly up there, in that belfry, his manner cruel and unfeeling towards the anxious soldatos below. Their mission was simple. The girl was to be handed to her dearest father at the top of that belfry, after which they could leave. And thus, the gangsters were free to put all this behind them. All their running, their harrowing feats of extraordinary perseverance, the need to look behind them everywhere they stopped—it ended today, for now at least, with the delivery of their precious cargo.
Fugo was fidgeting, as Giorno knew was the norm for him. He watched him rub the backs of his hands with either of his palms, then switch and do it again with the opposite palm, opposite hand. On his face was a thin sheen of perspiration and his eyes were glassy. The boat they were riding rocked with every wave, splashing sea foam in their faces but he seemed too enthralled by his palms to notice.
Finally, they docked. The stipulations to their mission ran through Giorno’s brain. Only one member of their team was permitted to escort the girl. None of the others were to leave the boat. And, they were not to carry any weapons or communication devices while they took her to him. Anything they did that the boss considered a slight against him would mean their lives were forfeit.
Giorno grit his teeth. His options were severely limited. This was his chance to make an attempt on the boss and he’d already been kneecapped. Moreover, the issue of where Fugo’s loyalty lay was still up in the air. He wasn’t given another chance to speak with him since their conversation on the train. The assassination team that was after the girl barreled at them like a deluge, nearly engulfing them at every turn in their journey—stepping on that boat, the end in sight, Giorno felt like he had only just come up for air.
His thoughts drifted like they were on a cloud, catching hold on the memories of how his team served him so far in getting him here, to the boss. Narancia, loyal to his friends to a fault, gave everything he could not to give out their position. Fugo, himself, proved invaluable to the team with his tactical intellect—without him, the gang would have likely never decoded the boss’s often cryptic messages.
And that was to say nothing of Mista’s contributions. His experience in fights was clear but it was his resolve that gave Giorno pause. Here was someone he could rely on to see a mission through to its end, even as he hung on by the tenuous thread of his fleeting consciousness. Every drop of his blood, he had given to Giorno’s dream. A man like that was more valuable than gold.
Mista was who he was attempting to signal at the moment. Maybe there was something there, in his eyes and reckless determination that Giorno could use to save them all from this other fate they were marching towards. He was sensing what almost felt like a thread pulling at him from the top of that belfry, as if the boss himself were stitching his own path to victory—Giorno’s presence being the final stitch he needed in his woven-together plan. He needed to decide on his next move before the boss thread his final needle and decided it for him. His own threads were pulling back on the boss’s strings, insisting it be now or never.
Mista sat there next to him, stone-faced, but when he met Giorno’s gaze it was with an intensity that told him he knew what Giorno was thinking and that he was ready for what he was committing himself to. That he’d do anything so long as Giorno was driving. Giorno could tell from the way Mista was following him that he was the kind of man who would only shoot when Giorno said to. On the shores of Venezia, Mista had proved that loyalty tenfold; a pledge without words that Giorno held to, on the condition that he held his loyalty too.
But how far could his loyalty bend and stretch? How would he fare, when faced with the impossible—betraying his team? Betraying Passione, even? Giorno supposed he was about to test that.
“A-Alright, team.” Fugo stood from his spot on the boat, gingerly wiping the imaginary dust off his coattails and turned towards his men. “This is it. Let’s decide on who will take Trish up to the boss. We should think carefully in case the boss has some… surprises for whoever we choose to send up there. If you ask me, well, personally I would suggest someone who can keep calm in a mission as vital as this, remain focused on the task at hand without getting distracted and is not afraid of heights.” He paused, scanning the placid, unimpressed faces of his team. “Or, if you prefer, we could also just draw straws and decide that way.”
Giorno raised a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Fugo. I humbly offer myself to escort Trish to her father.”
