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It’s barely May and the air in Naples is already stifling. It makes Jotaro think back on humid summers spent between Tokyo and Morioh.
He walks down Via Toledo, careful to avoid the screaming children that chase after a soccer ball and the tourists that loiter in front of ice cream parlors and display windows. There is no silence here, where strangers talk to each other like old friends and a crowd of locals stops before a group of African street performers to sing and dance together. The fast-paced rhythm of ‘O sole mio played on bongo drums is almost maddening.
Passione’s new headquarters are situated within an old palace that – the long name engraved on a marble plaque tells Jotaro – at one point used to belong to some noble family.
Above the gate, a round faced Maria clutches an even more soft-looking baby Jesus to her chest; she’s leaning forward, as if to get a better look at the passerby's, or perhaps leave the oval niche she’s been sculpted into.
Inside the cobblestoned courtyard, the actual building is peppered with similar embellishments—remnants of a time when ultimate beauty was crystallized in the extravagant opulence of baroque and rococo. Here and there, it’s easy to spot Neoclassical touch-ups as well. In this city, history exists in layers, all folded up inside the present and never fading away.
The lift, an addition no older than three or four decades, looks ugly and out of place; a tall column of plastic and metal leaning against the decadent palazzo. It is also broken.
Jotaro sighs and steers towards the short flight of large, flat stairs made out of dark grey stone that leads to the entrance. After centuries of being stepped upon, the steps have become round and smooth; they look as if about to melt in this abnormal heath.
Inside, instead, the stairs are made of polished white marble, tall and narrow, and by the time he has passed two doctors, four lawyers, a tailor and many other such well-to-do people on his way up to the last floor, Jotaro feels as though as he has just climbed twice the amount of stairs he actually did. No wonder, he thinks after a glance at the tall ceiling, which sports the last, moldy remnants of a fresco that no doubt used to represent a scene from some Greek myth: it's still possible to make out a furry satyr's leg and an ivy wreath set above a well-defined profile.
There are potted plants standing on each side of the door to Passione’s HQ: glossy green leaves larger than a man's hand, no flowers. In such a luxurious place, it's the sort of thing that helps make an apartment look inconspicuous, no different from the doors of all the doctors and lawyers from the floors below. The brass plaque on the polished wood panel carries an entirely different name. A gentler half-truth, a necessary lie.
It’s the man he’s come to know as Guido Mista through pictures and Koichi’s accounts that opens the door.
He’s greeted with a quick nod of the head and ushered into the boss’ office in a matter of seconds: these people are aware of who he is, perhaps the reason behind his visit, and it seems they have no intention of beating around the bush.
There is a girl inside the room, sitting on the edge of a heavy desk. She talks and waves her hands around with that overbearing energy that is second nature to the locals. She falls silent the moment he steps in and throws a perplexed look in his direction, but her eyes take on a knowing light pretty quickly. Jotaro recognizes her as Trish Una.
On her way out, Trish grabs Mista’s wrist and literally drags him – the boss’ right hand man, his bodyguard, his shadow – into the hallway.
Jotaro has read enough on her background to wonder if it’s because she knows that discussion of absent fathers is one of those things that can expose parts of a person they would never want others to see. (Were he alone, or another man, the thought would make him wince with shame.)
When the door closes there is only silence. The plush carpet swallows the click-click of his shoes and Jotaro notices that all windows are covered by thick curtains, except for the one in front of him. It takes up about one third of the wall.
Beyond the glass, sky, trees, old rooftops, churches and castles and the sea glow bright and melt together at the edges, like in a blurry photograph.
Before the glass, Giorno Giovanna is a delicate figure with a halo of golden hair. His face is obscured but his eyes stand out, gleaming. It's familiar and Jotaro doesn't, can't miss it.
When the only thing standing between them is the dark, heavy wooden desk, Giorno extends a hand. His grip is firm, just gentle enough not to hurt.
There is an elegant tray with golden handles on the desk. Jotaro peers down at it and sees himself frowning back from the mirror-like surface. The moka pot, unusually round, shares that characteristic. It screams new, and expensive.
An intense but pleasant aroma wafts through the air.
