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Two years ago, Sorbet and Gelato were murdered. Their bodies were retrieved in dire conditions, bringing immense pain and emotional damage to their colleagues. Risotto swore to avenge their friends and defeat the boss, no matter what they needed to do. However, their hopes died as the days, weeks, and months went by without a trace leading to any information about their boss.
That's it until the news spread. Passione's boss had an estranged daughter, whom he retrieved from her late mother's residence to keep under his wing for some reason. They had nothing but a girl to track and use to defeat their boss. As they correctly guessed, Bucciarati became the girl's guardian after he became a capo a day after his mentor, Polpo, mysteriously killed himself. All they needed was to track their group and snatch the girl.
Formaggio got the task of finding and abducting Trish Una from Squadra Guardie del Corpo. A pretty simple task, considering La Squadra di Esecuzione had killed hundreds of thousands of victims before. Kidnapping a high-schooler from a bunch of high schoolers would be a slice of cake for a group of skilled men in their mid or late twenties.
The red-head assassin walked down the street with his hands inside his pockets, shrinking enough to crawl inside the car through the open window. He watched as Narancia bobbed his head and sang the song blasting on the radio, wishing he could sing along with him — that was fire. Believing he had enough of talking, he returned to normal and cleared his throat, making the younger boy turn his head with wide eyes.
— Wassup, boy, where 'ya go-
A fist to the face. Formaggio wheezed as Narancia punched him in the right cheek, sending him into the backseat like a sack of potatoes. The teenager climbed into his stomach and held a switchblade to his neck, narrowing his purple eyes with distrust.
— Who the fuck are you? — Narancia hissed, making Formaggio snort. — Why are you in my car?!
— Calm down, bro. I'm Formaggio, a fellow worker from Passione! — Formaggio put his hands up and offered Narancia a sly smile, which was not appreciated. — I heard the fat fuck killed himself inside his cell, and everyone is attending his funeral... Everyone but you and your friends...
— Well, I have no idea where they are! — Narancia bluffed, pressing the blade harder against Formaggio's skin. — But I know damn well you shouldn't be here!
— If you don't know where they are, who got 'ya this nice car? Radio blasting and shit. — Formaggio grinned, knowing he had cornered Narancia. — You're as young as a baby, and babies can't rent cars, you little smartass!
— I rented it with Bucciarati's credentials, duh! He always rents cars for me! — Narancia retorted, sounding unconvincing. Formaggio could notice he was starting to sweat and falter. — Now get the fuck off my car, bald-looking carrot!
— Kids these days have no respect for their elders... You'd get a beating back in my days, you brat! — Formaggio grunted and summoned Little Feet, having the advantage inside the cramped car with Narancia's attention on him. — Gotta teach you a lesson now, son.
Little Feet used its long blade-like finger to slice Narancia's face, causing the boy to shriek and retaliate with a barrage of punches toward Formaggio. The assassin knew he had to hold his horses to survive when he heard a threatening sound outside the car, a plane-like noise, so he did his best to keep the altercation going long enough for his Stand to work.
Formaggio kicked the door open and tossed Narancia out of the car, fruitlessly closing it again, rolling up the window, and locking the doors to keep him out. His eyes doubled in size as a miniature fighter plane lowered itself to his eye level, sending bullets everywhere. The assassin tried shielding his face with his arms, wincing in pain as the shots hit his torso and muscles.
Aerosmith shot every inch of the car as Narancia the door, causing Formaggio to crawl out while shrinking himself again. He knew he'd have no chance to survive if that crazed kid laid eyes on him, so hiding was his best option for now. As the vehicle shook with the violence inflicted upon it, the assassin crawled into a sidewalk gutter to watch.
— Where are you?! Show up, you piece of shit! I'll kill you! — Narancia roared, looking around with fire in his eyes. He retracted his Stand once he realized people were staring at him, yet he kept looking around for Formaggio. — Fuck... Fugo will kill me!
Formaggio chuckled, watching as Narancia slowly shrank in size right before his eyes. Even though his teammates belittled his skill, Little Feet was the perfect weapon to ambush their targets in public without drawing any attention. And, in case someone saw it... Who would ever believe if someone said they saw a person shrinking out of nowhere?
Once Narancia was as small as a rat, Formaggio climbed out of the gutter and returned to his average size, scooping the teenager from the ground and grinning maliciously. The first step to his plane was completed, and now he only had to get information from the boy to find Trish.
