Work Text:
Doppio awoke, as he often did, to the sound of a phone ringing. He groaned and rolled over in bed.
“Go away,” he moaned, pulling the covers over his head. The ringtone only got louder and more insistent. After about a minute of ignoring it, he stuck his arm out from under the blanket and flailed around on the nightstand until his fingers brushed against something that felt phone-like enough for him to grab it and bring it to his ear. There was a moment of silence before a familiar voice greeted him.
“Good morning, Doppio,” it said. Doppio tried to stifle his yawn.
“G'morning, boss,” he mumbled into the receiver. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” the boss replied, and Doppio felt a little grateful for the acknowledgement. “But there is work to be done. And unlike some people, I know I can rely on you to do it.”
“Hmm? Who messed up this time?” Doppio snuggled a little further down under the covers, preparing to rest his eyes for a little longer while the boss started shit-talking some poor sap that had gotten caught skimming funds off the top or selling out to another gang. If he really got going, Doppio could probably get away with staying in bed for another 10 minutes.
“Apparently, half of Passione decided that they were exempt from checking their emails yesterday,” said the boss, making no attempt to veil the disgust in his voice. “Thankfully one of the newer teams was diligent enough to complete their assignment, but I'd rather entrust the second part of this operation to someone more experienced.”
“Mmm.” Doppio rolled over in bed and adjusted his grip on the phone's curved handle. “Why?”
“I'm sure Buccellati's gaggle of wayward teenagers is perfectly capable of running an interrogation,” he said drily, “but I don't trust them enough to let potentially crucial information fall into their hands. This could be our key to cracking the drug trade problem that has been plaguing us for months.”
Doppio covered the cold, porcelain surface of the phone with one hand so the boss wouldn't hear him yawn. He must have been unsuccessful, because the boss stopped talking for a moment.
“Doppio,” he said slowly, “are you paying attention?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know that your mission today is very simple, after which you're free to go back to sleep. I need you to call the torture and interrogation team and relay the details of their assignment.”
Doppio nodded. “Yeah, okay, I can do that.” Then the words caught up with his brain, and a chill that had nothing to do with the cold weather ran down his spine. “Wait, by torture and interrogation team, do you mean-”
“Yes, Doppio. You have to call Cioccolata.”
“Boss.”
“For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask you to do this if this mission were not of the utmost importance.”
He did sound genuinely apologetic, which helped soothe the sting of betrayal just a little as Doppio reluctantly emerged from his warm cocoon of blankets to shuffle across the room toward the desk. He scribbled the mission details down on the complimentary hotel notepad before setting the phone down on its conveniently flat base and pulling his other work phone out of his briefcase. The phone rang three times before it picked up.
“Hello, Cioccolata speaking.”
“Hi,” said Doppio. “The boss has a mission for you.”
There was a pause, during which Doppio could hear what sounded like a muffled bark in the background.
“Oh, dear,” said Cioccolata, his voice saturated with faux sweetness. “It seems you've caught us at a bad time.”
“Well, that's too bad,” Doppio said, trying to ignore the suspiciously human-like barking and whining coming through on the other end of the line. “You've got an interrogation to take care of on the south side of Naples today. The boss sent you more details in the email that you didn't read. ”
Another pause. “My apologies, sir,” he said, “I really would love to - Secco, down! - and I mean that, you know, I'm not just saying it. I'm deeply invested in my work.” Doppio shuddered. Sometimes he wished Cioccolata was a little less invested. “But Secco and I are terribly busy today. You see, it's so rare we have time to indulge in our more involved hobbies - good boy, now sit - that our vacation schedule is absolutely packed.”
“Vacation?” Doppio echoed, dumbfounded.
“Well, I suppose it's only a few days, but I wanted to make good use of our Christmas break.”
“Christmas break?”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“I- is there a- of course there's a fucking problem!” Doppio spluttered. “What the hell do you mean, Christmas break? It's not Christmas!”
“...It's December 24th, sir. I was under the impression that we had the day off?”
“The day off? Where did you even- hold on.” He yanked the phone away from his ear and jabbed at the home button. Sure enough, the date in the corner of the tiny LCD screen read 24/12. Keeping track of the passage of time had never been his strong suit. “Okay, sure, it's Christmas Eve,” he conceded. “But who told you you had the day off?”
“Squalo may have mentioned it when I helpfully patched him up last week. Do tell him he's welcome to make use of my services anytime, by the way, he was an absolute delight on the operating table. Now if you'll excuse me, Secco and I-”
Doppio hung up. He picked up the other phone.
“Boss, he said-”
“I heard, Doppio.”
“Do we have a Christmas break?”
“We most certainly do not. Get Squalo on the phone.”
“On it!”
Another dial, another ring. This time, the voice on the other end was much more pleasant.
“Hello, Tiziano here.”
“Tiziano, hi,” said Doppio, unsurprised to hear him answering his partner's phone. It didn't really matter which number he called, because it was always a 50/50 chance which one of them was going to pick up. “Is Squalo there?”
“Oh, he's right here. Squalo, honey, the underboss is on the phone.” Doppio caught a little bit of talking, then footsteps in the background. “No, I don't know why. Here, you can talk to him.”
There was some shuffling, what sounded like a peck on the cheek, and then another voice: “Hello?”
“Hi,” said Doppio. “Uh, I've got a quick question. Did you tell Cioccolata we had a Christmas break?”
“Huh? Yeah, I think I might have mentioned it while I was screaming in pain. That guy is a real freak, I tell you. Not to question the boss’ hiring decisions or anything, sir,” he added as an afterthought. “Why?”
“Well, we don't, that's why.”
“What?”
“Christmas break. We don't have one.”
“Oh,” he said. “Shit. Risotto said-”
“Nero started this?”
“I don't know, man, he said he heard it from someone else. I didn't ask who it was.”
Doppio groaned. “Great. Okay, I'll call him.” He thought for a minute. “...you wouldn't happen to be free to torture somebody right now, would you?”
“Sorry, we went up north to go skiing. Our flight back isn't ‘til the 27th.”
“Okay.” Doppio sighed. He hadn't even had his morning coffee yet. “Alright. Thanks.”
“...No offense, sir,” Squalo said, “but you sound like you could use a break too.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“I'm serious!” he insisted. “The boss works you too hard.”
Doppio narrowed his eyes. Nobody was allowed to criticize the boss except for him. From the other end of the line, there were sounds of frantic shushing and a muffled argument.
