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“Mandatory Passione winter break,” Buccellati said, like that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing to ever come out of his mouth. “And, of course, that’s not to forget the Holiday Party.”
“M— what?”
Abbacchio nearly choked on his cocoa, the cinnamon caught in his throat not helping the shock-induced coughing fit he’d been thrown into. He set his mug down onto the kitchen countertop with a little more force than he intended, looking up at his partner with a strained, incredulous smile.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, voice hoarse.
Buccellati hummed, leaning against the countertop and stealing Abbacchio’s cocoa for himself. “Nope,” he replied in between sips of the pilfered drink, “Happens every year. The Boss allows us a few months to celebrate holidays during winter, spend time with family if we have it, and just… take a break, I suppose. In December we have our annual Holiday Party, and after that we celebrate New Year’s together. Sounds nice, right?”
“That— wait, hold on—” Abbacchio steepled his hands and rested his chin on them, eyebrows furrowed together, “—you mean to tell me that the goddamn Italian mafia has paid time off for the entirety of winter? And they celebrate Christmas together?”
“Not just Christmas. Me, Mista, and a few other colleagues get together for Kwanzaa, and I always help Fugo with preparing for Chanukah.”
“Then who the hell runs things while you’re busy partying?”
Buccellati worried his lower lip, apparently deep in thought at the question. “Y’know, I’m not sure,” he finally came up with, “but there haven’t been any bumps in the road— at least, not since I came along— so clearly, someone’s doing something right.”
Abbacchio rubbed at his temples. This was… a lot to take in, and so early into his induction as a soldato. He had always figured that the life of a mafioso was one without pause, constantly on missions or on guard, but instead, they got the holidays off and even a company sponsored holiday get-together. God, this felt like what Abbacchio imagined a lame nine-to-five office job was like, except… far more deadly.
“Will we have to wear ugly sweaters?” He asked, fearing the answer.
But Buccellati just smirked and left. With— with Abbacchio’s cocoa. Huh.
-
That was November.
Now, it was the night before the Passione Holiday Party, and all through the— no, no, wait. Hold on. We’re not doing that.
Anyway, it was a Thursday night much like any other Thursday night, except one Leone Abbacchio was busy getting fitted for his very own ugly sweater. Mista had an impressive collection that he let the goth choose from, but Abbacchio would reason that all of the man’s sweaters were ugly, regardless of the time of year. He plucked one from Mista’s closet, eyeing it with nothing less than disdain.
“How are you not demeaned by wearing these things?” Abbacchio grimaced, turning the garment around in his hands as if that would improve its appearance.
“They’re not things, asshole, they’re my pride and joy. And they’re not cheap, so quit fussin’ with ‘em like that! I got a few custom made, and those are totally off limits, got that?” Mista ordered, snatching the sweater out of Abbacchio’s hands. This one in particular had the Sex Pistols embroidered onto the front— all wearing tiny Santa hats.
So, thoroughly scorned, Abbacchio went back to rifling through the closet. As he searched, his hands ghosted across what was the softest material he’d ever felt in his life, and he paused, thumbing the fabric gently. He took the sweater off its rack with more care than he’d ever treated anything, and he held it up in full view.
It was a cable knit, undoubtedly hand-crocheted turtleneck, a pale, powdery blue not unlike the crop top that Mista was wearing now. Instead of a white criss-crossing pattern, there was a single, snow white reindeer in the center. And, fuck, Abbacchio was enamored with it.
“I didn’t know you could crochet, Mista,” his voice was a near whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the sweater crumble to pieces.
Mista scoffed, “I can’t. My ma made that one.”
Abbacchio was at a horrible, terrible crossroads. On one hand, this was so endearing he thought he’d burst. It was such a simple design, and yet it was so impactful, held such a special place in Abbacchio’s heart almost immediately. That wasn’t even to mention that it was handmade by Mista’s own mother. Love was woven into each and every one of those threads. But, on the other hand— was Abbacchio really falling this hard for a fucking Christmas sweater?
