Chapter Text
Needles of rain batter the old road as the taxi pulls into a quiet town. The driver, who eyes his unfamiliar passenger quickly and often as he slumps broodingly in the back seat, prays his headlights don’t give up on him now.
“I know my way from here,” the passenger speaks. Though doubtful of his judgement, the driver takes his cue to pull to a stop on the unlevel curb. The passenger undoes his seatbelt and slings his heavy bag over-shoulder. He spares the taxi driver a rare moment of eye contact. “If you try and find the church yourself in this weather we’ll be here all night,” he huffs.
“Are you sure?” the driver asks waveringly, “the downpour is quite severe after all.”
“I’ve had worse. Now here, your money,” the strange man maintains, shoving a fist of cash towards him. The driver counts it eagerly.
“130,000 lire? That’s far more-”
“The first half is for the journey, the rest says you never saw me,” he elaborates impatiently. Reaching for the door, he steps out detachedly into the rain and begins his long strides forward. After a moment he stops, and looks back. For the first time all journey, his bitter face is lit up by the glare of the headlights. For all he has said and done, the driver cannot bring himself to feel shock at the sight of the black and red eyes the stranger looks at him with.
“And really,” the young man repeats. “Ensure you speak nothing of me. If you do, I have contacts who will ensure you regret it,” he snarls, turning his back ardently on the car and pacing away down the street. The driver wastes no time in leaving him be.
Risotto Nero wipes rain from his brow as he climbs the hill towards his destination. Somewhere, deep within his mind he acknowledges the unjust callousness with which he regards his childhood town around him. Perhaps, it is easier on his soul not to do otherwise.
Even as the darkness affords him no aid, Risotto guides himself by muscle memory towards the old tower of the village church. He knows by memory too, the way through the ancient graveyard to the place he came to visit. Reaching the far corner, he stumbles on the dirt and feels his hands for the stone. Icy hands trace its name, pangs of both relief and guilt when the familiar lettering is felt by him.
“Domenico,” Risotto half-gasps. He lets his knees give way as he sinks down onto the dirt of the grave. “I came back, as I promised you. I have to go again soon but…” he reaches into the pockets of his coat and pulls out a metal box the size of his palm. It’s starting to reek, a miracle the driver of the taxi didn’t notice, but it’s here now. “I did it Domenico. I killed him. For you,” Risotto speaks. He wrenches off the lid and the foul stench of rotting blood ebbs out. He hold it shakily over the grave, and tips it onto the dirt.
“I wanted to make him suffer more. Show him just what he did to Nonna and I by taking you. I couldn’t do that, there wasn’t enough time. But… I hope this is enough for you, Amico. I hope you can be at peace now.”
Risotto kisses his palm and presses it to the gravestone.
“Goodbye, Domenico.”
Risotto stand to his feet and turns away from the grave. A clap of lightning brings a brief moment of light to the rugged graveyard. There at the other end, Risotto sees a figure familiar to him, looking out over the sea of graves.
Damn it, Risotto thinks to himself. How in God’s name did she find him here?
Risotto crosses his palms and stands sheepishly as the figure of his grandmother approaches him. Vittoria stops when she’s close enough for the faint light of the night to force them to see eye to eye. Risotto knows he could not look away from her if he tried.
“I saw a vehicle coming into town,” Vittoria speaks. “Somehow, I knew in my heart it would be you.” The aging woman reaches a hand for her grandson’s arm. He flinches, but does not shake her off. “What have you done, Risotto?”
Risotto breathes deeply. He gives her the firmest look he dares.
“Exactly what I said I would.”
“It’s all over the news,” Vittoria laments. “The theories are ceaseless. I can only thank god you haven’t been named as a suspect yet, but with all that’s happened it’s only a matter of time.”
“They aren’t going to name me,” he promises. “I sought protection as I said I would. No police force in Italy will dare put blame on me, and they will not harass you either.” Risotto assures her. Vittoria’s eyes go wide as panic flashes across her face. She opens her mouth fearfully.
“Who?”
“Passione,” Risotto answers.
“Then you really have doomed yourself Risotto.”
Risotto takes a step back.
“I’ve sworn to report to Naples by 4pm tomorrow. I have to go, Nonna,” he excuses himself.
