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The first time Buccellati hears the name ‘Giorno Giovanna’, it’s at his Capo’s funeral.
The rest of his squad members are distracted more or less by the rich foods and heavy wines flowing at Polpo’s home, which has gone untouched since he was first sent to prison.
Other Soldados wander around the home, talking in low tones by Polpo’s collection of commissioned paintings, fine rugs, and delicate glass sculptures.
They’re likely all doing the same thing as Buccellati, staking out the competition. Because with one Capo gone, another one has to fill their place. Buccellati is definitely better off than they are, secure with his knowledge of the treasure waiting for him and his team on Capri.
But aside from that, Polpo’s funeral was going to be packed. Polpo was the head of gambling and oversaw one of the larger stretches of territory in Passione so it was safe to say that anyone who wanted a splash of that was going to be crawling through the hefty mahogany doors.
It’s among the groups of rats and cockroaches squirming their way in that Buccellati overhears the woes and slightly drunken threats of Luca.
“Fuckin’ kid thinks he can hide from me-” He slurs, nearly stumbling into Buccellati and spilling some wine on the Persian rug under them.
Ah. What a shame. He’d been looking to stake his claim on the rugs when it came time for all of Polpo’s Soldados to duke it out for their share of the ‘inheritance’ Polpo left behind.
“Swear when I get my hands on ‘im I’ll wring his goddamn neck-”
Buccellati watches, vaguely unimpressed as the avid listeners to Luca’s story similarly walk through and over, what they’re probably unaware is, an expensive piece of furniture.
Widely disliked or not, everyone knew that Luca told the best stories (and had the most interesting threats, Buccellati himself had even borrowed a few of them when shaking someone down over an overdue debt).
Luca takes a deep swig of wine, letting droplets spill over his chin and Buccellati resists the urge to cringe because even Naranchia, the most uncontrolled of his team, preferred to savour wine slowly alongside his dinner.
“Hgh-” Luca hacked, choking slightly and beating a fist against his chest. His brows furrow even deeper, lips pulling into a harsh scowl as his eye beaded up with unshed tears.
“Giorno Giovanna.” He hissed like a curse, fists clenched like he was imagining strangling them.
‘Giorno Giovanna’, Buccellati thought to himself, rolling the name around in his head because whoever it was they were likely completely unaware just how much of a mistake they made ticking off one the shortest fused Passione members operating in Polpo’s territory.
Well, at least they were lucky enough that it hadn’t been Fugo they pissed off.
“Here.” Abbacchio offers, suddenly appearing by Buccellati’s side and pushing a wine glass into his open hands. “The bruschetta is good but the chicken is drier than Fugo’s asshole.”
Buccellati lifts the rim to his lips, without further thought, tipping it back as he glanced surreptitiously over Abbacchio’s shoulder.
Fugo was standing under a marble copy of Michelangelo’s ‘Angel’, too far away to have heard, and choking Narancia with his own tie as Mista watched.
Thank the Lord for small mercies he supposed.
XxX
It’s right before Buccellati and his squad set out for Capri that he gets tipped off about something simmering. Usually the neighborhood of the mob front he takes his meals in is brimming with activity, people who recognize and know him coming to him with problems and worries.
But not recently.
He’s had some worries for the elderly in the vicinity, some of the youth in the area having grown...violent recently (He’d made sure to beat the drug dealer he’d found slithering their way in with particular prejudice).
In the beginning he tries to stifle any brimming worry, mainly because there’s an unfilled Capo position and territory left unattended to for too long doesn’t spell good news for anyone. And Capo Pericolo was probably already waiting for him.
So Buccellati leaves, shooing his team out of the restaurant doors so they can make their way to the docks. But even as he makes his way to the car one of the nearby rental places graciously offered to him, his eyes can’t help but skim over the streets of the neighborhood.
People greet him as enthusiastically as normally, bakers and butchers reminding him to stop by their shops so they can ply him with gift baskets of bread and expensive cuts of meat he doesn’t have the culinary skills to prepare.
But there’s something off. Sure when he’d first gotten the call of Polpo’s death and his subsequent funeral he’d been just as taken aback as anyone, but where he expected a resurgence of violence at the lack of authority he got ...nothing.
Not even other gangsters coming to hassle him because he was certain everyone had caught wind of Polpo’s hidden fortune, and the smart ones would’ve been able to piece together that Buccellati knew a bit more than he was letting on.
But none of that occurred. He hasn’t heard a peep out of anyone in weeks. And what normally would have him smiling instead had him tensing up.
Because the chain of command of Passione, while good enough to allow certain areas to operate without a Capo for a little while, was not good enough to prevent small time crooks and new members from taking advantage of the gap in orders.
Yet Buccellati and his squad arrive to Capri undisturbed.
Pericolo accepts the ten billion lire.
Buccellati gets his first assignment.
It’s when Pericolo pulls him aside as Trish Una uses Fugo’s jacket as a hand towel that Buccellati’s feelings of discomfort get confirmed.
“Something is happening, Buccellati.” Pericolo murmurs lowly, hands wrapped tightly against the case containing Polpo’s jewels. “I think it’s fit to warn you that since Polpo’s death the Boss’s orders have been...sporadic.”
That’s not news to Buccellati. Everyone knows that the Boss could go through weeks of radio silence before contacting his inner circle to hand down messages. But to have it be brought up? And by another Capo nonetheless?
It’s a cause for concern in his book.
“This morning he called in two members from Rome, small timers, had them punished for plotting against a Capo.”
Buccellati sucks in a sharp breath at that.
Because he had considered the possibility of Polpo’s death being the result of a hit, but without any evidence…
Pericolo watches him quietly, wandering eye briefly focusing on him.
“It was you, Buccellati.” He offers, voice low as Trish’s voice listed off her request for stockings and mineral water. “You were the Capo they were threatening.”