— Look at the mess you made, you little bitch. — Formaggio grunted, checking himself and seeing the bullet wounds scattered over his chest. — I have as many holes as Swiss cheese!
— It fits you well, huh? — Narancia snickered, kicking around in an attempt to escape. Formaggio held him by the hair on his nape, causing him to grunt. — 'Cause, you know, your name means chee-
— Do you really think that's my real name, you dumbass? Of course not! It's an alias to keep my identity protected! — Formaggio rolled his eyes, getting inside the semi-wrecked car and tossing Narancia inside the glove compartment. — Me and my fellas kept our last names and adopted fake first names. Only pussies like you and your friends use their real names. Besides, your fucking name means orange. Shut the fuck up, lil' bro.
Narancia groaned from inside the glove compartment, finding himself too small to push it open. He heard a rustling outside and grew nervous, especially when he heard Formaggio cackling. He checked his pockets and found the map missing, realizing his enemy could now track his friends and Trish.
— A vineyard, eh? Dayum', boy! Thugs used to be smart back in my days! Who the fuck needs such stupid instructions about such an easy ride? — Formaggio snorted, turning on the radio again and whistling. — That's my jam, yo! You're not that bad, kiddo...
Narancia kept screaming offenses and smashing the glove compartment walls to no avail while listening to his enemy rapping while driving the car toward Trish. Formaggio even had the audacity to open the glove compartment to fish out his CDs, closing it again on his face before he even could escape. It was going to be a long ride.
— I gotta stop here, or else your friends will spot me as soon as I park the car. — Formaggio mused as the car stopped, and Narancia heard the door opening. — Don't you worry, champ. They'll come for you in a minute. It's a pity I won't get to see you getting your ass whooped after they realize Trish is gone.
Formaggio left the car laughing, shrinking again to the size of a tarantula and walking through the tall grass while humming a rap song. He looked around the house and sensed he wouldn't be able to get through the front door and get a greeting hug, so he went behind the building and climbed up some dried branches towards a window.
Trish is right before him, looking through the very window he's perched on. The girl missed him and opened the window to get fresh air, giving Formaggio a way in. He silently got inside and hid under the bed, wondering how to take the girl out without alerting anyone.
As on cue, he heard Bucciarati and his men talking outside, and the voices got slightly distant. Formaggio then sliced Trish's calf, making the girl yelp and climb into the bed while checking her wounded skin. The assassin grinned, knowing the deed was already done.
— What the- Is that a rat? — Trish squeals, walking towards the door and peeking outside. — Hey, I need one of you to come and check this room! I think there is a rat in here!
Formaggio almost felt offended (and nervous) about Trish screaming at the top of her lungs about a rat. Luckily, the girl started shrinking before anyone came into the room, and he managed to drag her into the wardrobe, clasping a rough hand over her mouth to shut her up. She was slightly smaller than him, making it easier to restrain the teenager as she tried to escape his arms.
— Shut up, will 'ya? — Formaggio grunted, feeling as Trish violently thrashed around. — ...fuck.
Formaggio held his breath as the closet doors were opened in a hurry. Bucciarati looked between the coats and dresses, looking for Trish and missing her at his feet. The girl hopelessly watched as the capo left while screaming for them to search for the girl at the vineyard.
— What a pity... Bucciarati missed you! — Formaggio mused with an overly amused tone, walking out the closet and climbing the window again with difficulty, still holding Trish close. — Now, off we go.
Formaggio did the same path back, this time with extra weight on his arms and five men roaming the place after Trish. He saw as Fugo held a tiny Narancia by the neck, screaming in his face and calling him names for letting an enemy track him to the vineyard. He felt sorry for a fraction of a second until he remembered Sorbet and Gelato had a way more painful destiny than a few hands thrown.
Formaggio climbed into the car and struggled to put Trish inside the glove compartment jail, floundering with it until a final blow did the deed. With the target secured and the men scattered a few meters away, the assassin returned to his average size and honked, taunting his rivals.
— Thanks for the delivery, boys! — Formaggio grinned, hitting the pedal and driving away. — Bye, bitches!
Bucciarati watched in shock as the car disappeared into the road without being able to do a thing. He could hear Fugo shouting about Narancia forgetting the car keys inside the vehicle after breaking free and not warning them the enemy could shrink himself before they could realize he sneaked inside the house like that, but his mind was somewhere else.
Formaggio took Trish with him to only God knew where.
[...]
