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It had almost been too easy.
Within a dimly-lit room, the Don’s daughter, Trish Una, lounged in an elaborate chair. A regal, flowing, onyx-black gown with a slit skirt adorned with her signature math-symbol trimming sat upon her frame, and her long, gradient-rose hair had been beginning to gain its spots. Like father, like daughter, as they say. The curls it twisted into were remnants of her mother; one of the few things she had left of Donatella, outside of memories and grief.
Her shoulders were draped in rich, luxurious spotted furs—black-and-white. The same pattern as the late Bucciarati’s suit had been. The same color as the ruff of the cloaks worn by royalty. It was partially in tribute to the poor sap. It was fitting, after all; his death was the reason she was here. Having seen an opportunity, Diavolo had shuttled her through the encounter in Venice, deciding that she held promise. Bucciarati, on the other hand? Weak. Traitorous. So, his demise was why, at that moment, she was sitting pretty—well, sitting gorgeous, more like. Her father, Diavolo, provided her with everything she could have wanted. Whether it was Versace gowns like the one she wore, Louboutin heels, ruby-red sole and all… hell, even the sparkling water was high-class. Better than anything her former-bodyguards could have left her. It was a life of luxury, far more opulent than the life she’d had with her late mother, Donatella.
She had everything she wanted. The only thing her father couldn’t give her was a friend.
Sometimes, Doppio, Diavolo’s right-hand man, would be out and about. The young man with pink hair like hers, and a sprinkling of freckles all over his cheeks—who, suspiciously, was never in the room at the same time as her father, for some reason—was a bit jittery, nervous, and would trip over his words more often than he tripped over his own feet. (Considering he was quite clumsy, almost to the point of being a walking hazard to himself, this was no small accomplishment.) But, Doppio was fine; he’d go and do hits without a complaint, and honestly, when he wasn’t about to shank someone, he was sweet. The closest thing Trish had to a friend; and, he was close to being a friend , but… It wasn’t the same. Not that she’d had a lot of friends to begin with, of course, but… Still… She was safe here, pampered like the princess she was, and a Don’s daughter.
It was a life she would have killed for. Well— did kill for, in a way. Even if she hadn’t been the one to chop Bucciarati’s arm off at the hand as they rode up the elevator in Venice, she’d held his hand, watched the surprised light fade out of his eyes, glistening with the quickly-fading light of despair. She’d gone along with Diavolo’s deal—join him, and leave the others to rot. Sometimes, the guilt would hit her in the most mundane of moments—as she read Vogue Italia, or watched TV—but she stuffed it down, stifled it, pretended it wasn’t there. She treated her inner turmoil as if it were lipstick she and Abbacchio had attempted to shoplift while they’d been on their road trip, stuffing it into the bottom of a purse, tucking it beneath a water bottle, a breakfast bar, and menstrual products. Ideally, no one would notice, and, when distracted, she’d forget it was there. A girl could dream.
No matter how lonely she was, as if to make up for the years he hadn’t known she’d existed, Daddy Dearest (as she’d affectionately begun to call him) showered her with praise and with presents. It wasn’t a rough life; after all, Bucciarati’s former teammates—Fugo joining after he’d wisely decided not to suicidally go against Diavolo—obeyed her every whim, assigned to be her assistants. She couldn’t be their friend, though; for obvious reasons. While she couldn’t place what the feeling was, something stirred inside her every time she saw a glimmer of fear in Fugo’s eyes when he would look at her. If she were to mull upon it too long, she’d have known it was sadness, but that would have required confronting her guilt, and there was no way in hell she was ever going to do that.
Still. She had had enough with the internalizing. Trish took a long sip of her water, tapping her long, gel-manicured nails against the gold-trimmed cherrywood of her chair. Boredom gnawed at her. What could she do? There was always paperwork, yeah—her father would appreciate that. Or, perhaps, she could ask in Doppio, see what kind of fun facts he had to share for today.
However, her thoughts were interrupted as soon as her father strode into the room. Quite dapper in his pinstripe suit and gelled-back hair in a ponytail, he gave his daughter a grin. “Oh, passerotta. I’m glad you’re awake.”
