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Chapter Text

1997, August

Loathe to the heat, he preferred the convenience of a chilled car ride. The height of noon had just passed, bringing with it the full potency of August heat in Naples. A cloudless sky offers no refuge from the relentless sun, and despite the oppressive heat, the city is bustling with life, either unaware or in denial of the stifling heat. 

At his request, the car pulls over, releasing him to wither in the direct sun once more. 

Naples, the city’s appeal is not lost on him, it’s a sight to behold if he looks at it from the right angles, and he’s sure it must have more to offer him beneath its rough exterior. Beauty, both that of natural and artificial origins has always appealed to him. He’s always sought the sort, whether to covet for himself, or to simply observe. 

His fingers, sticky with sweat, hold a wrinkled napkin, a location, and a name in pen had been scribbled on it hurriedly, nigh a week ago in the seclusion of a dark booth. 

He holds his tongue, nearly scoffing aloud at the sight in front of him. 

Naples is by no means a glamorous city, but for a dilapidated building such as this to be among his first few destinations, feels like a mild insult to his character. He tucks the useless napkin away, he’d committed the location to memory the night he’d received it. It was only his delusional hope that he did not have to step foot inside. 

The sharp sound of knuckles rapping against old, warped wood breaks the thick air. He steps away, grimacing at the cracked paint.

It’s a silent exchange, he’s wordlessly directed inside, the door creaking on its hinges in a near repulsive manner. 

The floor inside, much to his displeasure, shows the years of disregard, layers of dust lay undisturbed on counters, on shelves. He doesn’t stop to question the mysterious stains that mar the floorboards, nor do his eyes linger on similar stains decorating peeling wallpaper. 

Beyond the cracked, crooked exterior, behind another door, he finds himself in company of unfamiliar faces, none of which look all too kind. His eyes don’t linger on the faces he’s not meant to see. 

The nameless greeter has done his job, and points him towards a secluded corner, one where the dim lights don’t quite reach. He can’t help but feel a tick of annoyance at the silent directions, the lack of clear communication. Convoluted past the point of purpose. 

He quietly slides into the obscured corner, finding himself at a round table, his hands resting atop the lacquered wood. 

The place both spoke to him, and repulsed him. A testament to its contradictory nature. 

He’s not familiar with the man sitting across the table from him, not that he’d expected to be. The man is broad, and dare he say, horrifying in every sense of the word. He sits with practiced stillness, breathes with learned silence.

The man exudes intimidation from every pore. 

“Risotto Nero, I’m presuming.” he offers after a beat of silence. The man does not respond immediately, his freakish eyes seemingly sizing him up. It makes his skin prickle in a peculiar manner. 

“Prosciutto.”

Introductions over before they've properly begun, the man stands up. Prosciutto follows. It’s fascinating, watching the way Risotto Nero moves, with grace that should not come so easily. Silently, he’s left to ponder how long the man has been working beneath the boot of Passione. 

Risotto does not stop again until they’re at a door, one Prosciutto does not recognize. 

“In three days,” Risotto starts, Prosciutto watches cautiously, Risotto’s fingers hold a slip of yellowed paper to Prosciutto, “We will meet at this location.”

Prosciutto tries his best to avoid asking unnecessary questions most of the time. He takes the fragile paper. A time and place. Horribly reminiscent of his direction to Risotto. He tucks it away, raising his gaze to Risotto’s again. 

“Am I to expect any more information?”

“Yes.” 

This door does not creak, it glides open easily, and silently. The exit leads into a maze of alleyways, and while they are not devoid of people, there are significantly less bodies roaming about. Trees overhang the stacked buildings, casting blissful, if not sparse, leaf shaped shade onto the hot stones of the street. 

His feet hit the uneven stone, a step behind Risotto. 

His attention is briefly drawn away, a hot gust of wind sweeps through the narrow street, distant childish giggling is audible from somewhere else, the sound mingles with the rush of leaves for a fleeting moment. 

Risotto is silent, already walking away with a sense of purpose Prosciutto can’t yet place. 

He doesn’t linger, it strikes him as something that would be discouraged. He meanders, rather, trying to keep a steady pace as he walks down the street, occasionally slowing to cast a glance or two through tinted windows. His fingers bring a cigarette to his lips, gently pinching it in place. The lighter comes to life with a flick of his thumb, the smoke to follow hits the back of his throat, helping to relieve the tension that’d been building in his shoulders. 

He ought to take the time to familiarize himself with the confused city, he supposes. 

Smoke would usually cling to his clothes, hang in his face, linger in his mouth. But the occasional hot breeze brushes it away from him as he walks.

He turns once more, to catch a final glimpse of Risotto, only to find he’s already disappeared.

Evening could be considered as his favorite time of day if he gave it any thought. More often than not, they brought about an air of polish that other hours of the day failed to capture. Sunsets bleeding over coastlines, cityscapes illuminated by varying shades of orange, neon lights beginning to sparkle in the distance, the ghost of the rising moon. Evenings were unique in a way that he could not properly describe. Naples, he learns, is not much different from many other cities in that regard. 

The sky has begun to darken, its brilliant display of blending pinks and yellows dying with the day, the sun’s rays no longer visible above the tall rooftops. Families have begun to retire, pulling their precious children into their comfortable homes, their blinds lowered, curtains drawn, locks clicking into place as the underbelly of the city shudders to life beneath the distant moonlight.

He exhales slowly, pushing a cloud of smoke through his lips. It’s been thirty minutes, watching the traffic of the restaurant, silent, save for the soft burning of his cigarette, and the muffled chatter that can be heard through the thin walls. 

Risotto didn’t waste time, his description of their mission had been concise, more or less designating Prosciutto as a distraction, of sorts. 

When the twenty first guest of the hour exits the front of the restaurant, Prosciutto snuffs out his cigarette on the stones beneath his feet, dark ash smearing against the tan color. 

He steps inside, the air thick with smoke, the smell of exorbitant steak and liquors. Prosciutto’s stand is fit for these types of affairs. It starts slow, with the curling of hot smoke no one else present can quite see. Seeping through crevices, rising into the atmosphere. The Grateful Dead works silently, albeit slowly to begin with. 

It’s subtle, the noise of the room slowly fading, youthful appearances drying out, stretching thin. 

There isn’t a single scream, most patrons far too intoxicated for their own good, distracted by waning laughter to notice the promise of something much darker on the horizon. It’s begun to fall silent, Prosciutto keeps at it, waiting. He stands by the door, watching his handiwork, looking for any suspicious movements. 

If it hadn’t been so quiet, Prosciutto is certain he wouldn’t have heard the distant commotion, the clattering muffled by the back wall.

He picks through the fog that clings to the floor of the restaurant, heading towards the back. Risotto had taken an alternative entrance, or at least, he was supposed to. Considering the ruckus, Prosciutto was sure he’d made his way inside just fine. 

He pushes the heavy door aside, ignoring the squawking hinges. Risotto is pulling himself off the ground, his gaze focused on the small wallet in his hands. 

“I was under the impression we were supposed to be discreet.”

Three men are slumped on the ground, seemingly lifeless. Prosciutto has no interest in picking his way across the room to confirm his suspicions. Thin blood has begun to pool in place of grout between tiles, making its way along the baseboards of the room. Heat makes the stench all the more worse, tempting Prosciutto to cover his nose with a sleeve. 

