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In Naples, Italy there existed a small restaurant. Locally owned and given great reviews by anyone who visited. But, the food wasn't the only reason for its fame, or rather, infamy in certain circles. No, the reason that people sought out this restaurant was because of the person you could find there. The man known as Bruno Bucciarati.
Word of Bucciarati spread far after his introduction to Passione. He helped the local people with their troubles. Lending money to those in need. Giving a warm meal to those hungry. Providing medicine to those sick. There was even a time he helped an old woman with her groceries.
Bucciarati was a man of the people.
But, that didn't mean he was a pushover. Not at all.
There were the occasional few who thought Bucciarati was all talk. That the rumors were just rumors and that Passione was a fairy tale.
Those few tended to start trouble; threatening civilians, extorting protection money. In the end, those foolish few would end up in a dumpster. Their bodies divided into over a dozen pieces as they slowly bled to death.
On top of that, drugs were not tolerated in Naples. At least, not when Bucciarati was around. He reprimanded anyone caught doing drugs in his territory. And, god help you, if Bucciarati caught you dealing drugs.
The restaurant was where Bucciarati spent most of his days. In part because it gave the locals an easy way to find him. But, another reason was that he just liked the food.
You could also find Bucciarati's team there, most of the time. Leone Abbachio, Panacotta Fugo, Narancia Ghirga, and Guido Mista. Bucciarati took each of them to the same restaurant when they joined his team. So, the place held a special place in their hearts as well.
There were days where Bucciarati ate alone. His team had their own lives and he didn't want to be controlling. As long as they showed up for the important things, then his team could do what they wished.
On one of these days, something distressing happened. Not the usual type of distressing either.
Bucciarati decided to indulge that day, partaking in one of his favorite foods; Porcini Mushrooms. As he ate, Bucciarati heard someone scream followed by these words:
"This'll teach you to be a tranny freak!"
It made him pause for a number of reasons. One, Naples, and Italy in general, was a very LGBT-friendly place. Homophobia popped up on occasion, but it never stayed long. The second touched on a much more personal issue.
Without any hesitation, Bucciarati abandoned his meal and left the restaurant.
Naples in the middle of a lunch rush proved to be a very crowded area. But, the constant pleas of mercy were easy to hear.
He found the source of the disturbance in an alley across the street. That's where he found the assaulter and his victim.
The man was in his late forties, jeans and a white-collared shirt. The person he was beating on appeared to be a woman. Young, barely a teen, with short hair and a yellow dress draped over her somewhat stocky frame.
Thick, meaty fists rained down upon her. Her body was already covered in bruises, her face painted with blood, and one eye swollen shut. She tried to defend herself, but the man was much stronger than her.
Bucciarati rushed over and yanked the man back by his collar. He slammed the man against the wall and pressed an arm to his throat.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The man screamed as he struggled to get Bucciarati off.
"I should be asking you that same question." Bucciarati's eyes were like steel and his voice like ice.
"I'm teaching that freak a lesson." The man pointed at the beaten woman. "No son of mine is going to be a tranny!"
Bucciarati growled and pressed harder against the man's throat. That a father would treat their child like this enraged him. Scum like that didn't deserve to walk free.
He picked the man up and threw him further down the alleyway. The man landed with a thud, head pounding and in a daze. Bucciarati made sure that he threw the man past the injured woman.
Bucciarati walked over to the fallen woman and leaned down.
"Signorina, are you alright?"
He helped her sit upright. She flinched at first, but Bucciarati made sure to be gentle. She met eyes with him and saw that there was no hate in them. Not toward her anyway.
She fell onto him, clutching on to his shirt as she shook. He could feel the water dripping down his chest. Bucciarati didn't complain, he wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace and just let her cry.
The man moaned as he started to come to his senses. Reminding Bucciarati that he still had business to take care of. He separated from the woman and met her gaze.
"Can you walk?" She nodded, "Good. There's a restaurant across the street. Tell them Bucciarati sent you and they'll give you first-aid and something to eat. Can you do that for me?"