“The coffee is fresh,” Giorno explains, motioning to the thin trail of steam that rises from the pot. “We knew you would be coming.”
We knew. The words echo inside Jotaro’s head and he remembers the feeling of being watched on his way to this place. Of course they would, of course. This is Passione. Malavita. Camorra. And on top of that, they take orders from Giorno Giovanna of all people: in many ways, the boy is turning out to be just what Jotaro expected.
With precise and elegant movements, Giorno pours the coffee into what Jotaro could only describe as the china cup equivalent of glass shots.
“Sugar?”
Jotaro shakes his head. He’s never been particularly fond of sweets, and coffee too, is most enjoyable when strong and bitter, he thinks.
For a moment, Giorno’s eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I would advise adding at least a teaspoon, Mr. Jotaro. Foreigners usually find our coffee, ah, a bit too intense for their taste buds, especially if plain.”
Jotaro waves his hand dismissively.
“Very well, then.” Giorno nods, and with a small sigh he sinks into a leather armchair.
He looks smaller, like this, but in no way frail. There is something about his formal countenance that speaks of strength, like the key to that absolute calm lies within the certainty that everything is under control, that there is no issue that cannot be fixed. No obstacle that Giorno Giovanna can’t overcome.
Making an enemy out of this person would be a terrible mistake.
“I heard from Koichi that you can easily acquire knowledge of any language thanks to the power of a certain ally of yours. It’s a lucky thing, considering that, unfortunately, I am not quite fluent in Japanese anymore.”
For a moment, before he can stop himself, Jotaro wonders if Jolyne still remembers how to write her name in katakana, how to say hello, nice to meet you, how do you do, but he soon realizes that it's probably not the sort of thing a child would remember after a single half-hearted lesson one rainy afternoon: two or three hours before daddy has to hop on another plane and disappear until next week, or the next month. That's not enough time for anything.
Jotaro presses his lips together because this is not the time for regrets and self-loathing (and it won't be for a while, not until he can be brave).
“Give me a break with all the pleasantries,” he smirks, faintly. It's not the same expression he used to make at seventeen. He's aware that he will never be able to make that exact expression again. Too many years have gone by, too many things have happened. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
Giorno smiles. His speech pattern is polite, even to the point of being a bit stiff at times, but there is no trace of pretense or conceit in his voice. Determined and ambitious he may be, but he is also honest. This is where Jotaro finally starts to spot the differences—those that matter.
“I can imagine. It certainly can't be because you wish to take Mr. Polnareff back with you: we have given him all the means to contact you and the Speedwagon Foundation, not to mention that I'm sure you have already heard from Koichi, that Mr. Polnareff wishes to remain here to give us his support.”
Giorno pauses, takes a sip of his coffee and winces.
“Ah,” he looks at the cup, aggravated. It's such a spontaneous expression that, for once, his actual age seems obvious. “I forgot to add sugar to mine as well. Although I have been living here for most of my life, I'm still not used to the bitter taste—or should I say, I have a terrible sweet tooth,” he confesses with a small smile.
The smile looks a bit tired, and a bit lost: there is more that Giorno is trying to say, and he hasn't found the words yet.
Jotaro waits in silence. It's never been his nature to be particularly polite, however, he is sure that this is something he should listen to, because it is the purpose of this visit, of more than half a day spent on a plane with his legs going numb, because he is too tall and the space between the rows of seats too narrow. Because it's stupid and self-indulgent, but cutting off Giorno Giovanna in this room and at this very moment would feel like turning his back on large eyes that plead him to stay, and Jotaro knows, he can't blame this one on a monster's charisma.
Giorno laces his fingers together, rests them on the desk like a seasoned businessman.
“When my... family moved to this country, I had to say goodbye to my favorite pudding from the conbini two blocks away from home, the anime I watched every Wednesday afternoon, the workbook with my first kanji exercises. Even my own name. I used to think that my stepfather had taken everything from me, but it was also during that time that my mother gave me her first and last present. That is, a picture of my actual father.
“For a while after that, whenever I was sad, I would look at it and tell myself that, surely, one day he would come for me, to take me back to Japan or wherever he lived then but, naturally, that was only a child's fantasy.