Buccellati has no idea what to say. Because he hadn’t even been a Capo until just a few minutes ago, so why would the Boss say-
“Whatever is going on with the Boss.” Pericolo continues, lifting the bag to his side and beginning to walk away. “You’ve caught his attention.”
Buccellati watches him go until his figure disappears around the corner.
XxX
The second half of Buccellati’’s first assignment as Capo starts with a miscommunication.
Or rather, Narancia nearly kills another stand user while under the impression that he was an enemy.
“Can’t you read orders?” Formaggio hisses at an equally pissed off Narancia. Buccellati spares them both a glance before looking back down at the laptop in front of him to reconfirm the words.
‘You will be escorted by members of La Squadra Esecuzioni for the remainder of your assignment.’
It’s an out of the blue request, mainly because it’s not often that another team is placed on to guard another. And it’s especially not often that said guards are members of Passione’s assassination team.
The key word there being ‘assassination’. Because assassins aren’t given guard duty jobs, it’s literally in their title.
Which means that someone is being tested. Either it’s Buccellati and his squad or the members of La Squadra.
Based on the fact that the other hitman accompanying them, Illuso, was ordered to follow Abbacchio and Fugo to retrieve a transport item in Pompeii, Buccellati is leaning towards the latter.
XxX
Two different members of La Squadra accompany the team to the train when they get on. They switch off and two others accompany them when they get off.
If Buccellati’s memory serves him correct, his team will have met every member of La Squadra save for their Capo in their mission to guard Trish. Though it couldn’t be called much of a guarding mission if they themselves were also being guarded.
From what, Buccellati was still trying to figure that out.
Their escorts offered clues but not much in the grand scheme of things. Formaggio and Illuso had been mostly silent while standing guard at the vineyard house the team took refuge in.
They’d had a single exchange of words and Buccellati was pretty sure they hadn’t realized that he’d heard them.
“The girl is fifteen?” Formaggio murmured lowly to his team member. “Man, so they’re the same age?”
That last comment is said with a tone of disbelief before quickly being quieted with a hushed sound from Illuso.
Pesci and Prosciutto hadn’t offered anything aside from a slightly stuttered greeting from Pesci.
Personally, Buccellati would’ve preferred if Ghiaccio had been a little quieter and if Melone had just said nothing at all. But he supposed that he and the others would just have to live with the knowledge of how Melone’s tongue was sensitive enough to taste a person’s blood type. Buccellati didn’t want to add fuel to the fire by voicing his own skills.
To that point he’d never seen anything wrong with his lie detection system but Melone’s words made Buccellati just the slightest bit uncomfortable.
XxX
By the end of their retrieval mission, Buccellati is left at a loss of what to do. The Boss had yet to reach out and offer further orders, so the only thing Buccellati could think to do is shuffle himself, Trish, and his team around to a different hotel every few nights.
Everyone seemed to be under the impression that they were enjoying an easy mission coupled with a free vacation.
The only ones who didn’t seem to think so were himself and Trish.
And it seemed like she was none the wiser at their situation than he was.
“Have you ever met my father?” She asked quietly one night. The others had long gone to bed, leaving only Buccellati on watch and Trish who had gone strangely quiet halfway through their trip.
“No. No one has.” Buccellati answers honestly. As far as he knows it’s the truth, no one has ever seen the Boss. Obviously there has to be someway to communicate but it’s not something that someone of Buccellati’s recently promoted station knows about.
Trish nods, eyes flickering down to her boots. Her lips are pursed tightly together and Buccellati can tell there’s something she wants to say.
Her mouth opens and closes, one of her canines bites down on pink glossed lips. That lip gloss cost a decent chunk of lire and Buccellati can only be thankful that the Boss left them with a hefty budget for the sake of Trish’s comfort.
“Why…” She started lowly, “why is he doing all of this?”
Buccellati doesn’t even have to ask what Trish means by ‘all of this’. It probably hadn’t escaped her notice the reaction of the team at being escorted. The additional security, the safe transportation, the funds being added to their budget almost daily.
And Buccellati can’t say he has much of a concrete answer for her.
“Well, fathers-”
“He’s not my father!” Trish cuts him off sharply, painted nails digging into the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t even know him, I don’t even know what he looks like- so how am I supposed to-” She cuts off.
Buccellati can see where her fists are trembling against her knees, her heels digging into the carpet under them.
“What's going to happen to me?” She asks shakily, breath slightly stilted as her shoulders rose and fell. “He’s done all of this...but…”
Buccellati’s brows furrow, hands at his side and slightly unsure if patting her on the head to comfort her would come across as too patronizing. She’s not like Narancia who enjoys Buccellati’s approval. If anything she seemed more like the type to test her boundaries and their limits. The Givenchy blushes, Dior perfumes, and Chanel lipsticks lying untouched in shopping bags are just a minor testament to that.
“Why...why go this far?”
Buccellati takes a slow breath, watching as Trish curled up tighter to herself. She was so much smaller than everyone on the team, softer too. Her hair bounced slightly when she walked and she smelled like raspberry bubblegum shampoo, the kind Buccellati’s mother used to wash his hair with when he was little.
She was still just a kid. A lost, scared kid.
Buccellati’s fingers tightened slightly into a fist.
“He cares for you, the Boss.” Buccellati offers slowly, delicately, like any louder would scare Trish away. “He wants to ensure your safety is what it looks like to me.”
Trish remains silent, her eyes locked on the floor. It feels like an hour passes before she lifts her head and locks eyes with Buccellati.
“What if I don’t end up liking him?”
Buccellati offers a soft look, his eyes going gentle in the way that Abbacchio says make him look like somebody’s mother.
“No family worries about that.”
Trish’s eyes remain downcast. After a moment she leans back against the couch, tipping over and pressing her face to the soft fabric of the chaise.
“Okay...okay.” She murmurs softly. “I just- I just- “ she lets out a shaky sigh.
“I just hope..I hope this works out.”