“You can't just say that!”
“Tizza— hey! What are you doing?”
“He just meant,” said Tiziano loudly, “that you work very hard and should take some time for yourself once in a while. The ski resort here is lovely, you know, they decorate the whole place for Christmas. It's very scenic. You can get a discount on couple's massages at the spa, too, if you reserve in advance.”
“Sounds great,” Doppio said flatly. “Enjoy your vacation.”
He hung up before either of them could reply.
Doppio had another brief consultation with the boss, during which he decided that some crappy hotel coffee would make this whole unfruitful ordeal at least a little more tolerable, but he had somehow misplaced his coffee cup. He briefly considered going downstairs to get a new one from the front desk before quickly deciding against it. He was still in his pajamas and he had a job to do, after all. His next call was to the leader of the hitman team, who let it go to voicemail twice before finally picking up with a gruff, “What do you want?”
“Mr. Nero,” said Doppio, “The boss has a mission for you.”
“...Is this some kind of joke?” Risotto's voice was dangerously low. “Tell us we're on Christmas break and then send us out on a hit anyway?”
“Actually,” Doppio said, teeth gritted, “the boss is very curious to know why you think you're on break right now. Because he definitely didn't authorize it.”
“I did think it was a little unusual,” Risotto admitted. “The boss doesn't exactly seem like the ‘Christmas spirit’ type.”
Doppio bristled at the insinuation that this ungrateful asshole knew anything about the boss, but he kept his rage in check. Focus. “And where exactly did you get this information?”
Risotto didn't answer right away, presumably considering further insubordination before saying, “Buccellati. He let it slip during the meeting with Polpo that he and his team were going to Capri for the holidays.”
“Buccellati,” Doppio echoed, his fury slightly appeased. “Got it. Now as for your mission-”
“I'm busy,” Risotto interrupted. That was the last straw. Doppio snapped.
“Oh, you're busy, huh, asshole? What's so goddamn important that you think you can ignore a direct fucking order from the boss, huh? You're lucky you're so useful, otherwise you'd be busy planning your fucking funeral!”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to organize a Secret Santa for nine assassins?” Risotto shot back, unfazed. “I'm busy. Goodbye.”
Risotto hung up. Doppio screamed.
After that, it got a little fuzzy.
— — —
When his head cleared, he found himself sitting at the desk surrounded by what looked a whole lot like the broken remains of his missing coffee cup.
“So that's where it went,” he said aloud.
It was then that the phone rang, which was good because he wasn't sure where it had gone. Not his trusty Nokia 3110, which was still sitting on the desk, but the other one, the important one. He followed the ringtone through the hotel room until he traced its source to the bathroom, where it was sitting on the edge of the sink next to a small bottle of complimentary tea tree oil shampoo.
“I gotta stop leaving my phone in here when I take a piss,” he mumbled to himself before picking up. “Hi, boss!”
“Doppio.” The boss’ voice was calm, but he was breathing hard, like he had just been exercising. “Remind me later to launch a formal investigation into Nero's team.”
“I'll, uh, do my best, boss! You know my memory's not the greatest.”
“Your best is all that I would ask of you. What a pity that some cannot be bothered to offer even that.”
“Yeah, fuck those guys,” he said, not entirely sure who they were talking about but wanting to be supportive nonetheless. He took a seat on the edge of the bathtub.
“Christmas break,” the boss scoffed. Doppio could practically hear the disdainful air quotes. “In the mafia! Who would believe that?”
“I guess they figured nobody would be out committing crimes on Christmas or something?” he mused.
“Which is exactly why we must remain vigilant. How many others have come to that same conclusion and planned our demise to catch us when our guard is down?” Doppio nodded, then hummed an affirmative ‘uh huh’ when he remembered that the boss couldn’t see him. “Rest assured that when I find out who originated this particular rumor they will be swiftly and enthusiastically dealt with.”
“Good! Serves them right.”
“Oh, Doppio, you understand me so well.” Doppio smiled, phone still pressed to his ear. It smelled faintly of lavender. “The whole thing is a massive waste of time,” the boss muttered. “Acting like the birth of some… some mythological figure is reason to bring the gears of society to a grinding halt for an entire month.”
“Yeah,” Doppio agreed, “it's stupid.”
“What a pointless holiday. He isn't that special.”
“Yeah, he… wait, what?” Doppio blinked. “You mean Jesus?”
“I'm just saying,” said the boss, sounding increasingly annoyed, “that if we celebrated every single virgin birth we'd have no room left on the calendar.”
“Boss, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about Christmas, Doppio!” The phone line crackled with the volume of his voice. “No one wants to work because they're all spending time with their families and conveniently forgetting their duties to la famiglia! And the inescapable music, and the nativities — the fucking nativities, Doppio, I never should have moved to Naples — and advertisements on every corner! I can't stand it!”
Now, Doppio wasn’t religious; churches sort of gave him the creeps, and he didn’t have any fond family memories or traditions to look back on. As such, he wasn’t particularly keen on holidays. The Christmas season was just something he was vaguely aware of once a year when the stores around him started putting up lights and swapping out popsicles for panettone.
The boss, on the other hand, despised it with a passion. Doppio had found that out the hard way one year after buying him a Christmas present, a fancy red fountain pen that seemed like an appropriately impersonal gift for an employer who was allergic to telling people anything about himself and already had enough money to buy whatever the hell he wanted. The boss always got Doppio a birthday present, but Doppio had no idea when his birthday was and would never be so nosy as to ask. He had thought returning the favor would at least garner him a polite “thank you, my sweet Doppio,” but the boss’ reaction had been so frosty that he spent days afterward trying to figure out what his grudge against fountain pens was before he discovered the true reason: the boss just fucking hated Christmas.
“I'm sorry, boss,” Doppio said, trying to sound as comforting as he could. “I know you hate religious stuff. It'll be over in a week, though, yeah? Then we'll be back to business as usual.”
The boss didn't reply, and Doppio feared that maybe he had upset him more with the reminder that his preferences weren't as secret and anonymous as he would have liked. Eventually, though, he sighed.
“The opiate of the masses, as they say,” he said in a more level voice. “The common people can content themselves with such distractions while we take the opportunity to rise above them.”
“Yeah, exactly!”
“Which brings me to your next assignment.”
Doppio brightened up. This was something he could handle. “Do you have a job for me?”
