Archive of Our Own

There are a million and one ways to confess your affection to someone. At a candlelit dinner, a walk on the beach, or lying on a blanket under the starry sky.

Bruno does it spontaneously, over coffee and ledgers, in the spartan spare bedroom he’s converted into a de facto office. 

It’s fitting, really. Despite what movies and television shows try to depict, the life of a mafioso is neither glamorous nor romantic. It’s relentless and draining and all you can do is ride the ride and grab for shreds of something resembling happiness when you can. 

So, as he watches Abbacchio with his hair tied back, reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose, chewing on a highlighter cap as he dutifully pores over spreadsheet after spreadsheet, Bruno makes the rash decision to take a stroll on the ever dangerous primrose path.

He perches on his desk, legs dangling over the side, and gently nudges Abbacchio in the shin. 

“Hey.” 

Abbacchio raises his head, tucks the highlighter behind his ear. “What’s up?” 

“I need to speak to you about something. Something not work related.” 

“Shoot.” 

Bruno wrinkles his nose. He can’t expect Abbacchio to anticipate what comes next, but a flippantly uttered shoot doesn’t feel like an appropriate prelude. 

Maybe it’s a sign, maybe he should reconsider, maybe he should—

“Over the course of our relationship I’ve become attracted to you in a romantic way. I think you might feel the same,” Bruno says plainly. He states it as a fact, because that’s all it is: a fact, an observation of reality, possibly a truism if Abbacchio isn’t entirely dense. 

Abbacchio blinks; his face remains impassive. The only thing keeping Bruno from launching into orbit from sheer humiliation is the tell-tale creep of scarlet rising up Abbacchio’s chest. 

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this right now as opposed to—I don’t know—any other time?” 

It’s a valid point. They spend at least a couple nights a week together, and their evenings typically don't involve searching for inconsistencies in financial records. 

Bruno huffs, waves a hand dismissively. “Ok, so I didn’t plan this well, or at all. I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“I never thought I’d see the day Bruno Buccellati executed an ill-conceived plan,” Abbacchio taunts, voice dripping with mirth. 

“Leone, please.” 

“Sorry, fuck knows I’m terrible at this, too.” Abbacchio places a hand over Bruno’s knee, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “What should we do now?” 

(Bruno has quite a few ideas but most involve putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. And they really ought to review that paperwork.)

He peers up at Abbacchio through his lashes in a way he hopes reads as sensuous. “We can kiss—if you want,” he murmurs.  

Abbacchio leans in, his words come out low, husky. “I want.” 

Excellent.

Bruno curls his fingers around the back of Abbacchio’s neck and closes the distance between them. 

This is hardly the first time Bruno has kissed someone, but in some ways it might as well be. The only physicality he’s known has been rough, fleeting affairs with anonymous strangers. He’s yet to experience the incommensurable pleasure of intimacy with a partner who he actually shares an emotional bond with. 

They kiss slowly, languidly, taking the time to know each other through soft gasps and fisted hair and the sultry drag of tongue. 

Kissing Abbacchio gives Bruno a glimpse into how people can wax poetic about their great loves. Hell, he might be able to write a sonnet after this.

When they finally manage to pull apart, they rest their foreheads together, savoring the proximity. It’s soothing, a moment Bruno could live in forever—until Abbacchio sours the mood with a question that could have remained unasked.

Apparently, the prospect of love is the one thing that makes the past-bound Abbacchio care about the future.

“Where do we go from here?”

This is the moment Bruno realizes he jumped off a cliff and didn’t consider where or how he’d land. He’s opened a door that cannot easily be closed, and now he has to choose whether to proceed forward or back away from the threshold (and run). 

“I need time to think.” 

Abbacchio jerks out of his grasp, reverts to his default expression of vexation and mild disgust. “Bruno, with all due respect, what the actual fuck?”

“I said I need time to think,” he snaps, rubbing at his temples. This whole thing is becoming one big headache. “It’s complicated, you know. We don’t have the privilege of simple lives.” 

“So what do you propose we do.” 

“What we always do.” 

“Repress what just happened until it slowly eats away at us from the inside out,” Abbacchio offers blithely.