Fugo flinched, like his words were sharp and pointed. With the way his eyes were flitting side to side, their conversation on the train must have conjured itself in his head. “G-Giorno! T-T-That’s—” He cleared his throat in a fit of throaty coughs. “That’s very generous and considerate of you to offer. But I’m afraid that—”
“You’re staying right here, brat.” Abbacchio shoved past Giorno to take his place on the seat beside Fugo. “This isn’t your decision to make. Ever.”
Crap. There was still the question of what to do about Abbacchio. Regrettably, Giorno could never pull that man to his side despite their temporary mutual understanding back in Pompeii. And now, he was the one obstacle that was standing in his way to the boss. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but seeing Abbacchio glowering at him—a possible inkling of what Giorno’s true intentions may be in his head—caused a sense of trepidation to settle in his stomach.
Carefully, Giorno slid his eyes over to Mista again. A silent exchange passed between them before Mista shifted in his seat and reached over to clap Abbacchio on the back.
“Well, dude, who do you think should be the one to take Trish up there?” He wore a cocky smile on his face and waggled his brows, as if the prospect of him taking on the task was somehow fun and exciting.
Abbachio gave him a quick once-over, then scoffed. “Fugo, of course. He’s the only one I’d trust not to fuck this up. And besides, being our leader should grant him the privilege of meeting our boss. That should be obvious!”
“Even if he’s currently fidgeting so incessantly, he looks like he’s about to faint? Just from the prospect of doing so?”
Giorno’s words only seemed to make Abbacchio frown even further. But when he turned to look at his capo, not even he could deny what he was seeing in front of him.
Beside him, Fugo had regressed back to rubbing his palms over his hands over and over again, but he was also bouncing his knee and grinding his teeth. It was giving him a tremor that began at the base of his head and shook him all the way down to his feet, enough to shake the boat a minute but perceptible amount. Equally concerning was that all of his excessive squirming was causing him to sweat. it poured off him like raindrops—he could have collected it in buckets. He was panting so much his glasses fogged over from the effort. Fugo resembled a pipe on the verge of bursting, the pressure building to an untenable degree.
Abbacchio looked like he was beginning to sweat, himself. “...He’s nervous because he’s got a job to do, what the hell do you-”
“No, no, something's wrong, Abbacchio,” Narancia piped up. “Something’s really wrong with Fugo, can’t you see?” He crawled over into his friend’s vicinity, sliding into a spot on the seat next to Fugo. “What’s wrong, Fugo? Why do you look like you’re panicking? Is there something you want to tell us?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Narancia,” Fugo replied, convincing no one. “I’m fine. I-I’ll just… just take Trish up there. Be right back.”
He stood, wobbled and almost fell in the water if not for Abbacchio and Mista’s foresight to catch him before he did. They pulled him by each arm, settling him back down in his seat. The boy was breathing harder now, a rasping wheeze exiting his chest with each breath. The others backed off a bit. Even Trish, placid and collected as she usually was, seemed to grow disconcerted with the whole affair, shrinking back into herself. She was staring into her lap with every intent to not look at her panicking guardian.
When Fugo seemed to settle down, Narancia rubbed his back in a soothing manner, giving him space but support all the same.
“This feels wrong. I can’t go on like this.” Fugo sighed, his breath still shaky. “I can’t leave you guys in the dark ever again.”
Giorno perked up with anticipation at Fugo’s confession. Was Fugo coming around? Was his plan going to work out, after all? If anyone could convince their team to defect from Passione, if not outright kill their boss, he knew Fugo was his best—and only—bet.
At Giorno’s encouraging nod, Fugo faced his team again.
But it wasn’t what Giorno imagined.
“I’m stepping down from my role as capo, effective immediately. I don’t have what it takes, and I don’t think I ever will. I’ve made mistakes. Horrible mistakes that keep me up at night; sleepless, even as I so desperately chase it. This is one mistake I’m not planning to see through. I… don’t want to commit you all to something I know you wont come back from. So, for that reason—”
“What the hell, Fugo? What are you saying?!”
“Did the brat put you up to this?!”