“I can’t possibly wear this,” Abbacchio said.
“Sure ya can,” Mista shrugged. “I’d be happy if you did. It hardly gets much wear anymore, and you clearly like it. Go ahead, man.”
A fond, lopsided smile found its way on Abbacchio’s lips.
“Thanks.”
-
Abbacchio found himself in the backseat of Buccellati’s car the following day, sitting next to the man himself since he couldn’t be trusted to drive. Instead, Fugo had taken up the reins at the driver’s side, and Mista sat next to him in the passenger’s. It was a quiet ride, as it usually was, until Mista decided to open his mouth, as he usually did.
“Y’know Santa’s reindeer are actually all chicks?” He asked, testing the waters for some Christmastide-themed shenanigans.
“Did you check?” Fugo shot back. “Didn’t think of you as someone who peeped on reindeer.”
“No, no, he’s right— I’ve heard this one before,” Buccellati edged in before Fugo swerved off the road in a blind rage, “The males shed their antlers during winter, right? So the ones that pull Mr. Kringle’s sleigh are all female.”
Abbacchio’s eyebrows shot up, “You say ‘Mr. Kringle’ as if he has some kind of authority over you.”
“He does,” Buccellati replied simply. “Did you forget about his whole thing, watching you while you sleep? I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”
Fugo and Mista said “ditto” in unison, and that sufficiently shut Abbacchio up from protesting any further for the rest of the car ride.
-
Their destination was a massive villa tucked deep into the countryside, rolling hills and grape trellises the backdrop of the beautifully ostentatious picture of opulence and wealth. The closest Abbacchio had ever come to such luxury was patrolling affluent neighborhoods during his time as an officer, and those manors paled in comparison to the absolute McMansion they pulled up to.
Fugo idled the car at the end of a long, semicircular driveway, where he proceeded to shoo the other three of them out.
“Y’know there’s a chauffeur who’ll park it for us, right?” Mista asked, being pushed out of the car with insistent hands.
“I want to park it myself,” Fugo huffed, because hauling Mista’s fat ass out the car proved to require much more work than he originally anticipated. “Now get out before I drive off with you still hanging out the car door.”
Meanwhile, Abbacchio helped Buccellati out, offering him a hand to keep steady as he extracted himself from the car with practiced grace. It was a wonder, how Buccellati managed to look so beautiful doing something as simple as that, and while wearing a sweater so ugly it made everyone around them physically cringe (even Mista, who was the self-appointed connoisseur of ugly sweaters). The thing was an eyesore, bright red and decorated with green tinsel strung up in the shape of a pine tree. There were actual ornaments hanging off of the tinsel, and they clinked together as the man moved. And Buccellati looked so damn proud of himself, Abbacchio couldn’t even bring himself to hate it.
With the three of them forcibly removed from Buccellati’s vintage Maserati, they began the trek up the stone walkway and to the front door of the villa. They walked through sprawling gardens, lush and verdant with seasonal blooms, and Abbacchio lagged behind as he admired the display, taking in the intoxicating floral scents of crocus and Christmas rose. He caught up with Mista and Buccellati eventually, joining them on the front porch as the latter rang the doorbell in an odd rhythm that was probably some sort of passcode.
A man with a shaved head and dark amber skin greeted them with a jovial smile, instantly enveloping Mista in a warm, likely bone-crushing hug. He turned and grabbed Buccellati into the hug as well, beckoning Abbacchio over to join in.
“I don’t do hugs,” he muttered, looking to the side awkwardly.
“Aw, c’mon,” Mista begged, “Forma gives the best hugs! It’ll change your life.”
The man— “Forma,” he figured— released the two and clicked his tongue, propping his hands up on his hips. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Gotta respect boundaries, you feel?”