“I have grown tired of playing this ridiculous game of telephone,” said the boss. Then hesitated, and said, “er, not the- the other one, I mean.”
“What?”
“Don't worry about it.” He cleared his throat. “We can spend all day attempting to trace this outrageous rumor back to its roots, but the fact remains that the majority of my… relatively trustworthy operatives are indisposed. A crucial opportunity still awaits me. It is time, Doppio, for me to seize it with my own hands.”
Doppio had to spend a frankly embarrassing amount of time thinking before he remembered what he had been doing before the boss called. “Are you gonna… torture the guy yourself?” he ventured.
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then…”
“My dearest Doppio,” said the boss sweetly, “my own right hand.”
“Oh.” It finally clicked. “You want me to do it.”
“You don't sound enthused.”
“I mean, it's not that I don't want to work,” he started, “it's just- I'm just no good at interrogations, boss, you know that. I'm not intimidating enough.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “Have more faith in yourself, Doppio. Besides, who else can I ask?” When Doppio didn't reply, the boss continued. “Who else but the only one who has not abandoned me? The only one loyal and steadfast enough to remain at his post while the rest go off to revel in frivolous festivities at the first whisper of a rumor? As always, my Doppio, you are the only one I can trust.”
“...Okay,” he relented. Sleep deprivation be damned, he could never resist when the boss asked so nicely. “Can I at least get some coffee first?”
“Of course,” the boss agreed graciously. “Anything for my hardworking underboss.”
“Thanks.” He stood up from the edge of the tub with a grunt. “I was gonna just make some, but I think my cup broke when I dropped it on the floor or something.”
“Ah. Yes.” The boss coughed. “That must have happened. Enjoy your coffee, Doppio. I will call you for a report when the job is finished.”
The boss hung up. Doppio started to head toward his suitcase full of clothes, then reconsidered and went towards the window to check the weather first. If it was raining, he would need to prepare accordingly. He had learned from experience that walking into a room dripping wet did nothing to improve his intimidation factor, and given his already unimpressive demeanor, he needed all the help he could get.
When he opened the blinds, however, he was greeted with a sight he never would have expected: the winding streets below were blanketed in a fine layer of white powder. Tiny snowflakes drifted gently past his hotel window. In the warm, coastal city of Naples, it was snowing on Christmas Eve.
“Oh, great,” Doppio sighed, and went to go get a jacket.
— — —
The gist of the problem was this: Passione sold all kinds of illegal substances, but the bulk of its profit came from a very specific drug produced by one Massimo Volpe and his incredibly convenient Stand ability. The drug was potent but had an expiration period of about two weeks, which meant that anyone trying to get their hands on it would have a hard time reselling it fast enough to turn a profit. Doppio was familiar with all of this already - the new part was that Volpe’s drug had been discovered far outside of Passione’s territory. The boss had initially suspected Volpe, of course, but a thorough investigation into his team revealed no discrepancies in the numbers. So he had assigned Buccellati to capture one of the out-of-territory dealers and bring him in for interrogation to get to the source of the mystery.
Doppio walked into the warehouse with a spring in his step powered by three espressos and the knowledge that after this he was going to go home and watch the most peaceful nature documentary he could find. The man he had been sent to interrogate was already tied up in a chair in the center of the room, and Buccellati's team had been considerate enough to lay out a veritable charcuterie board of tools meant for various unpleasant purposes. Doppio took a deep breath, kicked some snow off of his boots, and turned to face the prisoner.
“Hi,” he said, trying to go for friendly-in-a-threatening-way but mostly just ending up at friendly. “How's it going?”
The man in the chair glared at him and spit on the floor.
“Okay,” said Doppio. “Well, our normal torture guy is on Christmas break with his pe- partner, so this might take a little longer than usual. I hope you don't mind.” He sized up the array of tools on the table before picking up one that could best be described as a very malicious pair of pliers. The man's glare faltered just slightly. Doppio walked over with his pliers and found that they improved the efficacy of his threatening act measurably.
“Just in case you forgot,” he said, lining up the tool with one of the man's fingers, “we're looking for the names of your suppliers. Locations would be nice too,” he added, pressing down and raising his voice to be heard over the screaming. “I don't really have anywhere to be today, but if you talk now you can probably get home to your wife and kids or whatever in time for Christmas Eve dinner. Sound good to you?”
It did not, apparently, sound very good to him, but that wasn't really Doppio's problem.
Luckily, the guy must have been a small-time crook despite his initial bluster, because it didn’t take nearly as long as expected for him to crack. About half an hour, six fingernails, and a few broken bones later, Doppio heard the welcome sound of a phone ringing from the table. He made a token attempt to wipe the blood off his hands before picking it up by the least pointy-looking end and answering.
“Hello, Doppio speaking!”
“Excellent work,” said the boss, and Doppio grinned.
“Thanks, boss. I did my best.”
“You always do. What have you found?”
“So, I have some good news and some bad news.” The guy in the chair was staring at him with fear and confusion in his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but Doppio ignored him. “Good news is I’ve got a name and a location. He says he buys his stuff from a guy named Tony down in Salerno. I wrote down the address,” he said, gesturing toward a slightly bloodstained piece of paper on the table before remembering that the boss couldn’t see him.
“And the bad news?”
“Bad news is he said Tony and his gang are moving locations in a few days and he doesn't know where the new one's gonna be. Apparently they're hoping to sell most of their stock today and set up their base somewhere else.”
“Shit,” the boss hissed, making the phone line crackle. “We have to send someone today before we lose them again.”
“Sure thing, boss. Who should I call?”
The line was silent. Doppio ran through their remaining options in his head and quickly came to the same conclusion the boss surely had.
“Doppio,” the boss started, “my sweet, darling Doppio-”
“Yeah, okay,” he sighed. “I'll do it.”
“I hope you know that you are infinitely more valuable to me than all of the irresponsible, lazy excuses for mafiosi that make up the rest of Passione altogether.”
“Thanks, boss.” He started to put the phone back on the table, then paused. “Oh, what should I do with this guy?”
“Dispose of him. We don't need any unnecessary loose ends.”
“Got it. Talk to you soon!”
He hung up with a click. The man in the chair shook as he approached.
“Wh-what are you doing with that? I told you everything, I swear!”
Doppio looked down at the drill in his hands and discarded it with a shrug. The man visibly relaxed, but his face was still ashen.
“You're- you're gonna let me go, right?” he stammered. “I won't try anything, honest. I won't tell anybody.”
