Chapter Text
Leone Abbacchio remembers dying.
He remembers the investigation into the boss’s past, the sense of unreality when he saw the hole in his chest, and doing what he could to leave a message for his team before the void claimed him.
So, then, this must be the afterlife.
But he isn’t standing in front of the twelve pearly gates. Instead, he recognizes the dark iron doors of the Neapolitan police headquarters. The person standing by the doors to greet him isn’t Saint Peter, either, but his late partner, Arturo Venditti.
Leone quickly lowers his head in shame, before forcing himself to straighten up again. Whether this is purgatory or hell, he needs to confront his sins. Over two years ago, Venditti died because of him. He was weak and corrupt, and Venditti jumped in front of a bullet meant for him, unaware that he was protecting a dirty cop.
Leone isn’t particularly religious; the times he’s attended church in the past few years can be counted on one hand. He’s not even sure he believes in God. But if God exists, he must be being punished. The flames of judgment lick at his guts, and Leone feels his insides twisting in pain.
“So you’re the new recruit, huh? No need to be nervous.” A large hand is suddenly thrust in front of him. “Welcome to Naples. I’m Arturo Venditti, your senior partner.”
Leone takes the offered hand carefully. “Leone Abbacchio. Look forward to working with you.”
The same conversation they had three years ago.
With growing apprehension, Leone notices that he’s wearing his police uniform—clean, pressed, as unblemished as his past dreams. His head snaps back up to examine his old partner. Venditti looks exactly the same as Leone remembers him: the same warm, hazel eyes; the same kind, affectionate smile; even his handshake feels the same. But the Venditti in front of him is sporting a crew cut, the same length as when they’d first met, and not the longer curls Leone had grown used to seeing.
Why is Leone reliving his life from three years ago?
It’s a second chance. The hopeful—foolish—part of him supplies. Leone has long learned not to listen to it. He needs to make sure this isn’t some kind of brink-of-death hallucination, or a cruel joke made by whoever’s in charge of the afterlife.
“So… How long have you been on the force?” Leone asks.
“Five years next month. You’re in good hands, rookie.” Venditti smiles warmly, and Leone has to look away before his expression betrays him.
So it’s March of 1998, after all. That means Leone is fresh out of the academy and his partner is still alive. Leone feels hope clawing inside his ribcage like a dog begging to be let out. He clenches his hands until his nails dig into his palms.
The pain feels real. The ground under his feet feels real. Nothing indicates this could be a dream or hallucination. But then again, Leone has never had hallucinations, nor any afterlife experience.
As they enter the building and go through the necessary paperwork, Leone tries to examine every detail as closely as humanly possible. He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t his dying brain playing tricks on him. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe he’ll catch it slipping, mixing up names in the files or misplacing a potted plant. But the day proceeds with nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that Leone is three years in the past.
After finishing the paperwork, Venditti shows Leone his desk and walks him through the basics of their work, same as he did the first time around. Despite the possibility that none of this is real, Leone’s chest tightens every time he meets his partner’s eyes. He remembers all too vividly how the life had drained out of them as he’d knelt uselessly by with bile in his throat and blood on his hands. Those dead eyes had haunted his sleep. Even in dreams in which he hadn’t died, Venditti’s eyes were always cold with contempt.
There’s nothing but kindness when he looks at Leone now. Somehow that’s even harder to bear. When their shift ends for the day, Leone all but flees the police station. He returns to his old apartment. Like everything else, it looks the same as it had been three years ago, a cramped little one-bedroom with a small kitchen and a tiny bathroom, all he’d been able to afford on a new recruit’s salary.
Leone hadn’t cared about his living conditions then. For the first few weeks, the joy of having finally become a protector of the people had been enough to sustain him. The apartment had only been a place to rest at night. His life had been out and about in the city, serving the good people of Naples.
But that didn’t last long, did it? The voice in his head reminds helpfully. Remember how miserably you failed? This could be the chance to fix all your mistakes.
Leone sighs. He’s losing his sense of what’s real and what’s not. Everything happening feels real. And if this is some sort of divine punishment or prank, Leone has no way of knowing anyhow. The only option left, then, is for him to make a choice—what of his past life does he want to change?
