Chapter Text
05:41 pm. The Italian man was right on time - in about twenty minutes the bank would officially close its doors for the day.
“I apologize sir, but we were about to close...”
Completely disregarding the employee's protest, he pushed the door and casually entered the building anyway: “Yeah, yeah, I know. Won’t take too long, I promise!”
The receptionist sighed and dragged her feet back to her reception desk. The dark-haired man waited for a few seconds before switching his earplug on, correcting his hat's position so he could finally walk before the security cameras to join the customers' queue.
He made a quick state of play: in addition to the young operator who seemed in a hurry to go home, the security guy, and the lanky bank cashier, there weren't more than a dozen civilians as agreed.
So far, so good.
The old lady standing right before the newcomer cast him a disdainful glance, looking disapprovingly at his beanie, dark sweatshirt, and old pairs of DocMartens before squeezing her purse closer to her chest. Such a usual sight made him chuckle: those old grannies fat of cash were all the same. Impressionable, but rightfully cautious.
“You done yet? Hey! Say somethin'!!”
He winced as the voice inside his earpiece sizzled. Being forced to wear that device was unnerving: the others were growing impatient, he could see it, but there was no way he could possibly answer right now without drawing unnecessary attention to him. Hands inside his pockets, the shady Italian man turned on his heels and walked at a leisurely pace towards the restroom he knew had been especially left open for him. The blasé look of the security assistant beckoning him to hurry the fuck up made him snicker on the way.
As soon as he heard the door close behind him the man hurriedly opened his bag pack to take out his equipment:
“You sure the cameras are off?” his face now covered with a ski-mask, the gangster finally addressed his associate.
“Yeah! All done!” chirped back way too excitingly the voice at the other end of the line, “doors are locked, the emergency hotline's blurred, everyone's waiting. So whenever yer ready, Sex Pistols!”
The robber smiled as he heard the nickname. Yeah, using musical references as code names may have not been the wisest thing to go for (Sticky Fingers was a hell of a dubious name, despite being true as no one could crack locks faster than their boss), but at least they hadn't chosen cities like in that damn Spanish tv-show. Nah, that would have been way too predictable.
And they were professionals. Being unpredictable was their motto.
“Cool, tell the others to be ready, I'll be out in thirty seconds.”
With that, Mista checked that the gray briefcase was still hidden behind the broken tiles of the wall and that his life-long companion wasn't lacking anything before putting his gloves on. It was all good, all they had to do now was to pray that there wouldn't be too many hiccups. That stunt would be the one that would change the course of his life forever: it was too late to have remorses, and too soon to regret having done it.
The robber mentally made a countdown, his last cohesive thought going to the pizza from lunch he hadn't taken the time to properly savor, and he finally stormed out of the restroom, gun ready. He fired a shot at the light fixture of the hall: a bulb exploded, and with that came the first scream of realization in the bank. Not everyone had yet to understand what was happening: the silencer, necessary for the swift execution of the plan, was taming down the situation a bit too much to his own taste.
Sex Pistols truly needed to spice things up.
“Hands up, purses down!”, the armed robber shouted in the direction of the poor customers, “you all know the drill!”
“Fuck yeah Mis... Sex Pistols!! You sounded so cool!!”
He winced as he heard his ear sizzled, as always Aerosmith couldn't contain his excitement and now that his entire face was covered with the mask, he couldn't turn the damn volume down.
Fear and commotion immediately took hold of the clients who, despite everything, preferred to look at each other at first, petrified, rather than obey docilely. Mista couldn't blame them - every hostage-takings would always occur like that but it still annoyed the shit out of him. The security guy, recovering more quickly than the others from his torpor drew his gun and aimed it at the criminal who, without flinching, watched as another of his accomplices struck a swift block to his neck. The poor officer on duty lost consciousness and the hostages, therefore, became fully aware of the unfortunate position they were in.
Yeah, now they were fucked for good.
“Come on people, sit in that corner. We'll happily take care of your belongings... In the time bein', my associate,” at this word, a new purpled masked individual raised from behind a counter to approach the obedient crowd, “will kindly bind you to make sure none of y'all will risk bein' hurt...”
Sex Pistols motioned for Purple Haze to proceed to ensure the hostages' safety, his gun never leaving the faces of those who seemed to be the most rebellious-prone. As he had correctly estimated, there were very few civilians: the receptionist, who was making her way toward the wall, richly closed old men following her with frightened eyes, and a young man in a flamboyant fuchsia suit who was civilly helping the old shrew from earlier to move forward.
Mista glanced behind him - Sticky Fingers and the unconscious guard were already gone, meaning that they were both already trying to crack the treasure room's safety lock. On his and Purple Haze's side, their prisoners were behaving reasonably. Some of them were even making their task easier by stretching their wrists so that Fugo could tie them up more efficiently They were probably eager to be done with it as soon as they could.
It was actually a first in Sex Pistols' career: damn, rich people really didn't care about being relieved of a few tens of thousands of euros. Seeing the hostages literally neutralizing themselves was slightly upsetting: they were ruining all the fun of his job.
But hey, at least it was granting him more time to have some harmless fun with them.
“Hmm...”, Mista sure took his sweet sweet time inspecting the content of the disdainful shrew's purse with his gloved hands before shaking his head in a theatrical gesture. “Nah, I'll keep your wallet but that ugly old-fashioned bag won't do. I'm a sucker for thrift stores and shit, but there's nothing to get out of that.”
From where he was standing, the robber could practically hear Purple Haze's annoyed sigh, but whatever - with the money Sticky was taking straight from the bank vault, everything else was just some nice extra. He was allowed to be picky and to fuck with his audience a little bit.
“Done, they're all tied up,” informed his acolyte in a hushed voice as he straightened up to join him.
Tied-up, and soon to be blindfolded too.