“W-W-What do you mean ‘something we won’t come back from?!?!’”
Among the clamor of his team’s protests came Giorno’s response, a test of Fugo’s intentions.
“Fugo, are you trying to run away?”
And that was enough to stop him, cold. Fugo sat frozen and trembling in his seat, facing Giorno with what looked like an attempt at sincerity in his face. He cleared his throat and out came his rasping reply.
“If that’s how you see it then, fine. I am running away. I can’t do this, Giorno. I just can’t agree to… to this harebrained plan of yours! Did it ever occur to you what would happen should we fail? I didn’t think so. You’re not looking at the facts. Nobody can survive in this world on ideals alone—what makes you any special?!”
“How could you say this, Fugo? You’re really going to let this man continue crippling Napoli. Are you content with this? Is this the world you want you and your friends to live in?”
“If it’s one where we all live then FINE!”
“Really? Is that what Bucciarati would have wanted?”
“YOU LEAVE BUCCIARATI OUT OF THIS —”
“Can everyone just STOP and tell me what’s going on?!”
Everyone turned and saw Trish standing from her spot on the boat. She had her fists balled up in her skirt, yelling her throat out raw with her first words in forever. She gave each of her gangster companions a swift glare but fear laced her eyes in equal measure to her irritation.
“Just… please, tell me what all this is about. Why are you fighting instead of taking me to my dad? Is there something I should know? S-Something you’re keeping from me?”
The team cast pitiful glances at Trish when she finished. They hadn’t missed the tremble in her voice, or the way she was shaking like Fugo had been just minutes before. Indeed, it seemed she’d been cast aside during her whole journey, the questions forming in her head about the impossibilities she was seeing on the daily piling on endlessly. It all came to a head only on that very evening, on the shores of their destination. Better late than never, as they say.
Most stricken of all, however, was Giorno, who’d been hit with his very own revelation. The threads were all almost completely gone, the lines having snapped and fallen from his grasp. Hers was a fraying little thread he could try in vain to stitch, a near impossible task, but worth a shot all the same. It’s something he’d wished he’d capitalized on sooner.
“If you must know, Trish,” he began, choosing his words deliberately. “I wish to dispose of your dad, our boss.”
His confession fell like a bomb onto the team. Silence seemed to envelope the boat as not even the waves lapping up the side caught anyone’s ears. It was like they were encased in a bubble with only Giorno permitted to speak.
“It’s his organisation that has been bringing drugs to Napoli, ruining the lives of everyone he and his soldatos have touched. I’ve watched Napoli fall further and further into darkness for far too long. With him out of the picture, we could start cleaning up the streets, rescuing families and children, the most vulnerable of all, from this fate. That is why I committed myself to my dream… of reforming Passione.”
Trish was looking into her lap, wringing her hands together in anxious anticipation—of what, not even she could know. “Well, guess I should have expected as much… he is a gangster after all. But still, it’s a shock. I don’t know what to think anymore. Here I was worrying just a minute ago if I’d even like him. What should I feel, towards this man I hardly know and has hurt countless others, now that I know he’s gonna die? Is his parentage worth even an ounce of my time?”
Giorno pushed on, giving Trish the answer he’s found himself using all through the week, to his slight dismay.
“It’s up to you, Trish. This is not my call to mak—”
“Knew you’d be more trouble than you’re worth one day, brat,” Abbacchio cut in, the rage in his voice clearer today than it's ever been. “What the hell is this? Killing the boss? Reforming Passione?! Are you fucking nuts? This dream you got is just that—a little dream you make up in your head while you’re passed out in bed then forget about the morning you wake up. Because any rational person would realise this is all fucking suicide!”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Giorno huffed. “But that won’t stop me from what I’m about to do.”
He stepped off the boat. “Fugo, excuse me for being so rash, but if you won’t assist me any further… well, I’m going to have to act here without any further guidance from you, as our former capo and loyal teammate.” He reached out a hand that was grasped without hesitation by Mista, pulling him off the boat as well. “I’m giving you one last chance to join us in killing your boss. I won’t, however, hold your decision against you should you still choose to look away.”