“Stay, just a few hours, I beg of you,” Vittoria pleads. As he marches to the edge of the graveyard, she follows him desperately. “If you must go, I can take you myself in the morning. Don’t you want to bring more of your things? At very least- give a passing goodbye to your home?” she vies. Risotto shakes his head without looking back at her. “Risotto, please,” Vittoria begs, grabbing him by the wrist. “You’re all I’ve got left. You don’t have to go to them. I can hide you. I can take care of you.”
“I’m not going to be so dishonourable as to break an oath. Even if you could find a place for me out of Passione’s reach, my conscience would not allow it,” Risotto insists. “Surely you can understand that.”
Vittoria nods shakily.
“Unfortunately, I can. Very well, Risotto, I see your mind is made up. But won’t you at least come home for tonight?”
“No. It’s easier if I just go,” Risotto denies her. “Thank you for everything, Nonna.”
::::::::::::
A car horn sounds outside and Risotto snaps his eyes open. Sweat clings the sheets to his skin in spite of the cold weather. His head hurts and the light of his desk lamp stings his eyes as he switches it on. He doesn’t want to leave the bed. He wants to curl up and throw the sheets over his face but he knows he can’t do that.
It’s 11pm. No doubt his superiors will have tasks for him overnight and glancing over at the other bed, his roommate is already up. Risotto forces himself from bed. He notices the wrinkled photograph of his Nonna and cousin out on the nightstand- he must have left it there before he fell asleep. He tucks it quickly into the drawer. The idea of his roommates seeing it always leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
Dressing in the first thing he can find, Risotto stumbles into the squalid little bathroom. Sometimes he has to remind himself he’s only 20, a gaunt, ghoulish figure whose eyes never focus and mouth never smiles. He used to think himself lonely as a child. Now he longs for a life that loved.
Risotto turns the tap and splashes his face with a little water. It hardly helps him look much better but it helps a little with the headache. He dries his face with a wipe and casts it into the bin. Often, he wonders whether his roommates haven’t noticed all the bloody tissues that keep piling up in there or if they’re just keeping quiet, but either way he’s glad for their silence. Wiping his hands on the towel, Risotto leaves for the kitchen.
“You look like shit,” Marco remarks. By the time Risotto looks at him back he’s already lost interest, eyes focused on the book he rests against the edge of the kitchen table.
“Thanks,” Risotto responds. He turns the dial on the light a little brighter. “Where are the others?”
“Fucked if I know. Nowhere good, I reckon,” Marco answers him. He pushes his glasses back into place, before scooting back in his chair to look up at Risotto. “But it works well for us. We’ve got an errand ‘needs doing. Whole massive sack of cash needs running to the warehouse. You know I can’t trust the others with that sort of thing, so I’m giving it to you. Fair?”
“Fair. I could use the walk,” Risotto shrugs. He reaches for his coat.
“Woah woah woah,” Marco stops him. “Please tell me you’re at least going to eat something before you head out. You look like you legitimately might fall over.”
“I’ll be fine, Marco, I just- don’t feel up to it,” Risotto excuses himself, slinging his arms into the coat sleeves.
“I am not letting you do such an important job for me in a state like that. Sit. I’ll get you something. As captain of this house, I’m ordering you,” Marco insists.
“If you’re so powerful how about you get Niccolo to stop barging in drunk every morning at 4am?” Risotto grumbles. He sits down anyway.
“I’m house captain, not a damn miracle worker,” Marco half-chuckles. Risotto gives a tut and forces his tense body to relax.
He heads out right after he’s eaten, not particularly wanting to converse with his roommate much longer. Risotto likes walking, especially at night. The cool air helps with the constant feeling of sickness and the quiet clears his head. He knows the place he’s going- an old warehouse a few blocks away where a lot of the money and drugs Passione seizes are taken as a first port of call. It’s not far, but Risotto thinks he’ll take the long route back. He’s enjoying this.
Risotto spies the run-down silhouette of the warehouse towering over the end of the street. The front entrance is right ahead, but Risotto knows he’s not supposed to use it for this sort of work. He heads left, down into the brick alleyway that takes him to the back door. A man is leaning against the wall. His face, scarred and stubbled, is made visible by the lighter he uses to light his bent cigarette. He spares a glance to Risotto, and Risotto feels the sudden urge to give him a wide birth.
