Chapter Text
There were not many things that could catch Ghiaccio off guard and he was proud of that fact.
He’d been doing the mafia thing for a few years now, had the mental dexterity and intelligence to outwit his enemies, and honed his stand with its impressive powers in battle to defeat all opposition. There was not a single foe he couldn’t devise a plan against. Ghiaccio worked hard, took his job seriously, and was always the champion in the end. So, yes, he could say with confidence that very little in this world could ever surprise him.
But honestly, when his usual six lira cup of espresso had gone up to a whooping seven-fifty, the stunned look on his face was nothing short of comical. It was enough to have his rage shoot through the roof. First, the prized lira of his home country was being replaced by the euro—and now this? When would it end?!
The girl at the counter repeated the price once again, thinking that he hadn’t heard her the first time.
“You’ve got be fucking kidding me! This is absolute bullshit!! YOU CAN’T JUST UP THE PRICES WITHOUT WARNING!!” There must’ve been steam shooting from his ears by now.
The other patrons of the shop gave him wide berth, even the manager ducked behind the bread and muffin rack. The young barista at the register was left to weather the storm alone. And she clearly wasn’t used to dealing with customers who weren’t immediately charmed by her friendly smile. Hah! If she thought he was going to simply tolerate this, she had another thing coming.
“WELL?” Ghiaccio glared pointedly at the manager who looked at him with recognition in his eyes. The balding man only gave a fearful nod before scampering off into the back room.
So, the man knew who he was? Good. His connection to Passione had to count for something. That would make this a whole lot easier.
After a long, but anticlimactic stare down, the barista nervously yanked what appeared to be a coupon from somewhere behind the register. She rung him up in record time, punching in whatever code necessary; He didn’t care as long as he got what he wanted. The register flashed the correct amount in digital green font.
His total: six-muthafrickin-lira, as it should be.
“My apologies, Signo—”
“Yeah, whatever.” he slapped the money down on the counter and snatched his receipt.
Taking his place near a window, he didn’t feel the slightest bit bad for strong-arming himself a discounted coffee. He went through a lot of shit throughout the day, he wasn’t going to do a single thing without his fucking caffé americano with two shots of espresso.
Ghiaccio also didn’t want to think too much on the fact that he hadn’t seven-fifty to pay anyway. The payout for the last job had yet to hit his account, not to mention, he’d only been granted a percentage of the money; the rest would be going to the squad.
“Tch.” He crossed his arms.
After Ghiaccio’s little stint in L’Aquila, Risotto had given him the weekend off. He still worked, of course, because their job wasn’t really catered to his personal life or cushioned with vacation days. But as long as he didn’t have to leave the city, that was perfectly fine with him. He had spent most of his time hanging around base, doing paperwork and looking over the quarterly budget. But once Monday came around, he was ready to get back to his usual schedule, sitting around on his ass was boring as shit.
Ghiaccio was now awaiting a call from Melone with the coordinates for their current target, the son of a loan shark based in Salerno. The dumbass kid had gone and broke omertà by corroborating with the police and incurring unwanted attention to a gun transport scheduled for later in the week. The other details were pretty irrelevant to the job, but Ghiaccio liked to know what he was dealing with, so he did a bit of digging into the kid’s background.
Dino Bertolini Jr., age nineteen, a student at university, majoring in Business economics. He was the poster-child for all affluent douchebags riding on daddy’s money, the exact kind of asshat that pissed Ghiaccio right the hell off.
The kid thought he could blab about his mafia connections to law enforcement and get himself out of a drug and rape charge, after his father had recently put stipulations on his trust fund and refused to get involved. What junior hadn’t known was that Passione had some insiders on the Italian police force as well, so it was only a matter of time before word got out about his transgressions, and of course, punishment was quickly doled out. The police weren’t going to be able to protect this bastard, not from Passione, and certainly not from him.