“Sorry,” Doppio said, and the man's eyes widened in fear. “Boss' orders. You know how it is.”
“Please, I told you everything I know!”
“Yeah, thanks, it's been really helpful.” Concentrating, he managed to summon King Crimson's arms to hang at his sides. “Just hold still and it'll barely even hurt, okay?”
“You crazy bastard!” he screamed. “You said I could go home to my family! Please, it's Christmas!”
Doppio paused. His eye twitched.
“It's December 24th, asshole.”
And with a swing of his arm, the man was no more.
— — —
When he arrived at the location, he was almost sure he had gotten the address wrong. He looked at the crumpled note in his hand, then back at the building, then back at the note again.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
It was like he had stepped out of an HBO crime drama and into a Hallmark holiday special. The sun was just beginning to set in Salerno, casting golden light across the freshly fallen snow on the rooftops and the quiet tree-lined street. The building in front of him boasted a row of quaint-looking storefronts, all decked out in holly and bells and enough Christmas lights to single-handedly line the pockets of the local electricity provider for months. Through the nearest window, Doppio could see a mouthwatering array of pastries laid out alongside what appeared to be a nativity scene constructed entirely of butter cookies. One of the sprinkles on the face of cookie Mary had fallen off to leave her with a perpetual wink. A wooden sign hanging above the doorway read Le Due Sorelle Pasticceria followed by a smaller, handwritten one that said Open on Christmas Eve!
“Well,” he said aloud to no one, “I guess I'm going in.”
A little bell tinkled over the door when he entered. The interior was even more excessively festive, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a large red-and-white display in the center of the bakery. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a tower of panettone boxes stacked so high it almost reached the ceiling. He craned his neck to try to get a look at the top of the stack.
“Welcome!”
Doppio jumped at the sound of a voice behind him. When he turned around, he saw a large woman in a flour-stained apron carrying a tray of struffoli. She breezed past him and put the tray down on the counter at the front of the store.
“Let me know if there's anything I can help you find,” she said cheerfully. “We'll gift wrap anything for no extra charge!”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Doppio said, slightly bewildered. “I'm just looking.”
“Take your time,” she replied.
The smell of fresh-baked pastries reminded Doppio that he had forgotten to eat lunch today, and he found himself eyeing the cookies with more than a perfunctory glance. The boss probably wouldn't mind if he bought some, right? It would make him look less suspicious, too. He wandered over to the counter where the baker was arranging the struffoli into neat little piles.
“Hi,” he said, “could I get some cookies, please?”
“Of course, honey.” She grabbed a box from behind the counter. “What would you like?”
“Can I get, uh, two pignoli,” he said, pointing at the pale cookies studded with pine nuts, “and two cuccidati- oh, wow, is that papassini? I haven't had that in ages.”
“Sure is,” she said warmly. She started packing cookies into the box. “You from Sardinia?”
“H-huh?” Doppio's eyes widened and a chill went down his spine. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, I just asked if you were from Sardinia,” she repeated. “Haven't gotten a lot of people asking for the papassini this year. It's a shame, they're one of my favorites to make. Always remind me of home, you know?”
Doppio stared at the diamond-shaped cookies as the baker chattered. “I'm not,” he said abruptly. “I'm not from Sardinia.”
For all he knew, it wasn't a lie, but it still felt like one the way it made his palms sweat. Behind the counter, the baker continued to pack the cookies, oblivious to his sudden bout of anxiety.
“Oh? Oh, well,” she said with a shrug. “Should I add some of those too? A couple more to bring home to your parents?”
“No,” he said slowly. “No, I don't… just this. Thanks.”
She put the box of cookies on the counter and Doppio paid for them after taking three tries to count out his change correctly. Cookies in hand, he stood by the counter in a daze until the baker cleared her throat politely.
“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked.
Doppio blinked a few times. What had he come here for, again? He tried to remember his last call from the boss. He had been sent to interrogate the dealer, and then…
“Actually, yeah,” he said. He gave the baker a quick once-over — she was a middle-aged woman with curly reddish hair and a round, cheerful face. She didn't look like a criminal, but then again, neither did Doppio. “Do you maybe have a bathroom I could use?”
For the first time since he had walked in, her smile fell into a small frown. “I'm sorry, sweetie, we don't usually let customers in the back. You could try the park down the street?”
“I just, uh,” Doppio tried, giving her the most wide-eyed innocent look he could manage, “I think I drank a little too much coffee this morning, and my stomach isn't feeling so good…”
“Oh, alright,” she relented. “Come here, honey, I'll show you where it is.” She motioned for him to come behind the counter and he followed her through a door in the back. Doppio hid his smile behind his hand — as expected, she had fallen for the act right away. At least his babyface was good for something. He got a glimpse of a large room filled with baking supplies and equipment before he was quickly shepherded into a dimly-lit bathroom.
He waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade into the distance before inspecting the bathroom. There was nothing much besides a toilet, a sink, and a little plastic hand soap dispenser labeled Winter Apple Spice. For research purposes, Doppio pumped out a little bit onto his hand and found to his disappointment that Winter Apple Spice mostly just smelled like soap.
Bathroom inspected, Doppio cautiously opened the door and poked his head out into the larger room. It was a kitchen, with long tables full of baking equipment set up in the middle and other supplies stacked on wire shelves around the perimeter. Nothing looked immediately suspicious, but of course no self-respecting drug dealer would leave their stash lying around in plain sight, no matter how cheerful and full of holiday spirit they might be. He walked over to one of the shelves and started poking around. Huge bags of sugar, even bigger bags of flour, more sprinkles than he had ever seen in one place, an absolutely mind-boggling number of panettone boxes lining the walls… he perked up when he came across a jar of some mysterious substance full of bubbles, but one whiff of the yeasty smell inside was enough to dash his hopes of uncovering any illicit chemistry. That, and the label on the back that read lievito madre, which he only saw once he was already unsuccessfully trying to wipe the sticky goop off of his hands.
He was busy smearing unfortunate amounts of sourdough starter onto his expensive pants when he heard a door open on the right side of the room. He quickly ducked into a corner behind a shelf, but to his horror, one of the panettone boxes toppled to the floor with a dull thud. He frantically reached out to grab the box and managed to pull it toward himself as the door swung fully open.
“...Hello?” a voice called out.