Though he seemed to have the same loud, overbearing qualities as Mista, Abbacchio came to the conclusion that he actually kinda liked this Forma guy, if this first introduction had anything to say about it. And, speaking of which—
“I don’t think we’ve met before, newbie!” Forma clapped Abbacchio’s shoulder, undoubtedly leaving a bruise with the force of it. “You must be that new recruit Bruno’s been yappin’ on about! I’m Formaggio, but everybody calls me Forma. Nice to meet you finally!”
Abbacchio’s brain was too busy being occupied with the fact that Buccellati talks about him to come up with a coherent response. “Uh— Leone. Leone Abbacchio. Nice to— uh, nice to meet you too?”
Formaggio seemed to accept that for an answer, as he stepped aside and welcomed the trio into the villa. When Abbacchio crossed the threshold and headed inside, he was immediately overwhelmed, senses flooded with more input than his brain knew what to do with.
The sheer sound of it all was what he first noticed, a low roar of pleasant conversation from the throngs of people in the foyer alone intermingled with clinking champagne glasses and laughter. There were three brass chandeliers lit with real candles hanging from the high cathedral-style ceiling, and those were just ones that Abbacchio could see from the doorway. Warm yellow string lights were draped across the rafters and wrapped around the banisters lining the double staircases, and there was a massive Christmas tree in the center of the foyer, almost as tall as the ceiling.
And the smell— God, Abbacchio did not miss the scent of it all. It wasn’t unpleasant as much as it simply engulfed his sense of smell— it was an odd blend of star anise, cinnamon brooms, and mulled cider, tangling with the heady aromas of roasting meat and vegetables wafting from where Abbacchio assumed to be the kitchen. There was a hint of vanilla somewhere in there, too, but he knew it was just Buccellati’s perfume.
This was so much. This was too much, this was—
Buccellati’s hand wrapped around Abbacchio’s own, giving it a light squeeze as his thumb brushed over the back of his hand. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
-
Fugo arrived shortly after they did, but Abbacchio hadn’t stuck around to watch who went in and out of the front door throughout the night. He had been dragged along by Buccellati to go meet with a few of his “colleagues,” which was far too formal a word for people who appeared to be longtime friends of his. At some point, they had gone to say hello to a couple that’d holed themselves up on a chaise lounge in the far corner of the ballroom, and Abbacchio was about to pull Buccellati back from intruding on the two, uh… embracing, before he walked right up to them casually, striking up conversation as if they weren’t going at it like the world around them didn’t exist.
“Squalo, Tizi!” Buccellati exclaimed, greeting them with a warm smile, “You know how much I love seeing you two, but what happened with your studies? I thought you weren’t involved with Passione anymore?”
The redhead untangled himself from his partner, sighing heavily, “You know I’ve never been great with school, but this time it wasn’t my fault, I swear! I got into a fight and busted some kid’s nose, so they expelled me; big deal.”
“That sounds both like a big deal and your fault, but whatever,” the blond out of them snarked, placing a quick peck on the redhead’s cheek. “I wasn’t actually doing that bad, but wherever he goes, I go.”
The pair didn’t look much younger than Abbacchio was, maybe around Mista’s age if he had to guess, so it was no wonder they were attending school. Still, it shocked him to hear that these intimidating mafiosi were nothing more than high school students underneath everything. Gave them a bittersweet sort of humanity.
After a lighthearted scolding from Buccellati, they waved their goodbyes as he and Abbacchio made off to find their next source of entertainment. Before they continued, however, Buccellati pulled Abbacchio aside to a quieter part of the manor.
“You alright?” He asked, face soft with worry.
Abbacchio pursed his lips, glancing around at the other partygoers passing them by. “I’m managing,” he said. “It’s getting a little easier to deal with— the— the noise, and everything.”
“If you ever want to leave, just say the word.”
Buccellati reached out his hand, and Abbacchio took it in his without hesitation.
“I’ll be fine as long as you’re here.”