Fugo looked like he didn't know where to look. He was darting his eyes towards each of his teammates before resting them on his shoes. He heaved a deep, troubled sigh.
“If you’re so certain, why don’t you be capo, then?”
Giorno faltered, Fugo’s words not computing in his head. He met Fugo’s gaze, a questioning glint in his eyes and in the quirk of his eyebrows. What could he possibly be thinking?
“Go ahead, Giorno. Take my place as capo. See who follows your dream now.”
The gears were turning in his head. Become capo? What would that change? It was more of a symbolic victory more than anything, he thought, but if it would inspire the others to rally behind him… he glanced around at his team. Abbacchio had his head turned, a blatant refusal to acknowledge him. Narancia was looking tearfully between him and Fugo, while Trish, still on the boat, studied him intently, pleading silently for guidance. He supposed that protecting her was already in his purview, but now with the title of capo he was more than her guardian—failing here would mean not only failing her but also…
Giorno’s breath hitched. He could see what Fugo was implying by abdicating his title with horrifying clarity. Become capo, become responsible for whatever was about to befall them all.
What a coward you are, Fugo.
But Giorno couldn’t bring himself to blame him. Here was a task even he may not be able to walk away from—and in turn, bring everyone down with him.
He had to tread carefully, more than ever before.
Trish was clamoring off the boat now. “If we, um, kill my dad right now, t-this will all be over, right? I can stop worrying about weird men taking me hostage, trying to kill me… r-right, Giorno? Please tell me I’m right…”
“Yes, Trish, that’s exactly it.” Giorno reached out a hand to her as she teetered off the edge. “Once we’re done here, you are free. I suppose since I’m capo now, I’ll have to arrange a place for you so you could live a normal life, somewhere far from here. Though I’m not entirely sure what that would entail, I’m sure I can pull some strings, figure something out for you… but for now, we have to focus on the task on hand. It will only take a minute, that I can promise you. Please, brace yourself for the mission.”
Trish breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Giorno… I’ve felt so lost and alone since my mother died, but having you all protect me this week has given me some hope. Hope that I can get out of this alive and get some semblance of normalcy back. I-I’ll do what I can to help. I just want this over with.”
“I’ll help too!”
It was Narancia who pronounced his allegiance next, startling Fugo who was seated next to him, still.
“I get you, Trish. When my mom died, I had no one to turn to either. Not my dad, not even my best friend, no one. It was Bucciarati who helped me when I needed it most. And right now, you need me just as much as I needed him back then!”
He bounded off the boat to join Giorno and his team of defectors on the dock.
“Thank you, Narancia.” Giorno smiled at him. Mista clapped his back and gave him a playful high-five. Now with the three of them together, they might have more than a sliver of a chance of succeeding.
“You’re all insane.”
They all turned to Fugo, who was standing now and making every effort to appear bigger than he was. Abbacchio had a protective hand on his shoulder, glowering at his former teammates.
“Shouldn’t you all be aware… that out of all of you, I have the most destructive stand by far?”
He jumped off the boat leaving Abbacchio to flounder and sputter with the sudden action.
Narancia and Mista erupted in cheer and laughter, and they grabbed their friend into a tight group hug, pulling Giorno and Trish into their wake. Fugo was wiping his tears on his sleeve and burying his face into his friends’ shoulders, but the more he did the more tears threatened to spill. Giorno had no idea how, but it seemed the mood flipped that very moment with the re-addition of Fugo to their team. He wanted to question this sudden change of heart but even he couldn’t deny that he needed to savor their potential final moments together.
“Idiots… you’re all my idiots… I can’t just abandon you all to do this alone…”
Fugo squeezed them all one final time before they all let go.
It was time to formulate a plan.