From his vantage point behind the wire shelf, he could peek between a pair of flour bags and see the person who had just entered the room. She was holding a large briefcase in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. She bore a certain resemblance to the baker in the front, but where the baker had been round and smiling, this woman was all sharp edges and a scowl. Her brown hair had a faded green streak in it, giving her the air of an aging punk who had never quite outgrown her teenage fashion sense.
…Somehow, that comparison left a small part of Doppio feeling inexplicably offended.
“Tony, you in here?” she called. She put down the briefcase she was carrying, and Doppio could see that her apron had the name PANDORA embroidered in small red letters on top.
On his left, the baker poked her head out through the doorway that led to the front.
“Oh, Dora, you're back,” she said with a smile. Doppio pressed himself back as far as he could behind the shelf. “Need something?”
“Nah,” said Pandora, “I got it all taken care of. Just thought I heard somebody in here.”
“Oh, I let a customer back here to use the bathroom,” said the baker. “Poor kid looked like he was about to cry.”
“Again?” Pandora raised an eyebrow. “You're such a softie.”
“I can't help it! It comes with being a big sister.”
Pandora shook her head in exasperation, but there was a fond smile on her face. She took a drag of her cigarette before speaking again.
“Just make sure he doesn’t poke around too much back here,” she said. “I got the money from the last sale, but we still have a lot of product to move before the day is over.”
Doppio’s ears perked up at that. There was his confirmation. Now all he had to do was figure out where the sisters were hiding their drugs so he could report back to the boss… and hopefully, find out how they were getting them in the first place, although that could probably wait until the interrogation team was done with whatever unsavory activities they were enjoying during their Christmas break.
“Oh, good! I was wondering when they'd stop dilly-dallying and pay us.” The baker brushed some flour off of her hands. “I'll leave you to it, then. Those cookies aren't going to sell themselves!”
She started to head back into the front, then suddenly stopped. Doppio realized with a chill that she was staring directly at the shelf he was hiding behind. He held his breath and ducked down beneath the small gap he had been looking through.
“Dora,” she said, “did you move this one?”
“Huh?” He heard footsteps as the younger sister walked over to take a look. “No, this whole row of boxes is supposed to get picked up later today.” A pause. “Shit. Where did it go?”
Doppio looked down at the box in his hands. It was only then that it occurred to him that unless the recipe used concrete instead of flour, there was no way a fruitcake should ever be quite this heavy. He was starting to think he had a pretty good idea of where the bakery was hiding all its drugs, after all.
He had about two seconds to congratulate himself on figuring out the mystery before the box exploded.
Doppio shrieked and threw it as far from himself as he could, but not quickly enough to avoid being pelted with what felt like a blast of sand all over his hands and face. He scrambled backwards, skin stinging and raw from the impact, and saw the mangled remains of the cardboard box overflowing with white powder. That was Volpe's drug for sure, spilling like table salt onto the floor.
“Well, now,” said a friendly voice behind him. He whipped around to find the baker looming over him with her hands on her hips. “What on earth are you doing back here, honey?”
“I, uh,” said Doppio, trying to summon up his best helpless child impression, which wasn’t particularly difficult when his voice was already cracking, “got lost?”
“You’re about to get a whole lot more than lost, kid.” Pandora stepped forward to join her sister, and a hulking, translucent figure materialized over her shoulder. Doppio barely had time to process the fact that he was now dealing with a Stand user — potentially two Stand users, never a good thing, at least when they weren’t on his payroll — before it was raising up a massive arm above his head. He dove out of the way with a yelp as the fist came crashing down just centimeters from where he had been kneeling.
“See? He dodged. He is a Stand user.” Pandora looked smug as she exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. Doppio scrambled to his feet and backed away. “Tony, you have to stop letting people back here just because you feel sorry for them.”
“Why are you always right about these things?” Tony sighed. “Look at that cute, innocent face, though! He’s way too young to be a cop.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not a gangster. I heard Passione hires twelve-year-olds.”
“Hey,” said Doppio, whose irritation was quickly starting to overpower his fear, “that was one time.”
“Oh, so you are Passione,” Pandora said casually. Doppio winced. Damn him and his habit of defending the boss’ questionable business practices. “How old are you, then, sixteen?”
“Shut up, I’m old enough to drink! Legally,” he added. Never mind that there was nothing even remotely legal about any of the IDs in his various wallets, which displayed an age range of anywhere from eighteen to thirty. “I just have a good skincare routine.”
“Great,” said Pandora. “Then my sister doesn’t have to feel bad about killing you.”
That was all the warning he received before the shelf behind him erupted. He leapt forward and covered his head, expecting another explosion like the first, but instead a heavy weight slammed into his back and sent him crashing to the ground. He gasped for air as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. More and more white powder piled up on top of him, seemingly coming from nowhere, pinning him to the ground on his stomach. Frantically, he tried to pull himself out from under the pile to no avail.
“What the hell?” he croaked out. “I thought your Stand did explosions!”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s just a little parlor trick,” said Tony with an all-too-good-natured grin. “My White Christmas is a whole lot more versatile than that.”
She tossed her hair back from her shoulders, revealing the name PANETTONE embroidered at the top of her apron.
“Ohhh,” Doppio gasped, despite his growing panic. “Like panettone and pandoro, I get it-”
He was cut off as a mound of powder slid over his head, leaving him coughing and spitting to get it out of his mouth. Being slowly crushed under a mountain of drugs was already a less than ideal situation to be in, and accidentally ingesting them probably wouldn’t improve it.
To make matters worse, Pandora was walking closer with a threatening gleam in her eye, her Stand dragging its gigantic fists close behind. It looked like a short-range power type, with a grinning face and two long, stiff wooden arms hanging from its shoulders.
“Little Drummer Boy might not be quite as versatile,” she said, “but it gets the job done.”
Her Stand raised its fists again, then stopped. Pandora had a look of confusion on her face. In his panic, it took Doppio a second to realize why: from the pocket of her apron, a phone was ringing.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked, but Doppio ignored her, focusing all his energy on pulling himself out of the pile far enough to reach the phone. It was no use; he wasn’t strong enough. The ringtone was getting louder and louder.
“Poor thing,” Tony said, although he could barely hear her voice over the ringing. “I must have hit his head too hard when I knocked him over. Dora, are you sure he’s even a Stand user?”
The words unlocked something in the back of his mind. With a burst of sudden strength, Doppio managed to pull himself free. Pandora took a step back in alarm, but Doppio was faster, sweeping her legs with a powerful swing of one red, ghostly arm. He tackled her to the ground with single-minded determination and reached into her apron pocket to pull out a shiny green cell phone. Breathless, he held it to his ear.