He wants to—no, he must protect Venditti. Leone owes him that much. But remaining on the force could mean never meeting Buccellati and his team, not on friendly terms anyway. Leone wonders what Buccellati and the others are doing in this may-be-hallucination may-be-time-travel world. If this is 1998, the kids are probably still with their families, Buccellati would be the only one who’s joined the gang. A thought strikes Leone like lightening: is he supposed to keep those kids off the streets, stop them from entering a world of bloodshed? Could that be the purpose of this bizarre time warp?
For something to have a purpose implies that there is a purpose-giver. If this is God’s test, Leone wants to pass it. If this is neurons firing haywire signals in his brain, he still wants to see it to the end. It’s his brain, after all. He will invent his own purpose. Maybe even a dead man can dream. He will stay on the force and protect the people he cares about. This time he’ll do it right—Venditti will live, Fugo and Narancia will not end up on the streets, Mista will not go to jail, and Giorno will shut up about his dream and stay in school. There must be other things he can do to expose the boss and stop the drug trade.
As for the remaining member of their team, Leone needs to find and talk to him. Even in this… whatever this is, his heart yearns for Bruno Buccellati.
When Leone had joined the gang, he’d anticipated every manner of falling except falling in love. He had wanted the pain, debasement, and blessed mindlessness of a loyal soldato, maybe topped with an end befitting his crimes. What he’d gotten instead were trust, companionship, the chance to actually make a difference, and the privilege of knowing as kind and earnest a man as Buccellati. Well, the messy death hadn’t escaped him, but that’s beside the point now. Even if he stays on the right side of the law this time, Leone knows he won’t be able to stay away from Buccellati. It doesn’t matter if these… feelings will never be returned; he doesn’t want to lose his friend and confidant. Besides, if he can convince Buccellati to work with him, this new plan of his will be much more likely to succeed.
Leone doesn’t know where Buccellati lived three years ago. Even if he did, it would be a bad idea to just show up at his door. The man has a kind heart, sure, but he is also a dangerous Stand-user and gangster. Leone doesn’t expect a polite greeting this time around. But meeting the younger Buccellati might give him a potential key to figuring out how and why he ended up here, and Leone is desperate for answers.
As he sets out for Libeccio, Leone can’t help but notice the differences between his surroundings and the place in his memories. The neighborhood, as he remembers it, was quite lively. Even after dark, there were always people strolling by, going about their business or simply enjoying the evening. But now, there’s hardly anyone out on the streets. One of the streetlights flickers ominously. Leone feels like he’s stepped into an alternate reality.
In a sense, he has. This must be what the neighborhood was like, had been like, before Buccellati took over. The Libeccio Leone knows is Passione’s property, a fact everyone knows well. People feel safe coming and walking around these parts because Buccellati’s in charge.
No, that’s not right. Was. Is not yet. He’s getting his timelines mixed up. Time travel really is disorienting. Leone is so wrapped up in his thoughts he nearly misses the flash of white around the corner. His body reacts before his brain can fully process what’s going on, though, and launches into a sprint.
Buccellati is fast, always has been, but Leone’s got longer legs and months of grueling training from the academy. He chases him for a few blocks when Buccellati makes a sharp turn and, suddenly, they are alone in a dark alley. Only then does it occur to him that Buccellati wasn’t trying to lose him.
“I just want to talk.” Leone says, panting a little.
Silently, Buccellati turns around and, despite the protest from his lungs, Leone forgets to breathe.
He’s… so young. Somehow, Leone didn’t expect him to look that different as a seventeen-year-old, but now it’s clear how much he would grow in the next few years. Even in the dim light, Leone can tell the person in front of him is a few centimeters shorter than the Buccellati he knew. His face is a bit rounder, more boyish and innocent, but his eyes are sharp and cold. His body is already well-toned. Leone can make out the lines of muscle underneath that white suit. His posture seems relaxed, but Leone knows he’s a panther ready to pounce.
“I’m listening.” Buccellati tilts his head, and the blue of his eyes seem to go a shade duller to match the bored-predator tone of his voice.
Leone didn’t get to see this side of him often in his past life. Still, he recognizes the disguise Buccellati used in front of people he didn’t know. It was the face of a seasoned mafioso, the ruthless gangster who can dismember people with his bare hands. Leone needs to tread lightly.
“My name’s Leone Abbacchio,” he says, trying to sound as harmless and amicable as possible—not easy, given the strangeness of the situation. “And I think we can help one another.”
Buccellati huffs out a breath. “Explain.”