The disconcerting ease with which a single gun aimed in their direction could make his crowd so obedient never ceased to amaze the robber. Any of his orders, no matter how wacky they could be, would be carried out in a second. Mista wasn't a psycho or a sadist per se, he actually liked to think of himself as being rather benevolent, but getting that much power within his hands sure was thrilling. It was so fucking fun.
“Great, now let's move on to the second step, shall we? Please stay very still while my friend here will proceed to blindfold you. Won't take long, but any suspicious move and I'll fire into the crowd. Capito?”
That new statement seemed to rekindle the fear in the eyes of the hostages... as well as some belligerent spirits.
“Why bother blindfolding us now? You're all wearing masks, we already can't see your faces.”
If several people turned pale as they heard the words of that daring hostage, a blond whose air was dangerously pedantic for someone in his position, some of them also ended up agreeing with him. Great.
Well, yeah - Mista had to admit that it was rather useless now - they were already running the risk of people noticing the disappearances of the bank employee and the security guard who had switched sides - but it would help to scare the shit out of them even more. There was nothing more terrifying than having to rely on your hearing alone in such a precarious situation... The hostages behaving well was key for their initial plan. That robbery needed to be quick and hassle-free: no unnecessary injuries or gunshots - Sticky Fingers had been very specific on that.
But that conceited guy was in no place to discuss their strategy.
“Cause we feel like it, that way it's gonna be harder for y'all to escape when we'll set the building on fire. You're good now?”
The old shrew uttered a terrified cry and another old geezer put a hand against his heart.
Oh fuck - a heart attack wasn't going to work in their favor.
Fugo shot him a dark look. Thank god he couldn't talk as people might recognize his voice despite the ugly overalls which he had put on in a hurry - but he actually didn't need to run his mouth to let Mista know how much he disapproved of the way he was handling the situation.
But fuck him and his moral concerns – Sex Pistols was the one in charge. Purple Haze had no choice but to follow what he was saying for now.
“Okay, okay… Since you guys seem to be on your best behavior, we won't tape your mouths... Come on Purple, just blindfold them real quick.”
Sex Pistols spun the barrel of his revolver as he observed attentively how Fugo secured the knot on the self-proclaimed troublemaker - a swift and harsh gesture. The blond wouldn't be able to undo the bond so easily.
Great - everything was still going as they had predicted.
In less than fifteen minutes now, everything would be over.
Fixing his revolver against the elastic of his pants, Mista drew the inventory of their petty plunger. These hostages were definitely the most collaborative bunch they had met so far: they had even taken the trouble of gathering their personal belongings in small piles for the gangsters. How sweet of them.
“Hand me my backpack!”
Now assuming the role of general supervisor, Purple Haze threw the black EastPack in his direction and the gunman continued his survey. In addition to the old lady's well-endowed wallet, he collected several checkbooks, credit cards and billfolds, a vintage compact that must be worth a fortune, and the keys of a RollRoys. Damn, choosing to target that bank was indeed one of their best decisions ever.
“Thanks for the Golden Master Card gramps, but the fancy watch has to go too,” the old geezer who had almost collapsed a few minutes ago cursed in a muffled voice before reluctantly handing him the golden bracelet. It was a nice try, and he was a pretty convincing actor, but Mista knew better than to be fooled by people like him.
The whole thing was starting to represent a pretty hefty sum of money but the hidden smile on the Italian gangster's face wavered rapidly as he reviewed what the next hostage in line had for him.
“An empty briefcase?”
He fixed his gaze on the blond - of course, it had to be that condescending troublemaker who barely flinched as he addressed him:
“You stink of money, fucker. I'm sure you have somethin' better to give us than a shitty lighter and...”, the robber widened his eyes, surprised by his discovery. “... a frog wallet?”
The belligerent hostage answered back with a serenity that made him lose all calm.
“You're being too greedy. You're looting our banks' funds, is that not enough for you?”
Several hostages raised their heads, probably as impressed as they were worried by the courage (more like irresponsibility) of the blond man. Mista had to admit that if things were not the way they were, meaning if he wasn't the one urging the blond to hand him cash, he too would appreciate the guts of this guy.
But that was not the case.
“Yeah? So you think we don’t deserve more? You don’t wanna share with us some of your rich boy privileges?”
The gunman's voice was suddenly harsher, menacing even. It had lost its' lightweight, mocking subtone. He felt the hostage stiffen, but the blond didn't lower his head for all that. He was still facing him with defiance, standing his ground.
That guy was reeking money, privileges, and mighty boring metropolitan life.
And there was nothing that could rub Mista the wrong way more than a condescending rich bastard addressing him as if he was scum under his shoes.
But the Italian gangster knew his worth: he wasn't the type of man to stand the disrespect.
“Stand up!,” Sex Pistols' voice was uncharacteristically harsh and dry. “Quickly: stand up and repeat what just you said!”
There was nothing more unnerving than seeing such a cocky asshole looking down at you when he was finally the one supposed to be given a taste of his own medicine. Having no other choice, the rebellious hostage obeyed and finally stood up, still looking more serene than all of the other prisoners combined.
So he needed more, right?
Mista aimed his revolver a few centimeters away from the blond's face - still nothing. Fuck Bruno's order to blindfold them all: that arrogant bastard still had no idea of the position he was in. The robber had no choice but to use a more extreme discipline: that's why the sight of his gun directly came to rest on the banker's forehead, cold metal against fragile skin.
The friction of the deadly weapon against his own flesh took the snarky banker off-guard and made him shudder.
Mista pushed the game to the point of triggering the safety catch off - relishing the sight of his victim swallowing.
“M..- Sex Pistols! What are you doing?”
Fugo's voice behind his back surprised the gunman. Shit, he wasn't supposed to talk?! Even though there was no way any of them would go back in that bank again, Sticky Fingers still wouldn't be pleased with that.
“Quit it, moron!” Fugo was definitely on the verge of losing it.
Mista frowned. What had gotten into his associate? They both knew the plan like the back of their hands: no one was going to be hurt.
