Chapter Text
The local metro was utter shit and had been since he was a teenager. Trains were a filthy cesspool of garbage litter and possible STDs. Most taxis were driven by skeevy crooks looking for gullible tourists to scam out of their luggage.
If there was one thing Ghiaccio hated most, it was unquestionably his salary, but public transportation was gearing up to be a very close second. Who in their right mind, would willingly subject themselves to the discomfort that came from being shoved around in a crowded bus? Or sit in a train car where the seat was sticky with suspicious residue that clung to the bottom of your pants? Not to mention the wailing babies, the incessant coughing on the back of your neck, the beggars, and the occasional throwing of fists.
If he had the choice, he wouldn’t go near public transit with a ten-foot pole.
It was better to own a vehicle and commute on your own terms, which was why Ghiaccio owned a red ’97 Miata. Even with his meager income, he could at least afford to put fuel in his tank every two weeks.
But unfortunately for him, the car needed maintenance after the fight with those bastards from Bucciarati’s team. Money was tight at the moment, not that it ever wasn't, so the repairs were slow going. With his precious car out of commission, Ghiaccio was also out of viable options.
One look at the darkening sky had him prepared to use his stand and skate home, but the thought almost immediately filled him with dread. He was tired as hell, exhausting his stand would be both reckless and stupid, and he was neither of those things. Ghiaccio decided to call base and give his capo an update instead.
Reading the sign posted by the bus stop, Ghiaccio withheld the urge to pull his hair. Apparently, the metro had stopped running sometime within his five-minute conversation with Risotto. He snarled and kicked a nearby fire hydrant. In about three hours, he’d better be asleep in bed or God help him, he was going to lose it.
Without another word, Ghiaccio powered off his cell phone to preserve its battery and made a beeline for the nearest station.
A one way ticket from L’Aquila to Napoli at this time of night would cost him more than he was inclined to spend, which made him all the angrier. Did they think he was made of money? What the fuck kind of shit was this? So, just fuck him for trying to get home, right?!
It took him less than fifteen seconds to zero in on the check out kiosk. Some pimple-faced kid sat with an adult mag in hand, and an ill-placed gossip magazine to cover his questionable choice in reading material. Engrossed in whatever idiotic fantasy his tiny brain conjured up, the kid hadn’t even noticed him standing right there. Ghiaccio rolled his eyes and with all the grace of a wrecking ball, proceeded to bang on the tempered glass until he got the attention of everyone within a ten-meter radius.
Eventually, he paid for his ticket—a sneer on his lips and a rouge vein pulsing on his forehead—with little fanfare.
Ghiaccio considered it a win when the train pulled up right as he got down to the platform, so he didn’t have to wait any longer for it. There weren’t many people around either, which was another win in his book. He could only hope that this small fortune wouldn't turn into bad luck.
He boarded and took his seat only a tad less angry than he was a moment ago.
Ghiaccio wouldn’t be much of an assassin if he didn’t take careful stock of his surroundings. With a calculated gaze, he counted an underwhelming total of four people in the train car, including himself. There was a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, a hunchbacked granny with a wooden cane sitting in the handicap seat, and finally a young woman with a coat so large it nearly swallowed her up.
He couldn’t even get a decent look at her face since she was wrapped in the thickest scarf he’d ever laid eyes on and the knit cap she wore covered most of her head and ears.
Ghiaccio was immediately suspicious of her and it had everything to do with her strange outfit. The woman had been the last to enter the train. She had peered up and down the aisle and taken the seat in the front, next to rumpled-suit-guy. Not a minute after, the man conked out and started snoring. It wasn’t too loud, the subway trundling down the track at eighty kilometers per hour was certainly louder. But Ghiaccio still wouldn’t have wanted to be near that noise. He’d probably hit the guy.
As the train took off, she stumbled out of her seat again and sat towards the back, directly across from him. He kept an eye on her the entire time.
After about fifteen minutes of watching her scroll through her phone, he decided to give himself a break from the hyper-vigilance. He leaned his head back against the seat with arms crossed as his eyes slid close. Fatigue began to set in, now that adrenaline wasn’t coursing through his veins. He especially felt an ache in his lower back. Ghiaccio’s brows furrowed as he remembered how long this ride was supposed to be. Could he really sit on his ass like this for fucking two hours straight?
His thoughts were abruptly halted at the sound of tapping.
Cracking an eye open, his gaze darted around the cabin until he found the source: the woman across from him was tapping her foot. Ghiaccio didn’t even think she was fully aware of what she was doing, but it grated on his already frayed nerves anyway.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Ghiaccio glared with scantily concealed rage as the tapping continued with more gusto, she was none the wiser. For some reason, he thought of that annoying discovery channel Formaggio was always trying to get everyone to watch—about the predators of sub-Saharan Africa and how they would calmly stalk their prey until it was time strike.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
It took only a second for him to snap.
“WOULD YOU CUT THAT SHIT OUT?! YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE!!”
Completely unaware of how close she was to ground zero, the woman flinched and hit her head against the window. The Ghiaccio-sized bomb dropped in their little train car, raining down saliva like shrapnel on their heads.