Leone swallows. In order for this to work, he has to reveal himself as a cop and prove his usefulness to the gang. Well done, mocks the voice in his head, first day on the job and you’re already consorting with the enemy. Leone briefly wonders if this is worse than taking that bribe several months down the line. But this is Buccellati. Leone trusts him more than anyone else in the world.
“I know you… by reputation. I know you actually care about the people here.” Buccellati’s eyes grow hard, but Leone forces himself to carry on. “I am a member of the state police, and I want to help the people in these neighborhoods, too. I know your gang is the de facto authority in this city. I can work with you to make this a better place.”
Buccellati laughs. An ugly kind of guffawing. Leone isn’t sure what he expected Buccellati’s reaction to be, but it’s not this.
“How precious,” he purrs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear as his laughter dies down. “A police officer just happens to chase me down the street to make such an enticing offer. Tell me, Officer Abbacchio, what do you really want?”
He’s stepping into Leone’s personal space now, the curve of his lips as sharp as the knife Leone knows the older Buccellati keeps zipped inside his right thigh.
“I…” Leone falters. What is he supposed to say? “I meant what I said, Buccellati. I want to make this place safer for its residents.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “You want to stop the drug trade, don’t you? I can help you with that. Just… work with me, please.”
Next thing he knows, his back is up against the wall, and Buccellati is leaning into him like they’re a pair of drunk lovers. There’s nothing akin to drunkenness or lust on his face, however. Leone feels his cold, sharp gaze like a dagger against his throat.
“What do you know about the drug trade?” He asks, voice low and threatening.
Leone has seen Buccellati angry before, but not like this, and certainly not directed at him. This Buccellati’s even tone clearly holds the promise of violence and pain, should he find the answer unsatisfactory.
“Not a lot,” Leone admits. This is definitely not what Buccellati wants to hear, but he doesn’t want to lie. “Just that Passione is responsible for most of the distribution here in Naples. I’ve looked into a few low-level pushers, but the actual members of the narcotics team are as secretive as the bo—”
An arm cuts off his air supply before Leone can finish the sentence, and Buccellati’s face is suddenly very, very close.
“You’re lying,” says Buccellati, a murderous look in his eyes. Leone struggles under the weight of his arm, only to find himself hopelessly pinned in place by the shorter man.
Fuck. He must be using Sticky Fingers. Leone can’t see the white-and-blue arm of the Stand, but there’s no other explanation for Buccellati’s inhuman strength.
“Is this the best trick you can pull, pig? Passione has a code. We don’t touch drugs. If you think you can get me to turn against the gang with such a blatant lie, you—or whoever sent you after me—must be very stupid indeed.”
Buccellati is practically growling in his ear now. The insult stings, but it’s nothing Leone hasn’t heard before. Buccellati sounds menacing, like he’s really about to choke him to death, but Leone knows him, knows his distaste for unnecessary violence. As he struggles to breathe, all Leone feels is frustration, not fear.
He’s mentally kicking himself for not considering every possibility, like Buccellati not yet having discovered Passione’s involvement in the drug trade. He knew from his timeline’s Buccellati that he’d joined Passione to protect his father against a rival gang. Before he learned about the drugs, Buccellati must have been extremely loyal, if not out of gratitude, then out of concern for his father’s safety. And here Leone is, a total stranger and a cop, telling him that the gang has betrayed his trust. No wonder he’s furious.
Just as his vision begins to blur, the pressure on Leone’s neck loosens.
“You are awfully calm for someone who’s pinned by the throat.” Buccellati observes as he takes half a step back, brows furrowed in confusion.
“I… ah…” Gasping for air, Leone holds on to Buccellati’s arm like a drowning man, “I know you’re not a murderer.”
A pained look flashes across Buccellati’s face, then disappears just as quickly.
“You’re wrong,” he says, voice cold, and shoves Leone back against the wall. “Proves you know nothing about me.”