“You got a watch on you?” the stranger asks.
Risotto isn’t falling for that one. He looks dead ahead and keeps walking, clutching the bag between himself and the wall. Pain assails the back of his shin and he falls, string-tied money falling out on the floor.
“We’ve been expecting you,” says the stranger. Face against the mud, Risotto hears the click of a gun and his instincts take over. He flings to the right, just as the deafening sound of a gunshot fires right by his ear. He rolls onto his back and grabs the stranger by his wrist, twisting the gun away before it can fire again. There’s a noise in the alleyway and Risotto wonders if it’s help. Two silhouettes come around the corner and point their guns, but it isn’t at the stranger. It’s at him.
Risotto twists his attacker’s wrist further until he hears something pop. The man yelps in pain and lets go of the gun. Grabbing it, Risotto aims at the two newcomers and fires rapidly. The angle is hardly idle but Risotto is fervent. There’s a scream and one of them falls, distracting their companion long enough for Risotto to take care of his other problem. Gripping his arms with both hands and summoning all his strength, Risotto flips the first attacker over his head, the injured man landing with a thud behind him.
Risotto scrambles to his feet. The man tries to do the same but he isn’t fast enough. Risotto straddles him and draws his knife. He stabs him again and again, blood spurting from his neck and chest as his struggling slowly stops. He stills. Risotto pulls the knife from the dead flesh and sighs.
A blinding brightness shoots down from above and Risotto reels in pain. Falling to the ground beside the body, he tries to blink his eyes open only to be met with more agony. It’s like a million needles of light are stabbing him from the sky.
The stars. Something is up with the stars.
“Bet they didn’t even give you a stand, did they? Worthless nobody.”
Steps approach Risotto from behind and the third attacker stops beside him. “Obviously not, otherwise you would have noticed it earlier,” the man scowls. Risotto tries to look up and catches a brief, blurry image of his face with no detail. It’s isn’t good to confirm much other than the man is there.
“What have you done to me?” Risotto demands. He tries to press his hands to his eyes but it still hurts. The light gets brighter still.
“I’ve used my stand on you. It’s only your perception of the stars that has been changed and not the whole planet, so don’t feel too mind blown. Believe me, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be stealing from Passione to subsidise what they pay me.”
Risotto’s eyes blink open again and in their brief moment of vision Risotto sees something that stills his blood. The stranger holds Risotto’s own knife, raised high above his head. Risotto lashes out.
Relying on instinct alone he lurches up to tackle his assailant to the ground. The stranger chuckles and throws him off of him. Risotto may be strong, but he isn’t used to fighting without his sight. It puts him at a severe disadvantage.
Risotto feels a harsh punch to his spine. He stumbles back to the ground, stopped from landing face first only by his scratched hands. He knows he would have heard it if another individual had approached it. That can only mean one thing- his attacker’s stand.
Risotto despairs. He knows stands are immune from all damage by things of this world, so without a stand of his own Risotto is defenceless against it. He has only one hope: kill the user first. Risotto lunges forwards, grabbing onto his attacker and pushing him to the ground through sheer force. He sinks his hands around the man’s neck and pushes down with all his force. The man brings up the knife and stabs it into Risotto’s chest. The pain is blinding, but Risotto knows it’s nowhere fatal. He is not deterred. The knife is brought up again and strikes him again between the ribs, but it is not deep enough to make Risotto give up his grip.
The stranger’s arm falls and the knife clatters out of reach, but Risotto is not safe yet. The unseeable stand unleashes a barrage of blows to his body, but Risotto forces himself not to give up. He stays there for what feels like an eternity, eyes clamped shut and body in agony, until the light starts to get weaker. The stand’s punches lose their strength.
Risotto can see clearly again, though the pain isn’t entirely gone. He looks down unfeelingly at the dying man below him, retching, wheezing for air as he grips Risotto’s wrist pleadingly. Risotto feels nothing as the man’s eyes glaze over and his body goes still. He holds his grip for another minute, making absolute certain the assailant is dead and not unconscious. Then he collapses.
Risotto stares up at the sky. Blood clings to his chest and oozes around his clothes. He notices how acutely aware he is of his heart, beating erratically as it pumps the blood out his skin. His limbs are heavy, the feeling in his hands already gone. He can feel himself fading second-by-second. He comes to realise just how long he’s wanted this.
