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Abbacchio hated parties. Not just for the fact that you had to play nice and force yourself to make small talk with people, but also because there were so many people. Even before, well…everything, he hadn't been that fond of parties as a whole and now, he liked them even less. After all, you actually had to be careful at a Passione party, because if you offended the wrong person, you could end up starting a feud inside the organization that would turn deadly really quickly.
Abbacchio honestly didn't know why Bucciarati had brought him here. Well…he did know, because Fugo hated public functions even more than Abbacchio, and frankly, with better reasons, but Abbacchio failed to see why Bucciarati didn't think he was better off on his own. Surely, he would have been better off without Abbacchio trailing behind him, more like a goon than a second, trying to ignore the looks cast toward him from the people who knew who he was. If anything, he was just making it harder for Bucciarati to fit in among the capos, and Bruno was supposed to be here representing in Polpo's place, trying to make a good impression on the new neighboring capo who the party was in honor of.
Abbacchio currently stood off to one side, decidedly not inserting himself into the conversation, as Bucciarati made pleasant chit-chat with a group of men, discussing business and the like. Abbacchio tuned out. He should probably be paying more attention, learning more about everything, but he couldn't really be bothered.
A server came up with a wine glass on a tray and offered it to Bucciarati, who absently took the glass while he continued to speak. Abbacchio pressed his lips together, trying not to look too longingly at it. He was doing…better. It was still an uphill climb and Bucciarati had helped him a lot, more than he probably should have, but some days were better than others.
"Ah, there's Signore Bonucci, we should go say our congratulations," one of the men in the group said.
Bucciarati nodded in agreement and turned briefly to Abbacchio, handing him the glass of wine. "I'll be right back."
"Alright."
"And, Abbacchio, it's okay to mingle, you know," Bucciarati told him, maybe with a little teasing.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes. Easy for him to say. Abbacchio wasn't personable like Bruno, and he had nothing in common with these men. In fact, most of them would just hate him on the principle that he used to be a cop. He knew some of them thought lowly of Bucciarati for letting him join his team; he'd caught them talking behind Bruno's back before. If it wasn't for their respect and fear of Polpo, he was sure it would be a lot worse for them all.
He sighed, glancing down at the glass of wine briefly. What the hell, it was just one glass, and Bruno probably wasn't going to drink it.
He downed the glass in a couple seconds and then discretely deposited it onto a table for someone to pick up later as he watched Bucciarati greeting the capo they were here celebrating today. Abbacchio should probably be over there getting introduced as well in case they had to work together at some point, but he just didn't really feel up to it.
He tugged uncomfortably at his tie, adjusting the tight collar of his shirt—another reason to hate parties. It was also hot in here on top of everything. He felt like he was suffocating.
A bead of sweat trickled down his back under his shirt, and, gross, was it really that hot in here? It seemed to get too warm all of a sudden.
That was when he felt a brief cramping sensation in his stomach and Abbacchio's brow pinched. That… didn't bode well. He'd only eaten a few of the offerings, but if the shrimp were bad, it was not going to be a good night.
Or it could just be the wine, maybe some weird effect from the withdrawals he was still suffering. He probably shouldn't have drunk it. Either way, another, far more insistent, cramp had him breaking out into even more of a sweat, realizing that there was no way this was going to lead to anything good.
He glanced over at Bucciarati, seeing him laughing politely from something one of the others had said. He'd be fine for a couple minutes, Abbacchio was sure. That's hopefully all he would need to gather himself again.
He hurried off down the hall toward the bathrooms, loosening his tie as he went. He didn't get far before his stomach cramped so violently that he had to double over. One arm wrapped around his middle, the other hand pressed against the wall for support. He swallowed and continued down the hall, only to find his head was starting to spin on top of everything else.
That was when he started to consider the fact that this might not be bad shrimp. That thought was accompanied by the realization that the glass had purposefully been handed to Bruno, none of the others in the group, the only one on the tray—no chance of mixing glasses up…
"Shit," he breathed, as he swiftly turned around. He needed to get back to Bucciarati now.
He ran smack into a huge man, who must have come up behind him without notice, along with a couple others Abbacchio recognized as Capo Bonucci's protection.
"What do we do with him?" one asked.
"Boss said to go ahead with the plan. We'll just extort Bucciarati instead if it comes to that."
Abbacchio's muddled brain was putting things together rapidly, but not fast enough to stop the men from surrounding him and taking hold of his arms.