Formaggio got to the outskirts of Naples, driving through funky streets and making weird turns until the rundown facade of his hideout was in sight. He opened the car and made a skit of opening the passenger seat door like a butler before fishing Trish out of the glove compartment.
— Get your nasty hands off me! Have you ever heard of moisturizer?! Your palms feel like climbing rocks! And I'm not going to even talk about the smell, ew! — Trish hissed, still trying to escape. Formaggio feigned offense, putting his free hand over his bloodied chest. — And, God, look at those nails! They're dirty, and your fingers are hairy, too!
— Not everyone can afford these things, 'ya know? — Formaggio snorted, glancing at the grocery bags on the back seat. He then gathered the items and brought them along, much to Trish's chagrin. — But we'll make good use of these. Thanks!
— You-
Trish's green eyes scanned the dirty room with no windows, much like a hotel reception but poorer and dirtier. A double door led to another room; Formaggio kicked it open, revealing six other ugly men scattered across ugly couches. The girl reeked of fear and disgust, wishing to return to the vineyard. At least Bucciarati's men didn't look that disastrous.
— Honey, we're back! — Formaggio shouted as he dropped Trish into the coffee table, comically setting the groceries down carefully. — And guess who is here~
Donatella had talked to her about predators. Trish knows how to tell when a man is inappropriately touching or looking. She knows how to set boundaries. However, it's the first time the girl feels intimidated by men; they look weird and menacing, each in their own way. She uselessly crawls backward because she's surrounded on every side, with nowhere to go.
— Look what we got here... — Illuso quirked his eyebrows, feigning disinterest. — Your useless Stand actually worked. The girl is here.
— Shut 'yo bitchass mouth, Michael Jackson-looking twink. Ris would have put you in my place to get the job done if you were as good as me. — Formaggio jabbed at Illuso's pride, not letting his sour comments ruin his mood. — But, oh, wait! You don't know shit! You don't know how to drive, you don't know how to keep your ego controlled... Like, come on, the list of your flaws is almost as big as my dick.
— Why do your words always revolve around your cock? Oh, I know why! — Illuso grunts, clearly affected. He had yet to accept he wouldn't always be Risotto's first pick. — Because that's the only thing about you worth bragging about, you period-head bitch!
— Can the two bitches stop wasting our time?! We've got more important things to discuss! — Ghiaccio growled, rising from his seat and pointing at the grocery bags. — What the fuck is that?!
— Oh, that's right... That was inside the car. — Formaggio momentarily forgets about Illuso, rummaging through the groceries and getting the stockings. — Damn! You got some taste, girl! Get it, Pesci boy! Give it to your bitch!
Pesci clumsily grabbed the package Formaggio sent flying at him and frowned, blushing from the insult his friend gave to his partner and from holding a woman's stocking. Even if it was still sealed inside the wrapping.
— D-Don't call her that! — Pesci grumbled, gripping the stockings to the point they almost ripped. — But... Well... Thank you, Formaggio...
— You're welcome, 'lil nigga. — Formaggio smiled, taking a big bite from a lettuce he fished from the bag. Tiziano would forever regret giving his boyfriend's friend an N-pass. — Pros, my brother! My real one!
— I'd never be your brother. After all, humans and monkeys have little in common. — Prosciutto grumbled, blowing smoke into the air. He wasn't satisfied with how unprofessional Formaggio was and would chastise him at every chance — Did you follow our guidance?
— Man... I drove here as fast as I could. — Formaggio said, lying over Melone's lap. — Heal me, babe! I'm all hurt!
— You got shot? I'm surprised. — Melone gasped, feeling Formaggio's wounded pectorals with his gloved hands. Of course, his wounds were an excuse. — I didn't know Bucciarati's boys used guns. Aren't they a bunch of kids in their late 10s?
— They're minors in a gang, and you're worried about them brandishing guns? — Illuso snorted, sitting beside Prosciutto to lie his head on the blonde's shoulder. Of course, he got pushed away. — Besides, Abbacchio used to be a cop.
— That one who looks like a man and a woman had a baby? No shit! — Formaggio gasped, covering his mouth. — I mean, he does look like he has a way with guns-
— Is that a pun intended to compare guns with penis?! Just because guns have a phallic form?! And did you forget that, of course, a man and a woman can have a baby?! But not all men have dicks, nor all women have vaginas! Some people aren't even men or women! You don't need to be a man or a woman to have a baby anymore! — Ghiaccio yelled so loudly Pesci covered his ears, staring holes into Formaggio's head. Melone silently clapped at his accidental ally discourse. — Your words make no fucking sense, you idiot!