Risotto, unbothered by the gore, raises an eyebrow in his direction. “We have been.”

The cold glint of metal is so subtle, he first thinks it’s his imagination. He tries not to look outwardly confused, but is certain he fails. Beneath the blood, hanging out of gaping mouths and split skin, he sees glittering razors, thin serrated blades, needles haphazardly sprayed across the tile. 

Despite the mess, Risotto looks perfectly unharmed, hardly a drop of blood on him. 

It’s the first time in a long time Prosciutto has been so effortlessly impressed by someone else’s work, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something even comparable to his own caliber. 

It’s enough to send tiny tendrils of excitement up his back. 

Risotto makes his way across the room, metal seemingly melting in his wake, the cold glint of blades blending into that of blood, reflecting the dim light. He bends down once, to retrieve an unremarkable suitcase off the floor. By the time he’s beside Prosciutto, there’s not a scrap of metal left behind. 

Once outside again, and in the safety of their ‘borrowed’ car, Prosciutto is lighting another cigarette, eyeing the suitcase on the floorboard. The radio crackles as they drive, filling their silence. 

Their drop off point is not far away, their client impatiently waiting for proof of completion. 

Prosciutto follows Risotto’s practiced motions, and does not speak. Risotto drops the suitcase, and the man’s I.D. in front of their waiting client. 

“How was it done?”

“We’re not obligated to discuss the details.” Risotto responds simply. 

Their client scrunches their face unhappily, squatting to examine the contents of the case. After several long moments, seemingly satisfied, they stand again, eyeing the two of them in the darkness. 

With that, they’re mutely dismissed. 

“What do you call it?” Prosciutto’s arm hangs out of the window, lazily tapping ashes from the burning cigarette. He’s not sure where they’re going now, Risotto hadn’t mentioned, and he hadn’t asked. 

“Metallica.”

Prosciutto hums softly, the details are lost on him, but he’s confident he’ll come to understand it soon enough. The night air is sticky, but not hot, it’s bearable. He pinches the cigarette between his lips again, looking at him quietly. “It’s…unique.” he settles for after a long moment. 

When the car stops, somewhere along an unlit stretch of road, Prosciutto follows Risotto out of the car. 

“That’s one way to describe it.” 

“Where are we?” the area isn’t familiar, but he tries to place the neighborhood regardless. 

“Close to the center of the city.” he stops abruptly. “This base has been designated for us to work out of for the foreseeable future.” Prosciutto hears the slight jingle of keys, and a door creaks open. He steps inside. Lights flicker to life, revealing the cramped space. 

The door closes behind them, and Prosciutto meanders slowly, drinking it in. “It’s a glorified studio.” he scoffs. Old furniture decorates the main space, around the corner, a meager kitchenette. He runs his fingers along the countertop. “This is all?”

“For now.”

“You’re expecting an upgrade?” Prosciutto turns to watch Risotto. 

“Nothing is guaranteed.” 

“Of course not.” There’s a desk on the other side of the main room, and although hardly used, it already looks cluttered. Prosciutto eyes it with disdain, turning his attention elsewhere. 

“What do you call yours?”

Prosciutto tilts his head. “The Grateful Dead.”

It’s not quite a laugh, a chuckle maybe, but it certainly catches his attention. His lips pulled into something like a smile. He’s surprised to see Risotto has dimples on either side of his mouth.

“What?” 

“It’s…dramatic.”

Prosciutto grins. “A fault of my own, I guess.” he leans forward, watching Risotto curiously. “So, you do have something of a personality. Here I was thinking I’d have to work with a brick wall for a partner. You’ve been nothing but intimidating so far.”

“You think I’m intimidating?” Risotto raises his eyebrows. 

“I can’t tell if you’re asking me a genuine question, or if you find it entertaining.”

“You’re quick to judge.” 

“It’s proven its usefulness.” 

1997, November

It’d taken the better part of the day to finish the mission. It had been more trailing the target than anything else, he was far too social for his own good, and Prosciutto had to proceed cautiously. It was one of the few solo missions he’d worked on, and he needed to be mindful of his limitations, and of his target’s advantages. What with the November rain, it made it difficult to act outside, it needed to be inside, away from the cold rain. 

Ultimately, he needed to get creative, because it was nearing five in the afternoon, and he told Risotto he’d be back at the base no later than six. And to think he’d actually planned on enjoying his day after work. He rolls his eyes at the thought now.

Slipping into a public restroom directly behind his target hadn’t even been his boldest move of the afternoon. He was getting impatient, and with the knowledge that this man did not wield a stand made him overconfident. 

His target had stepped out of the stall, and Prosciutto had pressed a cold hand to his chest. 

The man curled away from him, but direct contact made the effects of his stand act near instantaneously in good circumstances. 

His method was flawed, he knew it was sloppy, he knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before a pile of men’s clothing was discovered on the floor of a public bathroom. 

He made his silent escape onto the rainy streets of Naples. He stops only briefly beneath the worn awning to light a cigarette, and open his umbrella. 

Five thirty. He walks through the rain quickly, he does have somewhere to be, but he’s not about to sprint across the city in dress shoes and slacks. It’s certainly a surprise to see people still crowding the sidewalks, children playing in puddles, adults lounging at exterior tables despite the weather. He’d think with the soft chilly breeze and the rain, most half-sane people would be opposed to spending their time outside, instead waiting for the worst of it to pass. 

He stops halfway along his route. He shakes his umbrella off at the door, and steps into the warm light of the café had taken to frequenting. The chill melts off of his bones the moment he’s inside. 

“ Ciao ,” Prosciutto greets with a raised hand to the barista, his eyes skimming the menu. He settles for a vanilla latte, and a hot chocolate. Moments later, his hands full, he’s on his way again, this time with the heat of the cups he holds to warm his thin fingers. 

He knocks on their door with his knuckles, mindful of the cups. He waits, his foot tapping the wet stone quietly. 

He can hear the locks move, and the door opens to let him inside. 

With an exaggerated groan, he steps inside. “It’s terribile out there,” he laments, brushing the remaining water off of his shoes at the door. Risotto watches mutely, his quirked eyebrow the only sign of his amusement. Prosciutto holds both cups out to him expectantly. “Don’t just stand there, hold these.” he closes the umbrella, propping it up by the door to air dry. A moment later, he takes his cup back, and moves towards the lousy excuse for a sofa they own. 

“Did everything go smoothly?” Risotto closes the door, locking them in. The sound of rain against stone and glass can still be heard, even through the closed door. Prosciutto leans his head back, taking a deep breath. “It’s almost six.”

“Smooth as it could be.” Prosciutto muses. “Too many friends around him all day. But it’s taken care of. You weren’t worried were you?” he grins.  

“Not particularly.” Risotto moves quietly across the room, taking his seat at the desk. 

Prosciutto takes a sip of his latte, rolling the sweet sugar and milk roll over his tongue, before swallowing. It could certainly stand to be a little sweeter, but it’s better than most he’s tried in the city thus far.

“ Cioccolata calda ,” Prosciutto gestures vaguely to the cup on Risotto’s desk. “It’s ridiculous you don’t drink coffee.” He remembered struggling to contain his laughter when Risotto had quietly confessed to him that the only time he’d tried a plain coffee, he’d gotten a stomach ache, and avoided it ever since. Risotto had also confessed to him that his appreciation for hot chocolate mainly stemmed from the fact that it was served in cups much like coffee, so he could enjoy a hot beverage without sticking out.