Bertolini Jr. couldn’t be underestimated, however. He was relatively intelligent and crafty, despite all his pomp and frill. He knew how to keep his head low, seeing as he had managed to give Melone the slip.
Ghiaccio was drawn out of his planning when his coffee was finally brought out. He took a careful sip and glanced at his phone again, but there was still no update from Melone. He was just about to call when the café door chimed, signaling the arrival of yet another patron.
A large draping peacoat slung over a feminine physique, a knitted pillbox hat and matching scarf. His fears were further punctuated by the clicking of heeled boots.
It was the chatterbox-foreigner-lady from the train, and had Ghiaccio been a lesser man, he might’ve facepalmed at his bad luck. Instead, he tucked himself further into the corner where he sat and tried to look as unassuming as possible. It was then that he remembered her invitation from the previous week, back on that empty bus platform.
Of all the fucking coffee shops.
She was a regular customer, apparently, because as soon as the barista caught sight of her, a big smile bloomed on her face. It was a stark contrast to the forced smile she had given Ghiaccio just minutes earlier. The girl was already in the process of keying in the order, and said order was out in less than five minutes. When the woman turned and caught his eye—because of course she just had to zero in on him—Ghiaccio felt his entire being go stalk still. It was obvious that she remembered him just as much as he remembered her. Great.
He wasn’t really in the mood to see a familiar face, especially since he was on the job and didn’t have time to fraternize with her. But here she was, strolling right up to his table with her drink and muffin in hand.
“Ghiaccio, it’s so good to see you again! I mean, what are the odds of us running in to each other so soon? After our last conversation, I’d thought surely we wouldn’t cross paths, but here you are! How great is that? What a small world, huh?”
“Look, I’m busy so could you go away.” Busy, Ghiaccio had said, though he glanced at his phone and still hadn’t received anything. “And the world isn’t small at all. There are six billion people on earth, fifty-seven million in Italia alone. Plus, you got off on the train near here, so it only makes sense that we’d live in the same area. That phrase is fucking ridiculous and subjective.”
“A-Ahh, right. I guess that's true.” She obviously hadn’t expected him to say more than just a sentence.
Last they had spoken, Ghiaccio let her do a good bit of the talking, keeping his input minimal at best. It was a testament to how tired he had been. She shuffled her feet timidly before casting fear aside and taking the empty seat across from him. Didn’t he tell her he was busy?
“So, are you waiting for someone, a g-girlfriend perhaps? Or boyfriend?”
Ghiaccio was glad he hadn’t taken another sip of his drink right then; he would’ve choked on it.
“What the fuck kind of question—no! I don’t have a girlfriend or b-boyfriend, goddamn it. Think first, before you start shooting off asinine questions!”
For some reason, the woman across from him seemed pleased with this revelation. He could only wonder why, but refused to waste any brain power figuring it out. Ghiaccio took a hefty sip of his drink, if only to keep his mouth busy. He’d be damned if he let his espresso get cold because of some air-headed foreigner who couldn't take a hint.
“I see. Sorry, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t crossing the line. I…was a bit forward when we last met, and you hadn’t called me. So, I just thought that…”
Thought what? He hadn’t a clue.
“After going home, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I did. Surely I could’ve gone with a more modest approach. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I guess.”
So, now he was really lost. “Hindsight…is what?”
She paused in her shy rambling with a look of mild surprise. Again, he wondered if this was another language barrier thing. He could consider letting it slide if it was, but it sounded intentional, like she had meant to say what she said how she said it. And Ghiaccio knew her Italian was too good for her to become incomprehensible all of a sudden.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty? Twenty-twenty, what?
He could feel himself spiraling, irritation bubbled in his chest like a roiling pot. Before he could crack, she reached out and placed a hand on top of his. It was cold, which was unexpected seeing that she had piled on layers of clothes. But he couldn’t really think much on that right now. Why in the hell was she touching him?