The sleeping man a few seats away awoke with a startled jolt, drool on his chin and eyes bloodshot. Even granny looked up from her crossword at the commotion booming from their end of the car.
Ghiaccio couldn’t care less. There were only two acceptable reactions in this situation: either put up or shut up.
He hadn’t expected for the woman to laugh, an annoying little giggle that sounded dainty and more birdlike than human.
“Apologies, Signore. It’s a bad habit of mine,” she mumbled, earning a raised brow from the assassin. Her Italian was good, proper even. But her accent was a dead giveaway that she was not actually from here. She rubbed the back of her head with a tense smile, though Ghiaccio was sure a knot was forming considering how hard she’d hit it.
“I just get so wrapped up in my thoughts, worrying about this and that until I can’t see the forest for the trees, you know? I mean I’ve always been kind of nitpicker, just like my mom actually—"
He tuned her out, retaking his seat but not remembering when he’d actually stood up. It was obvious this foreigner had a problem with over-sharing. She continued to ramble on and on about God knew what the fuck, and to a total stranger like him no less. What a ditz. It was just his luck running into a talkative, busy-bodied nutcase on a two-hour train ride.
More importantly, what the hell was she saying about trees and forests, what did that mean?
“Just shut up already.” He finally said in a tone much calmer than before. Her mouth shut, teeth snapping with an audible click. Ghiaccio could see her face now that the scarf had loosened up while she spoke emphatically about nothing at all. Her features were interesting, of course, she didn’t look that different from everyone else. However, her uniqueness was hidden in the subtleties of her countenance. She was not a native Italian.
After a beat of silence, well as silent as it could get in a train car. The man in the rumpled suit realized he wasn’t in any danger and promptly fell back asleep with his mouth open.
She spoke up again, her full attention on him. “Can I ask you something, Signore?”
Ghiaccio became on edge, ready to call forth White Album if the situation necessitated. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to charm him into a false sense of security before pulling a gun out, or worse, a stand. He was at a disadvantage in this train, but Ghiaccio was confident he could turn it around to favor him as usual.
“How are you not cold?” she pulled her coat closer as if to emphasize her point. “I’m barely holding it together over here.”
He pushed his glasses up with a single finger, tension diffusing out him like hot air out of a balloon. “Lady, are you fucking stoned? It’s nearly summer.”
“What? That’s not—I just get cold easily!”
“So, you’re anemic, then?” he retorted, and meant to be sarcastic but somehow came off vaguely genuine.
She paused. “Hm, you might be right.”
“Don’t fucking take my word for it! I’m not a damn doctor.” Ghiaccio blew a gust of air from his lips and shifted in his seat. There was no way he could get comfortable here, but he didn’t give up trying.
“Signore, if the seat if too rough for you, perhaps you could sit on this?” She unraveled the scarf around her neck and offered it to him with another one of her weird smiles. “Had I known how uncomfortable these seats would be, I would’ve driven instead of taking the train. But I thought, why not see a bit more of the city while I’m here, no?”
Ghiaccio made no attempt to take the scarf from her, more horrified that she was one of those people who willingly took the train.
Of course, any densely populated metropolitan city offered public transportation, it was one of the main ways people got around, aside from walking. He just didn’t know anyone who took it when they had a car of their own. And for what? To see the city? Come on now, that was utter bullshit.
“Hard pass. And stop calling me Signore, I’m not your granddad.”
“Bu-But I thought—is it not more respectful to do so?” she pulled out a pen and paper from somewhere in her coat and looked at him like he was about to give a dissertation on the functionality of Italian appellatives. Reading his aggravated look, she simmered down and put her notepad away.
“I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this.” She murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair away from her face.
He truly found that hard to believe.
“It’s just been difficult meeting people. With me being new to the country and all.”
“What the hell are you even doing in Italia?” Ghiaccio huffed and looked away. It wasn’t like he cared or anything, just mildly curious.
She pulled her legs up and sat crisscross in her seat, somehow relaxed despite sitting on hard plastic. The woman didn’t bother to put her scarf back on, not that he was complaining. He had to admit, being able to fully see her face made it easier to talk to her.
“Currently, I work as a translator at the city consulate. And before that, I taught a few language courses at a local middle school in Napoli.”
It sort of made sense. He knew her Italian was good, but apparently it was good enough to work in the government. “So what, you a language guru or something?”
For some reason, she flushed at that. He wasn’t aiming to pay her a compliment, but she seemed to take it that way. He wondered if this was a language barrier thing…or maybe she was just a presumptuous bimbo on top of being a chatterbox.
“Well, I wouldn’t say all that. I am only fluent in four languages, that’s hardly impressive given the nature of my work.”
“Four languages are more than I can say for a lot of people I know.” He grumbled. The only languages he knew were Italian and tiny bit of English from all the times he got roped into watching reruns of ‘Friends’ with Melone or Illuso.
“I’ve only been in the country for a year and some months now. I feel there’s still a lot I want to learn about this place. So far, I’ve been liking my stay here, loneliness aside.”