“Boss!” he gasped.
“Doppio, move!”
He rolled to the side to avoid a punch directly to the head. Little Drummer Boy caught his lower leg instead and smashed it, making him scream with pain as the bone crunched nauseatingly under its fist. A shockwave traveled up his leg on impact and rattled his teeth in his skull.
“What the hell are you doing with my lighter, you little shit?” Pandora hissed.
“Shut up!” Doppio wailed. Another wave of pain rolled through his leg as he dragged himself further away. “Boss, she got my leg! It hurts like a bitch!”
“Stay calm, my Doppio,” the boss urged through the phone. “Use Epitaph to predict their movements. You must stay wary of both enemies to avoid their attacks.”
Concentrating, he felt the familiar yet off-putting sensation of the boss’ Stand materializing on his forehead. He shook his bangs in front of his face and tried to ignore the pain in his leg to look toward the future. When he did, he almost hurled.
“Uh, boss,” he said, queasy, “it’s not looking so good.”
“What do you see?” the boss asked. When Doppio didn't respond immediately, he repeated, “Tell me, Doppio! What did you see?”
“My, uh, m-my leg is…”
He looked down to see his crushed leg start swelling up. Frantically he rolled his pants up to get a better look, but there was no apparent cause of the swelling, just his skin stretching painfully as his leg expanded like a balloon. In his peripheral vision, Tony got closer, looming over him menacingly like a grim specter of death and freshly-baked cookies.
“I'll be honest, honey, you seem like you're confused enough already,” she said, “so I'll just tell you. White Christmas can rapidly multiply the volume of any powdered substance. In this case,” she added, gesturing to Doppio's rapidly swelling calf, “that includes your crushed bones.”
“W-wow, that's, like, a really specific Stand ability,” Doppio stuttered, trying to stall for time as he cast his eyes about the room for anything that would help him. His eyes fell on a shiny kitchen knife lying on the counter.
“So that's how they've been getting so much of our product,” the boss muttered in his ear. “Doppio, you have to stop the swelling before it travels further up your body.”
“I don’t know how, boss!” His lower leg was grossly distended, and the shower of blood in Epitaph’s vision was anything but comforting. “It’s gonna explode! I’m gonna die!”
“I am not letting you die,” the boss snapped, “and especially not to a couple of Christmas-themed drug dealers! Take the knife!”
The knife wasn’t far, but it was still more than two meters away. Using King Crimson’s arms to brace against the counter, Doppio lunged on unsteady legs toward the kitchen knife and grabbed it by the handle. Pandora tried to approach him again, but he caught her with a punch to the stomach and sent her stumbling back out of range.
“I got the knife, boss!” he shouted triumphantly.
“Good. Now you must use it!”
Doppio looked down at his leg, which at this point resembled a very ripe grape, if grapes were flesh-colored and a foot long and altogether entirely unappetizing. He swallowed.
“Doppio,” said the boss, “I know you’re scared, but you are my strongest, bravest, most important subordinate and I need you to make it out of this alive. Be brave for me. I know you can do it.”
He took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut. Then he plunged the knife into his leg. The pain was overwhelming, and he nearly blacked out, but he managed with an immense effort of will to open his eyes again and look. Blood was gushing in worrying quantities out of the wound, along with a mealy, off-white substance pouring out like rice from a bag. Doppio almost wished he had fainted after all.
“Gross,” said Pandora on his right. “Tony, that’s nasty.”
“I’m not the one who turned his leg into bone meal!” The older sister sounded indignant.
“I was aiming for his head!”
“How is crushing his head any better than blowing up his leg?”
“It’s more efficient. And less disgusting.”
“Less disgusting?”
While they bickered, he looked to the future again and saw a flurry of white in Epitaph’s vision. He clutched the phone tighter to his ear.
“Boss-”
“Just leave, Doppio,” the boss said, his voice urgent. “I didn’t account for such dangerous Stand users. Escape and we can track them down later.”
“But they’re stealing from us!” he protested. “They’re selling our stuff. In fucking cake boxes! We have to make them pay!”
“You’re not making anyone pay with your leg injured that badly. Now go!”
Doppio made a run for it. At least, he tried, but limping across the room on one functioning leg and using King Crimson’s arms like a very large pair of crutches resulted in more of a fast hop than a run. As he approached the door, bags of flour started exploding on either side, making him veer to the left and right to avoid the explosive force. He coughed and squinted through the fog of white.
“Dora, don't let him get away!”
Little Drummer Boy took another swing at him, but it was slow enough that it was easy to avoid with the help of Epitaph. Its fist smashed into a metal table to his right instead, and a shower of rapidly-multiplying tiny metal debris lodged in his arm. He cursed and tried to pick some out with his teeth as he ran before they multiplied any further.
“That’s really stretching the definition of ‘powder,’” he muttered into the phone.
“Can you quit talking to my lighter?” Pandora said from behind her Stand. Doppio handily dodged another blow. “It’s freaking me out.”
Doppio landed a punch on her, this time on the shoulder, sending her careening back and slamming into a table. Across the room, Tony gasped and came running towards her sister through the screen of dust and flour filling the room.
“Dora!” she shouted. “Are you alright?”
Doppio took his chance and lurched across the last few meters to the exit. He yanked the door open and stumbled out into the blessedly clear evening air outside the bakery. For a few seconds, he felt relief, and maybe even triumph.
Then he tried to take a step. His foot refused to move. He looked down and realized, to his horror, that he was standing knee-deep in a pile of snow. And it was quickly getting taller.
An incongruously cheerful laugh rang out behind him, and he turned to see Tony watching him through the doorway, her silhouette barely visible through the flour hanging in the air.
“Sweetheart, did you really think you could escape White Christmas in the snow?” she taunted.
Unfortunately, Doppio couldn’t think of a clever comeback because he was too busy being covered in more white powder than Al Pacino in Scarface for the second time that day. The boss was saying something over the phone, but Doppio wasn’t paying attention. The blood was rushing in his ears, his body was fucking freezing, and he was staring with unblinking intensity at the door to the bakery.
“Doppio, don’t panic, just wait for me and I will come to-”
“Boss. Shut up, please.”
The snow was up to his chest now. He flicked at one of the buttons on the phone experimentally, and felt it grow warm next to his ear.
