Chapter Text
Shitty childhood or not, everyone in La Squadra learned at one point how to read the mood of footsteps. When a mission was incoming, when one went well, when one went poorly - those were the main three messages to look for. So when sophisticated clicks echoed through the HQ, rhythmically and with intent, the blooming chaos in the living room simmered down as friendly glares turned to await Prosciutto. The blond waltzed in, tailed by, to some surprise, Risotto, who always somehow managed to walk around near silently. Risotto glanced around.
Illuso lounged on the couch, eyeing him with a look so focused you could barely tell he had been bickering with everyone around him moments before. Formaggio crouched in the corner, face illuminated by the light from the open mini fridge in front of him. Behind him, Ghiaccio stood with a bottled drink gripped in his hand. Pesci, like a dependent puppy, dawdled into the room at the arrival of his big bro, and behind him , Chreva flipped a towel off the soggy rats nest on his head. The only no-show seemed to be Melone. That’s fine, it was just barely 6 AM, and he was the heaviest sleeper of them all. A chorus of “Hey Risotto/Prosciutto” and “what’s the job?” came to the two men, and Prosciutto stepped to the side for the explanation.
“We have a possible opportunity for information on Polpo,” he said, getting everyone’s full attention. “If we plan to dig into his relationship with the boss, and any chance he may have Trish, we’ll need to approach it from several degrees away. That’s our safest bet.”
There was a gleam in Ghiaccio’s eye first, but his face stayed sour. “We’re going to try to sweeten our way into getting info?”
Risotto shook his head at the idea, “no, trying to openly seep into business outside of our own would only end poorly,” the subconscious sense of grief that rolled over him might have been felt by the rest of the gang, but it didn’t show on their faces, “so we’ll have to be quiet and spontaneous.”
“We’ve found someone with close connections to Polpo, and we may have to hold them captive in order to garner information.” Prosciutto butted in, getting to the main point.
“Captive?” Chreva and Formaggio parroted together.
“Isn’t that, like, ten times more dangerous?” spat Illuso with an inquisitive look, crossing his legs.
“Let me explain further,” Risotto took a few last silent steps before plopping himself on the couch next to Illuso. As he leaned over, the rest of the squad sensed it was Serious Time decided to join him on the other seats - Formaggio, Chreva, and Ghiaccio all packed on a long sofa together, Prosciutto on a stray chair, and Pesci standing awkwardly behind Prosciutto.
“Polpo, he runs all the gambling in the area, and therefore has strong control over the establishments that hold lots of it. Our target works at one of these establishments.”
“And you’re sure this person is close enough with Polpo to do us any good?” asked the somewhat sceptical Ghiaccio.
“We know he’s got some kind of connection, and given the fact that he’s working in
one of the cheapest ones,
I see fine reason to suspect there’s more going on.”
“What kind of connections!?”
“That’s for you to ask him.”
And with that, the mission had been rather basically explained. Get the guy who’s close with Polpo, and keep him for info. That left specifics to be discussed, such as who would be working on this mission.
“We’ve decided Formaggio and Illuso will be going to observe, and ultimately kidnap, our target. Man In The Mirror should help with safely escaping, and Little Feet will assist in incapacitating the target.” The brunet looked to his teammate, the two exchanging a look of understanding - a look that meant they’d set aside any silly arguments…for what time they could.
“However,” it seemed their leader was not yet finished, “for extra security, we may also send Chreva and Ghiaccio alongside you two.” The icy man resisted spitting out his drink, and the redhead responded with a look of confusion.
“I understand Ghiaccio’s involvement, a good backup plan if shit gets shittier, but why me? I doubt scratching the hostage to hell will help with a kidnapping,” Chreva asked before starting to idly lick his teeth. Ghiaccio nodded in bitter agreement, probably seconds away from picking on how unprofessional his colleague looked at the moment.
“Because you’ll be playing a vital part in getting him to talk." Chreva's eyes widened, while Risotto just stared at him, his difficult expression managing to convey trust, "Chreva, I'll need to speak with you privately."
This was when the story began to revolve around Chreva Ichor, and the hurricane around him, that only he would see, prepared to spin.
A few final details, and a brief summary to a newly awoken Melone, and Chreva finally shuffled away from the group. Thank god, he needed to sort out his hair before it started getting on his nerves (or before someone cracked a joke about it). Stepping into the bathroom, he briefly noticed Risotto following him. The tall, broad man stopped several feet away from the bathroom, graciously giving Chreva space.
Hesitantly, Chreva decided to shut the door.
Halfway through powering through some already tangled hair, there was a gentle knock on the door.
"Can I speak to you through here?"
It was Risotto, and the brown eyed boy reasoned he wasn't doing anything all that private, "Sure."
"As I said earlier, Livin' Thing will be what we use to pry information from our target-"
"Torture?" Chreva asked with a voice that felt too meek to him.
"...Torture. It's the only one that can inflict enough pain without incapacitating his ability to talk."
"...I imagine the iron deficiency from Metallica would do a little more than hurt him, huh?"
"You are going to do it, right?" Risotto kept him right on point. Fuck.
The pinching in his stomach was foreign. He could handle killing, no problem - it was distant, cold, quick. - torture was different, and in his eyes, crueler to both parties. He'd been given the role of draining hope from someone's face, washing it away until the muscles only worked to utter out what he wanted. The one to make the asshole beg for the pain to stop, please, please stop it! He worried somewhere down the line the task would become a mirror.
"...Yeah, of course!" Chreva nodded obediently. It was his job, no matter how it felt.
Risotto (hopefully) walked away after that, and in the mirror, uncertain eyes looked back at themselves; his stomach felt empty.