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1. Test your new surroundings. Observe. Take mental note. They speak a different language. The sounds garble and roll over themselves in a way they never did back in Japan, but that’s alright. You’re good at learning. No one needs to help you. You—you can do this. You can speak, and write, and interact the way you should—
The other kids throw stones and little wads of paper. When you speak, the sounds come out all wrong, and you aren’t good at this, and everyone knows you aren’t good at this. And god, why did you even try? The teachers don’t want to deal with you, you’re too much trouble. They get that uncertain look on their face whenever you do anything.
So it’s simple. Don’t speak. It’s useless. It only brings trouble to you and everyone around you.
Find that school is just like home; quiet is best.
2. Count seconds on the clock. Mother left thirty minutes ago. That man is drinking downstairs on the living room couch. If you snuck out the front door, it would alert him. But it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent the whole day puzzling over homework in your room, and there are still hours of daylight left, and you don’t know when that man will—and the thought of remaining here is almost unbearable.
Breathe in, breathe out. Count seconds. Calm down. There’s nothing to be worked up about, you know this. Stop freaking out. Just because the walls seem too small, and you aren’t sure if the man’s drinking will spiral into a violent mood doesn’t mean…
Solution. There’s always a solution. Your room has no windows, but Mother’s does. Okay. Alright. Tiptoe down the hall. Open the door carefully. Crack open the window. The wall is full of footholds. Bricks that stick out, vines, all sorts of—
The vine gives. You’re falling. A clatter, crash, tin cans go rolling. The trash broke you fall but it’s full of sharp metal edges and your skin is all shredded and scraped and it doesn’t hurt yet but it’s about too. And that was so loud. That man must have heard. He—
That’s illogical. People create ruckus in the alley ways all the time. But still, just to be careful, you should leave. You shakily stand you your feet. The pain starts to set in, hot and burning and sharp. God. No one is going to help you with this. You need to—to find an abandoned building with running water. Wash the cuts. Bandage them. No one is going to help you. You—
Crying is useless. You know that.
3. Sneak out at night and climb rusted metal stairs up to the top of some building. Settle yourself onto the cold stone edge and contemplate, for a moment, if it would be that terrible to fall. What a silly thought.
You have no fear of heights, but the ground is boring. Look at the sky instead. It’s dark blue, almost obsidian, and spreads out above you like a timeless ocean. The moon is—pretty, lights up the sky and reflects silver on the harbor’s water, but you like the stars best.
Little suns. So far away. They glitter brightly above the whole world. There is nothing like them. Dawn will break in a number of hours, and then the brightest star of all will shine. The sun will be so bright that you’ll be unable to look at it without its brilliance burning you. It will chase away this darkness and bathe all of Italy in its light. Day. Day.
Funny thing, words. Giorno—day. It’s the full cycle. Twenty four hours. Night and light. Sometimes, you like to image that you are that cycle. That you might be night right now, but someday you will shine so brightly that you hurt to gaze upon.
It’s—a stupid sentiment. Utterly useless. Unrealistic. You know that. You shouldn’t be so stupid. But—
But still. Giorno. It’s very nice. You want it. Giorno: the full cycle, the masculine form of the general word. You—
It isn’t your name, can’t be your name, isn’t even your Italian name. (Mother picked the first name on an Italian name list, didn’t care at all that you don’t want that kind of name. It’s even worse than Haruno, at least with that it was ambiguous—)
Giorno, you keep that word close to your chest, like stolen candy from Mother’s purse.
4. Steal more than candy. Steal a picture, an old photo encased in plastic. That is your father. Your real one. What does that even mean? Tuck the picture away in your own special hiding place, out of the house, in an abandoned drawer of an abandoned apartment.
5. Meet someone like you. He is hiding in the shadow of a stone wall, blood staining dark on his clothes, breath obviously coming badly, but being made quiet. There’s a look in his eyes, like he’s already given up. Like he doesn’t know why he’s trying. Like he’s barely trying.