“I think… yeah. I think I’ve got an idea. I’ll… I’ll call you back. Bye.”
He hung up. Then, with all of King Crimson’s strength, he chucked the lighter in his hand directly into the building.
The explosion was almost instant. Within seconds, the flour in the air went up in flames, quickly igniting the massive quantities that White Christmas had produced during the fight. Two screams were barely audible over the loud boom. The snow managed to cushion Doppio from the worst of it, but he still felt the heat of the flames licking at his face through the open doorway.
After the initial impact, the screams went silent. All Doppio could hear was the gentle crackling of fire as the quaint wooden building started to smolder and burn. The snow around him slowly began to melt from the heat.
As he looked on at the flaming gingerbread-scented corpse of Le Due Sorelle Pasticceria, he had a sobering realization.
“Damn,” he sighed. “I didn’t even get to eat my cookies.”
And with his job finally finished, he promptly closed his eyes and passed out.
— — —
Doppio awoke not to the sound of a ringtone, but to a knock at the door. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The hotel room came into focus, cozy and warm and illuminated by rays of late morning sun sneaking in through the blinds. The knock came again.
“Room service,” called a voice through the door.
Doppio squinted suspiciously at it for a moment, but he was too sleepy to muster up the energy to really care. His head felt fuzzy, but not in a bad way — after enough grievous injuries on the job, he was familiar with the feeling of being on a whole lot of painkillers. The good stuff, the kind that could only be obtained outside of a hospital if you were second-in-command of the gang with a monopoly on Italy's drug trade. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter in bed.
“Uh, come in!”
The door unlocked with a soft click, and a man wheeled a cart into the room. On it was a tray piled high with pastries and fresh fruit and, most importantly, a steaming hot cappuccino on the side. When the smell of food and coffee reached him, for a second Doppio was convinced that he had died in that pile of snow and gone to heaven. Then he remembered all the murders and figured that heaven was probably off the table.
“Thanks,” he said with a smile as the porter put the tray on his side table. “This looks great.”
“Of course,” the man said. “Merry Christmas, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Huh?” Doppio paused with a cornetto already halfway to his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Merry Christmas.”
The porter wheeled the cart back out of the room, and Doppio was left to happily eat his food in silence. Any worries about the brief twinges of pain in his leg were washed away by the sweet taste of flaky pastry dough and rich, milky coffee. He didn’t remember ordering room service, but that didn’t really bother him. Either he had simply forgotten or the boss had pulled some of his mysterious mafia strings and ordered it for him. Considering the sheer size of the meal, it was probably the latter. Doppio licked a little pastry cream off his fingers and reminded himself to thank him next time he called.
As if on cue, the phone on his nightstand started to ring. Doppio leaned over and picked it up.
“Doppio shpeaking,” he said around a mouthful of food. On the other end, he heard a soft laugh.
“Hello, Doppio,” said the boss. “How are you feeling?”
“Great!” He swallowed his pastry and cleared his throat. “This food is really good. And my leg barely hurts at all.”
“I’m glad.” The boss was as composed as ever, but he sounded a little relieved. “I’ve called in a Stand user to heal the worst of the damage, but it will be a few days before he arrives- no, not Cioccolata, don’t make that face,” he said, and Doppio tried to school his expression into something less disgusted. “He’s a relative of Volpe’s, apparently. Reluctant to form any connections with Passione, but he’s willing to do us a favor in exchange for a generous investment in his new restaurant. I’ve been assured that his Stand will completely restore ou-” The boss coughed. “Restore your leg to its prior state.”
“Oh.” Doppio chewed thoughtfully as he processed the information. “That’s cool. Too bad we can’t hire him. It’d be nice if we had more Stand users that could heal people.”
“Indeed,” the boss said ruefully. “Unfortunately, those who take on Polpo's test tend to be more inclined toward violence. And for better or worse, a Stand is a reflection of the soul.”
“Mmm, yeah.” Doppio bit into a perfectly ripe, red strawberry. “We gotta start recruiting people who volunteer at animal shelters or something.”
The boss laughed again. “My Doppio, you are as innovative as ever.”
Doppio smiled and finished his strawberry, then wiped the juice off of his mouth with the back of his hand. The boss was quiet for a few minutes, presumably planning Passione’s new animal shelter marketing campaign. When he spoke up again he sounded oddly subdued.
“Doppio,” he said, “I wanted to… apologize.”
“Hm? For what?” Doppio frowned and tried to think back on anything the boss might have done in the past few days that was worth apologizing for. “For drinking all my Mountain Dew and only leaving a tiny bit in the bottle?”
“For- what?” The boss sounded taken aback. “How did you- I mean, why on earth would I do that?”
“I dunno.” Doppio shrugged. “You have the key to my hotel room and I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink it, so…”
“Well.” The boss cleared his throat. “You must have simply forgotten about it.”
“I’m not mad at you, boss. I just wish you’d at least throw the bottle out instead of leaving only a little bit in it to go flat in the fridge.”
“...I’ll keep it in mind,” he said reluctantly. “Anyway, I should have calculated the risks better before sending you to face two dangerous Stand users alone when it was less than absolutely necessary. Had I simply waited until more operatives were available, this all could have been avoided.”
“But the guy said they were gonna move all their stuff, right? We had to get them right away.”
“Yes, but it would have only been a matter of time before we were able to track them down again.”
“But we got ‘em, didn’t we?” Doppio pushed on. “They’re dead, right? They, uh, what were their names, Focaccia and Ciabbata or something? And all their stuff blew up?”
“Yes, Doppio, you made sure of that. You did very well.”
Doppio smiled.
“So it’s fine, isn’t it? I’m your underboss. It’s my job.”
The boss sighed. “I simply wanted to apologize for making you spend your… your holiday in bed with a shattered leg. I know you were looking forward to it.”
It was Doppio’s turn to laugh, then. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” the boss demanded.
“Boss,” he said, “I don’t give a shit about Christmas.”
“...I recall you buying Christmas cookies,” he said carefully. “And you gave me a gift a few years ago.”
“Well, yeah, but that was just- well, I like cookies,” Doppio said, feeling a little silly. “And I don’t know when your birthday is.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Yes, I suppose you don’t.”
“Honestly, I’m kind of excited to spend all day in bed eating room service and watching nature documentaries.” Doppio picked up a piece of melon, then hesitated. “Uh, I mean, unless you have a job for me to do. I don’t think I can really move right now, but I can still do, like… paperwork?”