“Hey, mind your own business!”, snapped the armed robber back. “I'll deal with him the way I want.”
Yeah, the way he wanted and the way they all intended to.
Hell, it wasn't as if he was really going to shoot that goddamn irritating hostage on the go - he wasn't that stupid. The gangster was simply teaching him a valuable lesson in life. But it didn't seem to convince the purple masked criminal one bit.
“Aerosmith… Listen to me. Tell Moody that we need him here asap! Sex Pistols is losing it.”
The dark-haired criminal raised his eyes to heaven - was Fugo seriously ratting him out to Abbacchio?
“Dude, you’re bein’ over-dramatic… You know I wasn't goin’ to just shoot…-”
Mista suddenly stopped mid-sentence, remembering the presence of the other hostages, clearly eavesdropping on their conversation. Damn it, he couldn't just admit out loud that everything was indeed just a damn pretense game or he would lose the ascendancy he was holding over the group.
Fear was the fuel they couldn't do without, for the group cohesion's sake.
But Fugo wasn’t even listening to him anymore – he was talking to Narancia, insisting on the importance of the gray-haired man coming to the rescue. For security reasons, all their headset lines were solely connected to Aerosmith's who, even though he was outside the bank, had to play messenger.
“Tsss…,” Mista reluctantly lowered his revolver, clenching his teeth as he saw the little smile triumphing on the blond hostage's lips. “Whatever. I'm still keepin' your briefcase. Looks nice, I like leather.”
The Italian gangster grabbed the gray bag's handle but didn't have the time to order the banker to sit down that a deep voice growled behind him.
“The fuck you think you’re doing Sex Pistols? Why is that guy standing next to you?”
Mista sent a murderous glare at his white-haired associate who, with his arm folded, returned the gesture.
“Oh fuck no!,” Moody Blues almost chocked on-air as he recognized the immaculate suit and the golden locks. “Don't tell me you're stupid enough to go after Brando's son?”
Fuck. He needed to figure out what to say in order to dismantle Moody Blues.
“Uh… Yeah, and that’s why I picked him. Fucker thinks he's better than everybody else, he wouldn't listen to what I was sayin'. I was just teachin' him a lesson, see?”
Abbacchio was about to retort something when all of their earpieces sizzled.
“Abba..- Shit, Moody I mean, Boss needs you to start packin’ the money. He said it's urgent. Uh… He also asked if everything was okay with the hostages' situation?”
After glaring at them for what felt like literal hours, Moody Blues pinched the bridge of his nose and grumbled. Damn, he was even scarier with the ski mask on - the only thing visible on him was the flash of anger in his eyes. It was at that precise moment that Mista realized how tough the situation was. What if one of the hostages recognized there the voice of the security guard, who had mysteriously disappeared after being knocked out by Sticky Fingers, or that of Fugo who had spent the last three months infiltrating the bank as an advisor?
Talk about unnecessary complications...
“Don't jump the gun and leave the little bitch alone. Aerosmith, tell him that Purple is just being over-dramatic again...,” Fugo was about to protest, but the furious stare he received from the false-security guard silenced him for good.
“Yeah, I know, I know...”
Abbacchio nodded, not fully convinced but as he couldn't afford to play the babysitter any longer, he still went back to the treasure's room anyway.
The brown-haired gangster hardly had the occasion of saying "I told you so" to his acolyte that he was facing once again the unbearable smirk of this very important hostage.
“So…,” even though the gangster had just been scolded in front of everyone, he still refused to back down. “You still don't wanna share?”
“Indeed, I won't tell you anything.”
Contrary to what self-centered, over-educated, bastards such as the blond might think, Mista liked to believe he was more than a reckless moron, a brute who was only good with guns: he was sharp and quick to pick on things.
And very fast to make up his mind.
After all, he knew how to sniff out golden opportunities better than anyone.
“Tell us anything? I was simply askin' ya to empty your pockets… Not to blab 'bout your borin' ass life, unless... We could benefit from it?”
Sex Pistols turned to look at his sidekick and was surprised to see that Fugo was already very invested in the discussion.
“What type of secret could there be in here? What could be useful to us? In case you haven't noticed yet, we didn't ask for your permission to began stealin' for ya... So what d'ya have to propose?” Brando's son bit his lower lip but stayed silent so Mista resumed his inquiry.
“What, you can tell me ya know: is there a secret back-door? A secret passageway we don't know of? Or some kind of secret strong box?”
The very important hostage didn't answer back, but the fact that he had lowered his head was more than enough evidence to fuel the gangster's imagination.
“Oh fuck, there's really another strongbox here, right? There's money hidden somewhere. Ain't surprised, that Brando bastard is known to be fucking shady. Where is it? You know the code, right? I know you do, yer his precious son. Damn, you heard that Purple? We're gonna be even richer!”
Scowling at the blond who was keeping his head low, Fugo's enthusiasm was slightly more subdued:
“It's a bit of a stretch... Sticky Fingers told us nothing about that. And it seems way too good to be true...”
The brown-haired gangster excitingly brushed his suspicions away.
“Yeah, 'cause even he didn’t know. Look, we have Brando’s son, we don’t need Sticky to crack the code. Think of all that extra money!”
What time wasn’t it again?
17:49.
They were just in time - everything was still going on smoothly.
Without further ado, Mista forcefully grabbed the arm of the blond before addressing his associate:
“Keep an eye on the others, with him by my side, it won’t take long. Here look, he even provided the bag to stock the money in!”
Resting the barrel of his gun against the banker's temple, Mista's voice became threatening, “Come on bastard, just spill it out! Where is it?”
Fugo was still hesitant, his red eyes going from the gunman to the now uncharacteristically silent hostage.
Fuck that – that was exactly the reason why Mista was the one in charge. They didn’t have time to think things through, they needed to act quickly on their feet!
And he wasn't about to let Fugo's concerns ruin all of his work.
