Chapter Text
Abbacchio’s career as a cop was rather short-lived.
He’d spent mere months uniformed in blue, bearing a copper-plate badge, running through streets flitting between one crime and another—between one bribe and another. He’d spent a couple of months working in the office. He’d organized case documents, charges, criminal records, daily accounts, and posted bails. He was signing documents, writing notes, filing papers and sorting computer files.
These, he did everyday. It was all as much a part of his work as being on the streets.
Now, one wrong bribe later, one death, and an alcoholic spiral—add to that his savior man in white, one golden brat, three Mafiosi deaths—and finally a urinal full of treasure later, Abbacchio was writing notes, filing papers, and sorting computer files for a living once again.
Of course, these files still documented smuggling, theft, and money-laundering, but this was Bruno’s smuggling, theft, and money-laundering. Well, not the man's direct actions, of course. Rather, these were actions he’d approved, issued and ordered as a Capo—carried out by his team of soldatos scattered throughout the city.
Bruno Buccarati, once a soldato himself who happened to lead other soldatos. A man, who managed to earn friendship and respect from the people of a few districts, now had the money and power that came with being a central pillar of Passione. He had the love of—and control over—the entirety of Naples, his reach spreading as far as the settlements just outside the city.
Here, Abbacchio thought he’d always carried himself like a man who could rule the town. Now, Naples was truly Bucciarati's city.
It was something his team had long anticipated—Bruno becoming Capo—but none of them could have anticipated that they too would be rising up in rank and responsibility. Abbacchio had been made part of Bruno's personal intelligence team. He’d gone from shaking down debt-owners and feeding Bruno information to doing the same things on a much grander scale.
Abbacchio was used to working with Fugo—who had a mind like a human databank. They worked well together. They were always the "intelligence team". Mista and Narancia usually took charge of stalking and intimidation. They were the "muscle", despite how Abbacchio always thought both of them to be lacking in muscle. Quite severely, in fact.
Together they all were, more or less, a functioning machine. They weren’t exactly a well-oiled one, and their parts ground together more often than not. But Abbacchio liked it. It was chaos that worked. So he wasn’t sure how to feel about the gold and pink steamroller that came barreling into his team and knocking everything out of place. And yet, the surreal apparition of this barbie doll nightmare who Abbacchio had come to know as Giorno Giovanna—the brat —had also snapped everything into place. Every event that had occurred since his appearance could only be described as an instrumental step in their team's successful journey to mafioso glory.
For one, Polpo had ‘died’ mysteriously after Giovanna passed his little entrance exam.
Abbacchio had his money on homicide. Perhaps first degree murder; the brat was conniving enough to have planned it.
Then there was the entire process of killing the two Mafiosi on that yacht, who would’ve taken their lives for Polpo’s fortune. A most notable instance was when Giovanna had forced Abbacchio to bring out his stand by jumping right into the enemy’s arms. What sort of fifteen year-old willingly puts his life at risk on a hunch and his blind trust in a stranger? One that has a plan to save his own ass, is who.
Then there was their little escapade with the boss’s daughter. The pink-haired, skimpily-dressed, fourteen year-old girl had tried her best to act like an indifferent brat, but between the apparent pain of losing her mother and being hunted by six stand-using assassins over the course of nearly two weeks, she’d broken down in Coco Jumbo’s little magic room right in front of Bruno.
They were spending the night in a motel before they had to head off to San Giorgio Maggiore at dawn to complete their mission. Or put it on pause, rather.
All it took was the Capo's gentle offer to talk. Somewhere along the mention of family, the girl had cried, showing her freshly unearthed grief and fear. She buried her face in Bruno’s shoulder, pouring her heart out for… well, all about sixty seconds.
It was an honest yet awkward exchange. While she furiously rubbed at her face through Bruno’s gentle coaxing—that motherly side of his shining through—Abbacchio had stood by the mini-fridge with Giovanna. Idly, sharing with him the mutual desire to switch places with Narancia and Mista, both of who were standing guard outside and were significantly less likely to be affected by such emotional intensity. But Giorno didn’t know that. Giorno didn’t know them.