“No, no,” the boss said, “you’ve done more than enough. Rest.”
“Okay!” Doppio leaned back into the cushions and popped the melon cube into his mouth.
“Should you need more painkillers, they’re in the hidden compartment of your briefcase,” the boss said. “As for the other box… open it whenever you’d like.”
Doppio leaned over and looked down to see his leather briefcase resting against the side of the bed, where the boss must have considerately placed it so it would be easy to access without getting up. Next to it was a small, rectangular box wrapped in red paper with a shiny bow on top. Doppio’s eyes widened.
“Boss,” he protested, “you didn’t have to get me anything! You hate Christmas!”
“I do,” he acknowledged. “So consider this simply a reward for your hard work.”
Doppio reached down to take the box in his hands. Slowly, he tugged on the ends of the ribbon to loosen the bow, sliding it off of the box and placing it on the sheets next to him. The wrapping paper was next, freed from one piece of tape at a time as he removed it without tearing it. He knew that there was no point in being so careful since he would have to dispose of it all sooner or later when the time came to move hotels, but treating a precious gift from the boss with anything but the utmost care felt like sacrilege.
When all the wrapping paper was off, he opened the lid to see an assortment of beautifully-decorated cookies staring back up at him. There were pale pignoli cookies, colorful fig-filled cuccidati, lacy sugar cookies, and in the very corner, two diamond-shaped papassini. Doppio smiled so hard he thought he might sprain his cheeks.
“Thank you, boss,” he said. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways,” the boss said, sounding a tiny bit smug. “Enjoy, Doppio. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Wait!” Doppio called out before he could hang up. “I know you can’t tell me your birthday, but I still want to get you a present.”
The boss thought about it for a minute. “Next year,” he said, “you can get me something on your birthday, and we’ll exchange gifts. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Yeah, that works!” Doppio grinned again. “I’m gonna get you something really nice, I promise!”
“I’ll look forward to it. Take care, Doppio.”
“Bye, boss!”
The boss hung up. Doppio finished his breakfast.
And for the rest of the day, he did absolutely nothing but sleep and eat and watch TV and overall enjoy the best Christmas he had ever had in his life.
Capri, December 26th, 10:36 AM
The phone rang once. Bruno picked it up.
“Hello, this is Buccellati.”
“Hi,” said the voice on the other end. It wasn’t a voice he recognized, but that didn’t matter; he had instructions from the boss to expect a call, and the phone had rung right on time. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Of course,” Bruno said, cautious. “Ask away.”
“You’re in Capri right now, right?”
“Yes, I’m in Capri.” Bruno looked out the window of the rental to the beach outside, where he could see Fugo getting pelted by Nerf darts and flailing in the sand. Narancia was cackling nearby, holding his new gift. “Do I need to return to Naples?”
“No, not yet. I’m just calling to get some info.” On the other end of the line, he could hear what sounded like pages turning. “Next question, did you tell Risotto Nero that you were going on Christmas break?”
“I… think I did, yes,” Bruno said, frowning as he tried to fathom what this line of questioning could possibly be leading to. He hadn’t gotten this far in the gang by sticking his nose where he shouldn’t, but a simple question might not hurt if he phrased it right. “Was I out of line for mentioning my personal plans?”
“Huh? Oh, no, you’re not in trouble,” the voice assured him. “I’m trying to track down whoever started the Christmas break rumor. We know it was a rival drug operation trying to catch us off guard, but we don’t know how they did it. So that’s, uh, that’s my third question, I guess. Who told you about the break?”
Bruno took a second to take in the new information. Then, very carefully, he spoke.
“I heard it from a man at Libeccio,” he said. “I assumed he was a member of Passione, but now that you mention it, I’m not sure he was. I had never seen him before that night.”
“I knew it,” the voice said. “Can you describe him? His name? Any details about his appearance?”
“He was sh- average height,” Bruno quickly corrected himself. “Brown hair. I don’t remember much else.”
“Nothing else?”
“I’m sorry,” Bruno said. “It was a busy night. I talked with a lot of people that day.”
“Damn. Alright.” There was another sound of rustling paper. “Well, if you think of anything else, let me know.”
“I will.” Bruno had no idea how he would possibly contact this person again, but it didn’t matter. “Is that all?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”
The call ended. Bruno put the phone back in its cradle. Then he slid the door open and walked outside, to where Narancia was currently being tackled into the sand by an irate Fugo. Abbacchio watched from a lawn chair off to the side with a look of barely-hidden amusement on his face. Bruno cleared his throat.
“Narancia,” he called out, “can I have a word with you?”
“Yeah, tell Fugo to fuck off first!” he yelled.
“I was trying to read and he wouldn’t stop shooting me with the fucking Nerf gun!” Fugo hissed.
“Only assholes read books on the beach!”
“Both of you, stop it,” Bruno said firmly, and the two teens reluctantly untangled themselves. “Narancia, with me.”
Narancia followed him inside, vigorously shaking the sand out of his hair like an overexcited puppy. Bruno slid the door closed behind them and took a seat at the table.
“Do you remember,” he said, “when you said we should go to California for Christmas break?”
“Yeah!” Narancia grinned. “Oh my god, did you buy plane tickets? Is this a surprise? Are we going to LA!?”
“No,” said Bruno, feeling a little part of his heart melt at the way Narancia’s smile fell. “I just want to know where you heard about the Christmas break from.”
“Whaddya mean?” He tilted his head in confusion, further contributing to the general impression of a puppy. “Of course we have a Christmas break.”
“Most years, we don’t,” said Bruno. “This is your first year in the gang, so you wouldn’t know, but it’s highly unusual for the boss to give us any time off.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” Narancia said, sticking his tongue out. “Everybody gets Christmas off.”
“I see,” said Bruno, quickly coming to a realization. “So you just assumed we did too, right?”
“Well, yeah!”
Bruno put a hand on Narancia’s shoulder and gave him his best no-nonsense stare.
“Narancia,” he said, “Don’t tell anyone about this. Understand?”
“Why?”
“Just trust me. You could be in serious trouble.”
“Okay, I guess,” he said, which was probably as good as Bruno was going to get. “I still think it’s dumb, though. What kind of idiot wouldn’t give people the day off for Christmas?”
Bruno looked out the window. He briefly contemplated his life choices. Then he sighed and patted Narancia on the shoulder.
“What kind of idiot, indeed.”