She nodded again and Bucciarati allowed himself to show a small smile. He stood and helped the young woman to her feet. "Go on, there's still something I need to take care of."
With a small limp in her step, she started to walk to the restaurant. Bucciarati waited until she left his sight before he turned back to the scum at his feet.
The man shook himself out of the daze Bucciarati put him in. When he saw his attacker walking towards him, he squeaked. There was a palpable air of menace surrounding him. The man tried to scurry away like a rat. First on his hands and knees before he finally got his feet under him.
At the end of the alleyway, there was a turn. The man thought that if he could make that turn, he could lose the psychopath that attacked him. The man rounded the corner, bursting full of hope. But, he was met with nothing but a dead-end.
"No, no, no, no, no!" The man pounded his fists on the solid brick wall. Hoping that some door would appear out of thin air if he wished hard enough. But, not even the devil would grant that favor. Not after what he had done.
When Bucciarati saw the man, he scoffed. That man had beat on that woman without so much as a second thought and now look at him. Panicking like a mouse chased by a lion.
When the man turned and saw Bucciarati, he shrieked.
"What do you want from me?" The man screamed out of desperation.
"I want to know what would drive a father to beat his daughter like some sort of animal," Bucciarati said.
The man's face twisted into a sneer. His fear discarded for pure pride and arrogance. "That thing isn't my daughter. I was beating that queer shit out of him. He should be thanking me, I'm doing him a favor!"
Bucciarati's face was framed in shadows, hiding his expression from view. Unbeknownst to the man, a blue aura lit up around Bucciarati's body. "I thought you'd say something like that. I'd hoped to be wrong, but apparently not."
He turned his back to the man and started walking away. The man sputtered, expecting a fight or a screaming match. Feeling confident for scaring away the man who attacked him, he shouted.
"Hey, where do you think you're going? You think you can just attack me and then leave like nothing happened? I oughta kill you for that!"
Bucciarati didn't respond. He kept walking without even acknowledging the man. The man's blood boiled at such an insult. He walked up and grabbed Bucciarati by the shoulder.
"You son of a-!"
Before he could finish, an invisible force struck his arm. The sound of a fleshy thud hit the man's ears. He looked down and saw his own hand.
The man screamed, looking at the bleeding stump that was now his arm. "Wha-! What did you do to me, you psycho?"
"That is the ability of my Stand. Not that you understand what that means." Bucciarati turned and faced the man. His blue eyes cut through the man's very soul. The man knew true fear at that moment. "Just know that it's what's going to end your pathetic existence."
The man didn't know what was happening, but he knew Bucciarati intended to kill him. "Wait! Please don't, I'm sorry!"
"It's too late for apologies!"
"Please, noooooo-!"
"[Sticky Fingers]!"
"ARIARIARIARIARIARIARIARIARIARIARI!"
Each punch separated a piece of the man's body from another. The sound of zippers was something only Bucciarati could hear. At the end of the rush, the man's body went flying in over a dozen pieces.
Bucciarati gave the man a two-finger salute, "Arrivederci, you son of a bitch."
He turned, ignoring the sound of blood splattering and body parts hitting the ground. Bucciarati left the alleyway and made his way back to the restaurant.
When he arrived, the young woman he'd saved was sitting at a table near the back. A blanket around her shoulders and a plate of hot food half-eaten in front of her. Her wounds had been tended to, but her dress still had splashes of blood on it.
When she saw Bucciarati approach, she stood up with a jolt. She wrung her hands, looking awkward and frightened.
"Mister Bucciarati, thank you!" She bowed her head.
"Please, raise your head, Miss. . ." After a few confused seconds, the young girl realized what he was asking.
"It's Raph- Oh, uh. . . Ronata, my name is Ronata."
"Ronata," Bucciarati smiled before his face turned serious. "Can you tell me what led up to this?"
She sat back down and took a few deep breaths. Bucciarati had nowhere to be, so he let her take her time.