Logically, the juvenile delinquent was awkward simply because he didn’t want the responsibility of… whatever that situation was. He, likely, simply, wanted out of there. It ticked Abbacchio off, as he valued being a good soldier (remembering his rank ), and following orders and staying in his place—things which Giorno Giovanna simply did not do. However, in that moment of such intense awkwardness, he would’ve followed the kid's longing gaze out the ceiling if he could.
The following morning, they’d gotten Trish Una breakfast at a café by the canals, and subsequently experienced the most open and extensive conversation with the little diva that they've ever had. Not that they had a lot of previous conversations with her to compare to, of course.
They drove her by boat to the docks of San Giorgio Maggiore, where they were met by two of the elusive boss’s elite guard—two striking young men draped all over each other during the entire exchange. There in front of the church, Bruno Bucciarati’s ragtag team of delinquents found themselves parting ways with someone like a friend. She was to be put in the care of another capo, transferred around while traitors were weeded out. That was how the plated blond Mafioso phrased it, but to Abbacchio, it seemed like Trish was being used as bait to sniff out any potential traitors in the organization. The boss had a bit of spring cleaning to do, after all. A little inhumane, if you asked him—using his daughter as live bait—but then again, this was a drug-peddling crime syndicate they were dealing with.
The two Mafiosi had insinuated that this wouldn’t be the last time they would see Miss Trish Una. Whenever that would be, it apparently wasn’t any time soon. They bade their farewells, and all six of them stepped onto a boat and into new lives.
Bruno Bucciarati had work to do.
-
Setting up shop for a mafia division’s headquarters was surprisingly easy to do when your boss was an increasingly influential and well-loved figure. A store-owner on the street across from Libeccio had practically offered up the flat above his little gelato shop for Bruno’s use. And so, Abbacchio had found his place of work transferred from the alleyways and streets to a carpeted room modestly decorated with chairs, a few shelves, three desks and two computers, along with the little aloe vera plant Giorno insisted on keeping by the window sill.
Ah—yes, the other addition to the workplace. Giorno Giovanna.
Bruno’s flat held several rooms—one of which was his bedroom, another his office, two other guestrooms, and a second office for his personal Intelligence Division. Abbacchio spent most of his time in the second office with Fugo, and while Giorno was technically working with them, the youngest acted more like he was a supervisor rather than a newbie. And perhaps, unofficially, he was exactly that. A rank above both of them.
Abbacchio had fully come to realize this one evening when a short, mustachioed man with a wiry frame, clad in an obviously second-hand suit came knocking on the entrance downstairs, right by the gelato shop front. Abbacchio had descended to the door and opened it to blubbering apologies spilling out of the poor man’s mouth, coupled with a shaky request to see one Giorno Giovanna. This was the man who owned a barber’s shop a few tram stations over, definitely one who owed protection to Passione.
Bruno was out, retired to his home by the sea for the month’s end. Tonight, it was only the intelligence team and Narancia, as the teen simply didn’t feel like sleeping in his own apartment too often.
The boy on the couch gave the old shop-owner a smug once-over as they passed, definitely knowing something Abbacchio didn’t. He lead the man past the living space and towards the double doors of Bruno’s office where he knew Giorno was pulling out another night of work. Bruno had practically made Giorno his assistant once they’d established their headquarters. Giorno caught up with his paperwork, Giorno accompanied him during meetings, Giorno intercepted information for Bucciarati and delegated tasks to his teammates, and at times like these, took over the office entirely while the Capo was away.
It wasn’t uncommon for Giorno to receive visitors paying their respects and dues in Bucciarati’s stead. This time, however, the visitor had asked for Giovanna specifically. It left a taste in Abbacchio’s mouth that wasn't very pleasant.
“Giovanna, you have a visitor,” he’d announced upon entering. Or spat, rather. He let the old man, who was now visibly sweating, ahead into the dim office while Abbacchio closed the doors and stood in place.