Giorno laid it out before them, the plan he’d sown together for his coveted golden path.
“We need to strike at the boss quickly and efficiently. As Fugo said, his Purple Haze is the most deadly of all of us. I doubt that even the boss could defend against it. So, Fugo, I need you to deal the first and final blow to the boss as soon as you see him. Don’t worry about catching me in the crossfire—if you can recall, I’ve immunized myself to your stand’s virus. Just focus on your enemy and nothing else.
“Trish and I will be the bait. I’ll pretend to be taking her to the belfry, which should draw him out. Once I see him, I’ll throw Trish into the turtle, throw a tracker on him and coax him into Purple Haze’s range. I will prepare another turtle with my brooch in case I falter or the boss manages to catch me. That should buy us a bit of time to regroup and rethink our strategy.
“Narancia, I’m gonna need you to keep your radar active at all times. It’s our best shot at securing the boss’s location should our technology fail. Take the laptop with you and hide in an alcove somewhere that you can watch our backs and Aerosmith at the same time.
“Mista, you’re my backup. Stay behind me and shoot when I say so. Don’t let the boss see you.
“That should cover everything. Regrettably, I don’t have a way of protecting you, Fugo, while you’re waiting for an opening. I suppose Narancia can back you up from where he’s hiding but—”
“I’ll do it.”
The gang snapped their heads up to find Abbacchio trudging towards them, hands in his pockets and sullen as ever. Giorno expected to see anger and hatred in his eyes but all he saw in them was quiet resignation, maybe even a sliver of resolve.
“First off, if a virus was enough to stop the boss, there’d be no way in hell he’d gotten where he is today. He’s not gonna care that his face is melting off. He’ll keep coming at you even if Purple Haze liquefied his whole fucking body. You’re gonna have to catch him off guard, and to do that you’ll need a decoy… which is where my Moody Blues comes in.”
Fugo turned to him with a look of desperation. “Y-You don’t mean that, you’re… Abbacchio, t-that’s—”
“Don’t worry about me, kid.” Abbacchio smirked, looking fond. “I can take a hit or two. And if I can’t… well, I’m sure Bucciarati would like some company up there, wherever he is. It’s funny, I coulda swore I heard him for a bit after you jumped off the boat. Sayin’ something about choosing a path I believed in, doing what’s right. It’s like he was right there beside me. Damn, I’m really losing it, aren’t I. But anyways, it’s what he would have wanted. To see us all together, for a cause we all believe in.”
He spared Giorno a look. “Wipe that smirk off your face, brat.”
Fugo looked like he was tearing up again but he tamped it down, sucking in a breath and rubbing his palms over his eyes. “T-Thank you, Abbacchio, thank you so much…”
“Also, kid.” Abbacchio jabbed a finger in his chest. “Since this might be our last mission together, might as well get this out now. You’re a shit leader. Seriously. What the fuck were you thinking back there at the vineyard, sending Narancia to get groceries on his own? Not to mention—”
“Oh, fuck off, Abbacchio, it’s not like you objected to him going by himself either. My plan was fine, Narancia’s just got shit for brains and couldn’t—”
“FUCK YOU, FUGO! How the fuck was I supposed to follow everything you were sayin’ anyway?! You and your… your… convoluted—”
“Hey look, Narancia figured out a big word all by himself for once! Who woulda—”
“Mista, you wanna fuckin’ die?!”
“Oh my god, shut up!”
Everyone clammed up at Trish’s exclamation, looking sheepish. Giorno breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Trish should have been capo, he thought with some irony. Who else could have reined in his team in such a quick fashion? Sometimes, these guys truly were a little… too much. But he couldn’t think of any other team that would have been better suited for the task at hand.
He turned towards Trish. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, mirrored by the rest of the team. They all had their orders, their role to fill in the play that was the boss’s downfall. It was all a matter of pulling their weight, succeeding once and never again. For it ended tonight, another chance never to cross their paths again. The boss, should he live, would see to their demise in any way possible from that moment forward. That flame needed to be snuffed out before it engulfed them all in an uncontained inferno.