“I appreciate it.” Risotto murmurs. 

It stays quiet, Prosciutto sipping on his coffee before he finally stands, pulling his tired body off the sofa, and to the kitchen. The radio is off, leaving only the sound of rain to be their music. 

“Requests?” 

“No.”

Prosciutto scoffs to himself. “And how did your day go?” he prompts, fiddling with the available stations. 

“Slowly. I finished around noon.”

“No need to gloat.” the radio crackles, distant music is deceptively soothing coupled with the rain, regardless of the genre. He leaves it at that, and joins Risotto at the desk. “Details? Or must I truly work for a proper conversation with you?”

“You’re just nosy.”

“You wound me, that’s one of my most redeeming qualities.” he deadpans, reaching for the thin file of papers across the desk. Risotto lets him take it, watching with quiet eyes. He flips through the first couple pages, until he finds the familiar scrawl of Risotto’s handwriting. “Target knew she was being watched, sporadic movements throughout the day,” Prosciutto skips a few lines, “No evidence of involvement?” he reads aloud, raising his eyes.  

“I took the initiative to investigate the two apartments she had been known to stay in, neither yielding any evidence of her being involved with the local authorities.” Risotto offers. 

“Poor woman.” Prosciutto murmurs, his voice devoid of any real sympathy. He accepts a different file from Risotto, this one being for his report on his own work. “I hate this rain,”

“It’s peaceful.”

“You’d think so.” he huffs. “It’s such a pain to keep dry.”

“Such can be expected when water is falling from the sky.”

“Alright smart guy,” Prosciutto scoffs, rolling his eyes. “The only redeeming quality rain has, is that it turns into snow when it’s cold enough.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys being cold.”

“I don’t. I hate it. But I hate it less than being hot all the time.”

Risotto squints his eyes at him, pausing. “I…take it you’ve seen snow before?”

“You’ve not?” Prosciutto takes a sip of his coffee. 

“No.”

“You should. It’s quite the sight.” he sighs gently, pushing his cup away again. He taps his pen, turning his attention to the file. 

“Are you from the north, then?”

“I am. I take it you’re not.”

“Farther south.”

Prosciutto shakes his head. “The summers must have been nightmares.” he mutters. The dim lights flicker, their power disturbed, before going out, leaving the two of them to sit in silent darkness for a moment. A faint click, and the lights revive themselves. He fixes Risotto with an unhappy stare. If the rain was going to play with their electricity, he was most certainly not going to spend all evening working on his report. The room is filled with the sound of rain pattering against the rooftop, against the windows, sharp pen against thick paper, and the softness of a violin from the radio. 

“What is the snow like? Up north.”

Prosciutto mulls the question over quietly, trying to think of a proper way to describe it. It was the beautiful plush snow he was fond of, pristine and blinding in the sunlight, the way it hugged the world in an even blanket was mystifying. Then there was the snow in cities, dark slush, wet and positively freezing, the kind of snow that would seep into the hems of pants and through holes in shoes, the kind that Prsociutto actively avoided. 

“Cold.” he settles, a dry smile on his lips, when Risotto frowns at him, he continues, “It depends. The countryside is beautiful during the holidays. Most cities have to deal with less snow and more slush.”

Risotto hums thoughtfully.

When Prosciutto pushes his pen away, it seems Risotto had been finished for a while, draining his cup, and reading missions to come.

His fingers itch for a cigarette after too long of sitting still. He fishes his box from his pockets, and half heartedly offers one to Risotto. In the short time they’d been working with one another, never had Risotto accepted a cigarette. At first, Prosciutto took mild offense to the continuous declines. He doesn’t offer his cigarettes to just anyone . His slight offense had cleared up relatively quickly, piecing together that it was nothing personal - Risotto was just like that . The expected shake of his head follows soon after. Prosciutto shrugs. “Suit yourself, big guy.” he pushes himself out of his chair, and towards the front door. Outside, he presses his back along the wall beside the door to avoid the cold drizzle.

The smoke is entertaining to watch, curling through the rain drops, either interrupted by unwelcome water, splitting in different directions, or fading completely. He makes it halfway through the cigarette, before the door beside him opens. Risotto steps out in the alley, an umbrella in hand. He holds it out to Prosciutto quietly. 

“What?”

“It’s raining.” 

“What gave you the idea?” he turns his eyes towards the turbulent sky above. 

Risotto ignores him, stepping into the alley completely. “You’re the one always complaining about your clothes.” Risotto says, offering the umbrella once more. Prosciutto scoffs. 

“Instead of badgering me, why don’t you just join me? You’re already outside.”

“I am not badgering you.”

“Then entertain me with some conversation. You’re talkative this evening.” The sigh that follows makes him smile. It’s admittedly not often he’s able to get actual conversations out of Risotto, not that he minds too much. He appreciates Risotto’s silent authority, he likes that he doesn’t require baseless companionship, he doesn’t like to fill the silence with small talk most of the time. Risotto stands beside him, lending the umbrella. 

Light leaks through the small crack of the open door, illuminating the opposite wall with warm yellow light. Puddles that have collected in the dips of the uneven stone reflect that light back, the reflection broken by raindrops. He can hear the occasional car passing on the street, tires spewing up water, headlights casting short lived light on the dark neighborhood. 

By the time Prosciutto’s cigarette has begun to burn out, no more words have been passed between the two. 

“Do you want me to grab some food?”  

“Not unless it’s for yourself.” Prosciutto hums. “I’m going to stay here tonight.” Prosciutto says, flicking the cigarette butt from his fingertips. He watches it land in a puddle, soaking up the rainwater. 

“Alright.”

“If that’s your way of saying you’re staying too, I’m calling the pull out mattress.”

Another shake of his head. “Sure thing.”

1998, March

“ Ciao ,” Prosciutto smiles easily, holding a card out. “Lovely weather today.” He abhors small talk, especially with strangers, but it works wonders, the door greeter squinting at the sunny sky, rather than his forged I.D. 

“Certainly. Too warm for spring,” he hums, handing Prosciutto’s I.D back to him, hardly having skimmed it. “Have a lovely day.”

“ Grazie, ” he murmurs, stepping inside. He briefly pauses in the pristine lobby, his eyes sweeping the open space briefly, before continuing forward. The elevator must be newer, it glides near silently, soft pinging being the only noise as it ascends. 

Since the turn of the new year, they’d been kept busy, growing demands pulling them in different directions, their work letting rumors rise of a new branch of Passione. 

He’s heard the name La Squadra di Esecuzione thrown around more than once. 

Two weeks ago, Prosciutto had met the new recruits, picked and moved by the nameless Don of Passione. Bringing their total to six, rather than two. 

It was shortly after this, they’d received a high profile job, directly sent by the Boss. It was his first mission outside of Naples, though he couldn’t speak for Risotto. 

Avellino. 

He could confidently say he did not enjoy the little bit of the town he’d seen, too many decrepit buildings on the corners, the nature sparse, dead trees and bushes tucked into alleys too small to walk through. 

The elevator stops. 

The door he’s looking for is barred shut, locked, as if it could stop him. 