The only light in the room came from a small desk lamp on the large mahogany table, situated in the middle of the room, along with the orange of a Neapolitan sunset spilling in from the large window behind it. At the desk sat Giorno, clad in his signature light pink suit, green eyes glancing sharply from the shadows on his face as the light cast a golden lining on his imposing frame.
Abbacchio wondered if and how he could manipulate scenes like this at will, like a mafia-themes disney princess (disney mafia boss?). It happened often. The light hitting him just right during a speech, or an entrance, or at the execution of a target. Abbacchio would've been impressed if he wasn't more confused.
Only glancing briefly at Abbacchio, Giorno offered a hand to the old shop owner—a gesture to take a seat. The air was still for a moment, nothing but the sounds of the man’s shaky breath and the distant traffic of Naples. Perhaps there was a bird’s chirp or two heard from beyond the window.
Then, as if his legs had given out, the old man was on his knees before the desk, his gnarled hands gripping the carpet. So sudden it was that Abbacchio jolted forward, ready to catch him, but Giorno did not make a move.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” the man gasped, head bowed, voice on the verge of a sob. “I did not know… I did not know!” He cried.
Abbacchio had stood stock still as Giorno stood and rounded the desk, strides slow and steady. His sharp eyes never left the man while the shadows on his face shifted in the dying light.
Then the boy stood there, half his face glowing in the sunlight, but Abbacchio could only see the half cast in shadow.
At his feet, the man scrambled to turn and face him, still on his knees. “Please… Signor Giovanna,” the man breathed. “I did not mean to speak such rude words to Mrs. Menini! I have given her money back and she—she no longer needs to pay at my shop!” He paused again, gasping. When Giorno still said nothing, he continued. “I have… I will pay my dues! I will pay the right amount—and! And I will increase my payment! Please, I ask only for your forgiveness. You are a kind man! So… so kind. Please forgive me for my—my insolence, my d-disrespect.”
The man looked up at Giorno then, tears trailing down his face. Abbacchio wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be afraid. He’d felt like he did in the turtle again with Trish. He was witnessing something he didn’t want to—but it was something important.
The man bowed, again, perhaps no longer able to hold the boy’s stare. He swallowed heavily before opening his mouth. “I have been rude to you. I have lied about my dues. And yet, instead of beating me half to death as Po… as Signor P-Polpo would have ordered, you… you paid for my Maria’s bills. You paid for my daughter’s illness! Even as I lied to your face…” the man trailed off, voice breaking. That was the look of a man admitting sin and awaiting punishment. “My sweet Maria has come home. And now that she is home, I accept whatever it is you w-wish to… whatever you wish to become of me.”
Giorno tilted his head, and for a long moment, leveled the man with a deathly, steady gaze until their eyes met. He tutted, and the man flinched. “You show disrespect, Signor Vecchio,” spoke the boy. His words had the man shaking once more. “I only follow the orders of my Capo. He asked me to get you to pay your dues, and you haven’t paid because of your daughter’s own dues. I take care of it, and you pay. It is a simple act that I would not have done had my Capo not ordered it. If you wish to beg for forgiveness and offer your loyalty, you offer it to Bruno Bucciarati.”
The man laughed, quietly, half-mad through his tears. “Your Capo did not order you to pay for my daughter’s bills—you have done that on your own despite the hostility I have shown you.” He sniffled, seemingly calming himself, slowly. “I will pay Bruno Bucciarati my dues, and my respect. But tonight, I give you my gratitude.”
Giorno did not stop him when the man shakily took his hand, grasping it in his own shaking pair, and pressed a reverent kiss to the back of the young boy’s fingers. It was a motion reserved for only caporegimes and dons. Abbacchio was certain that Giorno had done more than pay for some girl’s hospital bills, even without accounting for the knowing and reverent look the man held.