“You’ve never heard the phrase that hindsight is twenty-twenty? It just means that things may not be apparent in the beginning, but after a bit of time it gets clearer or easier to make the right decision. Or something along those lines, I’m not too sure.”
She released him and he felt himself returning to normal, the intensity of his anger reduced to a calm simmer after her explanation. “So, what about the twenty-twenty shit?”
“You wear glasses, I’m sure you’ve heard of twenty-twenty vision, that’s what it’s referring to: the ability to see things clearly in retrospect.”
It made sense when she explained it like that. Ghiaccio could see how she had been a teacher at some point. She broke things down so well that even a child could understand without much effort.
“Still think it’s stupid. Why didn’t you just say that? Why doesn’t anyone just say what the hell they mean?”
“I guess, it’s just easier for most to understand where you’re coming from if you can connect it to something they can relate to. That’s how I see it, at least. Granted, some metaphors are more confusing than others, but a lot of them help me get a better idea about what I’m thinking or what I’m trying to say.”
“Shouldn’t it be more confusing given all the languages you know?”
“Not exactly, I’m a big fan of learning languages and metaphors happen to be a part of that. I quite enjoy learning about culture-specific idioms, metaphors that only make sense if you’re familiar with the country of origin. They’re…fun to consider.”
That made one of them. He certainly wasn’t a fan. She looked down at her cup after noticing the scandalized expression he was giving her. His phone chose that moment to ping meaning that Melone had finally tracked the asshole down. Good, now he could get started on work. Ghiaccio polished off the remainder of his drink, crumpled the paper cup in one hand and stood to leave.
“You’ll call me, right?” she asked and hadn’t moved from her spot. Rather, she cradled her cup with both hands and watched the steam curl around the rim. “Or text…that’s fine too.”
Ghiaccio decided that he hated the forlorn look on her face, it made him feel weird and he didn’t like to feel weird. With a roll of his eyes, he leaned over and flicked her forehead.
“Quit pouting. You’re a grown ass woman not a child.”
At first, she was shocked, her fingers reached to touch the reddened spot on her forehead. A myriad of emotions played on her face, but he watched her unease slowly turn into delight. No one had ever looked at him with genuine happiness before.
It made him feel weirder than when she looked sad.
Maybe Melone was right and something was wrong with her.
His cell phone began to ring, Melone’s custom emoticon bounced around the display urging him to pick up. “Melone, what?” he answered as he left the café. The streets of Napoli were growing crowded as the day progressed, serving as a decent cover while he stood off to the side. He remained underneath the café's awning to stay out of direct sunlight.
“How was your coffee?”
Ghiaccio growled. “Didn’t I tell you to stop tracking my goddamn phone?!”
“It wasn’t on purpose! I just needed to confirm your location, relax hon.”
Ghiaccio resisted the urge to chuck his phone into the busy streets. “Did you find the shithead or not?”
“I did, Babyface was able to trace him in Pompeii. I sent the coordinates earlier. Did you not get it?”
“I got it. Give me a second.” He pulled up the link that was sent. The tracker blinked red and did not waver so at least Bertolini wasn’t on the move. When Ghiaccio finally read the address, he could only sigh. It was barely a twenty-two minute drive, which would be nothing if he had a car, or even Melone’s bike. He scowled in the direction of the underground train system.
He couldn’t fucking do that shit again. Not in broad daylight where it was bound to be packed with people.
“Hello? Ghiaccio?” Melone called from the speaker.
“I’m thinking.” He looked over the coordinates one final time. It still hadn’t moved but for how long, he didn’t want to have to chase this guy. “Melone, how far are you?”
“About two hours…he really got me.”
“Shit, two—are you even taking this seriously? This is a fucking job you know.”
Melone only scoffed with fake-offense. “Of course, I know that.”
“Whatever, I’ll handle it.”
“Alright, bye—” Ghiaccio hung up on him.