Trish grasped his hand tightly. “Come on, Giorno. We’ve got a mission to do.”
He nodded, then began the long walk to the church, leading his team to victory, or defeat, whatever fate held for them that day.
–
Bucciarati hadn’t given much thought to when he would die.
He figured he’d never reached the ripe old age of those grannies who adored him so much. Which is why he’d given his all to protecting them, at the cost of his youth and the time he had on this green Earth.
But he couldn’t imagine his inevitable, premature burial to end up like… this.
If anything, he knew his end would come at the hands of the enemy—a rival faction, a stray bullet from a traitorous soldato, someone with a bone to pick with his boss or a score to settle on their turf. Maybe he’d even fall protecting one of his teammates, selfless and reckless as he was. Something Abbacchio used to admonish him for, knowing full well he was no better.
This, however? Never in a million years would he have guessed he’d end his life on the whims of a fortune-telling stand and the threat of his entire team’s downfall should he close his heart to the truth.
And to think it had all seemingly been a rather simple hit at first. The client’s daughter, driven to suicide by her boyfriend. The boyfriend, living on his own in a high-rise apartment. No one would even know what happened to him.
It really was all so simple… until it wasn't.
Bucciarati couldn't put his finger on it but something was odd about this whole situation. So he did his due diligence. A bit of digging and he uncovered quite a tale of uncanny luck and odd coincidences to this woman. Her father was hospitalized shortly after their meeting with him, his condition terminal on account of his organs failing. It just so happened his daughter was set to suffer the same fate. His was a hereditary condition she could not run from. The girl’s death meant her organs were free to be transplanted to her father. By some stroke of luck, they were preserved despite the condition she was found in—splayed out on the concrete, blood pooling under her—saving the father from his fate after all.
How very odd indeed…
It all came together, however, on the day he and Mista were set to interrogate the boyfriend in question.
“Let me meet Bucciarati. His life depends on it,” the man had claimed.
And so Bucciarati did, if only to satiate his own curiosity.
What he’d find out, however, would change everything he knew about how the universe, fate and the concept of one’s destiny worked.
On the morning of Bucciarati’s death, the team sat together for the very last time in their spot at Libeccio, savoring a breakfast made for kings. They all ate quietly, the only sounds being the clinking of glass and silverware against ceramic, the occasional rustling of papers being shuffled around as Fugo poured over his copious notes. The sight of the boy adjusting his glasses and pushing them up every single time they slid down his nose as he read brought a smile to Bucciarati’s face. He remembered when they made a visit to the optometrist together when he spotted Fugo squinting at a book he was reading. He knew the boy would rather suffer than request anything as humiliating as glasses from his leader. And so Bucciarati grabbed him that day despite his protests.
He knew that, to be an effective capo one day, Fugo needed to let go of such petty, childish concerns.
He only wished he had more time. The two of them sat together for an entire afternoon, and the evening following it, discussing everything from leadership to strategy and even Fugo’s anger issues. Especially Fugo’s anger issues. The notes that Fugo compiled were the result of all their hard work, but was it enough?
It would have to be.
There was no more room for regrets.
And so, with all of his affairs in order, Bucciarati set out with his team one last time to the apartment of that boyfriend—the man he and his team had been sent to kill, now the one to ultimately end Bucciarati, himself.
“Well, team… this is it.” Bucciarati bit his lip. “I’ll admit, sentimentality was never my strong suit. But I want you all to know… that I’ve enjoyed our time together and that you all mean the world to me. I’ve watched you all grow as a team and improve in more ways than I thought possible. I could not have asked for more. If I had to do it all again, I would not hesitate to take on the task of being your leader. Always. Maybe in another lifetime, huh?” He chuckled, humorlessly. “I suppose it’s time to say goodbye. Let’s not prolong this any further.”