-
Giorno Giovanna could make a great and respected leader—that went without saying. He could command and think as well as Bruno Bucciarati, and even if Mista would argue that Giorno could be even better, Abbacchio would be damned before admitting to that much. However, he acknowledged that Giorno was good. It wouldn’t be a shock to see him officially signed as heir to Bruno’s throne.
But the biggest difference between them came in this—Bruno Bucciarati was human. When people came to Bruno, they were asking a friend for help. He was a protector to them, a human being with compassion. Bruno was beloved by people because they felt that he was just like them, except he had the power and willingness to help. Now, Abbacchio saw the way people spoke to Giorno. Giorno Giovanna was not human. He held himself as though detached and otherworldly. People respected him like a golden idol—regal and untouchable, Bruno Bucciarati’s special, loyal machine.
Abbacchio didn’t like putting his trust in a machine. He could not trust something he couldn’t become.
These are the sort of thoughts Abbacchio likes to stew in whenever Giorno Giovanna demonstrates his utter presence in any way—like right now, in the present day, he was currently holding a visitation with Bucciarati in the office next door. Through the wooden walls, Abbacchio could hear the muffled sobs of a woman and Bruno’s deep, calming voice responding in turn. Sometimes, muffled remarks carried by Giorno’s lighter tone would make themselves known and Abbacchio would have to hold his eye back from twitching in irritation.
Sitting at the desk by their little window, Abbacchio tried to focus his attention on the protection money records he had to file away and type into the computer later. Lifting up an envelope from the small stack, he found a yellow sticky-note attached to a printed document labelled Vecchioso Salone .
‘ Abbacchio, this one is taken care of. Please clear any owed money from the record.
-Giorno’
Abbacchio squinted at the note, then glanced to the bottom of the document. He took note of the clearance and shrugged, trying to ignore all the zeroes making up the final bill. If Bruno’s funds suffered then he could have a word with Giorno himself.
Moments later, shuffling footsteps could be heard outside, and then the door to the office slammed open to a tired looking Fugo carrying folders in one hand. He slapped them down unceremoniously onto Abbacchio’s desk before plopping heavily into a nearby chair himself.
“What’s this?” Abbacchio scowled, not entirely appreciative of the disruption to his workspace.
Fugo, who had his head tilted back and sported an even deeper scowl on his face, cracked one eye open to glare at Abbacchio. “More dues,” he spat, closing his eye. “Fuckin’ uncooperative bastards. Next time I’m getting Mista to use that fucking gun of his.”
Despite his temperament, Abbacchio scoffed, grinning. He picked up some of the crumpled folders and flipped through the documents within. He squinted. “I’m surprised you haven’t killed anyone yourself today. Looks like Bruno’s gonna have to order a hit anyway.”
“Yeah,” Fugo huffed. “Bastard also has some white powder with him. Bruno’s definitely ordering a hit.”
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow at that. “He uses drugs?”
“Sells.”
Abbacchio winced.
“Looks like his market is minors. Aren’t even Passione-sanctioned drugs." Fugo shrugged. "Third party brings in more money, I suppose.”
Abbacchio winced again, shoving the papers he had to the bottom of his pile. Everyone knew about Bruno’s beliefs. His job was to oversee and pull money into Passione, but his own little passion project was ridding Naples of any drug-trade that wasn’t tied to Passione, and even then, he took down anyone selling Passione’s drugs either by pay, persuasion, or murder. In the end, it didn’t matter. As long as Bruno manages to keep income up by all other means, he could eliminate and increase Passione’s money-making outlets in however ways he pleases.
He was never told directly, but Abbacchio suspects the reason he and Giorno have been taking more and more meetings together was to make more deals to increase Bruno’s power with gambling, smuggling, and business protection. It was working, slowly but surely, but in the meantime, Fugo and Abbacchio were to deal with the intricacies of keeping the dues and pleasantries in check. Some people were unwaveringly loyal to Bruno, yet a lot of others were more concerned with their own gain of power. They were the scum that would risk betrayal to Bruno if it meant keeping their pockets stuffed.