According to the intel Sorbet and Gelato had given him before he’d left for Avellino, the target was no more than an average woman, who’d been dragged into an unfortunate situation. Truly, mixing pleasure with business has yet to prove itself worth the headache. In every situation he’s come across, it’s always gone astray, resulting in teary eyed snobs, begging forgiveness from someone who couldn’t care less about the life they’ve been paid to end.

It was near pitiful.

And inside her apartment should be an extensive file written by one of Passione’s very own capos, detailing routes for drug trafficking. A change of heart, perhaps an unwarranted result of his ongoing affair. But to turn his back on Passione without having done anything to keep himself safe? Keep his intentions discreet? It was a deadly oversight on his behalf.

Naturally, the capo had been their first of their two targets. 

Last night had been a chore, and left Prosciutto in an irritable mood.

Chasing a high browed twit through the unfamiliar terrain of Avellino had been less than ideal, and left his feet aching from his stiff shoes.

The lock clicks, and he steps inside. The room is nothing impressive, high heels and sandals discarded by the door, thick coats hanging on the wall. Prosciutto makes his way through the apartment, silently searching the small closets and rooms. He finds her in the bathroom, a sheer robe wrapped around her shoulders, on the lip of the tub. Hardly an attempt to hide.

“He’s dead?” she questions softly, her eyes on his shoes. The sight of the pathetic woman is almost sympathetic. 

“That he is.”

“And…I’m next?”

Prosciutto doesn’t respond. The woman buries her face in her hands, stifling quiet sobs. Prosciutto scowls. Something about the scene makes his stomach twist unhappily. 

He steps forward. The window on the far wall faces him, frosted glass making sunlight feel distant, bathing the woman’s frail body, her red, swollen face. He presses his fingers against her damp shoulder, watching with mild unhappiness as she shrivels further into herself, her thick locks thinning, falling from her scalp. She cries. 

He presses further, an unfamiliar tug in his gut, he’s pissed at the nameless woman. For crying, and not screaming, for accepting a fate that did not fit her. It was beyond pathetic. The sheer robe remains draped along the lip of the tube, although there is no other sign of a body having previously been present. Bones reduced to dust, little more than a fine powder sticking to the wet porcelain of the tub. 

“No sign of the file.”

His fingers tingle where he’d touched her.

He turns his head slightly, towards the sound of Risotto’s voice. He’d been present, invisible with the work of Metallica. If things went south, he was Prosciutto’s so-called backup. 

“Let’s go.” he grinds out.

The moment he turns his back to the window, the sound of glass shattering fills the room. Whistling, heat blossoming along his cheek. 

The bullet charges into the wall, cheap paint exploding at the impact. 

He blinks, mildly dazed. “Risotto?”

Risotto acts faster than he can think properly, pulling Prosciutto out of the bathroom, and into the safety of the next room, the wall blocking the shooter’s vision. 

Hardly a moment's breath later, another bullet blows through the bathroom door, wood splintering, scattering across the stiff carpet.

It’s silent then, only the sound of their breathing breaking the air. Risotto’s grip is death-like on his arm. He pulls Prosciutto along, staying close to the ground. It’s slow progress, their hands pressed against the bottom of the wall as they make their way towards the entrance. 

Risotto stops him, a silent hand raised as a warning. 

The door explodes inwards, wood snapping and splitting under the force of metal. Prosciutto presses himself flat against the wall, ignoring the sharp sensation of splinters burying themselves in his legs. 

He watches mutely, Risotto’s hands raising slowly, twisting at something he can’t see. He hears the dull sound of bodies collapsing outside the door. They step outside slowly, each watching opposite ends of the hallway. It’s a disgusting mess of blood and innards seeping into the hallway carpet. 

“You’ve got to be joking.” Prosciutto scowls unhappily at the development. Six men lay lifeless in the hallway, razors peeking out of their split skin. Risotto is quiet, temporarily lost in thought. 

There hadn’t been so much as a gun on the now deceased capo, he’d been alone, completely helpless. He’d not put up anything of a fight when he’d been cornered, Prosciutto advancing on him. 

Was this where his security had gone? 

To a nameless woman without so much as a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving Passione? It was a unique idiocy, he had to admit. 

The hallway carpet is wet with blood, squelching beneath his feet as he steps over the slumped bodies, mindful of the still present blades and needles sprawled across the carpet. 

“We need to find the shooter in the other building, right away.” 

They make their way back to the ground level, taking the fire escape on the opposite side of the building. They make it down without so much as a glance thrown in their direction. 

“What is that?” Prosciutto squints at the adjacent building, peering at it from around a corner. “Looks like a bank.”

“Could be.”

Prosciutto chews on his cheek quietly. “I can use The Grateful Dead,” he finally says. “If it’s a bank I don’t think we’ll have a lot of luck getting inside, and it might be able to either flush them out, or just kill them.”

“We’ll need to confirm before we leave.” Risotto says slowly. 

“Of course.”

They split, Risotto taking the eastern approach, Prosciutto the western. The Grateful Dead’s wisps are at work before he makes it to the corner of the building, its multiple eyes moving sporadically, drinking in the environment. 

Prosciutto takes a deep breath, pressing two fingers to his face. Immediately, he withdraws his touch, his fingers red with thin blood. His skin is hot to touch, and swollen. He grinds his teeth silently, waiting. 

He leans against the warm brick, his chest aches for a cigarette. 

Hardly ten minutes pass, before he hears hurried footsteps, metal clinking, heavy breathing. He turns slightly. The man rounds the corner, his shoes slipping on the loose soil. In one hand he grips a case, the other holding a gun far too large for his build.

Prosciutto stands up quickly, locking eyes with the man. 

He raises the gun. “Stay away!” 

He hardly moves, a bullet striking the ground at his feet, a moment later, the man crashes into Prosciutto, sending them both to the ground. 

It takes a brief touch of his hand against the man’s bare skin for him to crumble, hardly a recognizable corpse. 

Risotto rounds the corner. “Prosciutto.” he breathes. 

“He ran into me.” he mutters, sitting up. He can feel the loose soil clinging to his hair. He pulls himself up, his knees feeling weak. He turns his unhappy glare towards the gun, and the case on the ground. “These must be the files you couldn’t find.” he gestures to the case. 

“Let’s go.” Risotto mutters, stooping to pull the briefcase up. 

He catches his breath once they’re inside the car. “Are you,” Prosciutto looks at Risotto carefully, “okay?”

Risotto nods slowly. “You’re hurt.”

Prosciutto wrinkles his nose. “I’ll live.” He’d not admit it to Risotto, but his stomach is in knots. He’d be lucky if they made it back to Naples without having to stop for him to spill his guts first.

The car rumbles to life at the twist of a key. Prosciutto is itching for a cigarette, something to soothe his nerves, but he keeps his hands in his pockets. 

An hour away from Naples. 

He looks over at Risotto halfway through the ride, silently noting sweat beading on the man’s brow. “Risotto,” he sits forward, looking closer. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look like shit.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I look better than you,” he scoffs. “Let’s stop.”

“Why? We can be back before sunset.”

“ I want to stop.” Prosciutto says sharply. “I’ll pay for a motel room if I must.” 

It takes ten minutes to find a motel off the freeway. As soon as they stop, Prosciutto notices the gentle tremors making their way through Risotto’s arms. It’s an off putting sight, and one he’ll grill Risotto over once inside a room. 