Risotto thinks of Domenico and his Nonna, and patiently waits for the beating in his heart to stop.
::::::::::::
The next thing that Risotto is aware of is the heart monitor, beeping rhythmically as the white of the hospital surrounds him. He moves about in the sheets, noting the feeling of his chest constrained by bandages. A nurse rushes over to him and his awareness dissociates. It doesn’t come back until she’s leaving.
“There was a man here to see you earlier,” she mentions.
“Not some twerp with glasses, was it?” Risotto asks. He hates how weak and strained his voice sounds.
“No, some classy guy. His name was… Prosciutto Crepuscolo? I’ll have to check the book, but it’s something like that anyway. He seemed pretty ardent about seeing you so I’ll expect he’ll be back soon.”
“Alright,” Risotto sighs. “Thanks for the warning.”
Great. This is probably some stuck-up management asshole here to interrogate him about what happened. Risotto can only hope they know what the attackers were up to and don’t think he just decided to murder three soldatos on the fly. Otherwise, Risotto’s troubles may be just be beginning.
Risotto waits. The clock strikes 6am, but there’s no way to know how many times it’s done that since they took him here. He’s half-tempted to get up and find out but then he remembers the tube in his arm. He can’t really be bothered, anyway. At very least, they gave him a private room. It’s clear they know who he is, so it must have either been his roommates or the operatives of the warehouse who took him here. Someone who knows where the doctors on Passione’s payroll work.
The clock strikes 9. That nurse came back to check on him at some point but Risotto barely even noticed. He wants to go back to sleep but the pain is too bad for that. He can’t do anything but think, and even that is hard for him in so much pain.
The door clicks and an unfamiliar man enters. He appears disdained by the rain on his fine jacket as he takes it off quickly, brushing strands of blond hair from his eyes. He is a young man, though seemingly a fair bit older than Risotto if the way he carries himself is anything to go by.
“Nero?” the man asks. He regards Risotto critically as he steps forward.
“Yes, you’re Crepuscolo, correct?” Risotto replies.
“Call me Prosciutto. I can’t stand when people use that surname,” the man answers. He places his blazer on the back of the visitor’s chair and sits down, folding his hands.
“You’re from Passione, aren’t you?”
“That obvious? I suppose it must be,” Prosciutto shrugs. “I’m less special than you probably think. I handle logistics, usually more to do with murder than drugs and gambling, but I report to Polpo just like you do,” he explains.
“Are you currently sorting the logistics of having me shot, Prosciutto?” Risotto asks dryly. Prosciutto rolls his eyes.
“No, no. The operatives at the warehouse recognised one of your attackers as having tried to rob them before, and your team was quick to vouch for your character. Everyone accepts you acted in self-defence and there’s no suspicion otherwise,” Prosciutto reassures him. “In fact, I’m here on a personal whim.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been tasked with the elimination of an important politician residing in Naples. I don’t usually carry out such orders myself, but when the stakes are high it’s usually best that I, as a stand user, step in personally. Even still, it’s best to have backup and frankly, all my usual contacts are either out of town or hapless fools I wouldn’t trust to water a houseplant,” Prosciutto explains.
“And you’re looking for new options, I presume,” Risotto deduces.
“Precisely,” Prosciutto nods. “Winning a three-on-one fight with one stand user is certainly an impressive feat. I was hoping to find you in better shape than this but I can afford to wait a month or two, so I won’t strike you off my options yet. I must say, Risotto, you look like you belong in this place even without the multitude of chest wounds, but I haven’t figured out if that makes me more or less appealed to you.”
“Charmed,” Risotto sighs. “What’s in it for me?”
“Well, they’re giving me 30 million lire for the job and it would only be fair for me to give you a cut. How does 5% sound?”
“10, at least,” Risotto contends. Prosciutto smirks and makes a little huff.
“You’re an eager bastard aren’t you. Done,” he concedes.
“What do you need from me?”
“I live across from the promenade. Number 23. If you’re in shape by the 3rd of December, come to me in the afternoon. I do my hits at night but there’ll be plenty to discuss, so make sure you’re there by 4 at the latest. I can give you the pay there and then but you’ll have to keep it on you until we’re done so you don’t try to leg it.”
