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Bucciarati wasn’t there when it happened.
He’d been in Calabria when it did. The capo there had asked for his advice on one matter or another, and Bucciarati had decided to give it face to face, instead of over the phone. Why? To build relationships with the other capos, so that they respected Giorno’s position? To not repeat what Diavolo had done before, to actually personally know each person in the ranks of Passione?
He wished he’d never left.
The ticks of the clock were haunting, echoing in the silence that was an empty house. Bucciarati walked through the foyer and into the dining room. The table was still set for a late evening dinner. His eyes traced over every spot.
Narancia must have set it - the cups were on the wrong side, the silverware too. A little plate was set aside though next to Mista’s spot, for the Pistols. An open book was laid faced down on Fugo’s chair; he must’ve been reading as he waited for dinner. The cork of a wine bottle was already popped on Abbacchio’s side. Trish’s mineral water was out too. Giorno’s chair was left crooked, as if he’d pushed away from the table too quickly. There was even a spot set for Bucciarati, as if he could walk through the door any minute and a plate would be ready.
Bucciarati had no idea where the dinner was now. They obviously didn’t get around to eating it.
Trish probably cleaned it up when she came home after… after everything. When she’d called him to break the news.
Bucciarati shook his head. He couldn’t think about that now. He climbed up the stairwell, pretending not to notice the pair of Narancia’s sneakers kicked haphazardly at the foot of it.
He went to Trish’s room first. He found a backpack she’d use for touring trips in her closet and proceeded to rifle through her drawers. A couple shirts, pants, underwear, socks. He shut the drawers quickly and organized the articles into the backpack in practiced movements. He then went to the bathroom to gather a couple of toiletries, added those to the backpack too.
He shut the door to her room and moved on.
Narancia next. The same routine, clothes, toiletries. Bucciarati grabbed his eye drops too, though he didn’t know when the boy would next need them. He zipped up the backpack designated for Narancia and slung it over his shoulder.
Bucciarati took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He was done. He wasn’t going to grab anything for himself, because he still had all the items he’d packed for his trip; most of them had gone unused because it’d been prematurely cut short. A little rumpled clothes didn’t hurt anyone.
At least, that was what he told himself.
The real reason he didn’t want to pack anything for himself, was because he didn’t want to stay in this house any longer. The silence was deafening. Suffocating. No sound, no movement, nothing. This house was lifeless, and Bucciarati hated it.
He shut the door to the home and locked it, briefly debating whether or not to throw the key in the yard - in the garden Giorno had helped him cultivate - and never come back. Eventually though, he slipped the key into his pocket and let it sit heavily there.
He situated his cargo in the back of the car and got inside. And drove off to the hospital without a glance back.
----
He’d been waiting for the capo of Calabria to arrive at their predetermined spot when he’d received the call.
It’d been Trish, her breathing shaky and harsh, and Bucciarati had been immediately put on edge when he heard it.
“Bucciarati,” she’d gasped and he knew. Something had happened.
“Tell me.” he’d said, forced his tone to stay even.
“There- there’s something…” her breath had stuttered. “Oh God, j-just please, come back. Come back, B-Bucciarati, th-they’re- they’re- I-”
“Calm down, Trish. You’re breathing too fast. Match me.” Bucciarati had said calmly, though he was anything but. He’d already left the meeting place, making a straight beeline for his car, a million possibilities already racing through his mind. No amount of thought or preparation could have prepared him to hear what she’d said next, though.
“They’re dead.”
----
It was a sick twist of fate, when the only Stand user in Passione who could retrace his family’s last steps, was under the command of the capo of Calabria.
“It’s understandable.” The young capo told him when he arrived with his subordinate in tow. He was all teeth and grins, smiling and laughing without a care in the world, and Bucciarati wondered how it’d suit him to be missing his two front teeth. “You didn’t come to me, so I came to you. Fitting.”
Bucciarati reigned in his emotions and turned to the subordinate instead. “Here.” he held out a torn piece of Narancia’s bandana. It was soaked in blood.
She jumped, surprised to be spoken to directly, but was quick to take it.
“Do it.”
Nodding, she clutched it in her hands and closed her eyes.
“Square One.”
Bucciarati would be lying if he denied that the Stand reminded him of Abbacchio’s Moody Blues. The ability to turn back time, to replay events. Their surroundings shimmered and re-shaped. The capo faded out of existence.
They were at the cliffs just outside of Naples.
It was night, the sun having just dipped below the ocean.
“Five minutes.” the girl whispered, a bead of sweat dropping freely down her temple.
Bucciarati watched as a familiar white van pulled up at the cliffs. He forced his burning eyes to look as the doors opened all at once, everyone piling out one after the other.
Giorno, Abbacchio, Fugo, Mista, Narancia, and Trish.
The bandana on Narancia’s head and the piece of it in the girl’s hand glowed softly, something to do with her Stand ability.
Bucciarati forced himself to watch.
“He said he was here.” Giorno said to the others. The young Don spun in all directions, as if searching for something.
“Where?” Mista asked, frantic.