The woman at the front stares at him with wide eyes, specifically at his bloody cheek, as she hands him the room key, and points him across the parking lot. 

Inside, Prosciutto immediately sets to cooling the air, lowering the air conditioner. 

“Why did you want to stop, exactly?” Risotto sighs, settling on a chair shoved into the corner, he pulls his hat off, pale hair sticking to his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“I’m tired, and not a moron. Something is the matter with you.”

Risotto shakes his head, a silent disagreement.

He knows Risotto has a limit, though they’d never really spoken in depth about it. It’d been halfheartedly mentioned during one of their many late nights over paperwork, but that was the extent of their conversation on it. Was it possible that Risotto had reached it today? Exceeded it? Prosciutto knew that he’d at least pushed his limits over the past couple of days. Especially with that woman.

The single bed room is meager, the carpet is less than sightly in some places, almost crunchy in others. The wallpaper is tacky, outdated.

“You should wash up.” Prosciutto suggests,  shrugging his overcoat off. 

Risotto is silent for a long time, before silently nodding. Prosciutto watches in silence, his capo wobbling on his feet to get to the bathroom. He stands in the room silently, unsure just what to make of any of it. 

He steps out of the room, he’d seen a pay phone outside. He ponders as he slips change into the phone. What could he say to Risotto? Should he bother? It certainly bothered Prosciutto to see him like that, but the question of if he would be crossing a boundary as a subordinate was certainly a concern. 

“Hello?” 

“Illuso,” Prosciutto glances at the sky. “Risotto and I will not be returning to Naples this evening, we’re forty five minutes out, give or take.”

“Is there a reason? Did everything go alright?” Illuso sounds disinterested at best, clearly having better things to occupy himself with than to take a call.

“We ran into some issues,” he sighs. Ghiaccio’s shrill voice cuts through the brief silence, in the background of the call. “We’ll be back in the morning, neither of us can make the drive.”

“Okay. Should I tell the others?”

“Preferably.” Others being Sorbet, Gelato, and Ghiaccio. Their very organized team of six. Their addition to the team had certainly helped in the grand scheme of things, but Prosciutto would be lying if he said he wasn’t still adjusting to having to work with anyone else besides Risotto. 

He stands outside the door, smoking quietly. It’s finished all too soon, in only a handful of drags. In between cities, there is more countryside than much else, flat stretches of land only disturbed by the occasional tree. The sky is orange, almost red in the sun’s dying light. 

He steps inside. Risotto stands by the dresser, drying his hair. His usual jacket is draped over the arm of the couch. 

“I called the others. Illuso will let the others know we won’t be back tonight. I’m going to take a shower in a second, you ought to order some food.” he says, pulling the ties out of his hair. 

“Sure.” 

Inside the bathroom, with his hair finally pulled down, Prosciutto can observe the damage done. Along his cheekbone, an ugly cut splits his skin. Blood has mostly crusted over along the edges, some coagulated in the center of the scrape. The rest of the dried blood had begun to drip down his cheek. The skin is raw, pink, and swollen from irritation, and it doesn’t take a genius to know it’ll be bruised come morning. 

The water is hot. He wipes at his cheek, pulling dried flecks from his skin, resulting in fresh blood dripping off of his jaw and onto the white paint of the bathtub. It’s tedious. He pulls cheap shampoo through his hair, dirt coming loose along with the movements of his fingers. As he works his way down, he notices scraps along his legs, although hardly noticeable. From the splinters, most likely. 

Prosciutto washes quickly, and dries using the spare towel. He stares at himself in the mirror as he pats himself dry, leaving his tender cheek for last. It throbs against the pressure. 

He pulls his clothes back on, not quite bothering to finish buttoning his shirt. 

“We can leave in the morning.” Prosciutto offers, sitting at the foot of the bed. “I will drive.”

“I’m not a child.” Risotto finally speaks, his brows furrowed. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I never insinuated you were.” He leans back on his hands tiredly, his cheek throbs. Boundaries be damned, he wouldn’t settle for Risotto acting as if he hadn’t risked his well being for the sake of a short lived mission. “But I think I can recognize when someone reaches a limit, even if that someone is the stoic Risotto.” his voice is mocking, he takes a deep breath. The room has cooled down now, it’s nicer.

Risotto sighs. “I just need a couple hours to replenish my own iron. I should be fine in the morning.”

“Wonderful.” Prosciutto sighs. “You should know your limits.” The silence is usually comfortable between them, but it’s difficult to sit through tonight. “You’re my capo. No one should have to worry about you overexerting yourself.”

“It was unexpected.” Risotto concedes slowly. 

“You can’t afford uncertainties.” 

Risotto doesn’t respond.

“Did you order food?” he raises an eyebrow, changing the subject abruptly. 

“Pizza.” 

It’s silent again, Prosciutto’s eyes are closed, listening to the air conditioner, and Risotto’s soft breathing. 

“I’m glad you were with me today, I don’t think things would have gone smoothly if I’d been alone.” he pauses, “Having you there was reassuring. Even if you did overdo it.” 

A knock at the door startles him. It takes seconds for him to thrust cash towards the delivery man, waving him off. 

“You’re upset.” 

“What gave it away?” Prosciutto’s eyes narrow, his attention turning towards the pizza box. 

“Is it the wound? On your cheek.” either from ignorance, or some sense of nicety, Risotto does not mention the obvious fatigue radiating off of Prosciutto. 

“No.” he rolls his eyes. “This entire mission has been pissing me off.”

“I know.”

“It’s all…imprudent. The consequences of betraying Passione or leaving before you’ve outlived your usefulness is not a secret. I find it irritating that someone with a reputation like that man would stake his life over something so insignificant.” he scoffs. 

“The woman?”

“What else?”

Grease drips down his fingers as he eats. He does his best to dap the majority away, but his fingers are stained with the thick oil by the time he’s finished. The radio in the room is trash, the signal horrible, but he manages to find a halfway decent channel with the least amount of audio cracks. He pulls himself off the edge of the bed, pausing in front of Risotto’s vacant stare. He carefully picks a slice of pepperoni off of the untouched slice of pizza in his hand.

Immediately, Risotto’s gaze shifts to his pizza, and then to Prosciutto. He frowns. “There’s an entire box on the dresser.” 

“You’re right.” Prosciutto nods thoughtfully. He reaches for another pepperoni slice, only for Risotto to shift away from him, his eyes narrowed. He chuckles to himself, at the very least having succeeded in lifting his own mood a bit.

Prosciutto washes his hands before he settles on the bed again, leaning against the firm pillows. He lights a cigarette silently. 

“ L’ultimo .” he says when he catches Risotto’s eye. The last one.

“You say that.”

“One day, it’ll be true.” Risotto looks better, color having returned to his face. 

“You’re morbid.” 

Prosciutto scoffs softly. Smoke curls in the air, his eyes follow the warped movements up to the ceiling, where it inevitably disappears. He knows he’ll feel the weight of the day in the morning, but for now, a cigarette will help fight the brunt of the exhaustion.

“You don’t plan on sleeping in that chair, do you?” he’d been watching Risotto too, occasionally shifting to get comfortable, not quite capable, given his size. Risotto stares at him for a moment. “The world is not going to end.” Prosciutto gestures to the space beside him. 