-
Buccellati pulled Abbacchio along, and on the way, he spotted Fugo and Mista making themselves very comfortable at the bar in the kitchen. Through the racket of the partygoers, he heard Fugo and a small crowd chanting “chug, chug, chug!” as Mista downed an entire bottle of beer through a funnel. There was no way in hell Abbacchio was dealing with Mista’s hangover the next day— that would be Fugo’s problem and Fugo’s alone, thank you. So, only mildly concerned, Abbacchio continued to let himself be pulled along by Buccellati to what could’ve only been better company than… that.
-
The pair found themselves amidst a crowd of some rather oddly dressed people. Granted, on their off days they all dressed pretty weird, and this was an ugly sweater party, but this bunch stood out amongst the rest as being particularly odd. Buccellati tried to avoid eye contact with a man sporting lilac-colored hair and a sweater that looked like it was hacked up by a switchblade, hanging off the man’s form by threads, but he eventually caught Buccellati’s eye and made his way over to the two.
“Melone!” Buccellati said through gritted teeth, “So glad you could make it.”
Abbacchio glanced down at this Melone guy and found that he was also wearing a pair of tight-fitting, tattered denim shorts. He made a little noise of disgust and averted his gaze elsewhere.
“I just can’t stay away from my people for long. The Boss’ parties are always so lively, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to mingle,” Melone fawned.
Buccellati opened his mouth to say something before they were approached by two more people, in similarly ridiculous outfits.
The first one that caught Abbacchio’s eye was tall. So, so insanely tall— built like a brick shithouse and wearing one of the dorkiest sweaters Abbacchio had seen that night (second only to Buccellati). The fabric was pitch black, littered with little golden bells that jingled and jangled along as the man walked. To match, he was wearing a black jester’s cap.
The man walking beside him was lithe, about a head shorter than the other. His blond hair was done up in a series of little buns down the back of his head, and he was wearing a blazer overtop his sweater as if it weren’t already hot enough in this damn mansion. He regarded Buccellati with a scoff, rolling his frigid blue eyes.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” the blond said smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest in a single fluid movement.
“At least the cat actually wants me,” Buccellati purred back with a sardonic smile. “But really, you look lovely, Prosciutto— have you tried sticking a bullet through between your eyes to make that pretty face look better?”
And, oh, Abbacchio realized, this must be the ex Buccellati talked about.
“Not yet, but I’ve been thinking about doing the same to you and giving you a well-needed makeover.”
“Oh, you wish you had my cheekbones, hag.”
Now this was standoffish even for him. Abbacchio didn’t know Buccellati to be particularly rude— cold, yes, definitely, but never this… Since when did he call people hags?
When Abbacchio saw Sticky Fingers begin to fizzle underneath Buccellati’s skin and threaten to manifest, he cleared his throat, effectively dispelling the tension between the warring ex-lovers.
“I’m gonna go get a drink,” he said, shuffling his feet.
The giant gothic jester beside the blond nodded his head, saying, “I think I’ll join you.”
Awkwardly, they weaved between the crowd huddling around the bar together, somehow managing to secure a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of red wine. There was an expansive selection of alcohol at the bar, exotic liquors and booze that Abbacchio didn’t even know existed, but he stuck with a simple cabernet sauvignon, hoping it’s meager alcohol content would be enough to get him through the night unscathed.
They poured their drinks and sat side by side at the island in the kitchen, pointedly avoiding eye contact with one another. They both took deep breaths and turned to face each other finally.
“Sorry,” they both said in unison, earning them each an awkward smile.
“Okay, you go first,” Abbacchio pointed at the man, “what do you have to be sorry for?”
“My partner,” the burly man replied, “he can be… passionate.”
Abbacchio raised his glass in a half-hearted toast, “Alla nostra salute, and to passionate men. You have nothing to be sorry for. God, sometimes Bruno reminds me more of a rabid animal than a person. It’s a little terrifying.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
“And a little sexy,” they both said in unison once again.