Bruno scoffs. Under normal circumstances, Abbacchio’s sardonic humor would be amusing, charming even. But, right now, it makes Bruno want to punch him...or throw him on the desk and fuck the cynicism out. Not necessarily in that order, possibly at the same time. 

Because neither of those options would be productive, he settles with a measured, “No. We figure it out together.” 

“Right.”   

Bruno catches Abbacchio’s wrist, pulls him in close so he can hide in the crook of his neck; Abbacchio smells of cigarettes and Eros and something warm but unnamable. It’s a selfish gesture, considering the circumstances, but Bruno has given so, so much away in his life. He can take this.  

Abbacchio wraps his arms around Bruno in a pitiful excuse for an embrace and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. Then he sits back down, slides on his glasses, and dives back into his work without sparing him so much as a second glance. 

Dejected and insecure (both unfamiliar feelings, both terribly unpleasant), Bruno slinks behind his desk. He spends the rest of the night cycling between boring holes in Abbacchio’s skull and reading the same five rows over and over. 

When it’s finally time for bed, Abbacchio has finished combing through his portion of the reports, while Bruno is right where he started. 

The reality sets in; this may become a problem. 

_________

But to his relief, nothing changes; they’re still the same Abbacchio and Buccellati (and Leone and Bruno) they were yesterday, and the day before, and the day before...

It makes him wonder just how long they’ve been at this juncture, and why it was so effortless for them to pass through it.

_________

Bruno’s always had a special sort of rapport with Fugo. Perhaps it’s because he’s the first of his recruits or perhaps (and more likely) it’s because Fugo was bestowed with a mind far beyond his years. 

He finds the younger man sitting at a table at Libeccio, nursing a cup of tea and reading L'Étranger . 

“Good morning, Buccellati,” he greets. Bruno has always found it eerie how Fugo doesn’t need to look up to detect his presence. 

“Where are Mista and Narancia,” Bruno asks. He pulls out a chair and pours himself a cup of tea. 

“They’re down by the water, doing some sightseeing.” 

Sightseeing , to Mista and Narancia, is code for not-so-secretly ogling women. The harsh barb to Fugo’s tone reveals that he may not-so-secretly miss his perkier shadows. 

“And you didn’t want to join them?” 

Fugo looks horrified, as if Bruno suggested that he go gargle bleach. “Fuck no.”

Bruno offers a slight smile. “Enjoy the peace. I’m sure they’ll be back breathing down your neck in no time.”

“Great.”

Fugo has never been one for chit-chat or other niceties, which allows Bruno to address the reason for his visit with little preface or preamble. “I want to ask you a question, and I need you to not push back even if you think it’s strange.” 

“Ok.” Fugo finally closes his book and gives Bruno his signature stare—intense, but somehow thirty-thousand miles away. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were solving some grand equation at the same time as this conversation. 

“What would you think if Abbacchio and I entered into a relationship? Do you think it would be wrong?”

Fugo’s grip on his cup noticeably tightens. “What are—”

“I told you not to push back,” Bruno scolds, but there’s no real heat behind his words. 

“You seriously want ethical advice from the guy who damn near bludgeoned a man to death and conned people with no remorse?” 

“I’ve always valued your input.” Bruno takes a sip of his tea and grimaces. It's black tea, steeped long enough to be too bitter for his tastes. “And might I remind you that violent actions aren’t necessarily bad ones.” 

“Hm.” It’s a concession the ever proud Fugo cannot vocalize. “Why do you care about ethics anyway? You’re a mafioso.”

You know why. Bruno places great value on maintaining whatever scraps of righteousness he can in his life and choices. If he weren’t so caught up in his intentions, he’d kindly remind Fugo of that. “Humor me.” 

“Well, that fact you’re asking at all means that you understand there are certain considerations when it comes to a superior dating their subordinate.” Fugo pauses, rubs a hand over his chin. “But forgive me if I overstep, I don’t think you treat us in the same way as other team leaders might.” 

Bruno has heard horror stories about the indignities other team leads and capos have imposed on their subordinates. He could treat his men with a quarter of the respect and compassion he shows them and still look like a saint in comparison. 

“Why, because I don’t work you like dogs or treat you like you’re expendable?”