There is a...heavy kind of melancholic despair about him. He meets your gaze. Quickly avert your eyes. Footsteps are coming fast and heavy down the road behind you. Turn around.
The men pause when they see you. “Girl!” The gangster barks. “Did someone come running this way? Which way did he go?”
People...humans are...not nice. You do not like them. Sometimes, you hate them. Sometimes you want to drag the whole world into your misery. There is no reason for you to protect this man. But—
He’s a bit behind me, you don’t say, he’s right there, in the stone’s shadow, in a patch of grass. You are not afraid of lying. You are not afraid of dying. This is at no cost to you. And so—
“He went over there,” you lie, and point a finger away. For once, you do not tremble.
6. Listen to the man you saved say: “I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
Open your mouth to respond. Don’t quite find the right words. They stick to the back of your throat like pine sap. You have never been thanked before. Shake your head. What are you doing?
The man presses a candy into your palm and leaves. The next day, your Mother’s husband stops hitting you. The day after that, the kids stop their bullying. it’s all very confusing, and perhaps you are just too stupid to understand, but this is just…
This, you realize, is what humanity can be. The gangster that you saved was a star. He shines brightly, brilliantly, chases the darkness out of your life and turns the world into daylight. (Giornata.)
But he is closer than any star you have ever gazed upon. Never quite close enough to touch, but—close enough. So close, that you can study him. So close that you can realize that he is who you want to be.
7. For the first time in nearing two years, feel the sharp bloom of pain distinctive of a hard punch, and know that somewhere a star has fizzled out into darkness. Know that your star, your star, is gone.
The bullying does not come back in full force. You still do not have friends. Mother starts taking drugs.
Almost curse the world. Don’t.
(The world, your star showed you, is not entirely worthy of cursing. Only certain parts of it are rotten.)
8. Feel the stinging ache of a slap on your cheek, look up at your mother, and do not cry. She has never hit you before. She hates you, but she has never hit you. Especially not after that man has just gotten done with you. What did—what did—what did—why? What did you do? You idiot. You are such a useless—
Mother is staring at you. Stare back. She opens her mouth to speak. You flinch. She stops. You—
Need to get out. You need to get out. You need to leave. It doesn’t matter that you’re twelve and there’s no where to go and you don’t know what to do out there, all that matters is that you get out. You have to go. Go go go go—!
The door slams behind you. It’s sprinkling. Stumble, trip, get back up. The light rain does not wash away all the blood on your clothes. It barely does anything to help with everything that's caked on your skin. Useless.
Hide in an alleyway. Shiver and tremble but do not cry. Dig your nails into your palms, hard enough to draw blood. The sun falls. Night dawns. Above, barely visible though the tangled mess of pipes and cloth lines, is a darkening sky. Cold sets in.
Think of going home. The feeling that bubbles of in the back of your throat is akin to nausea. Home? What even is home? That place? With a father that hits you and a mother that—that—
You will not go home.
You will not go home.
Okay. Alright. That’s fine. Then, where…? The library. The library is kind to you. They should still be unlocked. And from there...you’ll figure it out.
Breathe in, breathe out. Lift yourself up. Wince. Every part of you is aching. Bruises on bruises. Scrapes on welts. You have done no cleanup. You must make a terrible image. That...could be used to your advantage, hypothetically. You...you’re going to ask for bandages, aren’t you? Supplies? A place to stay?
Right.
Breathe in, breathe out. Walk there. Glance at the sky. Speed up. Run.
Reach the library. Pull at the door. Not locked yet. Inside is warm. Shiver. there’s no one at the desk. Pause. Bite your lip. Ring a bell.
“Ah! One moment!” Comes a muffled voice, and there’s a faint sound of rummaging from the ‘staff only’ door behind the desk. A woman comes out. You don’t remember her name, but she’s helped you find books before. There are books in her arms. They drop with a series of heavy thumps. “Oh dear—! Darling, are you, who did that to you!?”
You open your mouth. That man. Too vague. My family. The words stick stupidly in your throat. Shake your head.