Abbacchio would later learn that the man’s name was Risotto, and despite his odd style of dress and mildly frightening partner, they would become good friends as Buccellati and Prosciutto shared crostini over thinly-veiled threats.
Mista and Fugo, on the other hand…
Somewhere further down the bar, two sweater-clad delinquents were getting a little too intimate with the Boss’ pantry.
Mista poked his head up from behind the kitchen’s island, not unlike a gopher. In his arms, he carried with him a barrel of cheese puffs, a liter bottle of knockoff cola, and a few different flavors of those tiny plastic wine bottles.
“Alright, stash check!” He stage-whispered across the room (which was spinning only a little bit) to Fugo. “What have you got so far?”
Fugo, halfway collapsed in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, groaned loudly. “There’s just a bunch of fucking cleaning supplies in here.”
“D’ya think those would taste good?”
“No.”
Scrambling out of the cabinet, Fugo gathered up some packets of chips and a few bars of fancy chocolate he found lying around behind a bunch of spices in the pantry. He dumped his hoard onto the island where Mista was… trying very hard to stand, and he marvelled at their accomplishment together, the grandest heist this goddamn holiday party had ever seen.
“Teamwork,” Fugo mumbled, holding out his fist in Mista’s general direction.
“Makes the fuckin’ dream work,” Mista slurred back, successfully bumping Fugo’s fist on the third try.
-
With a minor amount of stumbling and only bumping into five people, the more-than-tipsy pair made their way outside, wandering through the backyard wherever wanderlust wanted to take them. They found themselves in between the trellises of grape vines, shoes sinking into the bare soil and crunching fallen leaves. The grapes themselves had long since been harvested, undoubtedly made into wine for the Boss’ winemaking business/money laundering scheme he had going on, but Fugo found that it was still nice to run his hands along the bare vines, besotted with the cool feel of them on his warm fingertips.
“How many times did’ya say you’ve been here before?” He asked, slowly turning his head in Mista’s direction to prevent his vision from swimming too hard. “To the Boss’ parties, I mean.”
Mista hummed, shoveling a handful of cheese puffs into his mouth, “A few times,” he said, “maybe three? But I’ve never had this much fun— Buccellati never lets us slack off this hard, and the new guy is all awkward and antisocial, and you’re a massive killjoy, and—”
“Hey!” Fugo pushed Mista’s shoulder, shoving him over far more than he intended. “I’m not that much ‘f a joy… a joykill… kill— whatever. Fuck. I’ll kill you. Then what.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Mista grinned, a dopey thing that danced on his face. “‘S long as you’re doin’ it. You have my permission to kill me. ‘Cause I like you.”
It was easier to blame the warmth that flooded to Fugo’s cheeks on the copious amounts of liquor he’d drunk.
“Y’ do?” He whispered, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you hated me. I dunno why you ever… why you wanted t’ hang out with me. I suck. I am a joykill.”
Mista, thankfully with the hand that wasn’t covered in artificial cheese dust, wrapped an arm snug around Fugo’s shoulders, bringing the two close as they stumbled over low vines and tried not to trip over each other’s feet.
“Yeah, but you’re my joykill. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Fugo barely registered the kiss that was planted on his forehead. He was focusing too hard on trying not to fall over.
-
The four of them, miraculously still in one piece, departed from the villa and towards Buccellati’s car, stumbling drunk and so, terribly pleased with themselves. Buccellati, somehow the only sober party, was holding Abbacchio up by his arm on one side, and dragging Mista and Fugo along on the other. After piling them all into the backseat, he took his place behind the wheel, starting the car with little fanfare. Buccellati adjusted the rearview mirror, looking back on his beloved famiglia. He hoped that the feeling of pure love he felt for the three in that moment was enough to cloud the inevitable dread that he’d have to deal with three separate hangovers tomorrow morning.