“Give that to Ricaccelli,” Abbacchio said, turning back to his desk. “This Tulio guy’s in his territory anyway. Bruno trusts the guy. He’s a loyal soldato with a solid team.”
Fugo waved a dismissive hand. “Giorno doesn’t trust him.”
At that, Abbacchio’s nostrils flared. “What does Giorno’s input have to do with that? Shouldn’t you be taking orders from Bruno?”
Fugo cracked his eye back open, giving Abbacchio a familiar wary glare. “I was about to give Ricaccelli the job too, until Giorno pointed out that he was supposed to be monitoring Tulio’s activity, given he’s in his territory, and he’s still slipping under our noses.”
Abbacchio went quiet at that. He had a point. Then he fixed the increasingly drowsy boy across from him with another scowl. “Still—what the hell are you doing coming to Giorno with matters like that? Shouldn’t you be consulting Bucciarati?”
“Bucciarati’s busy enough as he is. You know our policy—if we can deal with it with enough sense on our own, then we deal with it.” Fugo yawned, leaning back further into his chair. “Besides,” he mumbled. “Giorno practically shares a brain with Bruno by now. He’s like, second in command.”
Abbacchio scoffed. “The brat gets sick in front of you one time and you’re licking his boots all over.”
Fugo’s brows furrowed, but he kept his head tilted back, hands behind his head. “He’s a leader. He saved my life. Getting infected with Purple Haze isn’t just ‘getting sick’ . If he can make good decisions and pull through then I’ll take them.” Fugo sat up a bit, opening both eyes to fix Abbacchio with a tired gaze. “You know, I still don’t get why you want to constantly sock him in the face. He saved your life too, you know.”
Abbacchio turned away from the boy with a huff, pretending to reshuffle the papers on his desk. “I didn’t ask for him to save my life,” he grumbled at length. Fugo only sighed.
“Isn’t the fact that he did save your life proof enough that he’s trustworthy?”
“Trustworthy?” Abbacchio snorted. “Please. People don’t just throw themselves into lethal situations without fully knowing the risks, without a plan to get out of them—or hell, get something out of them,” He snapped. “Giovanna’s a sketchy bitch with an ulterior motive. He isn’t here for a part-time high school job.”
Fugo sighed, reclining back into his seat. He opened his mouth, presumably to offer his retort, when the creak of the office door swinging open turned both their heads.
Abbacchio jumped. It was Giorno. Of course it was Giorno. The floors were wooden and hollow, so usually everyone in the house could hear someone approaching, except for Giorno who tended to patter around gracefully like a cat. He would often pop into rooms without notice, really.
From behind him, the sounds of heavy footsteps and light conversation suggested that Bruno was leading the woman they were previously conversing with out the door.
Giorno walked in, poised and neutral as ever, addressing the two with curt nods. Fugo bowed his head in return and Abbacchio rolled his eyes. It was getting late, the sky turning a bright orange outside. Soon, Fugo would make the trip back to his apartment and Abbacchio to his own. He wondered if Giorno would stay over again; he’d practically made a home of one of the guestrooms.
“Abbacchio, I’d like to speak to you,” said Giorno, startling Abbacchio. Fugo’s head turned up in interest.
“Just spit it out, then,” Abbacchio said as he spun in his chair, expecting Giorno to sit at the remaining chair and begin a discussion. Instead, the boy glanced behind him, then back to Abbacchio before speaking.
“Bruno… would like to talk to us,” he said. “Both of us. In his office. Right now.”
Now, that was interesting. In the corner of his eye, he could see Fugo fully sitting up with intrigue as Abbacchio raised his own brow.
“Alright, then. Let’s not waste his time,” he grumbled, getting up. Giorno quickly stepped out of his way and allowed him to take the lead.
Walking through the living room, Abbacchio wondered what could have possibly brought this on. Bruno was well aware of Abbacchio’s distaste for the boy, but it was usually never a problem. Whenever they had to do a job together, things usually went off without much of a hitch, except for the usual disagreements. He couldn’t remember anything he recently did to warrant a scolding from Bruno. He only ever pulled off the piss incident thrice. If it was another one of those, he’d have to assure Bruno that it was totally, one-hundred percent not Abbacchio’s piss. Definitely.