Suddenly, she’s all over you. Too close!
You move away. She doesn't follow. Breathe in, breathe out.
She looks very lost. “I...can you let me help you?”
No. Yes. You came here for resources, didn’t you? “...I don’t want to go back.” Your voice is too quiet, too unsure, too unsteady, too soft. Damn it.
But she looks like she understands. “How do I help you?”
“I just—” you pause. Breathe in, breathe out. “Just...bandages. Please. Can I use the bathroom? And...maybe sleep here? I...I don’t need a bed!”
She nods kindly. “Of course. I’ll do the best I can. Just—don’t move anything around in the back rooms. And...sorry. I can’t remember your name.”
“That’s okay.” You never told her. She’s looking at you expectantly. Oh. A name. Your name. What’s your name? Not Haruno. Not...not the Italian one Mother gave you. Giorno, you’ve kept that word close to your chest, a secret, like the stolen photo of your father. Hesitate. Useless. “I’m Giorno,” you say, and it feels strange on your tongue, but not in a bad way.
The librarian is looking at you strangely. Giorno. Masculine form. It isn’t the name your parents gave you; you both know that. But it isn’t uncommon for runaway kids to pick a new name. They just...they usually pick a name that fits their body.
You don’t look like a man, you know you don’t. With your delicate features and high voice and the beginnings of curves, you do not look like a man.
“My name is Giorno,” you say, again.
“Alright,” she says, and smiles, “good to properly meet you, Giorno. I’m Sophia. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
9. Work it out with the library. You get a little bed in one of the storage rooms in return for volunteering. This does not pay for clothing, food, or education, but you are grateful nonetheless. Steal on the side. Steal from happy tourists going on vacation, steal from well-off looking kids who don’t protect their wealth, steal from anyone you can, and feel—
No remorse. Now here’s the thing: that isn’t bad, exactly. Yes, you have ruined family trips, have stolen people’s allowance, ruined their fun-days. You use people with no consideration for their feelings. But most of this is necessary; so remorse would be useless.
What’s bothering you is the fact that, at the end of the day, you sometimes have enough to buy yourself a treat. What’s bothering you is that you don’t even feel the slightest glimmer of regret or even sympathy. You—
What are you doing?
10. Get back to school. A different school. Despite your efforts, you do not have enough money to attend properly. That’s alright. Negotiate a deal. Acquire permission to attend class in return for becoming a part-time janitor there. The headmaster obviously feels bad about the whole situation.
You smile, and wait.
“We...we’re tight on finances, so we can’t really pay you the best, but we can give a little bit..?”
Now here’s the thing: this school is struggling. A lot. These days, most schools are. If you accept this money, you are going to be taking from the already poor.
“Thank you very much,” you say. “I appreciate it.”
11. Get a self help book. It tells you to talk about your feeling. It tells you that bottling them up makes you into a powder keg. It informs you that certain experiences accumulate trauma. Someday, it says, you are going to combust.
Useless.
What it fails to understand is that you don’t have anyone to talk to. You have a chorus of acquaintances and nothing more. The gangstar is long gone and Sophia just isn’t... And more than that…
You are not a powder keg, you are not about to explode. The concept of being so full of emotion that it overflows is entirely unfamiliar. Sometimes, you barely feel human; feel like a shell, a husk, a gold leaf over plain stone. Every part of yourself is dull and not-there. How can you spill out of your skin if you were never there in the first place? Because this body it’s—
Your knuckles are white. The paper between your fingers is straining so hard it could rip. Breathe in, breathe out. How absolutely useless.
12. Read The Prince because you keep hearing about Machiavelli. Don’t mean to stay up into the night’s darkest hours, but do anyway. Because you just—can’t stop reading. Read until your fingers go cold and numb and aching.
Bite your cheek, and with something that approximates dull horror, realize that you already think like this. You are not learning anything here. You are simply finding words for what already exists within you.
You have seen the world like this for longer than you can remember; a relationship of power, a chessboard with people as people as pieces, something to be used.