Buccellati stays, watching as her breathing slowly evens out. Her shoulders rise and fall with soft breaths as she sleeps.
Buccellati hopes it all works out for her as well.
XxX
It’s a few hours later, the sun only beginning to rise that Buccellati becomes fully aware of all the shit that has been going down in the last few days.
Protection missions typically mean limited communications. Almost no one carries a phone or other electronics outside of the main device to relay messages. Money is transferred through a private account and cashed in a Passione controlled bank within a certain time frame.
Any inter-gang developments that occur in the time frame after a mission has begun and before it’s over are completely unknown. Which normally wasn’t a problem given the fact that it’s very unlikely that Passione will completely crumble in the span of a few days.
Buccellati is mostly right about that.
He’s also kind of wrong.
Which he figures out when Fugo turns on the hotel’s TV. It’s over poached eggs, toast, and tea that he and the rest of the squad find out about what has happened in Rome.
The news anchors are talking about it like it was a random tragedy. Like a fuel truck went out of control and crashed into a high speed train- kind of tragedy.
But Buccellati has a stand, and most importantly, he has eyes. And he knows the aftermath of a stand-battle when he sees one.
By the looks on his squad member’s faces, they do as well. Trish’s eyes are wide and frozen and Buccellati has half a mind to tuck her away back into the turtle until the news story has blown over.
They all wait until Trish has excused herself to the bathroom before firing off their questions.
“What the fuck-”
“Buccellati, do you know anything about this?”
“Did you see that? What kind of stand does that?”
“Hey-hey shouldn’t we change the channel? I mean Trish looked-”
The four of them are talking so loudly over one another, Buccellati can barely make out their questions. The ones he does hear are ones he has himself.
In-fighting in Passione isn’t rare, Buccellati would even go so far as to say it was common. When you had dozens of stand users localized to each other, there were bound to be some clashes. However, most squads tended to follow a sort of honor system ‘you don’t attack us, we don’t attack you’.
This though.
This looked retaliatory rather than just your normal everyday disagreement.
Buccellati’s eyes wandered to the death and injured count moving across the screen at the bottom. He didn’t know anyone with a stand that could level this amount of damage.
Then again, he wasn’t privy to information about stands on people higher ranked than him. Now that he was a Capo, he could easily request the intelligence files on everyone in his territory, and those in others.
With the threat of all the unknown stands out there, that should probably be his next move while awaiting the Boss’s next move.
“Something is happening, Buccellati.”
Buccellati recalled the serious look that Pericolo had given him, could feel it seeping back to the forefront of his mind.
His eyes cast another glance to the TV screen before making a move towards the remote.
XxX
Narancia corners him in the bathroom later that night. Trish is tucked away and asleep with Abbacchio on watch in the living room. Both Fugo and Mista are in their rooms reading magazines and bumping up the bill by taking advantage of the provided snack trays.
At first, Buccellati thinks it’s going to be another one of the younger’s attempts to get him to join in on the hazing the three of them still have going on. The wide eyes and slightly panicked breaths tell him otherwise.
Narancia inches his face close to Buccellati, the scent of his caramel and chocolate breath wafting across Buccellati’s cheeks.
“There’s seven people here.” Narancia whispers lowly, eyes scrunched almost like he’s in pain. “There’s supposed to be six, but there’s seven.”
Buccellati’s eyes widen.
XxX
Risotto Nero has been tailing them since they were dropped off at their first hotel by Melone and Ghiaccio.
“What and you couldn’t have said anything?” Abbacchio asks, lips turned down into a frown as he stared down La Squadra’s leader sitting in an armchair. “You were just watching us like some kind of voyeur freak?”
Risotto doesn’t react, his dark eyes locked on Buccellati.
The clear dismissal has Abbacchio scowling, his hands clenching at his side.
“Hey! I’m talking to-”
“The Boss asked me to watch over you all until he finished cleaning up in Rome.”
That silences the slowly growing incredulity in the hotel room. Trish is still asleep but both Mista and Fugo have been drawn out of their rooms and were backing up Abbacchio’s ‘voyeur freak’ accusations.
Risotto doesn’t say anything for the rest of the night.
XxX
When Risotto speaks to Buccellati for the first time, it nearly startles him bad enough to drop the cup and saucer of hot tea that he’s holding.
“What was that?” Buccellati asks, composing himself as he turned his head back to face Risotto, who was sitting at the kitchen table like a silently observing cat.
He’d been doing that since Narancia figured out he was skulking around the hotel room.
“I asked what you did for him.” Risotto repeats, expression unchanging as he gazed at Buccellati.
“Who?”
Risotto doesn’t answer. Instead he continues on like the two of them are square dancing on the same page.
“He went through a lot of trouble to find me and get me to toss my lot in with him.”
Buccellati is still lost.
“And I’ll admit, at first it was because he was the only person that seemed to have any leads. But then he started doing all this.” Risotto waves his hand around, gesturing to the hotel room with his wide wingspan.
He stares down Buccellati again, eyes narrowed like he was trying to find...something in his appearance. His forehead smoothed and he went back to staring back to the room at large.
“I don’t know what you did to earn that kind of loyalty,” Risotto continued, red eyes locked on Bruno with a strange intensity,”but if I were you. I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Buccellati stood standing for a few more seconds before figuring out that was the end of the conversation. He turned back and continued on his way to refresh his laptop for any new orders.
XxX
Bruno Buccellati has been having a strange week.
Because within the span of a week; Polpo is dead, he’s promoted to Capo, he’s assigned to protect a slightly bratty but mostly sad teenage girl, and the entirety of Passione is tipped over on its head when their faceless Don suddenly gains a face.
It was that last part that really did it for him.
Mainly because Buccellati’s been part of Passione for years, and never, not once has he ever even heard a lick of information on the boss. And not through his own lack of trying. Which stopped relatively quickly after seeing what happened to people who went sticking their noses into places it didn’t belong.