Sex Pistols wasn't about to be so easily defeated.
“Answer the fucking question. Where is it? I'm not jokin', spill it out or I swear I'll shot you!!”
But the blond remained silent and Fugo was getting more and more nervous, Mista could see it by the way he was twisting his hands. Fuck, the last thing he needed was to have his accomplice flip on him.
“There's no other safebox Pistols!!”
Mista violently shook his head:
“Spill it out! I swear I'm going to...-"
“My father's office...”, as he heard the hostage's voice, the gunman frowned. Shit, he didn't even have time to threaten him more, his gun was definitely growing bored. The blond had given in far too easily according to his own appreciation and a quick glance at his accomplice told him that Fugo couldn't believe it either...
But Mista knew they were almost running out of time.
“See? Told ya there was a fucking hidden treasure somewhere. I don't care 'bout what you're thinkin', I’ll be quick, see you in five!”
Forcibly dragging Brando junior in the direction of what he hoped would be Brando senior's private office, Mista didn't even look back as he heard Fugo's voice:
“You have five minutes and then I’m calling Moody and Sticky. Aerosmith, you stay on the line with him to make sure he won't fuck everything up! He might be lying to buy time... So if there's nothing... just go back immediately!”
That guy could be such a bummer.
“So uh, which way is it?”
The blond, probably resigned to accept his fate as he felt the barrel of the gun resting in his back, sighed:
“Do I need to remind you that I cannot see anything...,” the banker let out another sigh that had to be over-dramatic with how loud it was. “...I can't even walk properly.”
“Don't worry about that, I don't mind havin' you hangin' on my arm.”
Well, the gunman had to admit that as infuriating as that rich bastard was, he still looked pretty easy on the eyes. Mista sure was glad Brando's offspring didn't fall far from the tree.
“Dude, that was so lame!,” Narancia's sizzling voice reminded the gangster that they were not alone - oh yeah, Fugo's unnecessary surveillance.
Even though not everyone might agree with that, Mista was a quick, simple, practical thinker: he knew how to get the best of all the opportunities handed to him.
“Just tell me, seems like there are two rooms. Which one is it? The one with the fancy-ass door on the right?”
The blond sighed as he slightly freed himself from the robber's grip.
“It’s the one of the left, actually. But you can’t enter, he always keeps it locked down when he’s away…”
Mista sneered – was that his only defense?
“Don’t pull that shit on me. You’re his beloved son, right? There’s no way you don’t have a spare key. Like, is that what I feel in yer back pocket?”
The gunman didn't give the blond the time to react that his hand went searching inside the pocket of his tight tailor pants to extract the key. Brando junior's offended face made him snickered even more.
Clic.
The door was unlocked without any problem, and as they both entered the room, Mista was surprised to see how easily he managed to spot the safe.
“So, there's a strongbox? For real? What’s inside of it?” Of course, Narancia had to ruin everything over the earpiece.
“Yeah, there is one. But I didn't open it yet…”, Mista made his fingers crack and sighed. “Now shut up, I need to focus!”
He needed to get the secret out of the blond's lips.
“So, what's the code?”
The smile on the very important hostage's face was now definitely playful.
Sex Pistols was glad no one else could see it.
“I already warn you: I won’t tell a thing.”
“Too late. Listen man, I get that you want to be loyal and shit, but I've already been more than patient with ya. So you either give in now, or I'll blow your pretty brain out right here. Your dad will be pleased to find his son's head inside his fucking safe.”
Brando junior puckered up his lips, still saying nothing. There was no doubt he could still vividly imagine the cold touch of the gun on his forehead.
“Yeah… It’s as you said, the hostage won’t give in so Mi.. Sex Pistols is about to shoot him for real...”
Mista bit the inside of his cheek - hearing more than necessary from Aerosmith truly wasn't helping him.
He needed to change tactics.
“Okay, listen. You’re probably already spoiled as fuck, but I’ll give you 3% of my income if you cooperate. Free of taxes, fair deal right?”
“Hey I can't believe he's so dumb. He's offering money to the hostage now, you wouldn't believe it Fu...-”
Fuck, he really needed to teach Nara how to contact the right person.
And, more importantly, he needed to know how to turn that shitty device off.
“…Fine.”
“Uh...? For real? Brando just accepted your shitty deal?”
… What the hell?
Was the blond really willing to betray his dad for that little money?
Mista knew he needed to voice that concern out loud:
“Seriously? Your dad's loaded as fuck, he isn’t givin' you enough pocket money?”
The blond hostage glared at him, but at least Narancia hummed in agreement
“1888.”
Mista was genuinely taken aback - fuck, for a safe belonging to one of the richest guys in Napoli, that code was somewhat disappointing, to say the least. Whatever - things were even simpler that way. The gunman hurriedly composed the numbers on the iron dial and couldn't hold back a cry of victory when it finally opened.
Ting.
“Oh… Fuck me!”
He was speechless. The hostage remained utterly unmoved, but maybe it was because of the blindfold.
“So it's open? What’s in there? Tell me!”
With his eyes wide open, the Italian gangster was admiring the myriad of green bills that were neatly piled up.
“Dude, there got to be thousands of thousands of dollars in there,” he excitingly described to his partner. “Yeah, dollars. There's no way it's legal. That shady rich bastard must have some fruitful businesses on the side.”
“FUCK YEAH! You’re the best Mis…- Sex Pistols! Oh, by the way, Purple is telling you to hurry. You have like three minutes left.”
Three minutes left? To put everything in that tiny ass bag? There was no way he could do that on time. And he couldn't leave the room without stealing as much dirty money as he could.
Having no other choice, the gangster explained in a whisper to the blond as he removed the blindfold: “Hey Brando, we're out of time so you're gonna help me with packin'.”
“You're taking that off, now?” asked the banker humorlessly.
Mista didn't answer that. Eyebrows furrowed, the hostage blinked several times in order to get used to the light again. As the robber had remembered, those were nice eyes of a bewitching emerald shade. That green was almost as pretty as the color of the bills' Mista was so fond of... Almost.