13. Try to reevaluate, reform your system of thought. Fail. Wonder if, somewhere in the sky, your star is disappointed in you.
14. Find Les Miserables in an old untouched plastic case in the library’s basement. Listen to it, because you have heard about the book but never actually read it. Fall in love. There are no visuals to accompany their voices, but it’s easy enough to imagine. Their song lifts your very heart into a flame of revolution and oh, this is what you’ve been missing.
These people…they fought. They fought not only for their individual self, but for an ideal, a principal, for the good of their fellow man. Sometimes, late at night, with their song echoing in your ears, you can almost see them. Bright and shining, a sea of stars. They looked at the world around them, saw a rot, and burned it away.
And you—
You’re thinking, lately. Looking at the world around you and wondering what you can change. Looking at the world like a system of power, a chessboard, a complex of pieces. Something that can be reshaped.
15. Watch Sophia cautiously. She looks a bit like she’s going to fall asleep on her feet. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair is done lazily. It is...not your business, but while you would not call her a friend, she has been kind to you, and that should mean something.
No, that does mean something. Have you forgotten your star? You helped him, and he saved you. Kindness for kindness.
You walk over. “Are you feeling alright? I...” do not have a lot of time to spare. Have things to do. “...can cover your shift.”
Sophia laughs a little. It’s weak and forced. A familiar sound. “No...no. It’s fine. I just...didn’t sleep well.”
You should leave. This already feels intruding. it’s none of your business. You don’t need to pry. It isn’t useful. It won’t benefit you. But—
People are useful, but they are not tools. People are not tools. Stop thinking like that.
“Why?” You ask. “Did you work too late? Drink too much coffee?”
She laughs again, but this time it sounds like she might cry. Fuck. “No it’s just—my son.”
“Oh,” you say, feeling numb. He got involved in a gang, didn’t he? Then—“Is he..?”
She shakes her head. “No. But he...Gods, Giorno, he’s rotting like that. My baby is dying. They gave him drugs and he—he just...”
“Oh,” you say, and this isn’t fair.
It’s one thing if someone destroys their own life. People have freedom, and with freedom comes responsibility. But everyone else—no one else should suffer on their behalf. Drugs, the mafia, none of it is self contained. None of it is tempered or regulated. It’s an unchained beast, wrecking havoc in its path. A disease that spreads its rot over all of Italy. One that makes the library lose books and the schools go broke and people turn into husks of themselves.
“I see,” you say, tone too flat. “Please get some rest. I’ll take over your shift. Don’t worry about it.”
16. Look at Italy. See drugs spreading their rot, see the mafia capturing people in its web of bear traps. See the government sputtering weakly but ultimately caving in its purpose. (Useless!) See schools failing and libraries closing and bakeries being shot up, and think.
Les Misérables. The French revolution. Monarchs eating the country away and leaving the unfortunate with nothing. Italy starves in its neglect, but the politicians fatten themselves on bribe money and the mafia continues to pull everything into its orbit.
The rot of this county eats. It’s a black hole; swallowing stars and light and lives and letting go of nothing. Pulling everything into it with ruthless uncaring. To the dons, people are tools and only tools.
Here’s a funny thing about black holes: eventually, they eat themselves. At least, that’s the theory. One day, when there’s nothing left to swallow, they turn on themselves. Big bounce theory—the big bang was the end of a universe, was the moment when a black hole devoured itself into one point.
Eventually, when there is nothing left to devour, all black holes eat themselves alive. But you—
You could eat it alive. You could turn the whole of Italy into light and burst forth a new era. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To shine so brightly you almost hurt to gaze upon.
A goal, just like your name before it, you tuck this close to your chest and let it light your heart aflame.
17. Steal, carry on, build yourself. You become better with people. You stop being silent and start helping wherever you can. You cooperate with your classmates and chat with the other janitors and you wouldn’t call anyone your friend, but you now have an array of friendly acquaintances.