— I'll have to agree with him. You're an idiot. — Prosciutto sighed, keeping his blue eyes on Formaggio. — Did any of them see you?
— Uh... Excluding the guy I shrunk? Nah. — Formaggio shrugged, grunting as Melone started wiping the blood from his body with a rag he took out of nowhere. Maybe his ass. — I mean, I did get a little bit quirky and said-
— Tell me you didn't fucking taunt them, allowing their whole team to see your face even for a split second. — Prosciutto massaged his temple, getting an apologetic sigh in response. — You're the biggest idiot in this team. And the competition is tough.
— I think we have another valid reason to never send this idiot alone to take such a crucial step in a mission again. That's it, if we survive after the kiddos come get our asses. — Illuso snorted, getting a collective grumble in response. — I'm being realistic. Bucciarati was trusted by Polpo, one of the boss' trusted men. He wouldn't fuck up that bad by not tracking us to retrieve the girl.
— They can come anytime! I'll freeze their dicks! — Ghiaccio grunts, sounding more like a rabid animal than a human. — Hey, Risotto! Why are you so quiet?!
— Yeah, blud. Come on, talk to me, 'ya handsome lad. — Formaggio blinked at Risotto, who had been silent all this time while staring at his crossed arms. — Watcha' waitin' for?
— For you all to realize the girl is gone for 5 minutes or more.
Everyone stopped and stared at where Trish sat on the coffee table. Not a trace of her. By the calmness on Risotto's face, he could sense she wasn't totally gone. However, he wouldn't move a finger to fix the mess his subordinates made. His team could efficiently locate and grab a 15-year-old girl, currently the size of a tennis ball, inside a dilapidated building.
— Fuck, she's gone! — Prosciutto roared, glaring daggers at Formaggio. — Pesci, try fishing her out of her hiding spot!
— What?! B-But she's a girl, and she's a kid! — Pesci gasped, taking a step back. — I can't use Beach Boy on her! What if the hook hurts her-
— Boo! Lame ass nigga! — Formaggio booed Pesci from the couch, making Illuso and Melone snort. — Go grow a beard, you sissy!
— Fratello, make him stop calling me that!
— Pesci, be a man! Formaggio, stop throwing those slurs around like Tiziano let you say the N-word when he's not around! — Prosciutto rolled his eyes, not wanting to hear any more foolery. — Listen, the girl we planned to kidnap for months is running free somewhere inside this building, so stop slacking and go find her! Unshrink her, Formaggio!
Formaggio retracted Little Feet, allowing them to spot Trish as she grew back to her average size and appeared behind a large vase — that fell and broke, spreading dirt all over the carpet. There was an awkward silence between the assassins and the girl looking at each other before she shrieked, running through the double doors and closing them.
— Don't let her leave! — Risotto commanded, growing a little concerned once he thought about the chance of Formaggio leaving the front door unlocked like he'd do 99% of the time. — Get her now!
The men scattered to get to the door, with Ghiaccio taking the lead. He slammed his side into the doors, hoping it would bust open. Instead, he bounced back like a little kid on a trampoline, and the door catapulted his body with ease, slamming him into Melone and kicking the duo like dominos.
— What the fuck?! — Ghiaccio sat up, looking more confused than angry. He fixed his glasses, frowning hard. — The door- The fucking door felt like jelly! Did you see that?!
— How could we not? It happened right before our eyes. — Prosciutto grunted and put off his cigarette on the wall, approaching the door. — Amateurs. Watch how a professional handles things.
Prosciutto confidently kicked the door, watching his foot hit it hard before sinking into it. By the crunchy sound his knee made and the pained expression he had, something had gone wrong. The blonde dejectedly limped towards the couch without saying a word and sat his ass beside an amused Formaggio, gesticulating toward Illuso and the decorative mirror in their wall.
— Finally, my time to shine! — Illuso boasted and winked at Formaggio, trying to tease him. The assassin would care if he wasn't bleeding out and (surprisingly) getting his scalp caressed by Prosciutto. — Wait and see, ladies.
With a confident posture, Illuso funnily climbed into the mirror, bending himself like a contortionist to get inside the pathetically small furniture — Ghiaccio had refused to use his share to buy a larger one after Formaggio accidentally broke their old mirror because it was too expensive. They had to stick with one as small as a cardboard box.
