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Bucciarati’s hair is soft.
Abbacchio had no thoughts on his leader’s hair, other than the fact that it was black and shiny and well-maintained and he occasionally (constantly) entertained thoughts about running his fingers through it.
Like a lover would.
Shame burns in his chest at the thought, at the possibility of Bucciarati waking up and seeing his trusted subordinate sitting next to him in bed, fingers through hair like he’s some woman Abbacchio had the misfortune of loving.
He can’t bring himself to care. I might die tomorrow, or the next day. Let me be selfish, just this once.