This dream—it fills you. It makes you brim with something hard and driven and wanting. It fills you in a way meals never have. It makes you directed, focused, useful. Suddenly, aching desires that you never felt before are satisfied. And it—
It makes you wonder what other parts you are missing. Do you have other empty pockets waiting to be filled? You don’t know. Because you can’t feel them. You’ve never felt them.
Freedom and purpose. Those are the two parts of yourself that feel satisfied. What else is there?
18. Look into the mirror of your new room (a proper room! It’s the same deal as with the middle school: work for permission to attend. This time, you got an on-campus residence.) and blink once, twice.
You must be dreaming.
You aren’t dreaming.
Your hair is blonde. It’s golden. It’s like your father’s. Along the edges, where the light hits through, every strand is made of sunlight. You bring a finger up, touch it. Soft. Something tugs on the edge of your mind. You pull back on instinct. And—
A golden figure emerges from your body. Male. His surface is armored gold. He wears high boots and a shining helmet. There are wings sprouting from his shoulders and violet ladybugs decorating his surface and he—
He is you. You do not know how you know, but he is you. He is you, and his name is Gold Experience. He is you, and he is everything you’ve ever wanted to be.
“Oh hello,” you breathe, “nice to meet you.”
Gold Experience nods. You feel it like a phantom sensation. The feeling should be unfamiliar. It isn’t.
“You’ve been with me the whole time,” you say, and he nods again. Oh. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, wraps his arms around you. It’s a surprisingly cozy kind of embrace. His surface is like sun-warmed rock. You lean into it, even though you shouldn’t.
19. Take Gold Experience appearing as a sign, even though you aren’t superstitious and are barely religious. But he is—he is the ideal of yourself. Gold plated, strong, resolved, shining. He stands tall and unapologetic.
You mold yourself after him. If you are to become Giorno (the full cycle, night into light) then you must be unashamed and unabashed. You stop trying to cover up parts of who you want to be. If someone has a problem with you then, well. People are easy enough to deal with at this point, aren’t they? They will talk or they will fight; either way, you win.
You start wearing pink because you like pink. You grow out your hair and braid it because you like looking beautiful. Together, you and Gold Experience reshape your body, until—
well. It will never quite be perfect, will never quite be exactly what you want, but at least this is something that approximates comfortable. In your newly molded form, lay on bed and listen to Les Misérables and dream.
(When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!)
20. Meet Buccellati and find something close to solidarity. You both look at Italy and are unable to look past the rot. You both hear the people sing a chorus of dying sounds. You both can’t stand it. You both want to change it.
Every part of you feels jumpy, but you tame it, shove it under, keep yourself composed. You’re finally infiltrating.
21. Watch everything go off track and spin out of control, and think: it wasn’t supposed to go this fast. They’re speeding faster than a bullet, tearing through people and places and—and at this kind of rate, you’re unsure if you are eating or being eaten.
22. Reassess your empty spaces. Freedom, purpose, and something close to the warm belonging that you understand to be ‘family and friends.’ Those are the pieces you have. Another empty piece of you has started filling out.
23. Feel Buccellati's skin, cold as ice, think of Abbacchio dead in the white sand of Costa Smeralda, and realize that some where along the way, this has gone terribly, terribly wrong. This is revolution, and your heart beats loudly against the cage of your ribs, but there is no drum.
24. See the exact moment that Mista and Trish realize Buccellati is dead. Mista goes still, for a moment, and Trish’s grin vanishes. You shift on your feet, bite your cheek hard enough to bleed.
“Is he…?” Trish starts, then stops. It’s obvious.
“Yeah,” says Mista.
Breathe in, breathe out, feel Buccellati’s blood itch on your skin. The place where the arrow stabbed you aches sharply. “Sorry.”
“What?” Trish sounds like she’s going to cry. “No, you—Giorno. It’s not your fault.”
It is, you think, but don’t say. It’s all your fault.
