Chapter Text
Buccellati never forgot about the little boy and his coat. How could he? He had just murdered a man at twelve years old to save his own skin, covered in blood and river water and slowly freezing to death in the winter air. The child emerging from the trees was a fae for certain, something Bruno had only seen in the books his father used to read to him. Blond hair, sharp blue eyes and a calm that was chillier than the below zero temperature of the night.
He half expected for the jacket to disappear when he woke up curled behind a tree the next morning. It didn't. It stayed with him, with it's pervading homey scent and the small crumpled drawing of a frog in the pocket. He kept it until he grew out of it, and even then it sat in his closet for a long while before being passed to another needy child. He hoped he would never encounter its true owner again, even as he anxiously looked for him in every crowded street.
He never expected Fugo to bring him in. Yet when Buccellati is called down from his office in the restaurant he is currently calling his base, there he is. Giorno Giovanna stands a proud 172 centimeters tall, fifteen years old with all the lankiness that comes along with it and the maturity of someone ten times his age.
His eyes are still sharp, and over kind concern, they are determined now. “Absolutely not,” Buccellati says, before either of them can get beyond introductions, “No. I'm not looking for new members. We have a full team.” Behind him, Naranccia pokes his head out of their private room, glaring at the newcomer.
Giorno wrinkles his nose, before his expression goes smooth. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his head to look Buccellati in the eyes. If he thinks he can negotiate, he is dead wrong. Buccellati made a promise to himself all those years ago, and he never goes back on his word. The words that come out of Giorno’s mouth, in reality, are not what Buccellati expects. “Hardly. I’m not interested in joining,” he says coolly, “I’ve come because Fugo tells me you’re a good man, and I need a good man with connections to the mafia.”
“And how do you know Fugo?” Buccellati asks. Fugo directs his eyes determinedly towards his feet.
Giorno answers for him, calm and casual. “School. My Vieux has gone missing and I need help finding him. From what I can tell, he was investigating the mob… The head of the Italian mafia to be precise,” he announces it all as if it won’t have him killed. Even Fugo looks shocked, taking a step back as if Giorno may spontaneously catch fire.
“Shush,” Buccellati says, crowding forward. Before Giorno can argue, he uses Sticky Fingers to zip his mouth shut. More than panicked, Giorno looks frustrated at the new hindrance keeping him from doing the equivalent of asking to be shot in the head. “Back room. Now,” he instructs. He turns on his heel and marches to what looks like a supply closet door. “Fugo, wait with the others,” he says, even as he directs a surprisingly compliant Giorno into the dark room.
Once he shuts the door, he flicks the light on, revealing a sterile room, metal walls and clean linoleum floor. There is metal table in the center of the room and a chair fitted with shackles pushed into one corner. They don’t use this room much, Mista and Naranccia are far too creative and Fugo and Abacchio far too lethal to need it.
Without a word, Sticky Fingers reaches forward and releases Giorno’s mouth. “That was rude,” Giorno says, rather than the multitude of other things that a person suddenly confronted with supernatural powers should say. Buccellati doesn’t know what else he expected from a kid who casually offers his coat to blood soaked strangers in the woods. “Are you going to torture me?” he asks, observing the room with what appears to be detached interest. His brows are ever so slightly furrowed though, and his mouth tipped downward too far to be considered neutral.
Buccellati nearly chokes, realizing what this must look like. “No. We needed privacy. This room is soundproof,” he says.
“Ah,” Giorno says, his voice devoid of emotion, “Good. As I was saying--”
Buccellati cuts him off with a raised hand. “No. Give me a minute,” he says. Giorno closes his mouth and watches Buccellati closely as he collects himself. His eyes are intense, eerie and deeply blue as they seem to scan Buccellati from head to toe. He is definitely that same child, even if he doesn’t have as much baby fat and is quite a bit taller. His eyes stayed the same. “I was hoping I’d never seen you again,” Buccellati says once he has a better hold of himself.
Giorno looks perplexed. “I didn’t think we had met,” he says, not rudely, just confused, “I’m sorry.”
“No. No, it was a long time ago,” Buccellati says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you forgot about it. You were basically a toddler at the time.”
Giorno’s face scrunches in thought, and he fixes Buccellati with another one of those unsettling stares. “Were you… a follower of my father?” he asks, scrutinizing Buccellati’s face.
Buccellati pauses, struck silent. Where had this child come from that his father had followers? Was this father and his Vieux the same person? While Buccellati puzzles over these questions, Giorno makes a shocked noise, eyes wide. “The boy in the woods!” he decides.
Buccellati nods, trying to clear his thoughts. “I can’t let you go after the boss,” he says, “You’ll be killed before you make it out of the building.” Giorno blinks at him, silent for longer than Buccellati is comfortable with.
“You aren’t letting me do anything,” Giorno says after a long while. Those words sound so ludicrous coming out of someone like Giorno’s mouth. He isn’t short, but he isn’t Buccellati’s admittedly modest height. He has a baby face with the delicate features of a porcelain doll. His clothes are immaculate, as is his carefully curled and braided hair. He looks like the subject of a renaissance painting, perhaps a cherub or Apollo if Buccellati is feeling generous. Yet he stands there talking big as if he were Mars. As if he were not easily ushered into a room where Buccellati could soundlessly kill and dispose of him.