“And is there anything in particular I should train myself for?” Risotto asks.
“Nothing in particular. You’re only there for backup so you might not even need to lift a finger. Really I’m giving you money for nothing,” Prosciutto remarks, standing up dignifiedly from his chair. “But making new connections can only help us both, don’t you agree?”
With a small parting smile, Prosciutto departs without awaiting his answer. Risotto is left alone with the beat of his heart monitor. He doesn’t know what to think of his new acquaintance yet, but an allegiance with a stand user could change everything. If Risotto were to gain status within Passione, would it finally fill the hole in his heart left by Domenico? He honestly doesn’t know.
::::::::::::
It’s the third of December, 1992, and Risotto is in good spirits. He worked hard to restore his health after his injuries, making a point of taking better care of himself and spending many hours working on his mobility. What Prosciutto has given him is a goal, and that’s something he hasn’t had since hunting Domenico’s killer. Now, when Risotto looks in the mirror, he sees resolution. He’s going to impress his new acquaintance if it kills him.
Risotto walks along the promenade counting the houses for number 23. It’s a fancy looking place, as he expected, made of sandstone with a twisted copper fence surrounding the upstairs balcony. He passes a grove of palm trees and knocks on the door. The answer is immediate.
“One moment, one moment,” Prosciutto calls impatiently. The smaller man opens the door and Risotto is struck by the smell of expensive cigarettes. “Sorry, do you mind?” Prosciutto asks, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand.
“Not at all,” Risotto assures him. “May I come in?”
Prosciutto walks wordlessly into the living room and Risotto gets the hint to follow. The pair sit down on a lavish settee. Risotto finds himself anxious in such an alien place to him.
“You live on Firenze street, close to the cinema, yes?” Prosciutto enquires.
“Yes. Piece of shit dump.”
“Tell me about it. I used to live just on the next road when I started out with my first squad,” Prosciutto reminisces. Risotto leans forward in surprise.
“You’re self-made?”
“More like… earned back,” Prosciutto clarifies. “Though for the record you’ll find most of my possessions here are cheaper than they look. I’m not nearly as rich as I was as a young man. Perhaps someday,” he hopes.
“When did you join Passione?” Risotto asks curiously.
“Three years ago. If you’d started just a few months earlier, we would have been neighbours,” he muses.
“And your stand?”
“Now that’s newer. I’ve had it for the best part of a year.”
Risotto taps his leg nervously.
“How did you do it? Move up the ranks so quickly?”
Prosciutto tuts.
“Wondering how you’re still stuck as Polpo’s postboy at the same point in your career I was lined up for a stand?” he asks cuttingly. Risotto chokes out a half-formed rebuttal, then looks down in shame. “A bit of luck, a bit of knowing the right people, and a lot of speaking bullshit,” Prosciutto answers. “It also doesn’t help that… you know…”
“You can say it. Everyone knows I’m an utter state and sometimes I legitimately impress people by waking up alive in the morning,” Risotto grumbles.
“Well, that’s one way to put it. If it’s any consolation you’re no worse than most at your level of the organisation. The problem comes when you want to move up,” Prosciutto takes another drag of the cigarette and leans back into the cushions. “You’re hardly a rare case. You thought Passione would be something it wasn’t for you and now you aren’t sure what you’re living for.”
“Did you… look into me?” Risotto asks defensively. Prosciutto shakes his head.
“Like I said, it’s a common story. I don’t really need to look into you to know.”
“It’s not entirely true,” Risotto protests. “I never really expected anything out of Passione. I just didn’t think I’d care what happened to me anymore. Sometimes I don’t, but it still hurts.”
“Shit parents?”
“No! Well, yes. But they weren’t the ones who raised me so it doesn’t matter. Someone… died, someone very close to me, and in avenging him I asked Passione to protect me. I had to join them of course, in exchange, but I didn’t mind. I thought I’d be at peace once I had my vengeance. I was wrong,” he says quietly. Prosciutto is quiet for a moment.
“Come on, let’s get ready to go.”
::::::::::::
It’s a cold night. Risotto is starting to regret volunteering to wait outside. His task is simple, watch the front door and shoot if the target tries to leave. He lives alone and the two guards have already been disposed of, so the job couldn’t be simpler. Risotto hopes the target really does try to run. It will make him feel like he had an actual purpose being here.