But this was different. Because within the span of a few hours, Buccellati’s getting flooded with messages and questions from every soldado now under his command. The sheer amount has him locking himself in the office of the hotel room just so he can sort through them.
Every single one of them is about the same thing. The Don.
Requests for a meeting from his soldados.
Requests for confirmation on street information.
Emails from the Capos of the Data Analysis Team, the Blackmail Team, the Bribery Department.
Buccellati’s getting messages from people in corners of Passione he’s never even heard of. Which shouldn’t take him aback as much given that he’s spent the last week receiving secondary guarding at the hands of Passione’s main squad of Assassins.
Typing up several generic responses that he’s written up for Polpo before, Buccellati begins sending out responses about supposedly looking into the various claims and new load of information.
In reality he knows fuck all. He supposed he could interrogate Risotto, but the other man had been about as forthcoming with conversation as a clam. Aside from the first night they realized he was among them. And even then he’d outright stated his presence was temporary.
Temporary until... until the boss finished cleaning up in Rome.
Clicking through his inbox again, Buccellati slowly scrolled through the slightly blurred photograph of their apparent Don.
Blond. That’s all Buccellati can make out. He’s blond with long hair that rests at his shoulders. He’s wearing pink and he can see the line of his jaw as he’s faced away from the photographer. Carefully, if Buccellati squints enough he can barely make out a strangely shaped birthmark just under the collar of his suit.
XxX
The second time Buccellati hears the name ‘Giorno Giovanna’ it’s when he’s sitting with a spine straighter than steel at a cafe down the street from their new hotel.
With the sharp scrambling Passione is facing and the confusion wafting through the gang about the identity of the boss, if it’s true or if it’s false. It was more than enough reason for Buccellati to step out of the hotel for a moment. New Protection Mission protocol usually states no one on his team is to go anywhere on their own (since the near deathmatch miss that happened with Narancia and Formaggio), but that was before Buccellati was a Capo. And you’d have to be a special kind of stupid to attack a Capo of Passione. He’s sure his new position has already been passed through the ranks and trickled down to neighborhoods under his command.
Which would explain the lack of bill being handed to him after a round of cake and tea.
There’s fail safes in place, ways to truly confirm the Don’s identity. Those have yet to come out, so Buccellati is a little less on edge when he leaves the cafe and walks past a teen sitting at a fountain near the town’s piazza. Strangely enough, an army of frogs is crowded around his thigh. The blond teen doesn’t seem put off by it at all, gently stroking their heads with a single finger in what seems like affection.
Something about him rings a bell somewhere in Buccellati’s mind. It could just be that staring at his computer screen for so long just has his eyes latching on to the nearest blond in his vicinity. But he still can’t deny the inexplicable pull that tugs him towards the young man.
It’s as he sits down at the same fountain that he sees the teen’s other hand is occupied with a cone of gelato. It’s chocolate and pistachio and melting slowly under the sun. A few drops are even beginning to slide down to the teenager’s fingers. Without thinking, Buccellati reaches into one of his pockets and tugs out a spare napkin. Experience with Narancia and Fugo have taught to always keep some on hand.
He hands it over, meeting the lightly startled blue gaze of the boy. As he inclines his head, Buccellati can see the softness of youth in his face, despite the firm line of his brow and straight shoulders. His lips fall open in a small ‘o’ of surprise, accepting Buccellati’s napkin with a low hum of thanks.
Buccellati watches as he runs the cloth along the back of his hand, cleaning up melted cream. He licks up dots of gelato threatening to fall before turning to face Buccellati, a slight upturn in his lips.
“Thank you.” He offers, voice low. His blue eyes were lit up with a kind of light as they stared at Buccellati with a strange intensity, one that had him shifting in place as he nodded in acknowledgement. He doesn’t have a reason for sitting beside the young stranger, besides perhaps striking up a conversation.
The rest of the team didn’t seem to share his concerns and he hadn’t wanted to burden them by bringing them up.
Not that he was planning on burdening an innocent stranger with them either.
“You’re deep in thought.” The blond teen observes, crossing his legs and letting a fine leather shoe clad foot dangle primly. His bright gaze seeps into Buccellati’s skin, eyes introspective as he stared. “Mind if I ask why?”
Buccellati meets his stare, his own dark eyes flitting over rosy skin, and lightly sunburned cheeks. The smell of sunscreen wafts heavily into Buccellati’s nose and he finds his mouth opening without much thought.
“Just usual worries,” he starts,”it...tends to weigh heavily on ones mind you see.”
The teen nods slowly in understanding, the movement jostling his cone and dripping cream on the pavement below. Gold bangles on his wrist catch the light, briefly blinding Buccellati with their movement.
A contemplative silence slots between them. It’s cut short when a palm snakes in close to Buccellati.
“Giorno.” The boy offers, a soft quirk of his lips accompanying his words. “Giorno Giovanna.”
The name tickles something in Buccellati’s mind. Which is enough of a reason for him to reach out and grasp the calloused palm.
“Bruno.” He returns. “Bruno Buccellati.”
He has no idea why he immediately offers up his full name. Usually when he does that it’s to a mark he’s about to beat down or kill and he wants them to know exactly who did it. Even to people he was friendly with he was only ever ‘Buccellati’, never Bruno.
Fingers immediately curl around Buccellati’s hand, trailing and lingering when they pull away. Buccellati finds himself doing the same to Giorno.
Giorno’s eyes are a beguiling blue, the kind Buccellati would imagine a siren would have, the ones that sang and lured fishermen further and further out to sea until they capsized their boats on an unseen reef.
Giorno lets out a shaky little sigh, his brows furrowed the slightest bit as he stared up at Buccellati. Buccellati can smell chocolate and pistachios on his breath.
Abruptly, Giorno stands up, his white coat fluttering slightly. Buccellati stares up at him as Giorno smiles, a fond look seeping onto his face as he dusted himself off.