“I’m comfortable.”

“If you’re sure.” Prosciutto drawls. He sets the cigarette butt into the nearby ashtray, and rolls beneath the sheets, onto his side. “Turn the lights off before you go to sleep.”

Shortly afterwards, the lights click off. He listens to Risotto shuffle around the room, before he feels the bed dipping beneath the man’s weight. 

“Comfortable?” Prosciutto half mocks. 

Risotto hums in response. 

In the morning, grey light filters through the drawn blinds. Prosciutto sits up slowly, still heavy from sleep. He glances over his shoulder, eyeing the mountain of a man beside him. He must think he’s stealthy, but even Prosciutto can tell that he’s awake, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed a bit too tightly.  

He fails to look peaceful, his face drawn into serious sharp lines. Had he even slept?

Prosciutto wonders about the man beside him, and tries not to do much more than that. 

He doesn’t bother outing his poor performance, instead rising from the sheets, his shirt twisted, his pant legs had risen throughout the night. He washes his face in the bathroom, and he runs a wet hand through his hair. He leans forward, gently prodding at the cut on his cheek, eyeing the reflection, watching for any pinpricks of blood. The skin has begun to darken, a soft tint of purple decorating the edges. 

He catches movement behind him, and he leans aside slightly, his eyes locking on the reflection of Risotto in the mirror. He stands in the bathroom doorway quietly, watching Prosciutto with tired eyes. 

“I will be beyond livid if this scars.” Prosciutto says, his voice hoarse. 

Risotto laughs softly, shaking his head softly. “ Buongiorno ,” he murmurs. “It won’t scar.”

Prosciutto scoffs, standing back to face him. “If it does, I’m blaming you then.” he says firmly. “When did you wake up?”

“A while ago. Didn’t want to wake you.”

Prosciutto rolls his eyes, pushing past Risotto. He combs his fingers through his hair, pulling any tangles out, before beginning the process of tying his hair back. “You’re looking better.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Prosciutto lets his eyes rake over Risotto in the most scathing way he knows. “You shouldn’t.” he grabs his overcoat, draping it over his arm. “I am dying for a cup of coffee.”

“Then let’s get going.”

The morning air is cool, the grey light not quite illuminating the world. Prosciutto drops the key at the front desk, joining Risotto in the car. He reaches for another cigarette, meeting Risotto’s disapproving gaze. 

“Breakfast,” he says teasingly, the lighter catching with ease. “I’ll live.”

Risotto shakes his head quietly. “It’s going to catch up with you.”

“Let’s hope sooner than later, hm?” he sighs softly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the morning air. “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I happened to die of something cigarette related?” His voice is laced with amusement, even though he is well aware of the unhappiness radiating from the other side of the car. 

“Stop talking.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He drives a bit faster than what would be appropriate any other time of day, but in the morning, it is just the two of them on the road. 

“I think I’ll try one of your espressos,” Risotto muses softly from the passenger seat, his gaze focused on the countryside. They’re still about thirty minutes out of Naples, and not much had been said between them since the beginning of the ride. 

“You can’t even handle a latte.” Prosciutto scoffs. “You said you don’t like coffee.”

“I don’t. But I’ve never tried espresso,” he glances at Prosciutto. “You seem to hold them in high esteem, they can’t taste that bad.”

Prosciutto gives him a dry smile. “Alright, mister hot chocolate.”

Risotto laugh is soft, more a chuckle than anything. He leans his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. Naples is dead, having not yet risen in the early morning. Prosciutto is still making an effort to pick through the various cafés in Naples, and he’s yet to find a favorite. 

The café he hunts down is tucked down an alley. One of the few open before eight in the morning. It smells horribly sweet inside, the scent of coffee overshadowed by the scent of sugar and milk. 

“ Ciao .” Risotto murmurs to the barista, glancing at Prosciutto. Two espressos, and a hot chocolate added on at the end of the order. 

“Just in case.” Prosciutto had winked.

They sit at one of the many outside tables, hunched beneath the awning. Risotto watches Prosciutto take a deep sip of his espresso, his stern expression melting into that of appreciation. “Delightful. Have you tried yours?”

Risotto raises the cup to his lips, seconds later setting it down and pushing it towards Prosciutto. His nose wrinkled, his lips tugged into a frown. 

Prosciutto can’t help but laugh at the soured expression. 

“Disgusting.” he grimaces. 

“That is the strongest expression I’ve ever seen on your face.” he grins, taking another sip. “You really dislike it that much?”

Risotto’s lips curl into a smile. “It’s horrible. You’ve got poor taste in foods and drinks.” he takes a sip of his hot chocolate, seemingly far more pleased with the taste. 

Prosciutto laughs softly, “What else do I have poor taste in? I’m always looking to improve.”

“Company.”

“Really.” he grins. “I guess I can’t argue. I don’t think I’ve been too tasteless as of late, though. Anything else?”

Risotto seems to mull over the question quietly, before shaking his head. “No.”

“That’s a good answer, Risotto.” 

Another fleeting smile, him shaking his head. 

Prosciutto watches shamelessly, Risotto sipping on hot chocolate. 

He takes the second espresso to go. The drive back to the base is quiet. They’re the only ones at the base, and he has no doubt it’s largely attributed to the early hour.

“We may be getting an upgrade.” Risotto murmurs softly, settling on the sofa. 

“Really? I won’t complain.” Prosciutto says softly. “Not having six men crowding into this space would be nice.”

“It would.” 

“I think I’d rather keep it at two.” at Risotto’s silence, Prosciutto clears his throat. “It’s…uh…less crowded. With two. Not as…messy.” he offers. 

Risotto nods slightly, pulling his hat off with the motion. “Maybe the new place will have an air conditioner.” 

Relieved at Risotto’s agreement, Prosciutto sighs. “Let’s hope, huh?”

Hardly a beat passes, it’s a recurring baseless desire, one he’d not really paid much mind to. Risotto reaches up for him, and Prosciutto briefly takes his hand, his thumb tracing the tendons in Risotto’s hand.  

“Your hands are horribly dry.” Prosciutto’s mouth feels impossibly dry all too quickly. 

“You’re one to talk.” Risotto turns Prosciutto’s hand over, looking at his palm. “Are you sure you’re not aging yourself when you use your stand?”

He grins. “Now, that’s not a very kind comment. My hands are gorgeous, much like the rest of me.”

Risotto snorts. “You’re full of yourself.”

“You’re kidding,” Prosciutto straightens his back, raising his thin eyebrows, and gesturing to himself with a wide smile. “What’s not to admire?” 

Risotto laughs, releasing his hand. 

1999, January

“Let’s stop.” it’d been Risotto’s last minute decision. 

The trip back to Naples, with favorable traffic, would have been about three hours, but Risotto insisted on stopping in Foggia for the remainder of the day. It wasn’t often Prosciutto found free time during the day, most of his free time was found in the early hours before dawn, or the late hours after dusk. Anything in between was more often than not taken up by missions and paperwork split with Risotto. For the first time in what seemed like months, they stopped work for the day at three in the afternoon. On a weekday, no less.

“Why?” Prosciutto had asked, watching with intrigue when Risotto had pulled towards the exit leading towards Foggia. They could be back in Naples well before sundown with any luck. Spend the night finishing paperwork, and start all over tomorrow. 