Even out here, Risotto can hear the scuffle inside. It’s a good thing they’re far from the city and there aren’t any neighbours nearby, but then again, does anyone living in Passione’s territory really still trust the police enough to call them?
After what feels like ages, the door falls open. Risotto aims his gun and prepares to seize his moment, only to find the stumbling target looks half-dead already as he collapses onto the porch. He fires a couple of shots anyway, just for good measure.
Prosciutto steps out. He kicks the body. Risotto starts to walk forward.
“No!” Prosciutto shouts. Risotto stops in his tracks. “Alright, you can come now,” Prosciutto permits him. Risotto steps forward uncertainly. “Apologies, my stand is indiscriminate so I can’t have you going near it. It’s gone now, so you’re safe. Come, come over here,” Prosciutto urges.
Risotto eyes the dead body in front of him. He is struck immediately by how old and shrivelled it seems- he could have sworn the politician was only in his early 60s.
“Is your stand… aging?” he asks.
“Well-guessed. It’s morbid, I know, but it does the job,” Prosciutto confirms. “You’re welcome to leave now. Cleaning up is a delicate process and it’s best I do it myself.”
“So this is it, I just go now?” Risotto says, a little disappointed.
“You have your money, don’t you? Now go, before someone drives by!” Prosciutto urges him. Risotto sulks away down the front path. “And Risotto?” he calls back. Risotto turns to listen to him. “I’ll be sure to give you a call if I ever need you again. You’ve impressed me, Risotto.”
The young man smiles. He nods in acknowledgement.
“Thank you, Prosciutto. I hope we can work again together soon.”
::::::::::::
It’s May, and Risotto is freshly 21. He finishes sweeping the floor of the kitchen and sits at the table, taking a sip of his coffee as he watches out the window. There’s a knock on the door.
“Hello?” Risotto says, opening it. The sight that greets him is a surprise- the familiar figure of Prosciutto Crepuscolo standing at his doorway.
“Apologies for the delay, I finally had an excuse to meet with you,” Prosciutto greets him. “May I come in?”
“By all means,” Risotto smiles. The two enter the apartment.
“You’re looking… better, Risotto,” Prosciutto notices. Risotto brushes his fingers through his hair.
“I wouldn’t say I’m doing well, but it’s a start,” he agrees. “So, what finally dragged you out here?”
“It’s possible I might have a position for you,” Prosciutto announces. Risotto perks up eagerly.
“Under you?”
“Over me,” Prosciutto corrects him.
“Now I’m intrigued.”
Prosciutto steeples his fingers and starts to explain.
“Passione is forming a new squad. Assassination, at long last. No more running around Naples for volunteers last minute. I’ve been chosen, no surprise, but I’ve made it very clear I refuse to be team leader. I have personal commitments. It wouldn’t be ideal. I’ve already got two others on the team with me, good men I’ve known for a while, but I’ve been told in no uncertain terms not to let either of them anywhere near positions of power. You on the other hand, my superiors are willing to consider.”
“I’m hardly qualified.”
“You’d be surprised how good an option you are. Being able to kill without a second thought is rare enough in itself, and on each of the few occasions your combat prowess has come into play, you’ve performed exceptionally. While it’s true you don’t have much experience as a leader, you’ve got all the hallmarks of someone who could be taught to be one. And you will be taught. I’ll be there to teach you.” Prosciutto assures him. He leans back in his seat. “There’s only one issue. We need to get you a stand.”
“I see. Can you get me put through for one?” Risotto asks.
“With your consent I can get you put through tomorrow. But I need you to be certain, Risotto, I need you to agree to lead us.”
Risotto takes a moment to think. He breathes deeply.
“I agree Prosciutto. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. It’s time we got you out of this dump.”
Risotto wakes the next morning to knocking on the door of his new bedroom. He sits up and takes a moment to regard the room around him, his mind planning already how he’s going to make it look once it’s concretely his. Really though, he’s just glad to have a space to himself now.
“Risotto it’s time to get up,” Prosciutto calls impatiently.
“I’m awake,” Risotto answers him. “Give me one minute and I’ll be dressed.”
Risotto hurries into his clothes and exits the room. Prosciutto is waiting for him, leaned against the wall. He regards Risotto with a nod.