Maybe it’s the oxygen deprivation, or maybe he’s just tired of getting pushed around, Leone abandons all tact and grabs him by the lapels. “Listen. I know you, Buccellati. I trust you. I’ve… I’ve seen how people around here rely on you, okay? I know you’re a good person, and I’m not lying about the drugs. Go dig around if you don’t believe me. All these years… you must’ve seen the signs. Who else could keep pushing hundreds of kilos of cocaine under the nose of the biggest gang in Naples? All Passione ever cared about is gaining and maintaining power; the drug ban was only an excuse to wipe out the competition. You have to see…”
The world shifts before Leone can finish his little speech. After a disorienting few seconds, he finds himself staring up at Buccellati from the ground, his hands still attached to the white suit, hanging off his lapels like an additional pair of zipper sliders. Leone blinks, tries to push himself up, and realizes he has no arms—his whole body is scattered in pieces. So this is what it’s like to get hit by Sticky Fingers. Leone can only hope he hasn’t provoked Buccellati to the point where he’s ready to cause real damage. Seeing himself like this while he can still feel the severed parts is… unsettling, to say the least, even when he knows how Sticky Fingers works. For someone with no knowledge of what Stands are capable of, this would be an appropriate moment to scream bloody murder.
Out of the corner of his eye, Leone can see Buccellati studying him with an inscrutable look. He knows he should feign shock and terror, but after a gruesome death, apparent time travel, and getting choked by the one person his stupid, traitorous heart still goes pitter-patter for, there’s just no energy left in him to put on an act. So Leone lies still, trying to work through the jumbled thoughts in his head and the lump in his throat.
“Alright, I was wrong. You do know something about me,” Buccellati says, kneeling down beside Leone. “How do you know about my Stand?”
“……” Leone apparently hesitates for a second too long. Buccellati takes one of Leone’s own hands and promptly slaps him with it.
“When I ask a question, you answer. If you know about my Stand, you know what I can do with it. Tell me the truth or I’ll stuff your fingers into your stomach and make you digest them. Who do you work for? Why are you after me?”
The slap hurts, but not as much as Buccellati’s animosity. Leone finds himself wishing Buccellati could actually detect lies with his tongue. That would make both their lives much easier right about now. If he tells him the truth, Buccellati would think he’s crazy. Hell, Leone’s not sure that he’s not. But he can’t lie, either. He wants Buccellati’s trust, wants even a semblance of their old relationship. None of that can be built on outright lies, so Leone decides to go with half-truths.
“Like I said, I work for the state police, but this has nothing to do with my job. No one sent me after you.” Lying by omission is still lying, but this is all he can offer for now. “I could guess about your Stand because I used to have one, too. There’s no other explanation for you walking through walls. If it allows to you slice open bricks and concrete, it’s not a surprise that it can cut through the body as well.”
Buccellati stares at him long and hard, as if trying to gauge the truthfulness of Leone’s words. “You’ve been watching me,” he says finally. “How?”
“My Stand,” Leone answers, which technically could be true, even though he’d never used it to investigate Buccellati. “It can replay past events.”
Buccellati hums thoughtfully. “And you lost it? I’ve never heard of anything that can make a person lose their Stand. Was it a Stand attack?”
Leone can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I guess you could say that, yeah. Though mostly I think it’s the dying and coming back to life thing that took away my Stand.” And the time travel. But that’s a conversation for another day.
“How did you die and come back to life?” Buccellati sounds genuinely curious now. Maybe he’s beginning to believe Leone. Everything he’s said is just too wild to be a well-planned trap; only reality can be this messy and nonsensical.
“I died trying to dig up the boss’s past and… I honestly don’t know why I didn’t stay dead.” Huffing to blow away a strand of hair that’s tickling his nose, Leone turns to face his former teammate. “Can you piece me back together now? These cobblestones are killing my back.”
Buccellati ignores the request, his eyes round with shock, briefly looking his age. “You mean the boss of Passione? Are you insane?”
Leone gives him a lopsided grin. “Probably. To be fair, though, I was following someone even more insane. It was his plan to defy the boss.”
There is a moment of silence.
“I should kill you right now,” Buccellati says. “You just confessed to conspiring against the boss.”
His voice is flat and emotionless, but Leone sees a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. He wants to take Buccellati’s hand, tell him that things will work out, that he doesn’t have to stay in the gang, that he believes in him. But right now Leone is only a useless scattering of body parts. He has no limbs, no Stand, no way to move, no way to defend himself, and no way to console Buccellati. All he has is his foolish conviction, a haphazard plan cobbled together with duct tape and hope, and his trust in this man in front of him.
“You won’t,” Leone says, his voice embarrassingly soft, “because you know it’s not right.”
Buccellati searches his face, as if looking for cracks in his calm facade. Their eyes lock, and Leone feels his heartbeat quicken. The moment seems to stretch on as they hold each other’s gaze. Almost imperceptibly, Buccellati leans forward, tilting his head closer…
And punches Leone out cold.