25. Harden yourself. Shove that sharp aching pain of loss so deep away into one of those empty spaces that you can’t tell if it’s entirely gone, if you never felt it in the first place, or if it has consumed you so entirely that you can no longer feel outside of it. No matter. It’s a useless distinction.
After Diavolo dies things...do not slow down. There are papers to sort through and an entire organization to run and you don’t have the connections you’re supposed to have made, and there are rival gangs and disgusting scum that oppose your no drugs order and—
It gets bloody. You make it bloody. Trish can’t stomach it. She goes into music. Mista stays with you. Why does he stay with you? You bite your cheek. Flick blood from your fingers. A scruff on the bloodied asphalt behind you.
“Boss,” Mista says.
“Did you find Polnareff?” Your voice is quiet and deceptively soft. You just killed a whole team of men. You have been killing a lot of people, recently. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to do better than this.
“Yeah,” Mista says, and enters your vision. Polnareff is is his arms. He hovers as an image in the air. Somehow, he looks paler than usual. Oh, right. He hasn’t seen you like this before, has he? Mista nudges him. “Polnareff?”
“Giorno,” Polnareff says.
“Yes?”
“Are you...” Polnareff trails off, looks around. “What happened?”
You kind of want to laugh. Why do you want to laugh? “That’s obvious. Don’t ask useless questions.”
A beat. They’re both staring at you. Shit, you’re—what are you doing? That came out too harsh.
“Sorry, I—never mind. Can we—” stop it. You’re the boss now. You can’t be so absolutely unorganized. Breathe in, breathe out. “Let’s go.”
“You should take a break,” Polnareff says.
Your lips thin. Shake your head. “Not now. Let’s go.”
26. Meet Jotaro Kujo. He looks at you with something that isn’t quite fear but is caution. He looks at you like you might snap. Like you are dangerous. Like he’s already resigned to killing you one day. And knowing who he is, what he’s done, and what you’ve been doing—
You can’t quite fault him.
“You’re saying Dio was a vampire.”
“Yes.”
“He wasn’t human.”
Jotaro just looks at you. Right. It was a stupid question. You shouldn’t expect others to repeat themselves.
“And...I’m not human.”
“A dhampir,” Jotaro agrees.
You think back to the self help book from years ago. Back then, you didn’t feel human. You still don’t feel quite human. You aren’t even human. Hah. Your skin itches. This suit is too tight.
“I...see,” you say, although you really, really don’t. “Thank you for informing me.”
27. Agree to take a break despite yourself. It’s at the point where everything won’t immediately fall apart in your absence. Even then, you don’t actually take a break. Instead, you...think.
Because you—you aren’t who you want to be. You aren’t who you’re supposed to be. The cycle of Giorno (masculine form, the full twenty four hours, light and dark) has not been completed. You have not left the night behind. You have yet to reach the sun. You are not a star, you are bright and burning but not in a brilliant way. Gangstar, is a dream that you’ve only brushed your fingers against.
In this life, you have only met a star once.
It takes a while to find him, because you don’t know his name or his age and only vaguely his rank, but by now you’re accustomed to digging through old files. Caram Bola. Currently Thirty eight. Crippled eight years ago. Retired from the mafia, but nonetheless living low because of potential targeting from formerly rival gangs.
Alive. He’s alive. Your star—your star is alive. It—you were expecting a date of death. You were expecting to visit a graveside, not a small farm in the hills. A train away, a car ride, a trek down a dirt road.
You breathe in, breathe out, straighten. Knock on the door and wait. A beat, two. Sounds from behind the door. Your heart is in your throat, is pressing against your lung, you—you haven't seen him is so long.
The door opens. And—yeah. That’s him. That’s your star. That’s your inspiration. That’s the man who saved you. There’s caution in his eyes, and you see the way his eyes pause at the gun on your hip, and the Passione badge on your breast, and the class of your suit. His language is tense.
Oh, you think, he doesn't recognize you. Of course he doesn’t recognize you. Your attire is different, your hair is different, your body is different.
You attempt a smile, but realize you’re already smiling. You half bow instead, tip your head. He’s the only man you will do this for.