“We aren’t expected at any particular time, but I’d rather we go sooner than later. Best to get it out of the way.”
“I’d prefer that too,” Risotto agrees. “Let me finish getting ready and we’ll head out.”
Prosciutto follows Risotto downstairs into the large front room. Risotto can tell Passione intends to grow this team beyond its current meagre size, else they wouldn’t get a house this big. At least he can enjoy the privacy while it lasts.
Down in the sitting room, two men look up from their sofa. They are entangled in each other, arms splayed lovingly over each other’s shoulders with little care who sees them. The smaller blond shuffles from his partner’s lap. He crosses his legs and looks at Risotto with wicked eyes.
“And who might this be, Pros? Our first victim?” he asks. The dark-haired man beside him presses his knuckles to his lips in a poor attempt to hide his malicious smile.
“This is Risotto Nero,” Prosciutto corrects him. “Should all go to plan, our leader.”
“What a young face,” the dark-haired man remarks.
“And so… uniquely dressed,” his partner adds. They pass a wicked glint between them.
“Risotto, this is Sorbet, and his husband Gelato,” Prosciutto introduces them, pointing to each. “The two recruits I mentioned earlier.”
“Recruits?” Sorbet asks, a hint of offense in his voice.
“We’ve been in the game far longer than you have, Prosci,” Gelato agrees.
“You both know what I mean,” Prosciutto sighs. He leads Risotto to the door and the pair get up after them. “Where on earth are you going?” he asks.
“We thought we might go with you, to… see our new friend off,” Sorbet explains.
“Very well, but no dawdling,” Prosciutto agrees.
The four pile into Prosciutto’s spotless Ford, the man himself taken the driver’s seat as Risotto sits behind him. Sorbet and Gelato jump eagerly into the back, gripping the seats in front of them and holding their faces way too close to Risotto for comfort.
“Now, you remember what to do?” Prosciutto checks.
“Yes,” Risotto assures him.
“My advice would be to find a street with no wind and stay there. Occupy yourself mentally, but don’t walk around or you’ll be asking for trouble,” Prosciutto advises.
“Thank you, Prosciutto, I’ll remember that. Any hope of you telling me how I’ll actually get the stand?” Risotto vies.
“Sorry, no chance. Just believe me when I say I have faith in you.”
“Very well,” Risotto accepts. He chuckles quietly.
Prosciutto drives just a few more minutes before stopping at the gates of a prison. He regards Risotto’s surprise with a reassuring pat to the shoulder.
“The guards will let you in, don’t worry. Go now, we have faith.”
Risotto thanks him with a smile and steps from the vehicle. A hand tugs his wrist. He turns to see Gelato holding onto him.
“Prosciutto’s going to tell me off for saying this, but drop the lighter. It’s what you’re actually meant to do.”
Unsure of what to say, Risotto shakes him off and carries on towards the gates. He hears the conversation behind him.
“Gelato, what on earth are you doing?!” Prosciutto chides.
“Giving him a faster death.”
::::::::::::
Risotto pushes against the arrow with all his might as it digs into his chest. He lets out a grunt of exasperation as he battles for his life, adamant in the resolution that he refuses to die today. He begins to hear screaming, passive at first and then steadily louder. It isn’t him, but it’s coming from within him. The iron grate by his side begins to twist and contort.
::::::::::::
“So, do you think he’s dead yet?” Sorbet says humourlessly. He checks his nails while caressing Gelato’s head in his lap.
“He’s going to be fine. I really don’t know why you have so little faith in him,” Prosciutto admonishes him. The pair chuckle.
“He’s just another dumb fuck dragged in from the gutter. There’s no way he could possibly survive obtaining a stand,” Gelato maintains.
“I’d like to see you say that to his face when he gets home alive,” Prosciutto tuts.
The front door clicks, the lock giving way on its own accord. The door swings open and Risotto Nero steps through, a cascading wave of metal swirling around his torso at his command. He reaches his hand into the iron dust and a shining blade is molded from the air. He presents it to Prosciutto proudly.
“Will this be adequate, Prosciutto?”
The older man stifles a laugh and looks over to the stunned lovers on the opposite sofa.
“My friends, I think it’s time you gave your new leader the greeting he deserves.”