He faced Fugo, grasping both his arms. “Fugo, you are more capable than you think. Do not ever let anyone tell you otherwise. I trust you more than anyone to lead your friends—your team —in the days to come. It won’t be easy. But I know you can do it. Believe, Fugo, in yourself and your team.”
Bucciarati stopped when he noticed Fugo was trembling with unshed emotion. He had more to say but spared the boy the rest of it. He’d heard enough. He had enough to keep on living, for him. A hug, and Bucciarati moved on.
“Narancia, y—”
Narancia tackled Bucciarati, and down they both went. The boy let out a loud, grief-stricken wail, his sobbing leaving Bucciarati’s suit stained with tears from the shoulder down. He didn’t mind, however. It intrigued him how imminent death left his previous, earthly concerns a far-off memory. His familiar, dotted suit, once his prized possession, now a lowly garment and functionally a tissue for his friend’s grief.
“N-Narancia, listen to me.” He stood up, bringing a still-crying Narancia up with him. “You’re the heart of this team. The glue that held us all together. Don’t forget that. I want you to promise me that you’ll keep being your spirited, untamed self. Promise me that you’ll listen to Fugo and keep up with your studies. I know that you have it in you to succeed in whatever you set your mind to. Promise me, Narancia.”
“I-I-I-I p-p-p-promise, B-Bucciarati! I promise!!”
“Good. Now, Mista…”
Mista was not looking at him, instead casting his gaze at (seemingly) a little rock by his foot. His face was unreadable. The gunman was always an interesting paradox to Bucciarati. Cold eyes, set in the jovial, dimpled face of a man without a worry in the world, a laugh always on his lips. Despite the dark expanse of his pupils betraying nothing, Bucciarati never failed to read what was running through Mista’s head.
Today, however, marked the first time he couldn’t.
“Mista, look at me.”
Mista's face twitched ever so slightly, the action not missed by Bucciarati. Still, he turned without hesitation to his leader and friend.
“Yeah?”
“I can tell you’re not happy.”
Mista scoffed. “No kidding.”
“I know you’ll understand one day. Fate, though unkind, always has a purpose. Maybe it will reveal itself to you one day. And only then will this start to make sense.”
An eye roll. “Yeah, okay.”
Bucciarati sighed, pained. “Mista, you have an extraordinary gift. And no, I don’t mean your stand, or your skills with a gun. Do you know what it is? It’s your resolve, Mista. Time and time again I was impressed with your ability to keep a calm head in the midst of battle. It’s thanks to you we were able to succeed in many of our missions together. Please, never lose that resolve of yours, even if the situation seems dire. You bring what may be the most important thing of all to our team— hope.”
Mista still said nothing, but his frown did eventually quirk up into a little smirk. He sniffled, and a small tear crawled its way down his cheek. Bucciarati turned away, and only then did he let out a peep.
“Thanks, Bucciarati.”
Bucciarati smiled. He faced Abbacchio, the man smiling in kind.
He was pulled into a tight, back-breaking hug before he could let out a word.
“You’re too good for this world, Bruno. That’s why you’re leaving it. Guess it’s only fair.” He let go but kept a hand on Bucciarati’s shoulder. “Hope the afterlife treats you well. You deserve the break of a lifetime.”
Bucciarati couldn't help it. He let out an undignified cackle that devolved into crying, and soon Abbacchio was crying too but in that stoic way he does when his emotions were too painful for him to handle. They hugged again, tighter still, and Bucciarati forgot what he even wanted to say to him but he didn’t mind. He never minded. To Abbacchio, he always had the right words to say. The right man at the right time to save him from himself. And he knew Abbacchio had saved him too, in his own special way.
They let go one last time. Facing each other, Bucciarati knew he had only one thing he wanted to say.
“Thank you.”
Abbacchio nodded, the rest unspoken.
And Bucciarati turned to face the fate that he was bestowed—and to awaken a new one from its ashes.
–
Bucciarati: [exit, pursued by fate]