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    Summary

    One quiet, early morning as Prosciutto waits for his coffee to brew, he remembers fragments of what it took for him to get where he is now with Risotto. A moment of an ordinary, beautiful life.

    ----
    He'd never really questioned the stretch of his time in mafia and why he continued to walk its tracks, pulling trigger after trigger, until it felt strange when a day went by without the feel of iron (even after he’d gotten his stand, and the ease, the delicacy and priceless anonymity of murder sat in his palms, Prosciutto couldn’t let go of that gunpowder and gall). Its loud bite now a tempo to his ears. A background tick he couldn't shift.

    Alongside the smell of blood.

    Sometimes he could smell it before it fell. A burst of trepidation in the air. Like petrichor. That moment just before the skies sighed, and wept. But instead of rain, blood.

    Questions only started to touch his tongue, when Risotto did. A shake in his equilibrium. And suddenly everything was louder. Brighter. Quicker. And sometimes he had to catch his breath, after the way he looked, touched-

    Series
    Language:
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