“Buccellati,” He begins slowly, some strange light reflecting in his eyes, “It brings me great joy to know you have a good soul.”
The words are so unexpected and out of nowhere Buccellati can’t help but flounder slightly. He’s so baffled he doesn’t even manage to call out for Giorno as he walks away, disappearing into a side street.
Buccellati stays sitting at the fountain for a moment longer, listening to the trickle of water before standing up and knocking a small tower of pebbles to the ground.
Strange.
Buccellati’s eyes drift to the corners of the fountain, eyes flickering to the water before returning to the pile of stone pebbles he’s scattered.
He could’ve sworn there was a little clutch of frogs jumping around just then.
XxX
The third time Buccellati hears the name ‘Giorno Giovanna’ he really wishes he hadn’t.
It’s the seventh day since the start of the original protection assignment to protect Trish Una, the boss’s daughter. And also the day Buccellati finally receives his final round of orders.
Which was to escort Trish down to the lobby where the boss would be waiting for them.
If Trish had been skittish before, she was a trembling mess the day of. At breakfast she’d stuck especially close to Narancia’s side, practically glued beside him as the boy aggravated Fugo by hogging a bottle of sparkling juice to be shared between him and Trish.
Buccellati watched as her fingers twitched beside her cutlery, making no move towards her plate. A sheen of nervous perspiration coated the side of her face, and Buccellati knew just from sight that it carried the tart taste of fear.
The two of them stand silently in the elevator to the lobby, having left the others in the hotel room and been sent off with well wishes from the team and a strange stare from Risotto.
Trish is trembling beside Buccellati, her form quivering as it inched closer to Buccellati’s side. Buccellati keeps his palm open and pliable, tightening his fingers when he feels Trish reach for his hand. He keeps his soft grip when the elevator doors slide open.
The concierge is absent from his post. That’s the first thing Bruno notes. The next thing is that there’s no guests milling around, not that he’d seen any before hand. The halls were always strangely empty on the rare occasion someone left the room, and he’d yet to see any staff aside from the concierge the first night they arrived.
Part of Buccellati suspected that it was likely that they were the only occupants of the hotel. That thought gets cut short when he catches sight of a figure standing by the windows looking out onto the street. The blond hair immediately catches Buccellati’s eye.
His mind flashes back to the image he’s sure has already been seared into his brain from the amount of time he’s spent looking at it.
It’s braided into a neat plait, resting against the back of a black silk suit with green embroidered flowers. He’s also shorter that Buccellati expected. Not that he’d had very many expectations.
Buccellati has no lost love for the boss outside of the basic loyalty owed to Passione that every member is obligated to. He knows of the dealers and drugs flooding the city more and more with every day that passes. He knows of the children, the growing violence in the addicts.
The shame that weighed in him everytime he discovered how much more there was that was going on right under his nose. His heart had all but withered, filled with resignation.
Until Polpo died.
Until the position of Capo landed in his lap.
Until he remembered that Capos were the final say in what went on in their territories and how they could accept or deny other services of Passione. Including the drug trade.
And it had felt like opportunity, like redemption.
And when the boss turns around, revealing a familiar set of blue eyes- Buccellati’s not sure what he feels.
Trish makes a soft noise beside him, her fingers still tightly gripping Buccellati’s hand.
Giorno stares at them both, his mouth set in a neutral line. His eyes aren’t soft but they aren’t hard either. He’s simply staring at them, observing them. Like he was waiting to see what they would do next.
Trish’s palm is slightly moist, her fingers wringing around Buccellati’s. She’s the first one of them to speak.
“F-Father?” She asks, uncertainty and hesitation in every chord of her voice.
Giorno’s brows immediately raise, surprise flickering across his expression before disappearing just as quickly.
“Oh, no.” He responds quietly, voice low as his gaze settled on Trish. “I apologize, I should have shared more information with you. My name is Giorno Giovanna, Don of Passione.”
Giorno’s head bows slightly, apology evident in the motion. When his head lifts, Buccellati almost tenses at the sudden resolve present. Giorno’s eyes have hardened, the blue of his iris darkening.
“Trish,” He begins, “Your father was a... former member of Passione.”
Buccellati narrows his eyes at how Giorno briefly paused on ‘former’. The pause was too long to have been an old event.
“-was a misunderstanding, and you were targeted.”
Meaning that the disappearance or death or otherwise absent status of Trish’s father had to be a new development, something recent.
“-apologize for your abrupt abduction and subsequent shuffling these last few days.”
Why start with stating that Trish’s father wasn’t present? Why offer no name? Buccellati has informed friends and family over the death of Passione members on Polpo’s orders before and the first thing he always does is offer condolences.
Buccellati glances at Giorno’s expression. His blond brows are furrowed, soft mouth curved down slightly to show displeasure. Not an ounce of sympathy in his expression. He clearly hadn’t been a fan of Trish’s father.
But if that was the case-
“I will gladly provide you with whichever accommodations or services you require in the coming days.” Giorno continues quietly, gaze softening on Trish. Trish stared at him, lips parted slightly.
-If that was the case. Why bother with Trish at all?
“Passione takes care of their own.” Giorno murmurs, resting a hand on Trish’s shoulder before pulling away.
‘Bullshit’ Buccellati wants to spit. He’s seen the families and lovers of former gang members get kicked to the curb once their guy on the inside had outlived their usefulness. Buccellati’s seen widows of respected Soldados be shuffled into prostitution to settle outlying debts.
The thought has Buccellati clenching his fists against the fabric of his suit, if Giorno even thought about doing that to Trish Don or not, Bruno would-
“I’m not part of Passione.” Trish replies in an irked tone of voice. It’s the same tone she took with Fugo when he’d brought back the wrong brand of mineral water to the hotel room.
Buccellati tenses, prepared to summon Sticky Fingers because he knows that the Don has put people to death for less than a snippy attitude.