“Thank you very much,” you say, because somehow, somehow, you haven’t said this before. “I—I’m glad you’re still alive.”
You see the exact moment he realizes who you are. His eyes widen, and he loses grip on the door handle, and for a moment he doesn’t look like he can find words. “you’re—”
“I’m Giorno,” you tell him, “that’s my name now. Giorno Giovanna. My old name is dead.”
“Oh,” he says, “Don Giovanna. You’re...”
You nod hesitantly. “Yes.” Brace yourself in advance. But...he does not look at you with anger, or with hate, but with an air of resignation.
A sigh. “I have a patio outback. Will you follow me?”
“Of course.” There are few people in the world that you well and truly, from the bottom of your heart, trust, and he is one of them, no matter how long it’s been.
The back is lovely. Stone tiling on the ground, lovely beds of flowers, a table covered by a pergola’s shade. Grapevines stretch up and across the wood structure, intermingled with yellow morning glories, flowers still open in bloom despite the late morning hour.
“I didn’t want you to get involved with the mafia,” he says. “You—you should’ve been allowed to grow up clean.”
You slide into the other garden chair. “I wanted—want to change the world. I love Italy, you know. I love my country. It didn’t—doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. I want to do better. You opened my whole life to me.”
“You’ve sewn chaos,” he says. “You’re too young for this.”
“I can handle it,” you say, oddly defensive. Which is stupid, because he will never attack you. “Everything is already calming down. I—admittedly, I...that’s part of the reason I came. I don’t want to be so—”
“Ruthless?”
“...Yeah.”
He pauses, purses his lips. Smiles. “You have a kind heart.”
For some stupid, utterly ridiculous, completely unintelligible reason, you want to cry. Why do you want to cry? You blink a bit, swallow past the lump in your throat. “Thank you.”
“You have a good heart,” he says, “but you are inexperienced, and you know our language, but not well enough. You need advisers. Let your Capos closer. Choose carefully, but choose.”
From anyone else, you might dismiss this. Might cast is aside as useless. But this is your star, your guiding light, your hero, and he has played this game longer than you.
“Alright,” you say, smile weakly, and extend your hand. “How would you feel about joining that board of consultants officially?”
A beat. Faint breeze that smells like strawberries and lavender, golden sunlight, a field of grapes. He smiles, and it crinkles at the edge of his sunlit eyes.
“I would be honored.”
28. Find Fugo in an old vintage city bar. He’s playing piano, cocooned in his own bubble so thoroughly that you don’t know if he’s stuck in his music or stuck in his head. It doesn’t really matter either way, does it? The piano comes slow and jazzy, mellow and aching. Is this freestyle?
The notes fade away. You clap. “Lovely tune,” you say, and Fugo whips around so fast it looks painful.
“You,” he says, but the vitriol is short lived. You make sure your face hasn’t changed. Fugo slumps. Sighs. Rubs the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me for? To shoot me dead right here?”
No. No you aren’t going to shoot him. You don’t resent him, or hate him, but he is—a stranger, and an unknown, and you would be a fool to lack caution. Study, test, readjust. That’s always been your strategy with unknowns. And you are...morbidly curious. “And if I do?”
Fugo glances around at the half-empty tavern. Everyone is staring at them. You do not let their alarm effect you, but Fugo is not the same. He bites his lip, scans over every exit. Sighs with something like resignation. “Can we...go outside?”
Ah...how pathetic. No, perhaps that’s the wrong word. How sad. Disappointing? Surprising? Perhaps you’re misreading him. What did you expect?
“Of course.” You turn around, gesture him to follow. The door closes softly behind you both. You walk off the street and into an alley. It’s—one of the cleaner ones, with little flowers dotting along the edges and vines on either side. You stop, face around.
Up close, the utter exhaustion of Fugo’s features is apparent. Dark circles, skin paler than white, hair dyed a light caramel, red eyes glinting with all the clearness of rust.
“So?” Fugo says. “Get it over with.”