“I merely wanted information,” Giorno says, “My Vieux went missing after he investigated your gang. He had his eyes on your boss. The boss of bosses.”
Buccellati swallows. If this boy’s Vieux got even remotely close to the boss, then if he isn’t dead, he is as good as. Giorno continues to speak, oblivious or uncaring of Buccellati’s shock, “I have no interest in joining your gang. I merely want information on how I might find your boss. My Vieux has not made it easy.”
“That was good of him,” Buccellati says, “I’m sure he was trying to keep you from following after him. You’d better take that advice. I’m sorry to say this, Giorno, but your… Vieux is probably dead.”
Buccellati feels a flash of something from Giorno, ruthless and almost bloodthirsty as those blue eyes snap up to his. “I will find my Vieux alive, or I will find the person who took him away from me,” he says, venom dripping in every word, “I already abhor this gang’s activities, intimidating the weak and selling drugs to keep them under your thumb.” His temper is sharper than steel and just as cold. He is deadly in his calm. “I merely wanted to expedite my goal. I do not mind dismantling your organization from the ground up if I have to,” he murmurs, eyes glinting in the harsh ceiling lights, “It was on my list anyway.”
“You’ll die if you try,” Buccellati says, bringing his hands up to placate the seething teenager. He has to keep telling himself that Giorno is a teenager that will get himself killed the moment he goes running after the boss. No matter how frightening he may seem, he is just a teenager. “I’m serious, Giorno. No one knows who the boss is. Not even his closest informants have seen his face. You can kill every single person in the mafia and you may never find him.”
Giorno settles and the room does not feel nearly as cold. “So I need to be on the inside,” Giorno says, crossing his arms as he thinks, “Get inside, climb up as fast as possible.”
Buccellati steps back. “Wait a minute,” he argues, “You can’t get in without passing the initiation, and you can’t get initiated without word from a trusted member of the gang.”
When Giorno looks up at him, Buccellati has to look away. His expression is beseeching. “You won’t be getting it from me,” Buccellati says firmly.
He expects anger. He expects that same steel that Giorno expressed towards the gang to be pointed towards himself. He expects Giorno to attack him, try to beat his recommendation out of him. Instead, he gets a horribly forlorn, “I see.”
Buccellati turns his back to Giorno. He has a soft spot for children, and Giorno is a child under his pomp and attitude. “When you gave me your coat all those years ago, I made a promise,” Buccellati says gently, “Kindness like yours needs to remain in this world as long as possible. I won’t let you throw it away on revenge.”
Giorno is silent for a long while. Buccellati thinks that perhaps, impossibly he has won this argument. Then Giorno takes a deep breath, lets it out as a long sigh. “What I’m about to say is very classified,” he says, “I’m not even supposed to know about it.”
“It’s a good thing we’re in a soundproof room, then,” Buccellati says, turning again to face Giorno. The kid is looking at him, deadly serious, a furrow between his brows as he deliberates.
“Your boss has something very dangerous,” Giorno prefaces, digging a photograph out of his pocket, “It’s called the bow and arrow, though he only has one half of the set. It still has the same power.” He shows it to Buccellati, a golden arrowhead, situated on a broken wooden shaft. “This has the power to make stand users. I have no doubt it is why Italy and the Italian mafia, in particular, have so many. My Vieux thought the same thing and he knew with the kind of work you do, it couldn’t go on. If your boss stumbles across the right user, they could bend time and space to their will,” he explains, as Buccelleti takes the photograph with shaking fingers. It is sickeningly familiar.
“This isn’t just for revenge,” Giorno continues, “I won’t pretend that isn’t what I want, but this is important too. If there is even a chance that your boss has these, I must get them away from them. I’ve seen what this can do to a person, to an entire community.” His voice shakes slightly and he swallows. “I don’t want to see what would happen to an entire country,” he finishes, eyes trailing down to stare at his feet, “This isn’t… this isn’t only for me. It’s for everyone in Italy. It’s so kids don’t end up covered in blood and freezing to death the woods.”
Buccellati sighs, setting the photograph on the table. He adjusts his jacket for lack of anything to do with his hands. “You’re a manipulative bastard, Giorno,” Buccellati grumbles. Giorno looks up at him, both shocked and imploring. “But I’ll… I’ll give you my good word,” he decides. Giorno takes a deep breath, his lips already forming the words ‘thank you,’ but Buccellati stops him.
“This isn’t for free,” Buccellati says, “You follow through with those big words you spoke earlier. You dismantle this damn gang, from the ground all the way to the top. That’s the only way I’ll help you.”
Giorno smiles. Buccellati isn’t sure what he was expecting. If he was expecting something warm, maybe bashful or unsure, that isn’t what he gets. The smile Giorno gives him is as sharp as his eyes, slightly crooked and triumphant. There are too many teeth, the little pearly whites sticking out from beneath his lips, catching the light like daggers. “Of course,” he says, “It’d be a waste if I didn’t take the opportunity.”
The next day, Giorno exits the prison with a lit lighter. Twenty-four hours after that, Polpo commits suicide. Less than a week after that, they are headed towards the boss’s estate, his very daughter in their care.