Giorno stares at her, unnervingly blank eyes slowly filling with a strange fondness that has Buccellati hesitating. Giorno’s mouth parts in an almost soundless laugh before laying a soft hand on Trish’s carefully coiffed hair, patting her head in what looked like a familiar motion.
Trish’s eyes filled with murder.
XxX
By the time Trish and Buccellati return to the hotel room, Buccellati is already thinking of the floor plan of his home in the countryside and rearranging furniture and paint swatches in his head. Trish had opted to stay with Buccellati and his group but refused membership from Passione.
Despite that Giorno still appeared adamant to offer his own assistance. Trish would be the fortunate recipient of a monthly allowance of a healthy sum of lire, which given her tastes would be appreciated by Buccellati while he was still setting up shop as Capo.
Buccellati barely gets in through the door before he’s being hounded by the rest of his squad, each of their voices clamoring together as they tried asking their own questions.
Peering over their shoulders, Buccellati spotted the empty loveseat where Risotto Nero had formerly taken up residence. It was empty and given the departure of the Don and subsequent end to their mission, made sense.
Idly, Buccellati wondered if Risotto and his squad would end up passing whatever test they were undergoing. Hopefully. Buccellati would like to think that their two squads had managed to find some kind of middle ground between them. One that reeked of a certain Don that looked far too young to be in charge of Passione.
Not that it was Buccellati’s place to pass judgment on that sort of thing.
Still. With the end of the mission to protect Trish, Buccellati doubted the two of them would be crossing paths again. Face or no face, most members have gone years without hearing or seeing hide or hair of the boss. Buccellati would be content to have many more.
XxX
Buccellati is only a few days into purging his streets of filth when word reaches his ears.
Or more like Fugo reaches his ears.
“The Don killed his Consiglieri?” Abbacchio asked, voice dripping in disbelief. Buccellati was very much of the same opinion. Mista and Naranchia were more vocal in their reactions, exclaiming loud enough to have Buccellati peeking around the corner of their private section of the restaurant to check the other guests.
Fugo nodded, eyes dark with unease as he fiddled with his glass of wine. He wasn’t drinking, which meant he was more on edge than usual. Which was a given, out of all of them Fugo always preferred having his ear to the ground. No surprises that way.
“It’s more like he slashed it right in half.” Fugo muttered, fingernails digging into the tablecloth. Narancia wasn’t needling so even the other boy was able to see how off Fugo was about whatever he’d picked up while catching up with his contacts in Data Analysis.
“That’s what all that shit going down in Rome was about,” He continued, brows furrowed, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Apparently a few of them weren’t too happy about being put on the new hit list.”
At that Buccellati’s brows raised in surprise. The hit list was technically a free for all, but given that his new domain was the gambling dens, he didn’t think much of that would be floating across his radar anymore.
Fugo clenched his fists against the table for a moment, his mouth parting slightly as he took a calming breath. His gaze flickered up to meet Buccellati’s eyes.
“The Don asked me to help on a job for one of the hit targets.”
“He what?” Buccellati asked before he could process the words. Fugo’s gaze remained steadfast.
“We’re going after the Narcotics Division.”
Buccellati couldn’t have stopped his jaw from dropping even if he wanted. Abbacchio’s expression mirrored his.
“You’re going after the drug peddlers?” Mista asked incredulously. Narancia was silent, face stuck between confusion and anger.
“Doesn’t that filth make up almost thirty-six percent of Passione’s income?” Abbacchio asked, voice in more of a grunt as he narrowed his gaze on Fugo. “What would possess you to take on a job like that? You know those guys have more protection than most Politicians, right?”
“Don Giovanna terminated their protection detail, most of them are on the run.” Fugo replied lowly, voice almost in a murmur. “From what I hear, anyone who brings them in is getting a huge bonus, the Esecozioni were on that shit like nobody’s business.”
Yeah, Buccellati could see that being true. It amazed him how much of a temper Ghiaccio managed to have. He nearly beat out Fugo.
“Huh.” Mista hummed, brows quirked as he pushed a plate of salami into the hands of his bullets. “So it’s wabbit season?”
“If that’s the case then why are you going?” Buccellati couldn’t help but ask. In the time they’d spent together, the Esecozioni came across as anything but incompetent. Deadly as Fugo’s stand was, he doubted they wouldn’t be able to put the Narcotics division in the ground without him.
Even if part of Buccellati was itching to go too. He had more than a few scores to settle with the people that put that trash in his streets. The image of his father’s deterioration in his last moments flashed in his mind and it took everything Buccellati had to temper it back down.
Fugo looked like he was hesitating for a moment before answering.
“Don Giovanna asked me personally.”
Buccellati’s anger fled him.
“You got to meet the Don?” Narancia asked, disbelieving. Fugo immediately looked like his feathers had been ruffled.
“Why wouldn’t I get meet the Don?”
“I didn’t say that! God! Fugo you’re such a bitch-”
Anything that Buccellati might’ve wanted to ask was immediately put on the backburner in favor of Fugo trying to carve out Narancia’s eyes with a spoon.
XxX
It’s not that Buccellati was angry that the Don had approached Fugo without him knowing. Because really, if the Don had to ask permission from a Capo for access to their subordinates he wouldn’t be much a Don would he?
Nonetheless, he’s still surprised when arrives home and is welcomed by the sight of Trish helping herself to some expensive looking truffles and champagne.
“Oh by the way, this came for you.” She offers, holding up a gold embossed card in his direction. Buccellati accepts, not saying anything as she picked up the hefty tray and began making her way to her new room.
Well, at least it was good to know that she was settling in well. The fact that she’d begun pilfering CDs from Narancia’s room were more than proof of that.
The card is made of a thick paper, easily an expensive cut the Don or his errand boy must get from a high end boutique. Definitely what Buccellati would’ve expected from someone who wore Ferragamo shoes so close to a fountain.
‘Bruno Buccellati, I apologize for not coming to you first prior to approaching your subordinate. I hope to avoid such a thing in the future so as to ensure our relationship.