“Well, yes. It’s not just that, though. You care about us; you see us for who we are, not just as mere means.”

Bruno is flattered by the commendation, but this isn’t the conversation he came to have. “So how would you feel if we entered into a relationship?”

“I just told you,” Fugo spits. The already tight grip on his cup goes white-knuckled. 

“No,” Bruno corrects. He’s careful to avoid any insinuation of mistake on Fugo’s part, as not to provoke him further. “You told me what you thought, not how you felt.” 

“Disgusted if I have to see any PDA.” 

“I appreciate your honesty and can assure you that would never be an issue.” 

“Then I think it just might work out,” Fugo says contemplatively. “It certainly would be nice to have the smothering tension between you two lifted. It’s almost suffocating at times.” 

Bruno raises an eyebrow; his team is full of big personalities, but Fugo’s blunt candor can be the most unnerving. It’s also a stern reminder that his actions, or inactions rather, have not gone unnoticed.

Unsure how to proceed, or whether there’s anything left to be said, Bruno stands and pushes in his chair. The wonderful thing about Fugo is that it doesn’t matter if Bruno is abrupt; he isn’t insulted by lapses in social grace like some of his more sensitive team members are. 

“I probably don’t have to tell you that I’d appreciate your discretion,” he says firmly.  

Fugo nods, makes a vague noise of affirmation. 

“Enjoy your day off.” 

There’s no response. In the five seconds of silence, Fugo is absorbed in his reading, as if Bruno had never been there at all. 

_________

It was supposed to be a quick and easy mission. Some mid-size up and comers got a big head and forgot their place. Apparently, they’ve been encroaching on Passione territory and flagrantly challenging the gang to step up and retaliate. 

They’re about to receive their communpence; Bruno’s team was assigned to answer their invitation. 

They spot their targets loitering near an alley off a main road. It’s apparent from the get-go that they aren’t Stand users, which is a double-edged sword. On one hand, straight up brawling is far more predictable than contending with convoluted abilities. On the other, Bruno can acknowledge that his team lacks the finesse of seasoned fighters, which often results in collateral damage.

A man wearing a long red scarf approaches Bruno, seemingly recognizing his authority—and his affiliation to Passione. 

“How considerate of you to finally show your faces. We were starting to wonder if Passione was just a tale to keep the kids home at night.”  

“Our sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting.” 

“Ok, so let’s—”

In an effortless motion, Bruno sucker punches the presumed leader, knocking him out cold with ease. 

It gets chaotic from there. 

Fortunately, their opponents are more bark than bite, and it takes little time to drop five of their squad. Mista’s got the sixth at point blank range when Bruno holds up a hand to stop him. 

Bruno sizes up the man. He’s trembling, backing away instinctively. Bruno tilts his head, gives him a saccharine smile—which he follows up with a swift kick to the man’s chest, forcing him onto the pavement with an ugly crack. 

“The Don sends his regards,” Bruno says. He presses his foot on the man’s windpipe for a tick, allowing him to absorb the message. When he frees the man, he remains frozen on the ground, gazing up at Bruno like he’s Death incarnate. 

“Run,” Abbacchio growls. His command is icy, brutal, the kind of thing Bruno will remember later and shiver. 

The man scrambles to his feet as fast as his battered body will allow and limps from the alley as fast as his (possibly) broken legs will take him. 

Sensing no more danger, Bruno slips out of the grasp of darkness and returns to earth. “Everyone check themselves. Any injuries?”

“I caught a stray,” Mista grits. He’s holding his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. “Just gonna float this out there, if there’s more than one gun can we, uh, take the fight out of the alley?” 

“It’s not our problem that you’re a bullet sponge,” Fugo says angrily. He’s slumped against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

“No, that’s a fair point, Mista. Let’s try to be mindful of that next time,” Bruno interjects, mollifying the threat of another altercation. “Everyone else ok?” 

“I’m totally fine, Buccellati,” Narancia chirps. The toothy grin on his face indicates that it’s a fact he takes great pride in. 

“Glad to hear it. Why don’t you go help Fugo.” 

Narancia responds with an eager nod and rushes over to a protesting Fugo’s side. 

