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One would think that Bruno Buccellati's – wonder boy mobster that he is – lair would be something more appropriate. But no it's just a plain old restaurant.
It's not what Ghiaccio was expecting and, therefore, he doesn't like it. Next to him Pesci shuffles out of the car. Ghiaccio reminds himself that he has to be strong right now. He's the one carrying this mission, he can't fuck this up. The other/s depend on him to keep his shit together.
He's not even sure why they keep Pesci around, maybe as proof that Prosciutto has a heart. At least that's what Sor-- No, not going there. Whatever, Squadra rumor mill has it, that Prosciutto was recruited and showed up with Pesci in tow, claiming he was his apprentice. Pesci did something impressive in front of Risotto – at that point Ghiaccio thinks the story derails into fantasy because the most impressive thing he's seen Pesci do is rescue a kitten from a tree. Which was pretty awesome to be honest. Whatever, his point is that Pesci is like La Squadra's unofficial mascot. Ghiaccio needs to watch his back.
He claps Pesci on the shoulder reassuringly and smiles. He hopes it's less grimace than it feels. Pesci leans a bit backwards, maybe he put too much force on the clap. But then the corners of Pesci's lips tilt up in a shy smile. Nailed it. Pesci's other point of reference for pep talk is fucking Prosciutto, so what was he worried about? Prosciutto hasn't done a thing in his life better than Ghiaccio.
At least they're finally rid of Pericolo, Ghiaccio isn't certain he could have held back from perma-frosting his wrinkled ass much longer. The vile man made small talk for the whole ride. As if Pesci and him were anything more than glorified hostages, another message for La Squadra to stay in line.
Fuck the Boss, and fuck these guys.
It stings that he's become the weak link along with Pesci. Standing next to him, it's so obvious that he's nervous but then again maybe it's worse for him. Ghiaccio is a heavy hitter, Pesci's current job is to remind Prosciutto that he's an actual human being instead of a fancy sentient clothes wrack.
Together they walk into the restaurant to face their new squad.
-
This squad is a fucking joke.
This is Ghiaccio's first assessment.
They sit at a table at a table and look at Pesci and Ghiaccio like they're judges at a skating competition. Ghiaccio glares at them, if any of these mall punk gangsters think they can try shit with him, he's ready, any time, any place.
Buccellati's the team leader, then there's the pig and the rich kid alongside some other brat that's trying to hard too look tough.
“Welcome to my squad.” Buccellati says with a smile that drips more fake than Melone's lashes. Ghiaccio wants to scowl at him but like the pro he is, he tamps down on the urge. By all rights, he should be the superior here.
“Glad to be here,” He lies. “ I'm Ghiaccio, this is Pesci.”
He has no idea, what intel Buccellati has on them. The official version is that they're two bullets who have to lay low for a while.
“From where did you transfer?” The happy kid asks.
“Trieste.” He answers casually. This goes back and forth for a bit. They aren't offered any seats during the game of 21 questions. Just when he thinks they're about to be done.
Buccellati gets up, crosses the room and.
Licks him
?
???
What.
The.
Fuck.
“Get. Off. Me.” He's too furious to scream which has never happened before
Buccellati tries to move backwards, his tongue sticks to Ghiaccio's cheek. He tries to push him away but Buccellati refuses to part with his tongue, he does something fucked up with his Stand and Ghiaccio's cheek comes off. It falls on the floor with a piece of tongue stuck to it, Ghiaccio can feel the impact.
People scream, Pesci, Buccellati's guys, the man himself and Ghiaccio; more Stands are summoned and the situation is about to escalate, when the door opens to reveal their savior, the restaurant's elderly cook.
She does, what every sensible person does when faced with a couple of mobsters about to fight, scream, drop the pot of soup she's holding, and runs for the hills. The soup spills across the floors, tomato carnage everywhere.
Buccellati's tongue becomes unstuck by the heat. Ghiaccio seizes his freakish boss up like a bull. They are covered in tomato soup, outfits forever ruined. Ghiaccio balls his fist, this 70ties spaghetti western gorefest is about to get a touch of realism.
A gun cocks.
Ghiaccio activates 'Gently Weeps' and gets in front of Pesci.
“No fighting.” The cooks voice is absolute, the 50ties tommy gun is even more so.
Buccellati stands down, his guys follow him and after a second so do Pesci and Ghiaccio. They won't disrespect a lady in her own shop.
“Apologies,” Buccellati actually sounds the part. “I'll clean up –“
“We should clean ourselves up first, .... b-Buccellati." He's not going to call the fucker boss, diplomacy be damned. Also his suggestion is very sensible so the freak can't say shit, take that fucker.
"Right." At least, Buccellati isn't the kind of bootlicker who fakes politeness.
-
“What the fuck are you doing?” He's screeching outraged like the grannies on his old block.
Buccellati pauses, with the piece of Ghiaccio's cheek in his hand.
"Don't you want it back?" He's got a mean smirk on his face. Just for that Ghiaccio makes sure that the reattachment feels like a bomb disposal.
Buccellati gets him back when he zips out of his clothes like it's totally normal to strip in front of strangers.
“I'm changing and so are you. Narrancia has some spare clothes here." He says like Ghiaccio might be slow. For the second time this day, Ghiaccio stamps down on the urge to murder him.
Unaware of the existential threat in the room Buccellati proceeds to say.
“You're a liar."
Ghiaccio registers these accusation in a peripheral part of his brain, the major part has to deal with Buccellati's choice of underwear. It's like something Melone would wear but like tasteful. If he thinks about it too long, it looks like something Prosciutto might wear beneath his fancy fashionable suits. Ghiaccio internally cringes at this train of thought, cuts it off with a vengeance. Just no. Prosciutto is beautiful but also kind of creepy.
"What?"
"I don't trust you." Buccellati stays flatly. Ghiaccio raises his chin, he gets it, anything else and Buccellati would be a complete moron.
"We don't need trust, we just need to follow orders."
"Heard you were good at that."
Something flashes in Buccellati's eyes but he backs off; the perfect Capo's pet. He won't harm them outright and defy his orders to protect his guys but they sure can't trust him to watch their backs either. They get dressed in silence currently at stalemate.
-
They return to the dining room, where a curious sight awaits them.
“No, that's not for cutlery. What is wrong with you? Are you an animal, are you? Do you expect the guests to eat from stained silverware?”
Pesci commandeers the cleaning like a seasoned captain, even the sullen faced ex-pig's following his lead. The floor is spotless. Pesci walks over to the owner.
“I apologize for causing such an unsightly disturbance. Thank you for lending us your supplies.” It's like watching a mini-version of Prosciutto that has had its charme stats upgraded. Ghiaccio feels like he's stepped into the Twilight zone.
Pesci turns to them and Ghiaccio almost takes a step back at his darkening expression. Then he realizes Pesci is glaring at Buccellati.
“We're cool.” For now.
It's weird that he has to say it, he's not sure it's the right call. But he's also not sure that Pesci wouldn't fight Buccellati if he didn't because apparently somewhere along the creepiest car ride ever Pesci has grown a fucking spine.
This is his worst mission ever.