He knew Melone was far from sloppy and truthfully, he wasn’t really upset that his partner wasn’t close enough to pick him up. It was the thought of taking any form of public transportation that set him on edge. There was no way in hell he was going to subject himself to that crap. Not now, if he could help it.
Ghiaccio could literally skate to Pompeii if he wanted to, no problem. White Album thrummed underneath his skin, waiting. The smarter part of his brain was quick to remind him that he still needed the stamina to take down Bertolini successfully otherwise this entire thing would be for naught, and the operation would be a shit-show.
“G-Ghiaccio? You’re still here?”
Ghiaccio looked over his shoulder to find the chatterbox had followed him outside. He didn’t even bother ignoring her. It seemed pointless now after so many encounters. She came closer when he didn’t respond.
“Waiting for a ride?”
“No. My jackass of a partner can’t make it.”
He wisely kept the specifics to himself. It wasn’t any of her business to know the details of his career choice, not like she’d understand anyway. Ghiaccio got the feeling that a lot of things seemed to slip passed her notice. If she was as perceptive as she should’ve been, she might not have approached him on the train. He knew the kind of impression he gave, and it wasn’t a very friendly or comforting one. And yet here she was treating him like a friend.
“Well, I can drop you off.” She lifted a set of keys from the depths of her giant pockets, twirling the metal ring on her index finger.
“Don’t you have better things to do, woman?”
She smiled and tugged on his sleeve. “Not at all. Come, I’ll drive you.” It honestly didn’t take much convincing on her part, anything was better than the bus or train.
Her car sat at a parking meter two blocks away, a tiny little baby blue four-door vehicle. It looked exactly like the kind of thing she’d drive too.
“So, where to?”
He had no intention of letting her get anywhere near the rendezvous point. Ghiaccio would let her drive part of the way, then he’d walk to the actual destination. “Pompeii, but I’ll direct you.”
She hummed. “Oh, that’s not far.”
“Just turn up head and take the freeway.”
The entire ride was spent listening to her sing horribly to an Adriano Celentano song, then one from the Beatles, and another from a band he hadn’t heard of called U2. She also had the heat blasting, despite the warm weather outside and was a speed demon who drove faster than even he or Formaggio, if that was possible. Long story short, he was glad to be let out of the car.
“You sure you want me to drop you here?”
“Yes, now go already, damn.”
He slammed the passenger door and stalked off in the direction of the Pompeii Ruins. The signal had not moved the entire way over, he hoped it stayed that way.
The ancient ruins of Pompeii were a tourist attraction that received thousands of visitors every month. Its catacombs were a reservoir of undiscovered ancient secrets, open year round for tour guides to bring their American clients and show off one of the most interesting pieces of Italian history. Suffice to say, there was a hefty price to pay just to lay eyes on it, but Ghiaccio wasn’t paying that crap.
The assassin snuck onto the attraction grounds undetected by the employees, following the tracking signal through an off-charted entrance and into an underground tomb. It took him nearly an hour just to navigate through the winding tunnels since he was also avoiding being seen.
But according to the tracker, Bertolini was further inside, thankfully no more than fifty feet. Ghiaccio called forth his stand, donning the full White Album suit, minus the blades. He had planned a pretty neat death for Bertolini, one that would have the police stumped for weeks.
Using his power, he began to manipulate the moisture in the air, dropping the temperature to freezing levels. And just like the rat he was, the target came stumbling from within the tombs, shivering. Even his sweat was frozen to his skin. Ghiaccio could smell the fear on him, the man was so scared it took him a full minute just to notice who was standing right in front of him. The recollection in his eyes was near palpable, even if he hadn’t personally met Ghiaccio, somehow Bertolini had known that the assassin was sent by Passione specifically for him.
“Please I-I’m so so-so-sorry!” Bertolini said. His teeth chattered and his eyes darted around like a cornered animal, looking for an escape. Well damn, this was just sad.
“Look here shithead, there isn’t any amount of begging that’ll get me to let you go. You cross Passione, you get taken out. That’s just how it goes.”