Ghiaccio rolled his eyes. What was with her? He wasn’t much of a social person. Most, if not all, of his interactions were with his fellow squad mates or affiliates to Passione. He wasn't friendly and didn't need friends. Ghiaccio didn’t get what was so bad about being alone. He wished people left him alone all the time.
“Do something about it. It's better than sitting around with your thumb in your ass, complaining.”
“You’re right, I should…”
It wasn’t in his nature to give unsolicited advice to strangers, but tonight seemed like a night chock-full of firsts. His eyes landed on her and he could see that she was working up the courage to ask him something.
“Just ask already, it’s bad enough I can practically hear you thinking.”
“I was going to ask for your name but realized that I never gave you mine.”
Was there a point to exchanging names, it’s not like he planned on ever seeing her again? He sighed and closed his eyes once more. “Ghiaccio.” He finally said.
She repeated his name a couple times, testing it. He felt a twinge in his stomach at the way his name rolled off her tongue in that interesting accent of hers. And then she gave him her own name. It suited her, and he guessed knowing it was better than just dubbing her ‘the woman’ at the very least.
She got up for the second time and had no qualms about sitting right next to him, claiming it was so she could hear him better. Yeah, okay. A few times, he caught her leaning over to pilfer some of his body heat, so that was probably her real motive.
Their conversation continued. She mostly brought up random topics that he had a slight interest in, talked about herself a lot, but didn’t ask much about him, not like he could come out and tell her that he was a hitman for Passione. Before Ghiaccio knew it, two hours had passed, and the intercom announced the final stop in Napoli.
Stepping off the train and onto the empty platform, Ghiaccio noticed her wavering gaze and the hesitant smile on her lips. Both were off-putting. He was ready to snap and tell her to spit it out already, but she had preemptively caught the look in his eye.
“I know it’s late and all, but there's a really great coffee place that’s still open right now. Would you maybe want to get a drink with me?”
He calmly twisted his torso from side to side until he heard a satisfying crack. “Hell no. I’m going home.”
He didn’t have to think twice about the offer. Why the hell would he want coffee at this time of night? It was the complete opposite of what he wanted to do. Ghiaccio glared at her like her entire existence was a crime on society for suggesting it.
“Oh…in that case,” she rifled through her coat pocket and pulled out a fine-tip sharpie. Taking his hand, she scribbled a set of numbers on the length of his index finger, careful to not stain his fingerless gloves.
Her hesitant smile turned cheeky as she capped the pen with a flourish. “I really like how your gloves and shirt connect. I meant to say this earlier but your clothes, they suit you nicely.”
Was she trying to be funny? He couldn’t tell. Her eyes shimmered with blatant mirth, but her tone didn’t sound like she was mocking him, it lacked enough bite to be considered insulting.
Still rubbed him wrong though.
“Do you have to say everything that runs through that head of yours. And for the record,” Ghiaccio paused to stare at the set of digits printed on his finger in an unfamiliar script—her writing, accented by bubbly looking eights and sharply angled fours. “Writing on people is fucking rude, so you can put that in your little notepad.”
It occurred to Ghiaccio that he might not have given her enough credit. Since she at least knew to write her number on his person rather than on something he could undoubtedly throw away. With a huff, he turned on his heel and walked off, refusing to spare her another thought.
“See you around!” she said waving, though he couldn’t see it with his back turned. After walking a few feet, he raised a backward hand as if to say ‘later’.
After a ten minute walk, he was kicking his sneakers off at the door of headquarters and padding socked feet into the communal living room area. The lights were off and it was dark except for the glow illuminating from Melone’s laptop. He seemed to be the only one still up.
“How was your trip?” Melone asked while scooting over for him to lay down. Ghiaccio wasn’t very tall, so even as he stretched out, his feet just barely grazed Melone’s thigh. It felt good to finally be able to wind down after such a long day. First, a mission at the ass crack of dawn in a city that was hours away, then completing said mission and finally having to return on the train and deal with a chatterbox. They really didn’t pay him enough for this shit.
“It was okay. Mission complete, and all that.” Ghiaccio mumbled with an arm tossed over his face.
Melone shifted the computer off his lap at the sound of his comrade’s tone. “Just okay?”
“What the fuck else would it be? If I said it was okay, then it was okay.”
He was truly too tired to be psycho-analyzed right now. And felt no need to further expend more energy by getting riled up, instead he slumped even further on the couch. Ghiaccio slowly plucked the glasses from his face and massaged the bridge of his nose.
Before Melone could suggest, once again, that he bite the bullet and get contacts, Ghiaccio raised a hand to hush him, but stopped at the sight of his inked finger.
“Something the matter?”
“Women are fucking confusing. What does she want from me?” Ghiaccio turned his hand to show off the numbers written in feminine handwriting like a tattoo on his skin. Melone’s soft smile turned lecherous.
“Well color me impressed, lady killer. I didn’t know you had it in you. Though if she somehow found you charming, I guess that says more about her than you, huh?”
“Why do I torture myself by being around you?” Ghiaccio snarled, storming off before Melone could give a witty reply.
It was only as he was pulling off his pants and getting ready for bed, did he recall Melone’s exact words.
“AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY LADY KILLER?!”