Yours, Don Giovanna’
Buccellati stared at the card, reading the painfully beautiful calligraphy written in glitter ink. He feels like he’s more than justified in the surge of confusion that follows because ‘relationship’? ‘Yours’?
XxX
It soon dawns on Buccellati that the way the Don treats him is distinctly different than how he is apparently treating everyone else in Passione.
‘I don’t know what you did to earn that kind of loyalty,’
In that Buccellati is so clearly the favorite among them all.
‘But if I were you. I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
Because Giorno Giovanna is not a bad Don as everyone soon finds out. If anything he’s a great Don, because Passione is suddenly doing better than it’s probably done since it was first established.
Any backlash or loss in profits from elimination of the drug trade is completely absent. And Buccellati would know because he had been paying close attention to how much the gambling sector had been pulling in, knowing that his division would now be the highest grossing industry in the gang.
But the other shoe never drops. Passione doesn’t lose money. Instead, it starts gaining money- massive amounts from what Buccellati can tell.
All, apparently, from the Don’s investments. All, apparently, high risk.
And Buccellati would know because he’s seen Passione’s stock portfolio. And all he did to get it was ask. Something incomprehensible to Melone and Ghiaccio as well as the rest of the Esecuzioni who had decided that Buccellati’s territory was a nice place to settle down in.
“The fucks so special about you!” Ghiaccio had seethed after learning that Buccellati apparently had very easy access to Don Giovanna’s personal documents. And Buccellati learned that apparently other Capos didn’t.
“You know this has insider trading written all over it, right?” Abbacchio had pointed out when Buccellati had shown him the portfolio. “No court would get it to stick though, Don Giovanna is selling this shit weeks, almost entire months before these companies go down the drain.”
“You think he’s getting lucky?”
Abbacchio scoffed in a way that told Buccellati exactly what he thought of that notion.
“No one’s this lucky for this long. He’s just riding the highs then jumping off just before getting to the peak.”
“Sounds like a smart plan to me.” Mista pointed out, all too happy to exploit the Don’s strange favor of them. Of him especially. Buccellati has no idea what’s going on between him and Don Giovanna but he’s pretty sure that Mista hasn’t paid for anything in weeks. Especially not all the ammo he now has a surplus of, despite the fact that he used to bitch about the cost of bullets to the whole team whenever he’d buy in bulk.
Also the watch he was wearing looked pretty expensive. And Buccellati couldn’t recall Mista ever having a taste for that sort of stuff.
“You would say that.” Abbacchio snorted, leaning back in his chair far enough that Buccellati almost wanted to warn him that’d he’d fall. “Don Giovanna’s been trying to suck your cock since he laid eyes on you.”
“Gross man! Don’t talk about Giorno like that!”
“Oho?” Abbacchio asked, vile grin splitting his face. “You call the Don of Passione ‘Giorno’?”
“He asked me to call him Giorno. And I told you, it ain’t like that.”
“Really? Where’d you get that pretty watch from?”
XxX
“I have more than a week of continuous unexcused absences,” Don Giovanna murmured lowly, looking down and particularly distraught. “Any more and I’ll be looking at a suspension.”
Buccellati isn’t sure what to say to that because that’s not what he’d been expecting when Don Giovanna called him for a meeting. He’s also stuck on the fact that Don Giovanna has finally confirmed what he’s been thinking about since he met him. That he's most likely, younger than he appears. A teenager most likely.
“So,” Buccellati began slowly, suddenly feeling even more at a loss, “you said you want to...put me in charge while...you’re in school?”
Giovanna nodded.
Ghiaccio was going to lose his fucking mind.
“Education is important.” He stated. “The age limit for joining Passione has yet to take effect and I believe our younger members would feel encouraged to continue or return to school if they saw me doing it as well.”
Buccellati’s mind immediately jumped to thoughts of Narancia and his spotty attendance. Of Fugo’s earnest attempts at tutoring and subtle pushing to reenter the education system.
“I’ll admit that finishing school has always been a bit of a fantasy of mine.” Giovanna continued. “I never got to finish...before...and I think it weighed on me a bit.”
Buccellati understands even if the phrasing is a bit strange.
His own lack of formal education had always been a bit of a sorepoint for him as well. The money his father had earned and saved up for him to get a good education ended up getting recycled back to pay for his care, for food, for repairs to the house that got more and more battered without his father to continually fix it up.
The little salary he got from when he first joined Passione also met the same fate.
Out of his entire squad, it was him and Narancia that had yet to fully finish their mandated schooling. Fugo didn’t count because he’d been in University at the time where most kids were still finishing compulsory school.
“And it would be a waste,” Giorno sighed, eyes looking genuinely remorseful in a way that took Buccellati aback.
“My schooling has already been paid for by my ...papa, years ago. I’d hate to disrespect him like this again.”
At that Bruno can’t help but cant a brow upward. Because the moment the Don’s name began circulating through the streets, everyone was scrambling for whatever information they could find on him. Even Buccellati when he finally got a moment to breathe tried digging up all he could. He’d been somewhat successful, able to get some basic data just by sticking his ear to the grapevine.
Giorno had been attending pricey private schools since he was eight years old, the kind that asked an arm and a leg just for you to apply, according to Fugo.
Where the tuition money came from Buccellati had no idea because neither of Giorno’s parents were swimming in wealth.
There was Mrs. Giovanna ne Shiobana, for a mother that modeled for local department store catalogues and was well known in bars and clubs. And a Mr. Giovanna, Giorno’s stepfather since he was four years old, who apparently made his way in gambling on horse races. Buccellati only knew that because he recognized his picture as a man in a crowd of frequent gamblers whenever he’d stop by the tracks to pick up the week’s profits.
Thankfully, Mr. Giovanna seemed to make a decent living on horse races. Otherwise Buccellati would have to have his kneecaps shattered and he’d loath to be the one to explain to the Don why his stepfather was no longer capable of walking.