Ah, how positively irritating. You respect Fugo’s decision. You understand, after all. What right do you have to tell someone they should throw themself into what amounts to a suicidal crusade? So Fugo didn’t come, and you don’t hold it against him, so why—
“Do you not want to live for yourself?”
“It’s not your business,” Fugo snaps, and your lips thin.
“I am not here to shoot you,” you say, “and I am not here to drag you back kicking into the family’s fold, but I am here to give you a choice.”
Fugo goes silent. His fists curl. It’s midday. Sunlight filters down thinly through the canopy of pipes and clotheslines. “Is it a real choice?”
“Yes.”
“...What?”
“Mista misses you,” you say, “he doesn’t say so, but he does.”
“He’s angry with me. I know Mista.”
“He is,” you nod, “but he still...considers you close. And I want you. You would be useful. Come back under our protection, Fugo.”
Fugo is silent for a long, long moment. “And the other option?”
“Get on with your life,” you say, and your voice is surprisingly hard. You didn’t mean for it to come out so hard. You just—Fugo survived. He lived. You didn’t kill him. And to see him rot is… “Stop sulking around in the underground and pursue whatever it is you wanted before getting mixed with the mafia. Trish went into music.”
Fugo breathes shakily. “Right. I’ll—I don’t—I’ll think about it.”
You press a brooch into his hand. “Tell me when you decide. But decide.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I—thanks.”
You’re welcome, you do not say, because this is only natural. You would never take away the choice Buccellati gave him. “I look forward to your answer.”
29. Feel the kiss of Fugo’s lip on the rings around your fingers. Watch Mista deck Fugo in the face, then start to cry all over him, then start laughing, and wonder what more you must gain in order to feel complete.
Freedom, purpose, companionship, advisers—reconciliation?
Reconciliation.
30. Make the tread to their graves. You buried them upland in the stretching edges of Naples, in a small field that blooms all over with lavender and forget-me-not. You aren’t entirely sure how much of it is natural. You planted citrus by Narancia’s gravestone.
You...have not been here in a while. You haven't been here since the funeral. When you come here, the pits in your feelings feel like they will swallow you whole.
“Hey,” you say, weird note to your voice. A bit of a shake. “I found Fugo. He came back, you know.”
Somewhere, a bird chirps. Why are you standing? There’s no one here to stand for. Sit down. The grass tickles at your ankles. It’s midday. The sun burns at you skin. You should have brought a parasol.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” you tell the grave stones. Think of the self help book from when you were a kid. It told you to talk to someone. Said you were a powder keg, said you would explode. And suddenly, with a slump of exhaustion, you wonder if you already have.
“It’s finally calmed down,” you tell Abbacchio’s stone, surrounded by dandelions. “You were right, I was a newbie, I wasn’t entirely prepared. I got you killed in my incompetency.”
The dandelions wave their little heads sunnily, and it looks a bit like they’re laughing at you. Which is very silly. You hope Abbacchio is laughing right now, wherever he is.
“Trish told me it wasn’t my fault, Mista said it doesn’t matter either way. I don’t think I agree with them. I killed Polpo, you know. Perhaps this was...all for the better. God knows how many more people would’ve died if I infiltrated over the course of years before killing Diavolo. Still...I apologize.”
No response. Somewhere in the distance, the sea glitters. Above, sunlight shines down blindingly.
“I’m go to do better,” you tell them, “I’m already doing better. There are things I didn’t predict, there are things I couldn’t have predicted, but—now I have advisers, you know. I’m almost where I want to be. I think I’ll be there soon.”
The midday sun. A star that lights up the whole sky. Something that shines so brilliantly that it burns away rot and blooms the world into life. Something kind and sharp and resolved. Something that comes out of night and becomes day.
“I won’t be eclipsed by darkness,” you tell them. “I, Giorno Giovanna, have a dream, and I am just a step away.”
31. Realize, one day, that every missing piece of yourself has been filled, and your image is complete. Italy no longer rots, and you have become a star.