“Should I call out Aerosmith?” Narancia’s voice was full of worry.
Who were they looking for?
Abbacchio was already stalking towards the metal railing fencing off the cliff, an unreadable expression on his face. “Moody Blues!”
The girl gave a little whine next to Bucciarati as she struggled to recreate the image of Abbacchio’s Stand.
“I’ll rewind half an hour ago. That’s when you got the call, right?”
“Yes!”
Bucciarati’s eyes were drawn to Fugo, who was standing a little ways back with Trish. “This is really suspicious, guys. What if Bucciarati isn’t here? What if this is a trap?”
“How can it be a trap when we heard Bucciarati over the phone? He’s in trouble!” Mista cried, whirling on him.
Oh. They were looking for him.
He could only guess what the assassins had told them over the phone, replicating his voice to sound believable. He tasted copper on his tongue. He’d bitten through his lip.
Aerosmith flew overhead, Narancia had called the Stand out. “I don’t see anyone,” Narancia said, staring at his radar. “Wait, actually, there’s someone behind-”
The first shot rang out like a crack of deadly thunder. Gold Experience appeared beside Giorno to automatically block the bullet coming for his head. The bullet shot through the Stand’s hand and hit its mark anyway.
The next one caused Narancia to stumble. Aerosmith fell from the sky as Narancia brought his hands to his bloodied chest, before he too collapsed.
Bucciarati didn’t want to watch anymore. “Pause it.” He choked out.
The girl made a questioning sound next to him, eyes still shut tight, and he felt dizzy at his slip up.
It was probably the assassin’s Stand ability, Bucciarati realized as he forced himself again to observe the mad chaos that unfolded in front of him. The bullets that tore straight through Stands and flesh did not strike the ground, the wounds too clean and precise.
Mista was the next to go as he whirled around with his gun aimed at the mountains. He fired all six bullets in rapid succession, the Pistols attached. Bucciarati didn’t watch as a bullet from the assassin ripped straight through his heart, and instead focused his gaze on the trajectories of the Pistols.
There. Several miles above, hidden in the foliage, was a flash.
Abbacchio choked behind him and he refused to look.
Fugo lunged for Narancia as Trish screamed for Abbacchio. Bucciarati didn’t even realize Fugo had already been shot, blood soaking the entirety of his right side as he pushed all of his weight onto Narancia’s wound, causing the boy to cry out in pain.
No more shots rang out after that (Bucciarati would soon find the body of the sniper, all six of Mista’s bullets buried in his head - the Pistols had fought until the end).
He was left to watch the broken remains of his family desperately fight for survival.
Trish spoke rapidly to an operator on the phone. Her other hand was trying to staunch the bleeding at Abbacchio’s throat. It was no use. A clean shot through the spinal cord granted instantaneous death.
“Stop.” Bucciarati commanded, voice tight.
He already knew the rest.
Fugo and Narancia had survived long enough for the ambulances to arrive, but Fugo had spent so much time trying to halt Narancia’s bleeding, that he’d practically ignored his own. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
Narancia was still in critical condition. Trish had narrowly escaped with only a few scratches.
Nearly his entire family, gone, in a span of a couple minutes.
The girl let out a subtle sigh of relief as she released her ability. The cliffs faded. The blood and the bodies and the crying faded.
The images burnt themselves under Bucciarati’s eyelids.
----
The doctors took Narancia off the ventilator.
“We’ve been weaning him off it, and he’s been making good progress.” One of them told Bucciarati. “He was touch and go for a while, but I expect that he will make a full recovery.”
It was the best piece of news Bucciarati had received in weeks.
So here he was sitting at the window seat in Narancia’s hospital room with paperwork spread across his lap, Trish dozing against his shoulder, as they waited for the sedatives to finally wear off.
The last few weeks had been hell. Between arranging the funerals, coordinating the chaos that was Passione, reconstructing it (again), investigating the murders, and helping Trish through her nightmares, Bucciarati himself had not dealt with everything like he supposed he should have.
He didn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than four hours of sleep, three meals a day, when this all started. He was glad at least Trish was taking the opportunity to nap, because the rings under her eyes rivaled his own.
Narancia made a small noise from his bed, the heart rate on the monitor picking up just slightly, and Bucciarati set his paperwork aside quickly. Careful not to wake Trish, he slipped from the couch and to Narancia’s beside. He grabbed the hand not under white sheets.
“Nara?” he whispered hopefully.
The boy had groaned a couple times since the doctors started lightening the doses of the sedatives, but so far, nothing had come of them. This could very well be one of those times, but God, what Bucciarati would give to see Narancia’s eyes again.
He gripped the hand a little tighter when he saw movement under Narancia’s eyelids.
“C’mon, Narancia, you can do it.”
Slowly, carefully, purple eyes fluttered open.
“Yeah, that’s it. Can you hear me?” Bucciarati felt like crying.
Narancia gazed at the ceiling for a couple moments, unfocused, before he drew his eyes towards Bucciarati. He blinked, rasped, “B-Bucci-ti?”
And Bucciarati broke.