Risotto had drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, silent for far too long, before offering a flimsy excuse. “I figured you might be tired.”

“I’m not driving.” Prosciutto hadn’t bothered arguing. Truth be told, he welcomed the excuse to put off work for a few fleeting  hours. 

Finding a motel room had been the first thing they sorted out. Prosciutto was pleasantly surprised to find that Risotto had managed to find a proper place, where the doors could actually lock, and the rooms didn’t smell like stale sweat. 

Prosciutto sat at the small table stuffed into the corner of the room, flipping through a small pamphlet. All kinds of tourist information, none of which seemed any kind of useful. “What do you want to order for dinner?” he’d asked, skimming the list of local restaurants. 

“I figured we could go out.” Risotto responded from around the corner. 

“Out?” Prosciutto echoes, setting the pamphlet down. “I thought you were worried about me being tired?”

Risotto joins him at the table moments later. 

“You said you weren’t.”

“I’m not.” Prosciutto concedes. 

“I was thinking we could visit a proper restaurant. You always complain about the greasy food we end up ordering when we’re out.”

Prosciutto grins, leaning forward. “Risotto, if you wanted to take me on a date, you could just ask.” He lays his fingers atop of Risotto’s hand, teasing.

If he’d succeeded in flustering his capo, it doesn’t outwardly show, much to his displeasure. “I thought this would be a good opportunity for you to relax. You’ve been working almost nonstop for the past couple of months. You look exhausted.” Risotto, he notices, does not move his hand immediately. 

“You’re one to talk.” Prosciutto scoffs. “I don’t think I know anyone else with bags under their eyes as big as yours.”

“It’s a win-win situation.” Risotto breathes. 

He laughs. “Okay, you win. But I have two requests.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got to find a better way to flirt with me than insulting my appearance, and, wherever we go, has to have godly food.”

“I’d not treat you to anything less.” Risotto responds, more or less ignoring the first request.

Prosciutto can’t help but compare the city to that of Naples, comparing the crowded sidewalks, the bustling of the city. It seemed just as crowded, but quieter. Less patios decorated the sidewalks, in favor of enclosed seating, an escape from the persistent heat. Even in January, the city managed to feel more like late spring than mid winter. Prosciutto’s long coat had hardly been necessary, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take every excuse to wear his winter clothing. 

Settled in the restaurant they’d chosen, Prosciutto welcomes the offer of wine as they wait to order. He lights a cigarette, delighting in the familiar sensation. Risotto sips on a soft drink all the while. 

“Should we call the others?” 

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Planning on using that capo authority?” Prosciutto raises an eyebrow curiously. 

“We can just tell them the mission took a little longer than expected. They don’t need to know we stopped.”

“Oh, alright.” Prosciutto smiles. “Just an us thing, then?”

“Yes.”

“No complaints here. Since we’re spending the evening,” Prosciutto offers his glass of wine. 

Risotto smiles at the offer, but declines, opting for his soda instead. “Enjoy it.”

“Come on,” Prosciutto groans. “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, what do you do for fun? To unwind?” he rolls his eyes. Risotto laughs at the complaints, but doesn’t bother offering any kind of answers. 

Dinner is easily the most delicious meal Prosciutto has enjoyed in months, and judging by Risotto’s expression, the same could be said for him. Prosciutto is equally pleased when Risotto covers the bill without questions. He only catches a raised eyebrow when Prosciutto insists on purchasing another bottle of wine for the road.

“It’s cold.” Risotto laments, once outside again. He tugs his coat tighter. “It must be colder further north, though, right? You mentioned snow.”

Prosciutto lights another cigarette, tucking his hands in his pocket. It’s nice out, maybe a little chilly, the setting sun’s warmth has begun to fade, but certainly not too cold. “It doesn't snow often,” he says lightly. 

“Would you go back up north?”

“Why? Do you have a job?” Prosciutto nudges him. Risotto shakes his head softly. “I’m not sure. I suppose if I was getting paid for the trip,” he eyes Risotto. “Or if I wasn’t going alone.” he tries not to let the mention of the north kill his mood. He’d not left the north on the best of terms, but it wasn’t Risotto’s issue to handle.

“We should look into visiting sometime…during the winter?”

“That’d be a sight,” he laughs. “I think you’d freeze to death in the snow.”

Risotto grins. “It’s likely.” he shakes his head. “You’d have to buy me something warm.”

“Me?” Prosciutto muses. “Yes. Oh yes.” he laughs. “I’d get you one of those long coats, something lined with fur. Something a little long…” he hums. “You’d look good in something like that.”

“Like the one you have?”

“Maybe.” he pauses. “How do you know about that? I haven’t worn it once.”

“You don’t close your doors.” 

Prosciutto smacks his arm lightly, raising his chin. “And you call me nosy. But yes, something like that. Though mine would never fit you. You’re too big for it.”

Risotto’s eyes wander the street ahead of them. “I could try it.”

“And ruin it?” Prosciutto scoffs. “No, I don’t think so.” He would absolutely love to see it on Risotto, stretched across his broad shoulders. The idea is nearly mouth-watering. “Where would you even like to go?”

“I’m not sure. Bologna?” he tilts his head up, watching the sky above them. “Venice? Milan?”

“Milan?” Prosciutto raises an eyebrow. “You’d hate it.”

“You’ve been?”

“Maybe. What about Genoa? Portofino?” 

“Well, if we’re ever afforded the opportunity, I’ll let you pick the city.” 

“What an honor,” he breathes. “What’s the furthest you’ve been?”

“Rome.”

“That’s all?” Prosciutto purses his lips. Risotto nods slightly. “Well, maybe we’ll start closer to Rome. Work our way up the country.” he smiles.

“Do you want something to drink while we walk?”

“I’ll take any excuse to grab a coffee.” Unsurprisingly, Risotto pays again, before leading the way back to the sidewalk outside. Prosciutto sips on it gratefully. He would definitely have to grab another drink before they left the city in the morning. “If I’d known you knew how to treat a man so well I’d have convinced you to take me out earlier.” he sighs. 

“What gave any impression otherwise?” 

“You’re young, Risotto.” Prosciutto clicks his tongue. 

“I’m twenty six.” Risotto defends with a huff. “You’re not much older.”

Prosciutto shrugs. “Maybe I’m just assumptious.” 

“Maybe?” Risotto scoffs. 

“How's the hot chocolate?” Prosciutto mocks with a raised eyebrow. Risotto rolls his eyes. 

“Come on.” he reaches for Prosciutto’s arm, gently tugging him across the street. Much like Naples, Foggia sits on a shoreline. They come to a stop along the metal railing just before the hard ground gives way to compact sand. The air is colder near the water, the chill of the ocean permeating the air. 

The sun has set by now, having settled below the horizon while they ate their supper. Now, the sky continues to darken, stars blinking to life above them. The lights along the sidewalk had begun to blink alive, not quite touching the darkness surrounding the shore. 

“Cold?” Prosciutto watches Risotto tug his jacket tighter. He huffs. 

“You’re not?”

“I’ve got my coffee.” he holds an empty cup up. Risotto rolls his eyes. “Think the shore is accessible after sunset?”

“We can find out.” 