"Get the hell off me," he growled, or tried. His voice was slurring pretty badly, and his stomach chose that moment to cramp violently, leaving him doubled over and gagging. He was bundled off down the hall, and taken out a door. Before he knew it, he was being put in the back of a car, stuck firmly between the two men, one of which pressed a gun into his side to make sure he wasn't going anywhere.
Abbacchio, meanwhile, bit back several groans of pain as he just continued to feel worse, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation of the car moving. If he had to vomit, though, he would make sure it ended up in the lap of one of his captors.
He somehow made it the entire ride without losing the little he'd eaten, and was manhandled out of the car and dragged inside some building before being shoved violently into a chair. When his head finally stopped spinning, he realized he was in an office and these men were tying his hands and feet to the chair.
"What do you want?" he demanded, yanking at the ropes.
The huge man who Abbacchio vaguely recognized as Bonucci's second, stood in front of him, arms folded over his chest. "I'll be frank, the boss wants Bucciarati's territory. The only reason he didn't get it is because Polpo sticks with his favorites, even though it should have gone to Signore Bonucci because of his seniority."
"That's my problem?" Abbacchio snarled.
"It is now, since you drank the wrong glass of wine," the man said, and reached into his coat. He pulled out a small case and opened it, showing Abbacchio a syringe and small bottle. "Let's cut to the chase. You've been poisoned. Guy your size probably has a few hours before it really kicks in, but you will die if you don't get this antidote—which I'll give you if you answer some questions."
Abbacchio was still getting over 'poison' when the man leaned in, grabbing his loose tie and using it to haul him forward, gaining his attention. "There's one thing that talks in this business: money. If Bonucci had enough, despite favorites, Polpo would have no choice but to give him the territory he wants."
Abbacchio snorted. "So what, you want to ransom me? I'm not worth shit to anyone."
"That's not entirely true; we both know Bucciarati is stupidly loyal to his people and he seems to have gotten way too attached to you and little rich brat. I'm sure he'll figure something out if pressed. And if he won't do it for you, we'll bring the kid in to use as leverage. We know how to find him, and how he refuses to use his Stand. Easy pickings."
Abbacchio gritted his teeth before another, even more agonizing cramp tore through him and he curled, groaning. The man grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his head back.
"Feeling it pretty bad now, aren't you? It's just gonna get worse. We can speed this along though if you tell me where Bucciarati hid that rumored treasure of Polpo's."
"What are you talking about?" Abbacchio scoffed, blinking back another bout of vertigo.
The man slammed a fist into his stomach, and Abbacchio gave a sharp cry, feeling agony rip through him as he was instantly assaulted by more cramps and nausea. Sweat poured down his face and neck.
"Come on, Bucciarati was out of town for three days last month, alone. The rumor is he was hiding a stash for Polpo. He didn't tell you where he was going?"
"No," Abbacchio replied honestly. It hadn't been his business. Not to mention the fact he had been mostly locking himself in his room at the time.
The man's fist slammed into his face, snapping Abbacchio's head back and making it spin even more. He tasted blood from a split lip and the copper tang only made him feel more nauseous.
"You're telling me you're not his confidant? You never eavesdropped on a conversation?"
Abbacchio growled. "I don't even know what the hell you're talking about."
Another heavy blow to his face. "Look, I have all day to break every bone in your body, but you don't. Time's ticking. So, I'll give you one more chance and then I'm calling Bucciarati with our proposition."
Abbacchio spat blood out of his mouth, gritting his teeth against the cramps tearing through him as he hunched in the chair. "I don't have anything to say."
"Alright then." The man turned to the desk and grabbed the phone. "Hello, yes, Bucciarati? You're looking for your man by now, I expect. You can have him back for a price."
"Bucciarati, don't—" Abbacchio started to yell but one of the goons punched him in the stomach and he doubled over with a wheeze, ropes pulling tight against his wrists.
"Oh no, you're doing this my way." Bonucci's second said into the phone. "And just so you know, your man is currently dying of poison that was meant for you, so you might want to make a decision quickly. He probably at least has two hours left…. Oh? Is that so? Well, I'll pass your message on then."
He put the phone down and turned back to Abbacchio, an annoyed look on his face.
"Apparently Bucciarati doesn't think you're worth the trouble and refuses to pay the ransom."
Abbacchio felt both relief and… well, it was better not to dwell on the other bit. It's not like it wasn't what he wanted Bruno to do anyway. Abbacchio didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
"What do we do now?" one of the goons asked.
"I'm gonna call the boss, but it's probably going to be onto plan b."
"What about him?"
Bonucci's second glanced at Abbacchio who was trying to keep up his defiant look and was pretty sure he was failing, especially when his face pulled into a cringe as more cramps assaulted him.