He gripped the little hand tightly, all but collapsing against the railing of the bed, unable to hold back his tears. “Y-yes.” he choked out.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He needed to be strong. He had two children to look after - alive and breathing and not six feet under like the rest. This was stupid. He needed to keep it together.
But all the grief and pain came pouring out of him like a damn river, and he couldn’t stop it. One. One had lived. Five had been shot at those cliffs that night and one made it. It was a miracle.
“Narancia…”
----
The doctors and nurses bustled around Narancia, checking his vitals and his breathing and everything else. Bucciarati made sure to give them space as they worked, Trish now awake and at his side.
When they finally left, he and Trish were at Narancia’s bedside in an instant, Bucciarati taking one hand and Trish the other, heedful of the IV.
“How’re you feeling?” Trish asked wetly. Unlike Bucciarati, she made no show of hiding her tears.
“... ‘it.” Narancia eventually answered, his voice scratchy and quiet. But it was him. His eyes swiveled to Bucciarati, looking as if he’d committed a terrible crime. “S’rry.”
Bucciarati remembered faintly that he didn’t like Narancia swearing, and had told him so multiple times. It was beautiful and heartbreaking that Narancia had remembered.
“It’s okay, Narancia.” Bucciarati reassured gently.
They all sat in silence for a while, Trish and Bucciarati basking in the warmth of the boy’s hands that actually feebly held back.
The heart monitor spiked a little and Bucciarati looked up to see Narancia’s eyes blown wide.
“F’go?”
Fugo.
The stabbing pain in Bucciarati’s chest was relentless, rendering him unable to speak. Trish bit the bullet instead.
“No, Nara.” she said.
Narancia stared at her for a long moment.
“He’s gone.” she clarified quietly.
Disbelief crept into his features and he weakly shook his head. Regardless, he took a shaky breath and asked, “‘ista?”
“No.”
Horror replaced the disbelief, as Narancia realized where this was leading. “Abba? Gio?” he asked anyway.
Trish could only shake her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Bucciarati tore his eyes away from them both.
There was only silence in the room besides the beeps of the heart monitor. And then it was filled with Narancia’s broken sobs.
----
“Where’s he?” Narancia asked quietly, hollowly. He buried his spoon in the milky pudding in front of him, uncharacteristically not hungry. The crackers on the other side of the tray were left untouched. The doctors had started him off with tasteless liquids first and worked their way up, and the whole time Narancia had been compliant. Too compliant. Like he didn’t care anymore.
Bucciarati sighed and found himself glancing at the door. Trish had gone off to pick up their lunches at the hospital cafeteria, and hadn't returned yet. It looked like he was going to have this conversation with Narancia now.
“Dead.” Bucciarati said, hoping the finality in his voice would end the conversation there.
Narancia, of course, wasn’t deterred. “Who?” he ventured, and dark eyes rose to meet his.
Bucciarati held his gaze, before realizing it was pointless to hide it from the boy. He’d find out anyway, or worse, go off to find out himself. “There were two of them. Stand users, a sniper and a voice mimicker. They defected from Passione because of the banishment of drugs. They wanted revenge.”
“Revenge…” Narancia repeated, and his eyes went glassy. His fingers tapped against the tray almost anxiously, and Bucciarati shifted, wondering if he’d entered another flashback. But Narancia blinked out of it as soon as it started, “...You got them?” his voice wavered.
“Mista… Mista got the sniper. Trish and I got his partner.”
Narancia nodded and looked away, already knowing he wasn’t going to share any more details with him.
“Are you done with that?” Bucciarati indicated to the cold tray in front of the boy.
Narancia nodded solemnly and Bucciarati took the tray and set it off to the side for the nurse to take.
“Who’s Don now?”
The question was so quiet, Bucciarati almost missed it. He sat back down heavily in the chair. “I am.” Saying it felt wrong. That was Giorno’s position, always Giorno’s.
“Oh.”
The silence between them was oppressing.
Bucciarati felt like he should say something - comfort Narancia, reassure him - but the words were stuck in his throat. He swallowed, tried, “I… I’m sorry.”
Narancia startled. “For what?”
“For…” Bucciarati sighed tiredly, closing his eyes briefly. “... not being there. If I’d been there, all of you wouldn't have been lured in. They could all still be here now-”
“-Or,” Narancia cut in, voice low. “You could’ve ended up just like them.”
Bucciarati stared at him in shock and Narancia gave him a sad, bitter smile. “I’m glad you weren’t there, Bucciarati, because if you were… I wouldn’t… I can’t…”
“Oh, Nara.” Bucciarati leaned forward and took the boy in his arms, and Narancia all but melted into him, shoulders quaking with emotion. He cradled the boy as best he could, stroking his head softly even as he swallowed back his own tears.
“I don’t blame you,” Narancia muttered into his neck. “I’m so glad you and Trish are h-here with m-me.”
“Shhh, Nara, shhhh, it’s okay.” Bucciarati soothed, and a few tears slipped past his defenses.
Trish found them like that when she entered a few minutes later. She joined them too, and all three of them cried together.