Prosciutto is careful to keep his distance from the wet sand closest to the restless waves. He would hate to deal with cold, wet socks for the rest of the night. The walk is mostly silent, the two of them enjoying the persistence of the waves against the shore. 

“You grew up in the south.” Prosciutto prompts. It’s become dark enough that he struggles to see the sand in front of them. 

“Sicily.”

“As far south as you can get.” Prosciutto shakes his head. “Awful. No wonder you can’t handle the cold.” 

“Sure I can,” Risotto says confidently. “Really though, if you want to talk about Sicily, you’d have to talk about the summers.”

“I can’t imagine.” Prosciutto shakes his head. “I’d melt on the spot.”

“You could handle it.” 

Risotto’s hand is much warmer than Prosciutto would have thought possible when he takes it. He keeps his mouth shut, running his thumb along the back of Risotto’s hand quietly.

“Would you visit?”

Prosciutto laughs gently. “Only if I had a good guide.”

“Lucky you. I’m about as good as they come.” Risotto smiles. 

“Lucky me.” he echoes, squeezing his hand. 

“Getting cold?”

He was, admittedly. He nods slightly, glancing at the water beside them. “Maybe a bit.” he concedes.

“Let’s go back, then.”

“Yes.” Prosciutto nods quickly, his grip on Risotto’s hand tightening. Back on the sidewalk, Risotto lets his hand go, more than likely to avoid any unwanted stares. All for the better, because Prosciutto is absolutely certain his nerves have begun to cause his hands to shake by then. 

Back in the room, Prosciutto sits at the table, fiddling with the pamphlet as Risotto showers. Another cigarette sits between his lips, unlit. When Risotto emerges from the shower, Prosciutto jumps at the chance to take his place in the bathroom, to wash his hair thoroughly and wash the lingering sea air from his skin. Afterwards, Risotto sits in bed, focused on the television. Prosciutto takes the opportunity to slip outside for a quick smoke, a meager attempt to calm whatever lingering nerves he might have. 

He taps his foot against the concrete impatiently. The idea of going north again made his chest feel tight. Though, it was just a hypothetical. He doubted they’d ever be afforded the chance to go north for anything other than work. And even then, it was debatable that their services would be needed so far away from the heart of Passione. 

But, he supposes, if Risotto were to go with him, it wouldn’t be so bad. Despite his initially intimidating demeanor, his presence often afforded Prosciutto comfort he doubted he could find elsewhere. With Risotto, little to nothing could really go wrong.

He flinches, the heat of his cigarette simmering at his fingertip. He scowls in aggravation, dropping it onto the ground. A moment later, he slips back into the warm room, to join Risotto on the bed.

“What’s the point of showering if you’re just going to go smoke?” Risotto frowns. 

“The smell is not that bad. I’m still clean.” he rolls his eyes. 

“I’d argue otherwise.”

“What? You think I smell bad?” Prosciutto challenges with a frown. 

“No. But your cigarettes do.” 

“Oh, whatever. Go to sleep,” Prosciutto pulls the covers up and pushes them onto Risotto. 

“I’m joking, promise,” Risotto chuckles, pushing the covers back down. 

“Go to sleep.” Prosciutto punctuates by turning the lamp beside him off. 

In the morning, Prosciutto insists they stop to grab a coffee and hot chocolate before beginning their trip back to Naples. The morning is blissfully quiet, and clear. 

“This is the best coffee I’ve had since moving to Naples,” Prosciutto practically moans, melting in his seat. Risotto laughs.

“Their hot chocolate is pretty good.” he hums. “Can I try your coffee?”

“Why do you insist on trying drinks you hate?” Prosciutto teases, but offers it nonetheless. Expectedly, Risotto sneers at the taste, pushing it back into Prosciutto’s hands eagerly. 

“Disgusting.”

“Agree to disagree. Your palette is unrefined,” he raises his chin.

Risotto shakes his head unhappily. “I’d rather not drink shit water for breakfast.”

“Don’t forget about the cigarette too.” 

“Ridiculous.”

The early morning helps speed the trip along, they pass only a few cars on their way home. While avoiding traffic is never a bad thing, Prosciutto can’t help but wish that their short lived vacation could last a couple hours longer. Once within Naples’ city limits, Prosciutto has all but silently kissed his free time away. 

“Should we get breakfast for the others?” Prosciutto wrinkles his nose at the idea. “I’m sure they’re all at the base.”

Risotto sighs heavily. “You’re paying this time.”

Prosciutto scoffs, nudging his arm. “Payback for last night? Here I thought you were being romantic.”

“I don’t think romance comes freely.”

“The price being buying food for a bunch of idiots?” Risotto simply shrugs. Prosciutto wrinkles his nose at him, but does as requested. 

Risotto parks just down the street from their base, rubbing his eyes. “I hope Ghiaccio isn’t awake.”

“Me too.” Prosciutto groans. After their trip in Avellino, the group had been relentless in asking questions, and pestering Prosciutto about the ugly cut on his cheek. The ugly cut on his cheek that had most definitely scarred, and he still hated to look at in the mirror.

Risotto gives Prosciutto what must be his attempt at a reassuring smile, but it looks more like a grimace to Prosciutto. 

“Were you being genuine? In agreeing to visit Sicily?” he asks abruptly, his hand on the door handle.

“Were you?” 

Risotto purses his lips in thought. “I think…if we were to go. Then yes.” 

“Let’s put it on our bucket list.” he pats Risotto’s arm. “Let’s go. And here,” Prosciutto pushes the bags of food into Risotto’s hands, and leads the way in. 

Much to his displeasure, Ghiaccio is very much awake, hunched over the counter, reading the newspaper. “What happened? You two were supposed to be back last night.” he crosses his arms, the newspaper forgotten. 

“Prosciutto bought breakfast.” Risotto says, setting the food on the counter. “Where are the others?”

Ghiaccio scowls. “Illuso is asleep in the back, I don’t know where Sorbet and Gelato are.” his voice is no less grating in the morning. 

Prosciutto takes the discarded newspaper from Ghiaccio, skimming the front page quietly. “What’s all this?”

“Rumors.” Ghiaccio scoffs. 

“About hits.” Prosciutto finishes with a drawl. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“They’re just rumors,” Ghiaccio spits back, taking the paper back. “Nothing listed is connected to anything we’ve done.”

“They’d better not be.” Prosciutto scowls.

“So where were you two? Don’t say you spent another night out of town to rest.”

“Driving is tiring.” Prosciutto defends sharply. 

“Yeah, I’d know. I’m always driving for stupid missions.” Ghiaccio scoffs. “You didn’t think to call?”

“No phones.” Risotto says after a moment. “The job took longer than expected. We stopped around two this morning to nap in the car. It was my decision.”

Ghiaccio purses his lips, seemingly less comfortable with confronting his capo. 

“What the hell is with all the noise so early?” Illuso groans, dragging himself out of the hallway, and towards the table. “None of you can keep it down?” Ghiaccio scowls at his disheveled appearance. 

“Prosciutto bought breakfast.” Risotto offers, before heading towards the small room they’d designated as his office.

“Really?” Illuso eyes the bags, his eyes sparkling with interest and renewed energy. “Thanks Prosciutto.” 

“Don’t mention it.” he sighs, settling into his chair unhappily. He and Ghiaccio exchange a final glare, before Ghiaccio turns back to the wrinkled newspaper in his hands.