She smiled, standing up to give him a hug. As his arms wrapped around her, she squeezed her father tight, moving away to flash him a brilliant smile. “Good morning, Father. I was just trying out the new Visitation Chair.” She gestured to it with her nails, long and black, filed to points. “It is perfect for sitting intimidatingly in, if I do say so myself.” She returned to the seat, and crossed her legs, attempting her best “royal” pose. With her lavish furs, she really did feel like a princess of yore.
Diavolo laughed. “Oh, that it is.” He stood behind her, resting his arms on the back of the chair. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his pride for his progeny emanating off of him.
“I’d like a second opinion, though; you’re biased.” She smirked. “Maybe ask Doppio?”
“Doppio is a bit… busy,” he responded, using a tone that suggested he was making a joke that was only funny to him. “But, yes, that is true.” Diavolo got up, then, moving toward the door, barked: “ Fugo.”
Within seconds, Pannacotta Fugo stumbled in, clad in pink and black. He was flushed, sweat beading his brow—likely from running. “Y-Yes, Boss?” His voice was light, accentuated by breathless exhaustion.
“Entertain my daughter, will you? I have a business meetings all morning, and tragically, won’t be able to give her the attention she deserves. Oh, and, passerotta, while he’s a bit occupied at this moment, Doppio will be by later.”
“Of course, Daddy.”
“Good, good. I’ll be off. Don’t disappoint her, Fugo.” The blond nodded, holding his breath, as Diavolo walked out of the room.
Diavolo’s departure seemed to suck any kind of energy out of the room, outside of Trish’s mischievous grin and Fugo’s anxiety, which rolled off him in shaky waves. “So, Fugo. How’s this look?” She posed, crossing her legs, giving her most devilish eyebrow-waggle. “Do I look like I could run the place?”
He paused for a moment, the disdain in his eyes palpable, as he responded flatly: “Do you want an honest response, or the response I know you want?”
Trish pouted. “Fuck off.”
“What? You want me to compliment you, the one wearing Bucciarati’s old suit as some furs? The one who let my friend die and took some Faustian bargain?!”
“Who the fuck is Faust.” She deadpanned.
Fugo, snapping out of his anger for a moment, dutifully explained: “A guy who made a deal with the devil by selling his soul. At the end, he goes to hell. There’s a play by Marlowe and by Goethe, which are both different, but it’s originally a German folktale.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you.” No matter how furious he was, Fugo was always a big trivia geek; it was kind of endearing, honestly. Then, thinking about it a bit more, her face screwed up in anger. “Wait, was that meant to be an insult? I didn’t make a deal with the devil, you little shit. Just my father.”
“Your father’s name is literally ‘Devil’! Diavolo! That’s his fucking name! Also, how can you call me ‘little’ when I’m taller than you?! ”
“That is a fair point. You’re just a ‘shit’, then.” She shrugged. “As for my father’s name: It may be ‘devil,’ but yours is ‘ cheese.’ Don’t judge a book by their cover. At least I have a normal human name, for fuck’s sake.” She sighed nonchalantly, moving to where her glass of mineral water was, and took a long, drawn-out sip, making it a point to look Fugo directly in the eyes as she did so.
He sputtered: “Okay, look, the semantics aren’t the point here, Trish! The point is that you’re the reason that all my friends are dead!”
“I am not. They’re dead because they chose to betray my father and follow the Giovanna boy. You said it yourself back in Venice, didn’t you? It was a suicide mission, and they knew it.”
He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. Trish could see him bite his lip as he turned away from her, face bowed.
Trish let out a derisive laugh. “Aww, boo-hoo. Is blondie gonna cry about his dead friends?”
Fugo, pausing, turned to her with a kind of fury Trish had never seen him exhibit before. “I mean, I saw you cry about your dead mother.” He said with a cold-hard precision. “I don’t think you’re one to talk, Miss Una.”
“Shut up.” Trish leaned up in her chair.
Fugo, eyes blurry and face a bit flushed, smiled a Cheshire-Cat smile. “...But, to be fair… It’s probably better that her prognosis was grim, considering that if she were alive, she’d have to see the wretch her daughter had become. And no one deserves that.”
At that, Pannacotta Fugo had crossed a line.
“Oi.” Trish barked, glaring. She stood abruptly, inching toward Fugo, trying to make herself look intimidating. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the bag she had bought in Narancia’s memory, covered in a geometric pattern like what had been on his skirt, had fallen off the chair. Considering how Fugo flinched at the sound of her voice, she considered it a success. “That’s no way to talk to the daughter of your employer. I could make your life a living hell, you know. I could get you demoted, put on janitor duty, or worse. You don’t want to play with me, cheese-boy.” As she said this, she poked his arm with her finger; he recoiled sharply. She couldn’t help but feel glee in that; Trish was powerful, and more appropriately, she was now worthy of being feared.
After gathering himself, Fugo clutched his arm where he’d been touched, nursing it as if it were a wound. “My life is already hell,” he spat, a venom akin to his Stand’s coursing through his words. Trish, through the smoke left behind by her father’s first cigar of the day, could see that the blond’s eyes were puffy.
She hesitated. Trish thought long and hard before finally responding: “...Do you think I don’t miss them, either? Their deaths…” Looking down at Giorno’s old brooch, attached to the strap of her dress, seeing a silver ring she’d bought in Abbacchio’s honor, with an amethyst glistening with guilt, she felt her heart catch in her throat. “I know their deaths are my fault. I’m aware.”
“You don’t act like it.” Yet, his eyes softened with a kindred flash.
“...I’m sorry, Fugo.”
His tone betrayed that he wasn’t entirely believing what he said, even if he was trying to hide it. “No, you’re not.”
A groan. Then, Trish replied, words rushing out of her faster than she could stop them: “Yes, I am. What do you want me to do? Self-flagellate, Bubonic Plague-style? Replay every moment we had as a group, over and over? Kill myself, and hope that maybe that evens the score?”
“That’s not gonna—”
“—Bring them back? Yeah! No fucking shit it won’t! I KNOW, OKAY?!” Her voice thundered in the incense-filled, magenta-walled room. Fugo, shocked into silence, stared at her, stock-still. “...God, I… I know. What the fuck else do you want me to say? I’m sorry my friends are dead because I was too scared to die? I shouldn’t even be here? I should be dead instead of them? Well, those are all true. It doesn’t fucking matter if I tell you or not, since in the end... you’ve got it. You’ve got what you wanted. I’m sorry, I’m the reason they’re fucking dead, and now I’m Daddy’s Little Girl and I have something resembling comfort for the first time in my goddamn life. Happy now, Fugo?” Her lip trembled, but she tried her hardest not to cry.
The blond looked at her with… pity. It was pity. Or was it sympathy? Trish couldn’t tell. All he said was: “It really would have been easier for everyone if you’d died.” There was no malice in his tone; it was a fact, and the two of them knew it.
“I know.” She said, voice cracking. “I know.”
He put a hand on her shoulder, and then, as she flinched—
—Trish Una awoke, covered in sweat, lying on a couch, bathed in the rosy twilight of Coco Jumbo’s room.
She took in a sharp breath, gasping. How was she—she was—why the hell—!
The teen shook her head, looking around the room in a daze as she tried to slow down her breathing. Narancia was on the floor, dozing beside Mista, who was using him as a sort of bony pillow. Bruno and Leone used each other as pillows. Giorno, meanwhile, must have been dozing behind the couch, or something; she couldn’t see him, but even she had noticed his tendency to make himself as small as he could manage, and how he could be cozy on the floor. Trish preferred not to think of the implications of this.
As she looked at her team, dozing and taking a well-deserved break, she had to admit; while she mourned the Louboutins, the fancy dress, and having a loving father who wasn’t trying to murder her... It had all been a dream. Still… It was better to mourn the finer things in life than to mourn her friends. Yet, the feeling left behind, that lingering sorrow? That was no dream.
Sweat drenched her skin. Her breath was shaky. Through the tinted light of the gem that served as the “roof” of Coco Jumbo, everything was bathed in magenta, making her clammy, cold hands appear to have been colored in what looked like off-color blood. A bit on the nose, yes, she had to admit, but it had been the first thing that had come to mind, and it shook her to her core.
What time even was it? Looking at a clock in the corner of the room, the answer to this question appeared to be… early. Too early, at that. She yawned. The others still slept, and, because she really needed to clear her head, she tiptoed as delicately as she could out of the room, thanking all that was good that she’d changed into pink, geometric shape-sprinkled pajamas. As soon as she’d hopped out of the turtle, Trish discovered that they had stopped at what seemed to be a safe house in the countryside. Why no one had gotten out of Coco Jumbo to switch over to this new locale at this point, which presumably had beds and everything, she couldn’t say, but this was better than nothing.
She walked into the house, seeing the lights were on and that the car they’d hotwired—no, as Narancia insisted, borrowed —was there as well, she took that as a sign that it was safe to go in. Doing so, she was greeted by a blond young man resting on the couch, anxiously tapping his feet. Giorno’s eyes were paired with the most intense bags Trish had ever seen. Or, more appropriately, the most intense eye-bags Trish had seen on someone who wasn’t actively dying. She had just been so tired.
Then, dream-Fugo’s venomous words came to her: “If she were alive, she’d have to see the wretch her daughter had become. And no one deserves that.”
She shook the thoughts away. Now was not the time to spiral.
Seeing her walk in, Giorno flinched, then returned to the “collected” equilibrium he wore so well. She noticed that his hair was down, but his bangs were still in their characteristic donuts. He’d also changed into pajamas, with his being magenta and covered in the most adorable of cartoon frogs.
Tentatively, she walked in, her feet making the old floorboards of the house creak. Startled into attention, Giorno sent a well-rehearsed smile her way. “Oh! Trish. Hello. I see you have awoken.”
“Same to you, though it looks like you haven’t slept.” As she replied, she sat down on the couch beside him, giving him ample room—a whole cushion on the couch, to be precise. “Why are you up?”
Giorno twiddled his fingers, not looking at her as he countered: “Why are you up?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.”
“Fine, fine,” Trish relented. “Bad dream. You?”
He nodded. “Well, that, and also, someone needs to be up on watch duty, and Bucciarati hasn’t slept in days. The least I could do is make sure he rests.”
“Wait, holy hell— days?”
A nod. “Can’t blame him though, considering your father’s vendetta.”
Trish looked away from him at that, ashamed. Images of her in her fancy dress, shoes, and Bruno’s furs flashed behind her minds’ eye: “It was a suicide mission, and they knew it.” The girl shivered.
“—Trish, is something wrong?”
Her head whipped upward to face him. “What? No, nothing. Everything’s fine.”
The boy’s eyes softened. “I may not be able to taste lies like Bucciarati can, but even I can tell you aren’t.”
“...He can taste lies.” Trish’s eyebrows furrowed.
Giorno shrugged. “That’s what he said when he interrogated me when we first met.” Before Trish could ask what the hell had led to Giorno being interrogated, he went on: “Still, Trish. I admit that I am not an expert in comforting others, but I am more than glad to lend an ear if need be.”
“Sure.” Anxiety was gnawing away at the pink-haired girl, but even so, she managed: “I had a dream about my dad.”
The blond took a moment to process this, twiddling his hair around in his hands. “Ah. How… so…?” The normally-suave young man seemed to be at a loss for words, his cheeks flushed a rosy color, and Trish realized that he genuinely was out of his element. He looked less like a child prodigy of organized crime, and more like… a fifteen year-old.
“Everyone’s dead, I was treated like a princess, and it was all my fault.” She sighed. “And the worst part? I liked it. Like, I felt guilty, yeah, but, like…” Trish trailed off.
The two sat in silence for a bit, and Trish felt her eyes burn and blur. She had not meant to cry; not in front of Giorno. Not in front of anyone. She couldn’t be weak.
Eventually, she felt a kind hand on her arm. “You’re stressed about everything, aren’t you.” At her teary nod, he continued. “If it helps, my dreams have been like that too. Not with the dad thing—I never got to meet mine—but—”
“You have a dead parent too?” Trish raised her head to face him. “You— what? ”
“Yeah. My dad. Don’t know much else, though,” he confessed sheepishly.
“Ah.” A sniffle followed. “Sorry; that sucks.”
