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Whenever Mista completed a solo mission, he tended to hurry home. He always wanted to return to Giorno’s side as quickly as possible— for both professional and personal reasons.
Tonight, however, was different. Mista’s steps dragged slightly, despite his healthy physical condition, and there was an uncharacteristically grim expression drawn on his face.
He had bad news to give to Giorno tonight, and wasn’t sure how the Don was going to take it. Giorno had been so busy recently, with several incidents, in-organization as well as outside, occurring within just the last two weeks, and he was silently counting on Mista to help keep his feet on the ground.
Still, Passione’s second-in-command knew that he had no choice when it came down to it: Giorno had to be informed, and that was that. Mista would just have to go home, deliver the news as easily as he could, and make sure Giorno was alright in the aftermath.
He and Giorno weren’t staying in their countryside mansion just then: they were in one of their apartments instead, located in one of Naples’ wealthy neighborhoods. With all the incidents recently, Giorno was having to be in near-constant meetings with various partners of the gang, as well as businessmen and government officials, so it was better to be in the city center for a time.
Mista let himself into the complex and took the stairs up, even though he and Giorno lived on the eighth floor. He appreciated the extra few minutes to clear his head.
He didn’t stall once he reached his and Giorno’s front door, however, letting himself in with his key after softly knocking the entry signal he and Giorno shared.
Once inside, he took off his shoes and padded to the kitchen to wash his grimy hands. Then he went to Giorno’s office, which was a small room at the very back of the complex, with large windows overlooking the city and the gorgeous coast below. The door was open, so he walked right in.
“Mista,” Giorno greeted, putting down a stack of documents as soon as his gunman set foot in the room. He was wearing glasses, which was a rather rare sight: Mista smiled despite himself. Giorno looked so perfect.
“Hey, Boss,” he greeted. Usually he would lazily lean into the doorframe, or affectionately walk right up to the desk for a kiss. But the thought of sharing the news with Giorno was still hanging over him like a cloud, and so he stayed back, fidgeting slightly with his hands.
Giorno didn’t notice at first. He was too busy taking off his glasses and straightening his posture. But eventually, he looked up and met Mista’s gaze: his red and puffy eyes were obviously exhausted from reading all day, but they were just as sharply focused as ever, and Mista knew immediately that he was being read.
Knowing he couldn’t avoid the truth, he submitted to Giorno’s scrutiny and waited for the inevitable question.
“Are you alright?”
There it was. Mista scratched the back of his head, wondering where to start.
“You don’t look wounded,” Giorno hummed. “It’s not poison, right?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Mista waved his hands quickly. “Don’t worry about me. But…”
Giorno’s mouth hardened into a thin line, and he beckoned Mista across the room. “Come here,” he said.
Mista complied, sinking into an armchair beside Giorno’s desk and sighing with both comfort and resignation.
“Mista,” Giorno addressed him again. With the reduced distance between them, his presence was even more intimidating: Mista shuddered to imagine facing his Boss if he were anyone except himself. Because although Giorno was currently in his professional mode, Mista had the blessing of being privy to many, many more sides of the younger man, and that made it impossible to truly fear him.
Just as Mista’s thoughts turned in this direction, Giorno’s mask began to fall. Now, he looked more concerned. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked. “You know Gold Experience can heal you in whatever way you need.”
Mista smiled. “Thank you, GioGio, but no,” he said. “I really am fine. It’s just that something happened on my mission today.”
“Ah,” Giorno said, beginning to look wary. “What’s it about?”
Part of Mista wanted to stall some more, to spin some long story in the hopes of allowing the news to land just a little more softly. But he had never been much of a speaker in that sense, and knew that Giorno would immediately see through him anyway.
So instead, he went with the simple truth.
“Montanaro and his team turned traitor, and I killed them.”
Giorno didn’t answer immediately, although it was obvious that he had both understood and believed Mista’s words. When he did speak up, he sounded tired. “What happened,” he asked, his tone flat.
“Well, I went to their warehouse to inspect their business, just like you ordered me to and like I set up with them. But I stumbled across some goods they obviously hadn’t meant for me to see, and just like that, they pulled their guns on me. It was a whole damn shootout, all of them against just me. I took care of it, of course, but it was too late to get any answers. I searched the warehouse, too, but there was nothing to give me any idea of Montanaro’s incentive. I mean, I guess he was probably just after more cash, but…”
“You expected more from him,” Giorno filled in. “Just as I did.”