“So, what d’ya think of me? Strikingly handsome, right?,” even though they still were behind schedule, Sex Pistols was really the type of man to seize every opportunity. Especially when it allowed him to boast. “Lucky you Brando, to be stuck in Daddy's office with a sexy criminal... I bet it's a first in your borin' ass life.”
“If you were to lose this horrendous ski mask… Maybe I could answer that.”
Mista was about to retort something when Aerosmith's sizzling voice crackled in his ear again. The device was a nightmare - but at least it worked.
And that was crucial for the success of the plan.
“Right now? He’s sweet talkin’ the hostage? Hey, don’t scream at me Fu.. Purple! I’m not in there with them, it's not like I can’t stop ‘em!!”
For his defense, no Mista wasn't simply flirting with the rich bastard, he was also trying to fit as much money as he could inside that damn small briefcase.
“Hey, Purple Haze is telling you to stop fuckin' around!. You have one minute to be back.”
A metallic rattle to his right took the gangster by surprise - the gray bag was now closed.
“What?” he eyed the blond bizarrely. “Everythin' already in there?”
The hostage nodded without a word. Well, damn - those overpaid bankers sure knew how to be efficient.
“Hey! Tell him we're on our way back.”
The criminal picked out two generous handfuls of banknotes (this time, they were Egyptian pounds - damn, that Brando had to be the biggest crook they had ever encountered) which he roughly buried in his pants pocket.
“Can I have a restroom break?”
The blond's voice was so clear that the robber didn't have to repeat what he had just said to his acolyte - Narancia's fits of laughter made him winced. They were in the middle of a bank robbery to which he was their star-hostage, but the young man didn't care. It seemed like he clearly hadn't sort out his priorities straight. Mista took a look at the watch stolen from the old man that he was already proudly wearing on his wrist: 5:54 pm. It was risky but manageable.
And there was nothing he could really say to justify his decision, rather than him being stupid and refusing to play it safe.
That game was way too fun, Mista knew he had to be sweating like a pig by now but he still didn't regret anything. He loved to relish danger and adrenaline more than anything else.
Hopefully, that would be enough to convince his audience.
“Since you helped, okay. Be quick though, you have one minute.” the brown-haired gangster sneered as he heard Narancia choking at the other end of the line. “Aero’, just tell Purple that we’re makin' a quick detour. We’ll be back in time, I swear!”
“Are ya fucking stupid dude? Nah, you can’t do that. Even I think it’s suicidal. They’re so going to kill ya for that...”
Ignoring his associate's concerns, Mista abruptly closed the safe, grabbed the gray briefcase and the blond's wrist and sprinted towards the restroom. Brando junior didn't wait and rush to a stall as soon as they arrived.
Finally on his own for a bit, the robber was finally able to release the sigh of relief that he had been holding back for long minutes. They were almost there.
“Just so you know, that express trip will be costin' ya one percent of your earnings.”
The banker's voice answered from behind the closed door:
“It’s fine. I've taken my share from the safe directly a few minutes ago anyway.”
Checking the time on his brand new watch, Mista distractingly protested:
“Hey, who gave ya the permission to…”
The brown-haired robber was suddenly cut off mid-sentence by another door opening with a crash - Purple Haze had just burst inside the restroom.
“I can't believe you're that fucking stupid! What the fuck is going on with you two, Mista?”
Holy shit, to have forgotten about codenames, he had really managed to piss off Fugo this time. What about watching over the other hostages? Were they left alone on their own? What was happening with his other teammates? There were only a few minutes left, Fugo couldn't just ruin everything right now. Not when they were so close to getting away with it.
He wouldn't let him endanger the plan.
“What the hell do you think was happenin'? That he was suckin' me off in the loos? Hey, I'm not dumb enough to leave my DNA everywhere! But what the fuck are ya doin' here? Who's watching over the hostages now?”
His words must have hit the target since Fugo didn't immediately snap back. Behind his mask, his cheeks had probably turned bright crimson because of the crude joke. Fortunately, the sound of a toilet flush prevented them from arguing any longer, and the very important hostage, who had been given preferential treatment until then, quietly exited his stall to join them.
Mista seized this opportunity to temper things:
“Since his majesty is finally done, let’s just head back, shall we?”
But Purple Haze wasn't having any of it. With clenched fists, he took furious steps towards the blond and snatched the briefcase out of his hands.
“What the hell was he doing with that bag? Why isn't he blindfolded? And why are his hands untied too?”
Mista winced at that. Crap, he had totally forgotten about those tiny details.
Okay, that sounded wrong on so many levels, but how could he manage to reason with the white-haired gangster now?
“Hey, the boss is askin' you two to hurry. I’m on my way to pick you guys, will be there in five!”
Mista swallowed with difficulty - he could hear his stolen watch's second-hand trotting faster and faster, moving at full speed. Stress was taking over his exhilaration. The buzzing adrenaline was starting to wear off: none of them could take it anymore. He could see that same fear in Fugo's eyes: they were so close to the goal, and yet everything was starting to crumble.
“I knew you'd do something stupid... You're way too careless...”
Purple Haze's piercing red eyes were still glaring daggers at them. It was only a matter of seconds now before Fugo would finally flip on him and draw his gun. He wasn't the best gunner - well, he was much less agile than him - but at such a close range, he couldn't miss.
A gun.
Right, Mista still had his own within reach too.
He needed to act fast. Or at least, before Fugo.
And that wouldn't be a problem: Sex Pistols was by far the most skilled gunner of the Team. All he needed to do was distract his associate for a short while, to buy him enough time to hold Fugo up at gunpoint before he could do the same to him. The rest would only take him half a second - bam, Fugo would fall flat on the ground, a bullet between right his eyes. Fast, and almost painless.