Bruno turns his attention to Abbacchio; he struggles to keep his voice even, as if he were addressing any other member of his team. “And you?” 

Abbacchio cracks his knuckles, then his neck. “All good.” 

Bruno surveys the scene, making mental notes for the report he’ll have to provide. There are five men on the ground, three appear to be breathing, two are—well it’s nebulous and not worth his time to figure out. 

His own team seems to be in fair enough shape, which is always a relief. Mista and Fugo will need some level of medical care, and the rest of them have bruises and scratches that time will handle on its own. 

Seeing no reason to linger, he prepares to rally the group. 

And then Mista starts laughing. 

This sets off Narancia, who will laugh at anything. Fugo joins in because he often laughs when Narancia laughs. Even Abbacchio lets out a noise between a chuckle and self-satisfied snort. 

Bruno knows he should intervene and remind everyone of decorum, but the whole thing feels absurd. They’re a group of teens and poor excuses for adults standing over the bloody, beaten bodies of five men many years their senior. 

In a life filled with uncertainty and ever-present danger, who is Bruno to deny them this bizarre moment of joy. 

Sick pleasure is pleasure all the same. 

When the bout of laughter dies down (or reduces to a few sporadic giggles from Mista and Narancia), Bruno ushers the team out of the alley with the irresistible offer of food.

Narancia crouches by Fugo’s side and helps him to his feet with a cheerful “up you go! ” He allows Narancia to support him as they fall into slow, careful step with Mista. Within moments, they’re completely absorbed in an argument about what to have for dinner. 

Abbacchio hangs back, just as he always does. They trail behind the trio at an unhurried pace, far enough away that their conversation won’t be heard. 

“I got chills when you told the guy to run,” Bruno whispers. 

Abbacchio smirks. “Always a pleasure.” 

Bruno taps the back of Abbacchio’s hand with his own. They hook pinkies, and the rest of their fingers fall into line in a light grip. 

(Light enough to ensure plausible deniability should one of the younger members decide to turn around.) 

Bruno hums, relishing the feeling of gentle touch after a battle. It reminds him of his tenderness, his humanity; he’s not afraid to admit that he’s drawn to the perverse allure of a cracked bone under his fists, or the weight of a gun in his hand. 

(He figures that these are artifacts of joining the mafia so young. Part of coping is learning to see beauty in the violence.)

“I get scared for them when we fight like this,” Bruno confesses.

Abbacchio rubs his thumb over Bruno’s knuckles. “I know.” 

“I get scared for you, too.” 

“Bruno, you don’t have to—” 

“I cannot lose you,” Bruno hisses, overcome by a rogue wave of protectiveness. His nails dig into Abbacchio’s hand so hard he may have drawn blood. He doesn’t care; he needs Abbacchio to know his words viscerally, in the deepest parts of his bones. “I cannot.”

Abbacchio looks at him with something like terror, something like reverence, something like absolute understanding—and smiles. 

_________

Two days later, Bruno shows up at Abbacchio’s door at sunset. 

“Have you had anything to drink?” It’s a question Bruno asks out of habit, a holdover from a time of when the answer was less certain.

“No, do you think I forgot what day it is?” Abbacchio replies in earnest.

His sincerity is a bright spot. Bruno bottles it, tucks it away; he’ll need it later. “Of course not. Are you ready to go?” 

Abbacchio nods, grabs a jacket and his leather driving gloves (the ones that drive Bruno mad with gutter thoughts). Without a single word exchanged, they exit Abbacchio’s building into the street once more. 

Each member of Bruno’s team uses their paycheck differently. Fugo buys books; Mista and Narancia, food and frivolities; and Abbacchio, a car. It’s nothing special, a black sedan that’s somewhere between acceptable and seen better days. 

Bruno insisted that he could get Abbacchio something more luxurious from Passione’s stolen fleet, but he declined. He told Bruno that he wanted something that was his and his alone, even if the money used to purchase it was dirty. 

Thanks to his time in the force, Abbacchio is a skilled driver, with a heavy pedal foot but impeccable control. He keeps the car steady while effortlessly rubbing soothing circles on Bruno’s thigh. The contact is crucial; it’s the only thing preventing him from collapsing in on himself like a dying star. 