They walked past the TV, right in front of the couch where Narancia was lounging with a bag of chips. He had blood on his skirt.
“Oooh, someone’s in trouble,” the boy jeered through a mouthful of junk food, earning a scowl from Abbacchio.
“You have blood on you, rat.”
Narancia looked down, as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh, yeah, this isn’t mine. Probably from the thug I had to shake down earlier?”
Abbacchio grimaced. “Whoever’s blood that is, you better wash it the fuck off before you stain Bruno’s damn couch.”
“Ugh, whatever, dad, ” Narancia groaned, begrudgingly getting up before walking in the direction of the guestrooms, Abbacchio scowling after him.
“Hey, Giorno, did I leave any clothes in your room?” He called behind his shoulder.
Giorno looked confused for a moment, before nodding to himself. “Ah, yes, you have some of your skirts in the drawer.” He paused, then, “Also, the guestroom isn’t really mine.”
“Yeah, but you practically live here.” Narancia threw his hand up, disappearing down the hall.
With another long-drawn roll of his eyes, Abbacchio shrugged open one of the doors to Bruno’s office and gestured with an exaggerated bow for Giorno to enter. To his credit, the kid had learned how to take his subtle mockery in stride, so instead of taking offense or trying to ignore him entirely, Giorno also rolled his eyes in a minute gesture of exasperation before walking in.
Granted, Giorno’s little actions of mutual mockery got on his nerves a bit, but it was a routine they were both used to. Giorno may be polite and, as he put it very clearly, held ‘no distaste for Abbacchio’, but he also took no shit. Abbacchio had to respect that. But he also took every opportunity to inconvenience him just the tiniest bit enough to see what he’d do in retaliation. Call it a morbid sort of curiosity.
It was a cycle of entertaining frustration that Abbacchio supposed he had to live with now. That is, until he found himself on the wrong side of someone’s gun. Or stand. Or stand-gun. Mista likely wouldn’t shoot him, but he was proof of the existence of a hybrid stand-weapon existing anyway.
Or maybe Mista would shoot him. Who knows? Point was, dealing with Giorno was a part of Abbacchio's reality until he eventually met his end.
He closed the door to the office, walking in. He was instantly met with Bruno’s level gaze, peeking out at him from the collage of orange and purple that came with the setting sun. The way Bruno sat in the light had a striking resemblance to the day Giorno had old man Vecchio on his knees in front of him, but Bruno didn’t seem to hold as much regal presence as Giorno did. Then again, he also didn’t have a man on his knees like Giorno did.
That, or he lacked the supernatural ability to make a movie screencap out of his sitting position.
Abbacchio flipped on the light switch at Bucciarati’s command.
He took Giorno’s lead and sat on one of the plush velvet chairs adjacent to Bruno, awaiting their Capo’s words. Meanwhile, the man in white sat back, tucking a pen he was previously writing with neatly into a pencil holder and leisurely began to arrange papers into a neat pile on his desk. He was well aware that his two subordinates were watching the every movement of his hands with intent.
At length, he folded them neatly onto his lap and reclined, leveling the two with a sharp look.
“I have a job for you,” Bruno spoke. “Both of you.”
When neither of them said anything, Bruno continued. “Giorno, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take a few days off from school. Possibly weeks.” He breathed a sigh out his nose and took a piece of paper from the top of the pile. “There have been murders going around my territory—all of them soldatos of Passione. Their origins are untraceable and they are largely unknown. The killers don’t know I know and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He tucked the document in his hand into a thick envelope off to the side, then slid said envelope towards Giorno. “I’d like to know whether or not this is a stand problem and who these murderers are, if possible, without inciting a confrontation. That is why,” Bruno paused, sliding a hand into his coat. It came up to slap a travel map of Italy onto the desk.
"You two are going to be spending some quality bonding time with each other,” Bruno finished with a smirk.