The others would understand - they would believe that because he was threatening the plan, that action was necessary. He would manage to convince them how much of a threat Purple Haze had been, and how he hadn't had any other choice than to shoot their comrade to ensure the safety of the four of them remaining. Fugo could sometimes get carried away far too much, it wouldn't be his first misstep anyway.
But that was when he finally saw it - the gleam of uncertainty in the white-haired gangster's eyes. He was clearly hesitating, he wasn't willing to be the first of them drawing his gun.
So there was still a chance to reason with him, a chance to avoid unnecessary complications:
“Hey...,” the gunman raised both hands in self-defense. “The guy wanted to take a leak and it’s not like I could give him a hand so yeah I untied him for one minute. But one wrong move and I would have shot him. Screw Sticky's rule, you know my track record.”
Mista held his breath, his left hand innocently resting a few centimeters away from his handgun. The few seconds that followed went by at a painfully slow pace, but Purple Haze's body slightly relaxed and, with trembling hands, he opened the bag warily.
“… That’s indeed a shitload of money,” was his sole comment.
And with that, following the fit of nervous laughter that escaped both of their mouths, Mista knew he had managed to dismantle the bomb. Without blowing his head off.
Everything was going to be fine.
The power of money alone could really silence all fears.
“Let’s… go back,” conceded Purple Haze after he had contemplated the bundles of banknotes for a moment. "Moody’s probably going batshit crazy now, I told him I would bring you back in a matter of seconds. “Hum... I’d rather keep the briefcase from now on.”
As the perfect hostage he was, the blond banker obediently offered his outstretched hands and Mista tied them tightly behind his back, with much more force than it previously was. He did the same with the blindfold and the trio soon managed to go back to the hall where Abbacchio was eagerly awaiting their return.
“It's about damn time! For fucks' sake Sex Pistols, you almost screwed everything up: what the fuck did you do with the hostage?”
Mista scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable. Calming Moody Blues down was going to be a whole different story.
“Uh... He needed to piss, and since we had some time left and I was done with my part anyway, I figured it wouldn't...”
“Brando’s son actually helped us retrieving that,” Fugo, as practical and analytic as ever cut him off, and the gunman was more thankful than ever that he hadn't shot him. “It’s loaded with money… So I do think it was worth the trouble too.”
The elder gangster observed Mista and the filthy rich hostage successively as if trying to read their minds. Unfortunately for him, Sticky Fingers was busy elsewhere and couldn't help him decipher whether it was a blatant lie or not. Rolling his eyes, he grunted:
“Dammit, stop thinking with your dick and start using your brain for once. Wait, actually don’t: we had a plan so the only thing you have to do is to stick with it. No impro, no need to think you're putting us all in danger - just shut your mouth and obey the damn orders. And next time a pretty face bat their lashes at you, just knock them out. That little shit is sketchy as fuck, I can smell it.”
The dirty look he was giving the hostage only faltered when Fugo handed him the leather bag. Abbacchio let out a curse word as he took notice of how it was almost entirely filled with a mass of 1,000$ bills. “Better be worth it...,” his tone might have been as poisonous as ever, it had still already mellowed down.
There was no denying how cash could really ease moral concerns.
“Guys, I’m on the corner of the street. You all ready?”
The cathedral's clock in the distance struck six times.
It was finally six pm.
Excitement seized the three gangsters who hurriedly resumed their respective positions. Fugo ran to the bank counter, Abbacchio returned to the front door where Sticky Fingers was busy stocking bags of money into the trolley.
“Phew…”
Mista breathed the first sigh of relief. They were almost there: only a handful of seconds left, and they would finally celebrate this new successful robbery.
A perfect one - with no accidents, no injuries. Bruno, who held the principle to never harm innocent people close to his heart, would be proud.
“Come on, Brando sat down with the rest. No more special treatment for ya.”
The gun was back in its place: aimed against the blond's head who tensed as he recognized the now-familiar metallic contact. But he definitely got that infuriating temper of wanting to have the last word no matter what (and no matter how undesirable his position was) from his father
“Tsk…,” he overheard the banker mutter under his breath. “They could have let me wash my hands.”
That was the final straw for the robber. After these last few minutes spent under high voltage because of him, he exploded:
Bam.
He coldly banged his pistol's butt against the back of the blond man's head, whose body crashed to the ground a few centimeters away from the other hostages. Even though they didn't get to enjoy the scene with their own eyes, the auditory stimulation was more than enough for the small assembly who let out a cry of horror.
“The fuck did you do that for?,” damn, even after everything Fugo was still on his back.
“Moody was right, Bastard’s too smug and sketchy. Figured out it would be safer for us to just knock him out before leavin'.”
“I'm here! Parked right outside the bank guys! Doors' unlocked!!.”
Narancia's signal didn't give them the opportunity to debate the unfortunate fate of the blond any longer. The decisive moment had finally arrived: would they all be able to get away with it?
Fugo nodded in his direction and with that, slowly removing his ski mask and retrieving his backpack, Sex Pistols finally left the bank.
As casually as he had entered it.
6:02 PM - In the eyes of all residents of the bank's street, Mista, the last customer of the day, left the building in a quiet step, catching the bus n°7 from 18:09 in direction of Napoli's suburbs.
6:03 PM - Pannacotta Fugo, a faithful employee, officially logged off his session and locked the public's entrance.
The iron curtain fell for good on the entrance of the Word Bank Company, imprisoning inside the ten hostages, still tied back.
6:04 PM - Pannaccotta Fugo, accompanied by the bank's new security assistant and an unknown individual, exited through the employees' entrance to load several high-security boxes inside a truck of the Black Sabbath Corp. Such a transfer at this late hour of the day wasn't that surprising to witness - it was a piece of common knowledge after all that Dio Brando, the bank's owner, was himself no stranger to shady transactions - so none of the policemen they met on their way to their Head Quarters tried to stop them.
What a fruitful day.