Tonight is the anniversary of his father’s death, and they’ve been making this silent pilgrimage since Abbacchio joined the team. He’s the only person Bruno trusts enough to shephard him through this harrowing journey of anguish and self-condemnation.

(The worst is at night. Being in a car helps.)

Bruno leans against the headrest and watches Abbacchio’s face illuminate and darken with each passing streetlamp. It’s an excellent visual for the way they live their lives: light then shadow, light then shadow. Idly, he reaches out to brush his fingers over Abbacchio’s cheek. 

His focus stays on the road, but the right side of his mouth ticks up. 

Bruno closes his eyes, wonders if this will be the year that he’ll finally reach absolution. He yearns for the freedom to mourn peacefully, in the back of a church or at his father’s grave. 

As the sunset yields to twilight, the macabre highlight reel begins: he’s walking the beach while his father taught him to navigate with the North Star; he’s sailing on his fishing boat, learning the tricks of the trade; he’s hiding under his hospital bed, about to make a choice that will forever change his life; he’s holding his father’s limp hand as he passed, too delirious on pain medication to recognize that his son was with him. 

(From somewhere far away, Abbacchio reminds him to keep breathing.)

They have to stop once, as they usually do. Abbacchio stands vigil while Bruno screams until he chokes and gags, until he’s able to expel a fraction of his sorrows. When he’s done, when his throat is as raw as his insides, Abbacchio wordlessly hands him a water bottle and they get back in the car. 

Bruno rolls down the window, letting the crisp night air batter his face. The act is painful in a cathartic way. It makes it safe to be vulnerable as they cruise down the highway at 140 kilometers an hour.

He can’t tell whether his stinging eyes are from the wind or his tears (and neither can anyone else).

_________

Bruno has a knee-jerk skepticism for things that come too easily, too naturally. Experience has taught him that sooner or later, the other shoe will drop. 

Things between him and Abbacchio have progressed too easily, too naturally. This is the quiet pause before the Gucci loafer hits the floor. 

_________

It starts with a rare and lucrative offer from Polpo: a contract hit in Rome. Some moralistic soldato has been giving inside information to the cops, and there’s only one way to definitively patch a leak. 

Under normal circumstances, he'd take on this mission with his team. But these aren’t normal circumstances. 

Most years, Bruno rebounds quickly from the grief his father’s passing stirs up. His ability to compartmentalize is second to none. Only this time, the lid on the box he stores his sadness won’t shut, rendering him as helpless as a turtle stuck on its back—and he’ll snap at anyone who tries to flip him over.

Rather than attempt to diffuse these tempestuous emotions, he does what comes naturally: he throws himself into his work and seizes the opportunity to get the fuck out of Naples. 

(Bruno knows running from his problems is the wrong solution; the last time he tried it, he ended up in Passione.)

And yet he sets out anyway, providing no other context than a note delegating his duties to Abbacchio and a wad of petty cash “to entertain them in my absence.”

He offs his mark in four days, traipses around the city for three more, makes two wishes at the Fontana di Trevi, and doesn’t contact his team once. 

_________

Of course such actions have consequences and when he returns from his mission, refreshed from his travels and the thrill of a kill, he’s greeted by a series of bone-chilling messages from Narancia.

[2:05 pm] abbacchio is bein mean

[4:25 pm] pls come back soon

[5:54 pm] oooo ur in trouble

Bruno winces. It’s a hell of his own creation with the devil he knows—it scares him nonetheless. 

_________

Fueled by the bravado of two glasses of wine, Bruno dials a familiar number and braces for impact. The line rings four times before someone picks up. 

“Bruno.” Abbacchio’s clipped tone makes his stomach lurch. If it weren’t for the liquor, Bruno would have hung up on the spot.

“Hey.” 

“Hey what? I’m getting ready for bed.” Abbacchio is nocturnal, so Bruno is comfortable branding that a bold-faced lie (no face licking required).

“It’s only nine o’clock, Leone.” 

“We’ve been working hard. I’m tired.” 

They’re at an impasse. Bruno should cut his losses, pretend this never happened, and greet Abbacchio with a smile during tomorrow’s briefing. He’s got an inkling of a buzz and a brain full of wicked ideas. He needs to press the end button now. 

“Come over,” he breathes. “Please.” 

There’s some rustling, a clink of glass on wood, a sigh. The line clicks, then static. 

Mother—

Bruno can acknowledge that he deserved that. In a misguided attempt to lick his wounds, he pours himself more wine and downs it in two gulps. 

He trudges over to his chaise and flops down, hand over his face in a dramatic display. It’s vile how petty he’s being, but it’s not like he has an audience. If he must stew in disgrace, he might as well do it with flair. 

Forty minutes pass. There’s a knock on the door; Bruno practically levitates. 

Abbacchio isn’t even through the doorway before Bruno pounces, shoving him against the entryway wall and kissing him like the world’s ending at midnight. 

“What has gotten into you,” Abbacchio pants. 

“What do you mean,” Bruno asks, feigning innocence like he doesn’t have his hands in Abbacchio’s coat and a knee jammed between his thighs. He prays Abbacchio will let sleeping dogs lie so they can keep the ball rolling—ideally to the bedroom. 

Unfortunately, he’s not so merciful. 

“You disappear for nearly a week, don’t fucking call once, and now you’re on me like a rabid animal,” he starts. “I worried, we worried. Do you understand? I thought you were upset, or worse.”

“Of course not.” Bruno nuzzles against Abbacchio’s chest, leaving a trail of kisses on his jawline. “Why would I ever be upset with you?”

Abbacchio pauses, narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” 

“You taste like pinot grigio. And this happy sappy act is not you.”

“Fine. I had a glass of wine.” Lie. “But I promise you I’m not drunk.” Half-lie.

Bruno leans in again…and Abbacchio’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away. There’s a pained look on his face, which hardens into something somber. “I love you, but you can’t go pulling stunts like that and expect no pushback. It’s not fair. Figure your shit out.” 

Whatever else Abbacchio just said is abandoned to the wayside because: I love you.

The world narrows, Bruno’s head swims. His skin is too tight; his apartment too small. He’s hotter than the surface of the sun, and it’s not from the alcohol. 

He’s heard those words before. Outside of the divorce, his early childhood was neither tumultuous nor devoid of affection. Both his mother and father were demonstrative with words and touch. 

So maybe it’s the fact that the only thing resembling affection he’s received in the past eight years is praise for his grim accomplishments. 

(And coming from Polpo, praise was little more than jabs disguised as sentiment. His capo understood the danger of a man with a swollen ego.) 

Or maybe there's certain magic to hearing those three words from Abbacchio. Either way, something foreign and feral claws its way through Bruno’s chest. The closest name he could assign this feeling is craving, with a hint of desperation. Instinctively, Bruno recoils; he wishes he could unzip himself and purge it all out. 

“I’m sorry, that was…” Abbacchio stammers, fumbling to backtrack. “Can we forget...” 

No. Never. Not anytime in the next thousand years.

Bruno’s heart is in his throat, beating so hard he can feel it throbbing in the tendons of his neck, rattling in his skull. 

“Say it again.” His voice is broken, unrecognizable. The request is not so much a command as it is a plea. 

“Bruno, stop it,” Abbacchio warns. 

“Ok,” Bruno says clumsily, takes a few shallow breaths. His grip on the situation slips like reigns through his fingers. “Ok.”  

Like a coward, like everything he hates and promises never to be, he zips out the wall and bolts. 

_________

Bruno has no shortage of shames in his life but fleeing his own apartment easily breaks the top ten. 

He wanders aimlessly for an hour, sits on a park bench, self-flagellates.

When he’s finally able to drag himself back home, there’s a depraved part of him that hopes Abbacchio will be waiting. But he’s not, because of course he’s not. It makes Bruno smile, laugh to himself. It’s better this way. He loves that Abbacchio takes no shit. 

He loves his steely countenance and the fluid way he throws a right hook.

He loves the sweetness he displays when he thinks no one is watching. 

(Once he sat up all night with Narancia, who had drank himself sick on his seventeenth birthday. Bruno found them the next morning, both asleep on the bathroom floor.) 

He loves his lipstick and his mascara and the way his hair flips at the ends. 

He loves his crooked smile and barking laugh. 

He loves every pocket of light and shadow, every freckle, every scar. 

He loves Abbacchio, wholly and unequivocally, for everything he is and isn’t.

Overwhelmed and unable to sleep, Bruno stands on his balcony, lets it all wash over him . His heart flutters like a winged creature on the precipice of emerging from its cocoon. 

Why did he run? The words were right there, burning a hole on his tongue. 

He’s lived nearly half his life under a regime designed to be cruel, to weaponize the darkest aspects of his humanity and render him a machine, a husk. It’s a splendor, a miracle even, for him to be in love. If things never come to fruition, he’ll still consider himself blessed to know the feeling. 

Love is a subversive act. A chance to be free. 

He won’t take it for granted.

_________

Before they can address their latest encounter, Bruno is forced to dispatch Abbacchio, Mista, and Narancia on a two-day mission. It’s nothing dangerous, but it’s nerve wracking to split his team. 

In their absence, Bruno holds court and collects protection money with Fugo. It’s nostalgic, or as nostalgic as doing the daily deeds of a mafioso can be. Once upon a time it was just the two of them trying to find their way. 

They walk in comfortable silence, en route to Bruno’s apartment where they’ll sip café au lait and play checkers until Fugo tires of beating Bruno six ways to Sunday. 

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on and it’s not my business. But you have to end this, Buccellati,” Fugo says casually. His arms are crossed behind his neck as he strolls along. 

He doesn’t need to elaborate on the meaning of this. Fugo may not be the most emotionally competent (pot, meet kettle), but he’s observant as all get-out. There’s no way he could miss the strained energy between him and Abbacchio. 

“I know.”  

Apparently his assurance doesn't move Fugo because he bristles, giving Bruno a look that could wilt a flower. “Do you?” 

Bruno frowns. He doesn’t like to play this card—“It’s not your place to challenge me, Fugo.”

That knocks him down a peg. Fugo can be quarrelsome, but he’s not insubordinate. “Sorry boss,” he mumbles, averting his gaze in frustrated submission. 

A swirl of contrition settles in Bruno’s gut. Pulling rank on account of his personal problems is wildly out of line. He places a reassuring hand on Fugo’s shoulder, hoping to convey his good faith. 

“I’ll handle it.”

Fugo sniffs, clicks his tongue as if to say I’ll believe it when I see it.

_________

So this is it, the promised end. 

They sit across from each other in Abbacchio’s living room, a tension so heavy that it has its own gravitational pull. No one speaks, the only sounds are the rattle of the window pane as it’s battered by wind and rain and the steady ticking of Abbacchio’s antique clock. 

(To an outside observer, they could be warring dons in an intense negotiation.)

“How did everything go,” Bruno asks.

He knows how the mission went because he read Abbacchio’s meticulous report. But someone has to yield, and he’s willing to throw himself on the pyre of Abbacchio’s wrath if it gets them out of this stalemate.

“Fine. We can be quite functional without you.” 

It’s painfully obvious Abbacchio is not referring to their mission. Bruno swallows thickly; the bitterness, the acrimony in Abbacchio’s words burn like acid on his skin. 

“I never said you couldn’t.” 

More silence. Looks like he’ll need to yield a bit more. Stepping out of his comfort zone, Bruno takes a crack at a bold strategy: “I missed you.” 

Abbacchio scoffs, his disdain contrasting beautifully with the pale dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I was gone for two days.” 

“But I did.” 

“I missed you, too,” Abbacchio mutters; he crosses his arms over his chest, like the action could nullify how flustered he’s become.  

His walls are down; this is the sweet spot, the ideal time to strike. 

“I’m embarrassed about the way I acted,” Bruno admits. “I honestly don’t know why I ran that night. It was beyond inappropriate. I didn’t mean to disregard your feelings.” 

Abbacchio scrutinizes him, assessing the veracity of his apology. Abbacchio is the only person close enough to Bruno to be able to read him like a well-worn book. Every blink, every sigh, every twitch of the mouth or furrow of the brow. 