But even with a decent streak of luck and a good eye for horses, Notte Giovanna didn’t make anywhere near enough to afford all those years of Don Giovanna’s schooling.
‘- paid for by my ...papa, years ago.’
But what did it matter about who paid for the education of one the most powerful men in Italy.
“I’ve only been Capo for less than a month.” Buccellati still couldn’t help but point out. Giorno’s eyes brightened, likely taking Buccellati’s slight protest as an agreement. Which it hadn’t been.
“That’s alright, Polnareff will be with you to help.”
“Who?”
XxX
Jean Pierre Polnareff is a Frenchman, with silver hair that doesn’t appear to be due to age, who is confined to a wheelchair and appears to be equally baffled about the amount of faith Don Giovanna has in them. And has even less experience in running a gang than Buccellati. His expertise and assistance lies mainly in dealing with stand users.
However the solidarity soothes the waves of confusion that sometimes overwhelm Buccellati at the sheer amount of unearned loyalty he is given.
Don Giovanna doesn’t even ask for daily updates, opting to visit his villa and center of operations during the weekends and reading through Buccellati and Polnareff’s reports between his Calculus homework.
Though, Buccellati is pretty sure he doesn’t read them as thoroughly as he should, likely taking their verbal reports at face value. Even in his own squad, Buccellati always made sure to scrutinize every detail and incident listed on his team’s reports. Not because he didn’t trust them, but because you never knew what small and seemingly insignificant details might end up becoming important in the future.
Though that didn’t seem to matter given that a lot of the time, Don Giovanna’s orders, while seemingly baseless all tended to work out in their favor.
Blackmail this Politician that’s been voting in favor of laws benefiting Passione for years? Turns out he was quietly working with a gang based in Milan to engulf some of Passione’s businesses.
Kill these seemingly innocent fishermen? They’ve been trying to restart the drug trade, bringing in product from the far east.
It was almost unnerving how accurate Don Giovanna was when cleaning house. Usually more than a few innocents would get caught up in a round up- false accusations, wrong place wrong time. That sort of thing.
But not Don Giovanna. If he said you were a bad person with a filthy soul and you deserved to die, then you deserved to die.
Sometimes Buccellati wondered if that was Don Giovanna’s stand, being able to tell the good sort from the bad. Like when you were at the grocers and trying to pick out the ripe fruits from the ones that were rotting and had wasps or maggots inside.
‘Buccellati. It brings me great joy to know you have a good soul.’
Buccellati knew it wasn’t likely. He’s been told by Polnareff that Don Giovanna’s stand was combat based, versatile, and unlike anything he’d ever seen before.
Something that came in handy when he’d been cleaning up Rome.
“I almost didn’t believe he could do it.” Polnareff had confessed to him once while they were sorting through Passione’s finances and bank statements. “I know better than to underestimate the youths but seeing him and Diavolo- it was something else.”
“Who’s Diavolo?”
“Who was Diavolo.” Polanreff corrected before furrowing his brows. “You don’t know?”
XxX
Part of Buccellati feels almost regretful when he recalls the barely contained simmer of distaste he had for Giorno in the beginning. Under the impression that the sins of his predecessor had been his own.
In hindsight he should’ve seen it sooner. There was no way a fifteen year old could possibly have founded Passione. He’d have been in primary school when Passione started getting a foothold in the country.
“Why...why would he go after him? After the boss of Passione?”
“I asked him the same thing, imagine my face when I opened my door to a fifteen year old saying he was going to kill Diavolo.”
Polnareff then muttered something about ‘Jotaro’ having been ‘seventeen.’
“Did he tell you?”
At that Polnareff’s face twists into something, something that looked like a cross between grief and understanding.
“He said Diavolo killed his friends.”
XxX
There were a lot of things that Buccellati didn’t know about Giorno Giovanna. Even more that he didn’t understand. Like how he looked at Buccellati when he thought he couldn’t see him and how his eyes shone with wistfulness. How he allowed Abbacchio to waltz down to the wine cellar of the villa and guzzle wines that’d been aging for decades (without sharing) before passing out on a chaise couch sewn out of pure silk. His investment in Narancia’s education. In Trish’s happiness. In Fugo’s health. In the slightly ambiguous and possibly sexual relationship he had with Mista.
Sometimes Buccellati wondered if when he looked at them he saw someone else.
‘He said Diavolo killed his friends.’
If Buccellati started striking up conversations that had nothing to do with finances or the state of Passione then that was no ones business but his. And if he started inviting Giorno to team dinners and Giorno accepted, then that was no ones business but theirs.
XxX
Of all the duties Buccellati had undertaken following Giorno’s take over of Passione, delivering toll money to Leaky Eyed Luca had been at the very bottom of the list.
Mainly because all Giorno had done was push a thick envelope stuffed with lire into Buccellati’s hands and left it at that.
“Back pay for Luca from Giorno Giovanna.” He’d explained.
That almost threw Buccellati for a loop because while he knew vaguely that Giorno had to have done something before becoming the Don- a small time cab con artist had not even made the list.
But Buccellati goes regardless because technically Luca is his problem now that Polpo is gone. Even if he’s half sure he’ll be dead any day from running his mouth off at the wrong person.
Which is exactly what he expects when he hands the envelope to Luca and the man immediately starts shit-talking. Waving about how he owed ‘that shit stain Giorno a little something else’ while gripping his shovel that had knocked out more teeth in a week than Buccellati did in a year.
Buccellati knew that Luca was probably an idiot with no other sense besides eat, drink, and fight- but even he couldn’t have his head buried that deep in the sand.
Then again, if Giorno had to deal with Luca before, then he likely knew exactly the type of person he was. And yet he hadn’t told Buccellati to beat the shit out of him regardless.
Which in Buccellati’s book meant Luca got to keep all his teeth.
Thank the Lord for small mercies he supposed.