“I never met my father: I was never given the chance to hate or love him, much less to miss him now. So you can be at ease. It's not hard to deduce why you would travel all the way to Naples. You were afraid. That I would turn out to be just like him, or that I would seek revenge on you, who killed my father.”
“That was—”
“Necessary.”
Giorno's eyes shimmer with something mysterious, a bittersweet light. He looks too serene, too at peace, too forgiving, for someone in his situation. For a human being.
“Mr. Polnareff told me, about your mother. If someone threatened a person I hold dear or my dream, I wouldn't hesitate either.”
Jotaro has to remind himself—convince himself all over again that the person in front of him is only a boy, barely old enough not to be called a child anymore. He shouldn't need to, and Giorno Giovanna shouldn't need to act like this at fifteen. But, that is where life has led them. Life, and a history that began centuries ago. Jotaro bites his lip.
“I am aware that most would criticize my methods,” Giorno continues. “But that is how things work in a city that has been left for too long to its own devices; that is the best solution I can think of, being the person I am. And in spite of this, I trust it's obvious that I have no intention of following in my father's footsteps.”
Jotaro feels, at the same time, and with equal certainty, that what Giorno Giovanna just said is the truth and also a lie.
He can feel the same aura, the same charisma, the same wordless spell that whispers: trust me, follow me, do not question it, because I alone know the way.
“So you would forgive your father's killer?”
The silence that follows is tense. Jotaro is aware that he's being studied, judged maybe, and readies himself, expecting anything to happen.
Giorno sighs and, somehow, it's enough to make the atmosphere immediately less heavy.
“I am not sure there is anything that could potentially need my forgiveness, in the first place. I was... luckier than my father. I found something to protect other than myself long ago. That is why, like I said, I understand your circumstances.”
Jotaro nods. Wonders if this boy does ever still look at Dio Brando's photograph and daydream. If he mourns, in his own way.
He knows he has no right to ask, so he won't. Because he doesn't feel guilt for putting an end to Dio's folly, but he simply has no right, not when he can't be a proper father to his own child.
“Passione will support the Speedwagon Foundation, when possible.” When our goals overlap. Jotaro hears that very clearly, even if it's unspoken.
“You can expect the same from us.”
It feels like ending a business transaction. The final outcome is perhaps better than any of the parties involved expected, but something about it is oddly empty. Maybe even awkward.
Jotaro pushes his palms against his thighs, ready to stand up and leave, when Giorno smiles, sweetly, and gestures to the tiny cups between them.
“You still need to give our coffee a try. My subordinate went out of his way to prepare it at the best of his abilities, I promise.”
Again, Jotaro finds that there is nothing he can do but nod. There must still be something, then: a request for help with a rival group, or a veiled threat that must be made, or perhaps there is a forgiveness that needs to be earned, after all, and Jotaro must pay a price for it—
“Mr. Polnareff said that the Foundation has him—what's left of him.”
“Dio Brando's corpse is...”
Unrecognizable. Nothing more than the dregs of a body that went through too much and for too long. Something that doesn't even really belong to your father. Doesn't even look like a person anymore.
But Jotaro can't bring himself to say any of that.
It doesn't matter, he realizes. Not right now.
“Would it be alright... if I saw him?”
Giorno is looking away and his voice is low, but it doesn't tremble, doesn't hesitate. This boy might be strong in ways Dio – or Jotaro himself – could never hope to be.
And precisely because he's that sort of coward, Jotaro can only shrug, lift his cup and mutter against the rim, “Suit yourself.”
He can hear the smile in Giorno's thank you very much.
Finally, he takes a sip of the coffee, which is lukewarm-bordering-on-cold, now, and much more bitter than any instant blend he's had in Japan or America. A deadly combination that makes him cringe.
Giorno Giovanna laughs, loud and unrestrained, as if to say: I told you!, and, for once, it's exactly the sort of thing one would expect from a fifteen year old.
Jotaro feels his heart become just a bit lighter and thinks to himself that he will need to change his plane tickets once he's out of here. There is a detour to Florida that he must make before returning to Morioh.