━━━━━ ༻ $$$ ༺ ━━━━━
10:37 PM - Haruno Brando finally opened the door of his apartment with a sigh. He was exhausted - after having to witness the robbery of the bank that had been left by his father under his supervision and being literally knocked out out of the blue, they had had to wait until 7:30 pm for the cleaning company's arrival to release them.
What an eventful day it had been.
And it still wasn't over yet.
No sooner had he taken off his shoes than he felt powerful arms encircling him, one hand pressed against his mouth to keep him quiet, while the other felt up his chest, forearms, and hips, all the way down to his thighs.
Haruno frowned: “... Really dear?”
A light kiss was quickly pressed on his cheek as a form of heartfelt apology and the intruder soon granted him his freedom back:
“Sorry babe, just needed to make sure you weren't bein' recorded or shit.”
A second kiss was this time planted on his lips and, feeling a wet lock of hair tickling his nose, the blond realized that the gangster had had the time to take a good shower while waiting for his return.
“So, how did it go with the cops?”
Haruno shrugged as he recalled the endless interview he had had to undergo. That, plus the aggressive flashes of the journalists who had been warned of the incredible robbery that had taken place in his father's bank... It had been long and terribly boring - everything, down the last comma, had taken place exactly how they had predicted.
“You may have shortened the life expectancy of some hostages tonight, and that's unfortunate... But other than that, there was no casualty to deplore. You did a remarkable job, even the police officers had to admit it.”
Mista grinned upon receiving the praise:
“Told you so, we're professionals! But 'bout you? You good?”
It was blond banker's turn to smile:
“I'm more than fine dear. And look what I even managed to retrieve before leaving...”
Opening up his gray briefcase, an exact copy of the one Sex Pistols supposedly stole from him a few hours earlier, Haruno proudly revealed the object the two of them had worked so hard to reclaim: the infamous Aztec stone mask. Mista let out a whistle as he took it in his hands to inspect the ancient artifact - it was heavy and frankly quite hideous, but if he couldn't see himself the appeal, it was definitely worth its weight in gold according to the blond.
“No way...,” it took the robber a few seconds to fully realize what his secret accomplice had just said. “You had it on you the entire time you were talkin' to the cops?”
Mista found himself chuckling, he hadn't seen that one comping.
“Wow... That was a pretty risky babe!”
The banker dismissed his concern with a shrug:
“The mask was too important, it's our winning ticket, our sole way out now.” Haruno brushed the stone surface with the tip of his finger. “I'm sure we'll get thousands and thousands, if not millions, out of my Dad's most prized possession.”
Millions. Damn - enough to forget everything about today's robbery.
Enough to start a new life somewhere else.
Enough to stop caring for now about their misdeed's consequences.
“And don't you worry about me...,” whispered the blond, pulling swiftly a £200 Egyptian Pounds bill out of his lover's pants to make him admire it. “I've been smuggling money way before even meeting you, getting away with everything is customary for me.”
Mista was quick to snatch the banknote out of the banker's grip, beaming with pride.
“You never stop to amaze Haruno...”
The blond playfully poked his cheek before leaning closer to the gangster:
“You should practice calling me Giorno starting tonight, Guido dear.”
At the mention of their names about to change forever, the gangster was suddenly reminded of another problem.
"What 'bout your dad?”
“Talked to him over the phone...,” sighing theatrically, Giorno defied from his lover's embrace to put the mask on the kitchen table. “He's stuck in Egypt, all flights are delayed because of a storm so by the time he arrives in Napoli, we'll have already boarded our first-class flight to Nevada.”
“Damn... You're really the smartest genius I know.”
The blond, loving to be showered with his lover's honesty smiled as he stroke the gangster's cheek. Coming from such a professional, it sure meant a lot.
“And you're the most trustworthy accomplice I could have dreamed of. We made it work, dear. It's our win, they didn't stand a chance against us.”
It would take days for Dio to realize that that robbery wasn't a regular one and that the mask had been their primary target; weeks, even, for Bucciariati's team to understand that Mista sudden disappearance was nothing tragic and that they'd been played by the two of them all along. They wouldn't be able to locate them in time and again and again, the pair will get off scot-free.
Yeah, in the end, everything had gone according to plan...
Well - almost everything, there had been some unforeseen mishaps on the way.
The pale hand suspended its caress on the tanned skin.
“But what was that whole flirting about, tesoro? I thought we both agreed not to interact more than necessary?”
What they needed to ensure was for Fugo to let them go on their own to Dio's office after Mista seemingly discovered the strongbox's existence, so they had to play their parts, pretend they didn't know one another. But the brown-haired gangster had clearly overstepped his role on some occasions.
“Yeah I know. But trust me, would have been even more suspicious if I hadn't tried to hit on you, with Narancia eavesdroppin' on everythin' I was sayin'. They knew you're totally my type so...”
A clear laugh escaped from the diaphanous throat: “You simply couldn't help yourself, could you?”
The gunman didn't respond, simply lifting the blond's chin to plant his lips on his as if to prove his point.
Mista, outsmarting his team and fleeing away with so much money...? Looking back six months earlier, the gangster would have himself dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand, he would have never turned his back on them. Despite his seemingly reckless behavior, there was nothing that Mista had valued more in his existence than the recognition Passione granted him. To them, he was a valuable asset, his talents were praised and the most eminent members often sought after his assistance.
But meeting Haruno Brando had been the disruptive element of his life, the breaking point with everything he would normally reason with.
In the end, Mista guessed that it wasn't that surprising: he was a criminal, a godless and lawless scumbag - they should have known that someone even more deceitful than they would one day manage to buy him out. Bribery - that was the sole reason why Mista was now willingly betraying those he had before called family. Giorno was offering him something priceless, something worthier than money or that faint feeling of being acknowledged for his dubious skills.
The blond was allowing him to be acknowledged for who he was, to be someone in charge of his own life again, free to act as he pleased. No more 'sticking to the plan' and following blindly the rules - with the banker by his side, his ideas were valued, his dreams, no matter how silly they might seem, weren't mocked - for the first time ever, Mista's needs were listened to. He had finally found that special someone who could understand him. Learning about Giorno's dream after their first night of wild romance was what had opened his eyes for good: the blond wanted to be something more than his father's eternal second in command, he aspired to a life far more grandiose than that of a simple banker. He knew, they both knew, that Haruno could do so much better, he could get so much richer on his own.
And with that, Passione's elite gunman had realized how that line of thought could also apply to him. He too had every right to ask for more, to stop being his gang's bitch for only a portion of the money he worked so hard to earn. Mista had always been taught that after failing high school and starting to hang with a bunch of disreputable people he had no future left, that it was too late for him - that he wasn't allowed to ask for more now because of those poor choices.
But Giorno had shown him how he was entitled to be greedy for his own sake.
The gangster had started to be aware of his own worth thanks to the blond. Their love-affair was as crazy and passionate as those Mista saw on TV and always yearned to experience. Everything seemed to be going at 200 per hour. The rush of adrenaline, the fear and the irrepressible burning desire to play such a dangerous game, the unbridled passion that animated them both - outsmarting everyone: winning, or losing it all. And the aftermath, knowing how the one laying next to you wouldn't let you down - those sweet-nothings whispered late at night, the warm caress of their bodies pressed against one other, that tight embrace that never faltered.
“Yeah...,” finally admitted the gangster after gathering his thoughts. “Rilin' you up is just too good, there was no way I was gonna pass that opportunity. I guess Abbacchio's right, I gotta stop thinkin' with my dick first.”
“Mhh, I don't agree with him. And I think I should even thank it for allowing me to rely on you...”
Mista didn't have time to fully register those words that the blond's agile hand swiftly came to rest on the bulge lying inside his pants, gently brushing over it a few times as a tease, before frankly drawing its outline. The gunman let out a groan of appreciation that made the banker smile even more - true to his reputation, Haruno Brando wasn't the type of man to stop at nothing.
And Mista couldn't wait to see how more adventurous Giorno Giovanna could be.
Soft lips soon came to kiss him tenderly, the adventurous fingers continuing to play with the gunman's nerves and self-control. His own rough hand, which had been used to commit dirty jobs instead of receiving sweet caresses in return for far too long, landed on the mane of golden blond hair they both loved so much. In contrast to his tenacious and scheming character, each of Haruno's features was of a beauty and nobility that never ceased to amaze him. The tearing sound of a zipper being opened far too slowly shattered the silence and the gangster's body, fully knowing what was going to happen next, tensed in exquisite apprehension.
But Mista's eyes suddenly opened wide with panic as he felt a colossal bump on the back of his beau's head. At that, despite trying to repress his pain, Giorno couldn't help but winced.
“Oh shit babe, I'm so sorry I didn't think I hit you that hard! D'ya want some ice on it?”
The mood was definitely killed. The blond, instantly removing his insidious hand from the gangster, inspected the bump deforming his skull and sighed:
“I'm fine Guido, don't sweat it. I was actually expecting far worse than that.. You could have gotten yourself shot by your teammates on several occasions...”
The brown-haired mafioso looked down at that. They were about to discuss the burning subject he'd been trying to evade for days - how he was double-crossing his friends.
“Will you resent me one day for forcing you to betray them?”, the banker was forcing him to confront his unwavering emerald gaze.
It wasn't the first time that the blond was asking him that, but the answer had never been clearer before. Mista was the one who had viciously put the idea of robbing the bank in Fugo's head almost half-a-year ago, staying silent as the white-haired mafioso had presented this plan as his own. On top of the lies he had been feeding them for months, he had also been sneaking money out of their storehouse, and now that his team had served their final purpose, being a cover-up and future scape-goat for the mask's theft, he was about to disappear into thin air without looking even back.
No, Mista wouldn't regret a thing: he was willingly betraying them - he had allowed himself to be bribed and seduced by Giorno's promise in a span of one single night, throwing away a decade of friendship and servitude. His former teammates were going to pay in his place the high price for that robbery they knew nothing about - hell, Mista had even come very close to pull the trigger and shoot one of them a few hours ago.
“I won't. And you know I'd do it again for ya.”
To set himself and Haruno free, Mista was willing to commit treason.
And with Giorno, Guido knew he was about to do it again and again for the sake of their own amusement. He knew they wouldn't be able to simply settle down and live a quiet life in Nevada, they were hooked on that sense of thrilling danger and passion - they were doomed to perpetrate more crimes and sins together.
“... What can I say, seems like both my dick and my heart always put ya first.”
The blond purred with delight as he heard those words: “Always such the smooth-talker dear...”
“But what about ya?”, although he already knew the answer, it was only fair for the mafioso to ask him that too. "You sure you won't regret throwin' away your brilliant comfortable borin' life just for me?”
“I am, I'd rather feel alive with you than safe.”
If possible, Giorno always knew what to say in order to win him over even more. The gangster's strong arms came to embrace the banker's waist, bringing him closer to his chest. The romantic picture was almost perfect, except for the bump on the top of the blond's head that he definitely couldn't ignore anymore.
“Pfff, I think that Fugo bastard has a soft spot for you. You know, he kept givin' me shit for knockin' ya out like that.”
Giorno snickered, as he fully knew the extent of the effect he had on mortals:
“Really? Umm, then maybe I've chosen to partner up with the wrong criminal. Who knows, maybe he could have offered me a better deal than four percent... ”
Frowning, Guido tightened his embrace and aggressively planted a kiss on his earlobe. Just where he, better than anyone else, knew the blond liked it.
“I said three, not four! And babe, once we'll make it to Vegas half of my possession will legally be yours' forever... Can't top that, right?”
There was definitely not a shadow of regret in either of their beaming smiles:
“Now, eternity... That's the kind of pledge to undying loyalty I love to hear.”