Apparently it has the ring of truth, because Abbacchio’s posture relaxes, he sinks back against the couch.  “It’s alright. It shouldn’t have sprung that on you. I— well I’ve been waiting a long time for an opportunity I thought may never come.”

The room illuminates in jagged yellow. A few seconds later, there’s a clap of thunder overhead.

Abbacchio’s voice drops low, like he’s confessing to a murder. “I don’t have to love you, though, if that’s not something you can handle. Just tell me what you want so I can manage my expectations.”  

And fuck if that doesn’t splinter Bruno’s heart into a million little pieces. The concept of Abbacchio sacrificing himself in such a way is inconceivable, unconscionable, almost too much to bear. 

A wick of infuriation ignites up Bruno’s spine. 

“First of all, if you ever, and I mean ever say something like that again I will zip off your tongue. Hear me, Leone Abbacchio, because I am dead serious.”

He takes a few cleansing breaths, lets the flame snuff itself. 

“Second, I’d like you by my side, of course. I’m not good at expressing myself but surely you must know that.”   

“I really don’t. People generally don’t like to keep my company for that long.” 

“Oh stop it.”

It’s a relief to banter; the ice has melted, they’re in calmer waters. Even so, Bruno is measured, methodical when he stands and joins Abbacchio on his couch. Hearing no objection, he reaches for Abbacchio’s right hand and cradles it between his own. 

“Understand that if we cross this line, you’ll be opening yourself up to more danger. People could use you to get to me, or worse, try to pit us against each other,” Bruno says soberly, ensuring that he conveys the magnitude of the choice at hand. “You shouldn’t have to be put in harm’s way for my sake.” 

“Ugh, we have to work on your savior complex.” Abbacchio's voice is light with the ghost of a laugh. The unexpected change in tone throws Bruno off balance. “I’m an adult with something called free will. ” 

“I—” Bruno opens and closes his mouth. There’s no argument that wouldn’t creep into the realm of paternalism. Lest he not forget, Abbacchio is older than him. “Yes, you are.”  

There’s a crackle of electricity in the air. Abbacchio shifts infinitesimally closer; Bruno follows. Their dance is coming to its inexorable conclusion. 

“Look if you’re trying to scare me away or let me down easy, I don’t blame you,” Abbacchio teases. 

Closer. 

“If you make one more self-loathing comment, I will rescind my offer,” Bruno retorts.

Closer. 

Abbacchio shakes his head. “My lips are sealed.” 

Closer.

Their noses brush. They’ve reached the edge of the final cliff, all they have to do is jump.

“So what should we do now?”  

“We can kiss—if you want.”

As Bruno gazes into Abbacchio’s eyes, molten gold and twilight, something new, something extraordinary blossoms from his toes to his fingertips. 

This is what it’s like to surrender your heart. This is what it's like to be unabashedly vulnerable. This is love how Bruno imagined: rapturous, consuming, maybe even monstrous. 

He isn’t sure he’s ready to speak his epiphany, so he condenses it into something he can. 

(After all, there’s a long road ahead, with plenty of miles to figure it all out.)

“I want.” 

_________

Moonlight streams through the bedroom window, enveloping the room in a gossamer haze. The storm has passed, leaving only the heavy scent of rain and oily, shimmering puddles on pavement. 

Bruno rests against the headboard, finishes the last of his cigarette. The room is a debauched, satisfying wreck; clothes are crumpled on the floor, there’s lipstick stains on the sheets that will never come out, and the most precious mess of all sleeps curled against his side, one arm flopped over his chest, snoring ever so slightly. 

Abbacchio’s expression is serene, untroubled, free of the surliness he wears as a mask. He’s fragile in an exquisite way, like a treasure Bruno is tasked to cherish, to keep safe. 

As he reaches to discard his stub, Abbacchio twitches in his sleep, makes a noise like a whimper. Bruno suspects he’s stumbled somewhere into his past, and while he can’t protect Abbacchio from himself, he can guard him through the night, from the dangers they’ll never outrun. 

Bruno pulls him in close, rests his chin atop Abbacchio’s head. He jolts once more, then hums and falls slack, shifting to burrow deeper into the blankets. 

Together in the stillness, Bruno keeps watch until dawn.