The nineteen year old looked resigned to his fate, his bluing lips pulled into a taut frown. “Fucking hell. It w-wasn’t supposed to go-go-go like th-this!" suddenly, there was a gun in his hands—his shaking hands, as he pointed it directly at Ghiaccio. Bertolini was no stand user and a simple gun did not scare him in the slightest. Ghiaccio just cocked a half-smirk.
“I kinda like it when assholes fight back. Makes it all the better went I take them out.”
Before the man could even pull the trigger, a flurry of silver ice bullets shot out from thin air, riddling Bertolini with bullet-like wounds. Blood spurted from his body profusely as he crumpled to the floor, silenced. Part of Ghiaccio wanted to leave him there to suffer, but there were too many moving pieces and he didn’t want a situation where his target somehow lived despite being shot with .9mm shaped ice bullets. He drew close, flipped Bertolini over, noting the glazed faraway look in his eyes, the man was near death. Ghiaccio sent another ice bullet into the man’s head, killing him instantly.
The dead body of Dino Bertolini Jr. laid in the ruins of Pompeii like another part of southern Italian antiquity. Several bullet wounds were found. Not a single bullet remained, let alone a gun, except for the one Bertolini had brought himself, but the bullets from that gun wouldn’t match the one that killed him. Not a fingerprint or footprint in or out of the tombs. Dino Bertolini Jr. was killed by a ghost.
When Ghiaccio emerged from a gift shop near the ruins, he found Melone leaning against his motorcycle with his arms crossed and a playful smile on his lips.
“Mission complete?” he asked while giving him a once-over. Not a hair was out of place.
Ghiaccio snatched the helmet from his partner. “Duh.”
They were off in seconds, with Pompeii as nothing more than a beautiful backdrop.
Hours later, Ghiaccio sat at his desk in the middle of writing up yet another mission’s report, when Risotto came knocking on his door with a plate of some pasta dish in his hand. Ghiaccio tried not to be annoyed by the disturbance since it was his boss.
“Something wrong?” He asked, giving the man his undivided attention.
His capo only shook his head and stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind himself. He handed Ghiaccio the plate of food before leaning with his back against the door.
“I’ll get to the point. I talked with the Don recently,” his voice even as he spoke but Ghiaccio caught on to the subtle inflections in his tone pretty well. Capo sounded…happy?
“At the end of the fiscal year, possibly later, we may be looking at a salary adjustment and a stipend.”
“So…like a pay raise?”
Risotto nodded. “More or less. I’ll need you to balance the accounts, so we have something to show at the next meeting. We’ve been merely making ends meet so far. I think things will be changing for us soon.”
Ghiaccio didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t a fan of Giorno Shitface-Fuckhead Giovanna but goddammit a raise sounded good as hell. Then again… “So what, we all get a bonus and that’s it? We deserve it, of course, but I find his generosity hard to believe.”
“The Don seems genuine. Hopefully there aren’t any strings attached. Regardless, let’s keep this to ourselves until it’s made official.” With that, his leader left him to think in silence.
The possibility of a raise sounded too good to be true. How long had they fucking waited for this shit? Too fucking long, that’s what. It was about time La Squadra got their due shit. The fiscal year ended in a few months, so they should be expecting the money soon. God help him, this had better not be a lie. He would make a second attempt on Giorno’s life if it was. What had Riz said about it? No strings attached to the money?
“No strings attached?” he whispered. No strings? What fucking strings? When the motherfuck had strings been mentioned, like at all? He stewed for a solid five minutes on the impossibility of literal strings being tied to money before snatching his phone off the table.
Ghiaccio was only half-way through his rabid typing when it dawned on him that he was actually going to text the chatterbox woman, because he had, in fact, saved her number after that night. He chewed his bottom lip and debated whether he even cared.
He did. He really fucking did.
He stared at the message for another minute before adding: