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The very first thing that struck Giorno as he made his way inside the former boss’ mansion to claim the last of Diavolo’s empire was not its size, nor how excessively lavish the whole thing was. It wasn’t a suffocating feeling of impending responsibility he was met with either, brought on and dumped onto Giorno upon eliminating the mansion’s former denizen- that would come later, he knew.
No, it was a different feeling entirely.
Not even any specific feeling, actually, but rather one word. Curious.
It was curious in the way the mansion’s steps wound around a stone monument; so tall that looking back, Giorno could not trace his path from the bottom to the doorway. Curious in how unconventional the whole thing was though, really, Giorno couldn’t say for certain what he would consider “normal” in the realm of upscale Italian architecture.
But it was when he stepped inside the large and gaping arches of that doorway did ‘curious’ turn to… off.
There was not a single light in this room.
And even if there was, Giorno struggled to figure out how anyone could illuminate the area at all.
No switches, no lamps.
And not a window in sight.
They were not hidden behind curtains either. Those draperies were merely that- draperies. This was truly a room that Diavolo intended to keep in perpetual darkness.. but for what?
A foyer that would not be receiving guests, in this state anyway.
Why bother? He thought as he traced the dust along the molding of one armchair. Why bother decorating this room if it was never intended to be seen by anyone at all?
Off turned to unease. And unease spread over Giorno like the water of the Tiber; engulfing him, stifling him, like the darkness that perpetuated beyond the foyer and into the connecting hallway.
He traced his finger over an end table, watched how it returned caked in dust. He shook it off and stuck his hands in his pockets instead, opting to observe with what little vision was afforded to him.
Something was definitely not right here, but he couldn't figure out why.
And it wasn’t just the looming darkness that told him that.
--
It was off for certain, and now he knew why.
It was off in the way that this mansion was just a facsimile of itself. A foyer here, a washroom there, a bedroom in this corner.
Serving as rooms but not to be lived in.
And yet…
He was there, living in every single one.
Not physically, but there in every other sense of the word.
There, in the sense that one’s memories fill the spaces they once thrived.
Fleeting, yet infuriatingly, hard to shake.
--
There was eventually a window to be found.
A large one with double panes that allowed the moonlight to seep inside. This room was significantly more illuminated in its presence but whether that was an improvement remained to be seen.
Giorno did not like the furnishings in this room.
The paintings that decorated the walls presented scenes of turbulent waters; high tides and violent waves crashing over wayward vessels and their stricken crew. A sea monster assailed them in one, the vast emptiness of the endless ocean pervaded the other. An island full up on loneliness and the deep blue sea around it.
All alluring, none comforting.
But what was perhaps more unsettling of all was not what painted the walls-
It was around the furniture, along the wallpaper, snaking down into the floorboards and up into the doorways.
Arrows.
Arrows littered around as far as Giorno could see, and likely beyond. They raced this way and that, grew in size before shrinking back down into imperceptibly tiny shapes that seemed to disappear among the backdrop of the furnishings. The patterns alternated in colours; never striking, just muted enough to blend in with its surroundings.
Hidden in plain sight, just like--
It was a mockery, Giorno knew. The man had his way of creeping under the boy’s skin, even before they had met.
It was like he knew.
--
There was eventually a lamp to be found, as well.
Still no lightswitch, but it was progress. Giorno tugged on the cord and realised his mistake immediately.
The lamp was barely functional. The bulb was dimly lit and much too cold for such a spacious and (presumably) inviting living room. Its bluish light bounced weakly off the nearby surfaces, casting deep, dark shadows in their wake.
He shut it off, and reached for the TV set instead. After switching it on, he walked away with the chatter of some late night talk show as company, its light a guide into the unknown.
--
It wasn't just the darkness that unsettled him. Had it just been a lack of light, Giorno wouldn't have been so... perturbed.
No, it was the way that the darkness festered, letting shadows linger rather than creep, settling into every corner, nook and cranny of this space. It was the way that the architecture seemed to only invite such cold and empty darkness, with its sharp edges and sudden turns leaving blind spots where the light couldn't possibly reach. Pools of night gathered in the spaces between clarity.
And it was in those pools that he only seemed to linger, just out of sight.
Giorno could not stand it when he needed to step through a patch of darkness. He could feel his- and its - presence deep inside. Dawdle for too long and he feared he would be engulfed.
Like Bucciarati- Like Abbacchio- Like Narancia-
He strode into a shadow, watched his foot be swallowed by the darkness and wretched it back as a fit of anxiety gripped him. In his periphery, the live studio audience of the talk show cackled wildly.
Well.
There was no need to take a turn here. In a huff, Giorno patted his jacket down and marched straight ahead into the adjoining room and away from that man’s peering soul.
--
Giorno was growing frustrated.
Not with the darkness, specifically. That was a minute annoyance compared to… this.
This hall that leads to nowhere. A dead-end room with only the shadows to decorate. Doors that don’t even open to a room but straight into a wall. A stairway, leading up to dizzying heights.
The mansion was increasingly ludicrous and perhaps impossible in its design, and Giorno could only grit his teeth at every single abnormality. He opened one more opulently designed wooden door only to huff at this nondescript white hallway that will surely lead to yet another dead end, and yet another blow to his sanity.
It was like that man was mocking him at this point.
Either that, or he really, really, REALLY did not expect, nor want, guests. Especially not a snooping young teen.
But what was perhaps worst of all…
Giorno found a light switch.
He flipped it on and watched as the lights flickered and sparks shot out, before plunging the room in eternal darkness again.
He could only sigh.
--
Finally, a door that was useful. Giorno entered what appeared to be a study.
After some difficulty navigating a couple of sharp bends in the architecture, almost like whoever was using this room didn’t want anyone to be privy to what they were doing….
Peculiarity aside, this room was surprisingly… welcoming.
There were bookcases, a desk, an armchair, a gramophone, some file cabinets, a ticking clock affixed on the wall, an ashtray (half full) and, finally, a lamp that functions.
Giorno switched it on and let the comforting light bathe the room in some much needed warmth.
He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that he found such an inviting room, or that the gangster had a taste for such things. For the pristine, logical and appealing sides to home decor, specifically. Here was a room that put his interests on display rather than looking like an art project gone terribly wrong, serving only to confuse and infuriate. It looked like the man had a liking towards Machiavelli (predictably) and Scarlatti (less so). Imagine that, he had hobbies after all.
Though, if Giorno were honest, he wasn’t exactly sure what he expected on the contrary in regards to the state of the man’s quiet room- blood stains and mounds of drugs, perhaps? Regardless, it was just so bafflingly normal.
Until he saw the boarded-up windows.
They were behind the curtains, he couldn’t have known- why did he even pull back the curtains anyway, he had the lamp on. What did he expect to see? Not this, for sure.
He heard a tapping sound on the other side of those windows and fled the scene in a haste.
--
The mansion moaned and groaned with every step and every corner that Giorno turned as he navigated the increasingly looming darkness, the light of the television losing its efficacy the further away he wandered. As if a warning for his continued involvement in this mansion’s exhumation, the floors and walls seemed to grow heavy with discontent; feeling like they were ready to collapse at any time, trapping Giorno like a venus fly trap with its unlucky meal.
He didn’t like the feeling of being watched, not one bit. Even if it did turn out to all just be in his head.
There was a door covered in moss, and to his surprise it led to the outside. A courtyard sat just past the door, surrounded by a tall iron fence overgrown with creeping vines and weeds aplenty. Stepping stones marked a path from the door to circular clearing up ahead, surrounded on all sides by more stone monuments; not unlike the one that obscured the mansion from the steps leading up to it.
The sounds of the howling wind and an occasional, actual howl from dogs filled Giorno’s ears as he stepped onto the stone-paved path. He walked and walked until weathered stone gave way to tall, uneven grass and his foot sunk into the damp soil below. The whole affair sent shivers down his spine and yet he still found slight comfort in no longer feeling like there was a man watching him everywhere he looked.
Instead, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of… emptiness. Isolation.
Like it really was all in his head, and he’ll wake up in his dorm room the next time he blink-
The wild grass soon stopped its unending path of conquest, giving way to flat, neatly cropped green that reverently housed a singular headstone in the centre.
Atop the headstone sat a bird. A crow or raven, Giorno couldn’t tell; he was never the expert on corvids. He knew, however, of the messages behind their appearance, the symbolism that seemed to plague their existence. Of death and bad omens, misfortune and terrible fate, not unlike...
It was all he could think of as he stared into those inky dark eyes, who stared back unfettered, even as Giorno drew nearer and nearer to read the inscription on what it guarded.
Whatever it said, it wasn’t Italian; or was it? The words were eroded beyond repair, their meaning lost to time, and possibly trapped in the unending death loop with its bearer. In short, it was unreadable, and Giorno only hoped that meant he wouldn’t need to pay any mind to whoever was 6 feet under him at this very moment.
It wasn’t like zombies actually existed outside of movies.
Or outside of a stand’s influence, at any rate.
Content with that thought, or as content as someone still struggling with the concept of death could be, Giorno turned tail and strode away, cognizant of the bird’s gaze still fixed on his person.
--
“Whoa! Giorno-?! Hey!”
Giorno collided face first into the chest of his second-in-command, stumbling back with his head in his hands.
“You okay, man? Where’ve you been all this- hey, Giorno, I’m talkin’ to you! What’s going on?”
He cradled his head for a moment more before slowly lifting his gaze to meet Mista’s. He gave him a tight smile and hoped that the man couldn’t tell how bad he was shivering. If anything, he was glad the shadows had some use after all.
“I’m… fine. Just a bit shaken, that’s all. It’s… a lot to take in.”
Mista’s expression softened at the attempt. “Yeah, tell me about it!” He let out a hearty chuckle, lifting what looked like a wine bottle over his head. “This guy was loaded! He had a whole wine cellar down in the basement, can you believe it? And it’s huge- it could fit, like, my entire apartment down there- hell, maybe two of ‘em, I bet!”
Giorno gave him an odd look, but let him continue as it became clear Mista was not paying attention to him at this point.
“He got Giuseppe Quintarelli, Masseto Toscana… stuff I could only dream of tasting! I got me one of these Avignonesi wines- we’re celebrating tonight, Giorno! And on a dead man’s tab too!”
He laughed again, finding mirth where Giorno could not. The boy let his smile fall as he stared straight down at his shoes.
“I’m not quite in a celebratory mood, Mista. I would very much just like to turn in for the night and make sense of… all of this tomorrow. But don’t let that stop you- please, feel free to celebrate all you want.”
Mista’s posture slouched ever so slightly, but the joy in his face was still evident. “Suit yourself. Guess I’ll have to drink for the both of us, then- soon as I find a kitchen or lounge or somethin’... Man, whose idea was it to keep this place so dark, I’m stumblin’ around like a drunk. Anyways, do join me next time, dude!”
The man sauntered away with a pep in his step, and Giorno watched as his figure was gradually swallowed up by the darkness looming just up ahead.
And felt as the unease returned bit by bit, as if Mista, too, would soon be an object of the house’s- and that man’s- ire.
--
Giorno would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little relieved that the mansion had a bathroom with a luxurious claw foot bathtub and, most importantly, running water. It was still unreasonably dark, yes, but the fact that the utilities still functioned told Giorno two things.
One, the man really was delusional and the mansion’s current state was not due to being abandoned or him forgetting to pay his electricity bill on time. It was madness, personified.