“Well, yeah,” Mista confessed. He had known the news wouldn’t be easy for Giorno to digest; the discovery hadn’t been pleasant for him, either. Still, he wanted to be the strong one at that moment.
“Remember, Giogio, we were fighting traitors the entire week we first met,” he tried to reassure his lover. “Hell, we were traitors. You’re the Don now because you— because we rebelled. I just mean… this shit happens in the Mafia, you know?”
Giorno planted his elbows on his desk and raised a hand to his forehead, the large signet ring on his finger sparkling in the low light. “I know,” he sighed. “It’s the nature of many who are drawn to mob life. Still, I had hoped—”
A pained expression crossed his face, visible even though his face was partially obscured by his hand, and Mista was compelled to move closer.
“Am I really not allowed to trust anyone ?” Giorno asked, half to Mista and half to himself. “I knew treachery would follow me to this position, but I had hoped that because of my ideals, because of the way I lead, I would be able to convince people to follow me. I wanted to root out scumbags like Polpo, yes, but I also wanted to trust people in the same way Bucciarati always did. I never wanted to be a divisive force like Diavolo. I wanted—”
“GioGio,” Mista said. His lovers’ ramblings were growing quieter as he retreated into his inner world, but Mista was there to help him stay out of it. He placed his hand on Giorno’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes. “Listen to me. You’re not like Diavolo, alright? Far from it. And a lot of people do trust and believe in you: life has become so much better for so many people since you took over as Don. There are just a lot of scumbags out there, probably more than you’d like. But that’s fine. Because for every traitorous asshole, there’s also someone you can trust.”
Giorno raised his head and folded his arms back down, but still looked defeated. “Where, Mista?” he asked. “Who are these people I can trust? I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Well,” Mista said, trying to come up with an answer Giorno could latch on to. “There’s me, for starters. There’s a lot of other people, too, but you know me. Even if every single member of Passione turned on you, I wouldn’t leave your side. I would betray anything and everyone, but only if it was for you.”
Giorno’s eyes widened as he listened to Mista’s words, and by the end of the little monologue, he looked almost astonished.
“Mista,” he said with wonder in his eyes.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Mista teased, although his voice was dripping with tenderness and care. “You should have known this since the day I told you I love you.”
“I believe you,” Giorno said quietly. “But still…”
Mista smiled sympathetically. “Do you want to go to bed?” he asked.
The Don gave the stack of papers on his desk a half-hearted glance, but then he nodded. That was all the sign Mista needed to stand up, take Giorno’s hand, and lead them to their bedroom.
Once there, Giorno opened the closet to get out his nightclothes, while Mista headed to the ensuite bathroom to rinse away the dirt accumulated on his body during the mission. When he returned to the bedroom, toweling off his hair, Giorno was already lying in bed underneath the covers. Mista joined him, and quietly reached towards his body, asking for permission to hold him.
Giorno turned to face him and Mista could see something no weaker than heartbreak in his eyes, so he gathered the smaller man in his arms and held him close. This was what Mista had meant before, when he had been thinking about Giorno’s different sides: he marveled at the realization that none of the people his Boss dealt with all day would ever see past the professionalism he wore so well, and would know nothing of the care and pain Giorno held in his heart for the people in this rotten business and world.
Overcome with affection, Mista pressed a kiss to Giorno’s golden head. “I love you,” he murmured. “We’ll be alright.”
Giorno nodded softly against his chest and clung to him as if he would never let go again. “Thank you, Mista,” he said. His voice was quiet, but shot through with a note of desperation. “Thank you for being loyal to me.”
“Always,” Mista replied. “I’m your traitor.”
“And I am yours,” Giorno replied.
They both fell silent after that, too tired for a long conversation after each of their long days at work. But being able to hold each other like this was more than enough for them. Besides, they had successfully reassured each other of the rarest and most important thing of all, valued among gangsters above any drug or stack of green bills: loyalty and trust. Giorno and Mista might both have been traitors in their own rights, but only ever for each other’s sake.