"I, uh. . . I've known that I am what I am for a while. . . Just kinda clicked one day, I guess," she tried to laugh, but it came out awkward. "But, I'd only gotten the courage to actually show it recently. I bought this dress-"
She gestured to the once-beautiful yellow dress.
"And I was trying it on in front of my mirror. But, dad came home early. I couldn't take it off in time and he saw," she shuddered. Bucciarati placed a gentle hand on hers. "I tried to explain, you know. Hoped he would understand. He didn't. He got angry and started yelling. I didn't know what to do, so I panicked and ran. . . I didn't get very far."
"You won't have to worry about him anymore," Bucciarati said.
"Did you-? No, I don't want to know." She shook her head, then stared down at her folded hands. "What am I going to do now?"
"You're going to finish your meal and then I'm going to help you," he said.
"No, no, no, you've already saved my life. I can't ask anymore of you."
"It's no trouble, I assure you. You're not the first person I've helped and you probably won't be the last.
Tears started to roll down her face again, "Thank you. If there's anything I can do to make up for this, please just ask."
Bucciarati paused, asking himself if it was possible. ". . . I would like to ask you to trust me."
"What do you mean?"
"Please, stand up and close your eyes." It was an odd request, but she did say anything, so Ronata did as he asked.
Bucciarati moved behind her. If this worked, then Ronata's life would improve by leagues. If it didn't, well, he could just zip her back up again.
Sticky Fingers appeared in front of Bucciarati, one fist pulled back. His Stand punched Ronata's back. A zipper opened up, showing a realm of purple miasma.
Bucciarati reached into the void and started to search.
When his grasped around a small wrist, his eyes widened in shock. Without any more hesitation, Bucciarati pulled with all his might.
From inside the zipper's void, Bucciarati pulled a young woman into the light. Long, straight hair framed around a round face. A stocky frame abandoned for curves, also subtracting a few inches from her height. Her flat chest was replaced by reasonably-sized breasts.
The old shell that lingered behind fell to the ground. Where it faded out of existence.
Bucciarati noted the change seemed to have healed her injuries. It also made her dress appear brand new, free of any blood or stains.
"You can open your eyes now," he said. Prepared to brace her if she reacted in a bad way.
"I feel weird- My voice!" Bucciarati shared her surprise. Ronata's voice had raised by a few octaves. "What did you. . ."
Ronata looked down and fell speechless. She grasped at her new body in shock. Poking and prodding to try to see if it was an illusion. After a minute or two, she realized it was not a dream.
"How- How did you-?"
Bucciarati smiled, "Let's call it a special skill of mine."
"This is amazing!" Ronata smiled for the first time that day. "This is- This is-"
"What you always wanted to look like, right? The body that you always wished you had."
"Yeah, exactly! How'd you know?"
Bucciarati gave her a small smile as he pulled on the opening in his shirt. Showing her the faded scar covering his chest, partially hidden by the intricate tattoo.
Ronata's eyes widened, her mouth open in a silent gasp of surprise. Bucciarati's eyes softened.
"My mother was never the most supportive of people. She never said anything outright, but I know I made her uncomfortable. My father didn't care. Just wanted to know if I was happy." Bucciarati's smile dipped for a moment as memories of his late father flooded his mind.
"He sounds like a great man," Ronato smiled. In an attempt to be sympathetic and imagine what would have happened if her father were the same way.
"He was. . ."
Before the conversation could continue, Bucciarati's phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the new message:
"Leaky-Eye Luca has been killed. Find the person responsible. One suspect: Giorno Giovanna."
Bucciarati snapped it shut and turned back to Ronata. "My apologies, Ronata, but I have to return to my job. For now, the staff here can give you a place to work, should you need it."
"Thank you, Bucciarati, for everything." Ronata smiled and, on impulse, gave him a hug.
Bucciarati returned the embrace and then broke away. He had a job to do and as long as he remained a member of Passione, he would carry out the orders given to him.
As he left the restaurant, a teary-eyed Ronata watching him leave, he spoke to himself.
"Let's see what you know, Giorno Giovanna. . ."