Two, Giorno could finally bathe. He truly didn’t want to know how he smelled at the moment.
Giorno watched the water fill the tub until he was satisfied before glancing at the array of hair products lined up neatly along the alcove of the window. The moonlight was just enough to allow him to make out the names he’d need to pick from; an assortment of all kinds of shampoos with no rhyme or reason as to what the man’s preferences really were, or why there were so many in the first place.
There was lavender and honey, a lemon scented one and another that sort of smelled like the cheap shampoo Giorno’s mother used on him when she burned all her money partying. Then there was the more… extravagant ones. Burgundy and smoked cedar, a fruit salad and what Giorno could only describe as smelling like “chemicals.”
Giorno wondered if the man picked a different shampoo every day, as if forgetting whether he’d picked one up the previous day and making sure to buy it just in case. And realising, yet again, every day, that he did indeed purchase a bottle of shampoo yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that one, until his window sill looked like the bathroom aisle at his local mart. Being unable to bring himself to toss the extraneous products, they were left to collect dust in front of his tub, at least until it was their turn to be used.
Well, look at that- there’s something Giorno could sympathize with him after all. The devil was a human, some days.
Giorno dipped his toe gently into the warm water, careful not to splash and not to slip, the pale moonlight helping neither. He finally slipped in fully and felt the warmth of the water wrap around him like a blanket. He sighed, sinking his head in and letting the stress and anxiety just melt away with the pitter patter sound of the water dripping from the faucet.
He pulled his head up eventually but kept his eyes shut as his thoughts ran wild. It was hard to believe that all of this, he would inherit. This mansion, the furniture it housed, that ugly wallpaper, and this wonderful bathtub. Those wretched paintings, too, were his (against his will), as was the extensive wine collection downstairs. He wondered if Mista was alright, sipping away at his apparently high-class wine. He wondered what he’d think of it, were he to momentarily forget who it once belonged to, and could stomach a taste.
Giorno furrowed his brow, sinking his head partially into the water until only his eyes peeked out above the surface.
That man’s face- sneering, his eyes wild with hatred- appeared in his mind’s eye, lest he forget who he owed the gratitude- the fortune, the power, and this calm after the storm that was requiem.
Lest he forget… the man he killed just the day before, had sat in this very tub that day.
Giorno wrapped his arms around his legs underwater. There was an itching sensation deep in his skin that he couldn’t reach. He idly scratched where he could, the feeling of his nails barely registering as his mind clouded up.
That man was somewhere here. He could feel it- that presence, he hadn’t imagined it. He was here, somewhere- in the walls, in the floorboards, maybe.
No...
It was all him.
Giorno itched until he felt something that wasn’t the bathwater around him seep onto his fingers. He felt it seep down his legs, down his arms.
And down his back.
Pulling him under.
It was heavy, the way that man’s fist had crushed his skull and he felt the shock all through his body. He felt it again now, coursing through his muscles and his heart, painfully, paralyzing him- stunning him into immobility-
-and silence.
Time had stopped. He could tell from the lack of a pitter patter from the faucet and of a beating in his ears. The water was perfectly still and his eyes were glued to its murky surface.
Watching, waiting. For a sign-
Time had resumed- or rather skipped, he should say, and he could tell this time from the way his breath caught and the beating of his heart resumed as if in mid-beat. There was a fleeting rush of relief in his return.
But it was no less suffocating, the feeling of that man
lurking
right under him.
There was something red slithering through the water around Giorno’s legs-
His fist reared back, knuckles shimmering in gold, before crashing down into the ceramic of the bathtub below, shattering it into countless pieces, flinging buckets of water everywhere; the sound of which was smothered by a resonating shout, one that echoed with enough force to perhaps shake the walls surrounding him and leave Giorno breathless.
When it was over, he looked down expecting to see something-
But all he could see was his own self-confidence shattering, scattered among the pieces of the bathtub that littered the floor.