"Leave him. He'll likely be dead by the time we get back. We'll clean up the mess then."
One of the men kicked Abbacchio's chair and it toppled with him still tied to it, leaving him in an awkward, painful position on the ground, his head aching from where it had struck the floor.
They all left the office and locked the door behind them, leaving Abbacchio trapped and in agony, left for dead.
He briefly struggled against the ropes. The antidote had been left on the desk, but he was weak from the poison and wasn't sure he could even muster the strength to get free. Moody Blues would be little help as his Stand wasn't much stronger than he was.
He just wished there was some way he could have warned Bruno about what was coming his way. He didn't think Bonucci would kill him, but then he didn't know much at all about this man, so who was he to judge?
All he could think about was the heat spreading through his body and the increasingly painful cramping in his abdomen. He convulsively tried to curl up as much as possible, but couldn't with how he was tied to the chair. A shameful whimper escaped his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. Of all the ways he had thought he might die…
He lay there, drifting, eyes wet from the agony that only seemed to be increasing, wondering how much longer it would be before death came, and hoping that Bucciarati would be all right. He wished he hadn't failed in the one thing he had thought he might possibly be able to do. How stupid he had been.
At some point he became aware of distant footsteps and suddenly a very familiar unzipping sound.
"Leone!"
Abbacchio wrenched his eyes open, blinking blurrily to see a dark-haired figure hurrying toward him, blue and gold at his back.
Within an instant, Abbacchio felt the ropes binding him give and he finally curled around his stomach, unable to keep the moan from escaping his throat.
Bucciarati was kneeling beside him, a hand squeezing his shoulder before he reached down and slipped Abbacchio's tie free, opening the first couple buttons on his shirt to ease his breathing.
"Abbacchio, do you know what they used on you?" he asked frantically.
Abbacchio groaned again, trying to get his tongue to work. He glanced toward the desk and thankfully Bucciarati followed his eyes, seeing the small case there. He grabbed it and zipped it open.
"This is what it was?" he asked.
Abbacchio shook his head briefly. "Antidote…" he managed before an impossibly brutal cramp hit him and forced him to curl into a ball with a choked-off cry.
Bruno was already on the phone as he pulled the bottle and syringe out of the case. "Fugo, it's me. Yes, I found him, but I need to know how much of the antidote to give him."
Fugo must have given some sort of answer because Bucciarati set the phone aside, and hurriedly measured something into the syringe.
"Hold on, Leone, just a little longer," he murmured as he pried one of Abbacchio's arms away from his stomach and shoved his sleeve up, administering the needle directly into a vein in the crook of his arm. It stung, and Abbacchio groaned again, still curled around his stomach as the cramps continued to assault him.
Bruno put the syringe aside and started rubbing his back in some soothing gesture. It was a motion Abbacchio was vaguely familiar with, so he figured Bucciarati must have also done that when he was completely out of it and drunk off his ass, even if he didn't remember much about those moments aside from the couple instances he had thrown up on Bucciarati. He found he was shaking uncontrollably and the heat that had formerly been assaulting him was turning to chills.
"Easy," Bucciarati murmured, not making a move to force Abbacchio up or anything. He simply took his suit-coat off and rolled it into a pillow that he stuck under Abbacchio's head. "Give it time to work."
Abbacchio exhaled slowly with a light moan and finally pried his eyes open again to look up at Bucciarati, confused about one thing.
"Though you weren't coming," he slurred.
Bruno's brows furrowed in a frown. "That's just what I told Bonucci's man to get him off my trail. You really thought I would just let you die?"
Abbacchio didn't reply. Bucciarati sighed and shifted to sit more comfortably beside him. "How many times am I going to have to explain to you that you're actually worth something to me?"
Abbacchio continued to stay silent, but he met the worried blue eyes staring back at him and saw the genuine concern. It was definitely against Bucciarati's better judgement to put any worth in him at all, but he was honestly too tired right now to counter. And…okay, it felt kind of nice to have someone who bothered to worry enough to come save his life. It certainly wasn't like he wouldn't do the same if their positions were reversed which they very easily could have been.
"Thanks," he finally managed. It wasn't much, but it was all he had right now.
Bruno's face softened slightly, apparently thinking that was an acceptable response. "Just rest for now, there are others taking care of Bonucci. Just let me know when you feel like you're ready to move."
Part of Abbacchio would much rather be lying in his bed, but the thought of moving right now with his body at war and the nausea still extremely present did not appeal to him in the slightest, so he simply closed his eyes and tried to allow his body to relax and the antidote to do its job.
He knew that this time at least he would have someone watching over him.