“Yeah. But it is what it is.” Giorno leaned toward Trish, a ladybug-patterned handkerchief in hand. “Here. Take this.”
Doing so, she dabbed her cheeks with it, thankful that she’d taken off her makeup before she’d gone to bed. “Thanks, GioGio.”
“N-No problem.” He sounded choked—did the nickname fluster him? She couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the way he went red from embarrassment.
“What? Don’t like nicknames?”
“Oh, I—I do! I do, honestly. Just not used to them coming from anyone other than Bucciarati.”
“Fair.” Then, after a bit of a pause, she asked, her own cheeks a bit red, “Gio, could I have a hug? I know you’re not big on physical contact, but—”
Before she could finish, he’d barreled into her, hugging her tight.
“— Thanks.”
He laughed, the movement of which resonated within her core. “Sorry; I admit that I’ve wanted one as well, but wasn’t sure if you’d ask.” She hadn’t heard his voice sound like this before; at ease. Genuine. He let go of her. His smile was radiant. “Thanks for listening.”
“You mostly listened to me,” she countered.
“I said what I said. I will say no else.” A glint of mischief flashed in his eyes. “Still. Trish, if I may be so forward, know that none of this is your fault. It’s your father’s. Based on the intel our informant has given Bucciarati, both Doppio and Diavolo are on the move, but when separated, they can be managed. It’s a shame they’re basically joined at the hip.”
“Yeah.” She hadn’t seen either in person; just the pictures on the flickering laptop screen. For Doppio, at least. For her father, on the other hand, while it had just been a flash, she’d managed to catch a glimpse of him before going into shock, and the scariest thing about him was that he had had her eyes. She shivered, staring at the cute little cartoon frogs on Giorno’s pants. On the bright magenta background, they stood out quite well.
“You aren’t your father, you know. Or like him.”
The pink-haired girl’s head shot up. “What.”
“—If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean.” There went his well-practiced mask, which had fallen to the floor in his earnest attempts at comforting her. “Based on your dream, I just assumed that to be the case.”
Trish mulled this over. While it was not guaranteed, it would make quite a bit of sense. Still… “Thanks, GioGio.”
“No problem. Go to bed; I’ll take my nap shift once one of the others awakens. Good night.”
“Good night. And—thanks.” With a wave, she went back into Coco Jumbo’s room. Coco had managed to trudge to the foyer of the safe house, and had fallen asleep. The others were still in the same general poses—but, she noticed Bucciarati staring right at her.
She gave him a sheepish wave in the spinel light. With a come here gesture, she moved forward. He patted the cushion beside him, mouthing, Bad dream?.
She nodded, taking a seat next to him and moving into the space between his shoulder and his arm. Cozy. Trish whispered: “You all died. It was my fault. I was evil. But kinda pretty too.”
“Ah.” Bruno sighed. “ Passerotta, we’ve been through this.”
“I know.” She nestled herself into the comfiest pose she could manage. “Thanks.”
He ruffled her hair kindly. “Good. Now, rest, all right?”
She nodded. “Only if you do, too.”
“Of course.” He smiled.
Trish then felt herself dozing off once more, her friend’s heartbeat a metronome grounding her march towards sleep.
When Trish opened her eyes, she found herself in the visitation room, draped in the gradient twilight of the golden hour. The haze from the incense that burned gave the place a sort of glimmer; it had a kind of tangible unreality to it, like an album cover, or a scene from a well-shot film. Her father leaned on the back of the chair in which she sat, triumphant. Giorno, Mista, Abbacchio, Bruno, Narancia, and Fugo were gathered round; her entourage. Each was dressed to the nines, the pinnacle of sleek, svelte crime.
She crossed her legs, and Bruno draped the furs over her shoulder, flashing a smile Diavolo’s way. The pride in how far they’d come practically emanated off all of them. She had power. It was delicious. She turned to her side to see Donatella, dressed in pure white, holding Diavolo’s arm with a kind smile.
She knew it was a dream; knew that she would never be able to experience this. This vision was so antithetical to her reality. But… she didn’t mind. After all, even if all she’d had was rose-tinted nightmares and rubellite dreams, it was better than having nothing.
A girl could dream, right?