The six men waited patiently in the living room, wondering what took Illuso so long to ambush Trish from behind and bring her back. Suddenly, they heard a blood-curdling scream, wondering how bad their friend scared Trish until the man screamed on the other side — as high-pitched as the girl's shriek.
— I think she kicked his balls. — Formaggio chuckled, feeling dizzy because of the blood loss. He glared at Prosciutto, smirking at him. — Wanna bet, cutie?
— Couldn't you flirt with me or anyone else in this room in another situation when we're not listening to a grown-ass man getting his ass kicked by a girl almost young enough to be his daughter through the door? — Prosciutto muttered, feeling his cheeks heating up. Aside from Pesci, everyone on the team had casual sex once in a while. Formaggio snorted, loving to get a reaction out of the blonde. — Fuck off!
Their attention diverted to the same spot as they saw a Samara-looking Illuso crawling out of the mirror like a worm, bleeding from his nose. His pigtails were undone, and he looked a mess, sweating and sniffling. He collapsed onto the floor while holding his crotch in his hands, trembling hard.
— T-That bitch kicked my balls... — Illuso whimpered, holding his breath. — And she got a Stand... It's pink and... It has math symbols... Oh, and the door is not open... She's stuck there...
— We could tell she had a Stand after Ghiaccio was hurled back into me and Prosciutto's leg sunk into the door. — Melone chuckled, having a nosebleed just like Illuso. — I'll have a talk with her.
Everyone set their eyes on Melone, including Risotto. Although he had ridiculous and slightly misogynistic behavior toward women during working hours, viewing them as vials to his Juniors, he also had a personal interest in them. This interest was unorthodox and blunt; even Formaggio, the group's womanizer, got concerned.
— Don't give me that look, for God's sake! She's a minor! I'm more than 10 years older than her! I like women, not kids! — Melone said, looking legitimately disgusted by the silent assumption. His team had faith in him; they only wanted to ensure their faith. — What I meant is... I can keep her distracted long enough so someone else can ambush her.
— And what are you going to do? Warn her about drugs or premarital sex? — Formaggio narrowed his eyes, not believing Melone would be the best choice, not because of his personal life but because he was weird as a whole. — Come on, dude. Little girls ain't wanna talk about zodiac or nerd shit.
— Yes, they do. If grown women make things like your zodiac sign a big deal when picking men, why would a girl as young as Trish not care? — Melone pointed, glancing at the groceries. — Those were for her, apparently. I can already pinpoint what she likes just by looking at those bags.
— We could try sending Pesci in, too. — Prosciutto suggested, getting a creeped-out stare from his brother. — He's got a girlfriend. Somehow, this mammoni has a way with women. I bet he can calm her down.
— W-What?! Me?! — Pesci yelped. — L-Look at Illuso! She did that to her!
— For once in a million years, Pesci is right. — Ghiaccio mutters, having seated next to Risotto to calm down after embarrassing himself. — If someone like Illuso failed, why would someone like him succeed?
— Four of us are out of commission, including Formaggio, who will likely bleed to death if we don't grab Trish and go find help. Risotto isn't a good option since we want the girl alive and well to get to the boss. Melone will either leave her scarred for life trying to sound like a responsible older brother or get his ass kicked like the rest of us, so... — Prosciutto sighed, biting his bottom lip. — Pesci is our best option.
— Did I hear it right? I think that's the first time Prosciutto not only compliments Pesci but also tells everyone he's the best option out of everyone else on the team. — Illuso snickered, looking less miserable as he sat beside Prosciutto and became Formaggio's leg rest. — She's all yours, Pesci.
— You should improve your phrasing. You're starting to sound like Melone. — Ghiaccio grimaced. — What are you waiting for, Pesci?! Get your ass in there!
Before Pesci could utter a word, Man in The Mirror grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside, making him hit his head in the process. The team awaited his resolve until they heard the man and Trish screaming. Prosciutto raised an eyebrow in surprise as loud thuds reached his ears, wondering what was making that.
The doors opened, and Pesci was sent flying across the room, knocking the couch over with Prosciutto, Formaggio, and Illuso on it. Trish was standing there with bloodshot eyes, clenching her fists and panting with her Stand behind her delicate frame. La Squadra had never seen such a small girl look so big and mean like her.
— She must have taken it from her daddy...
— I heard that! — Trish exclaimed, making Formaggio squeak behind the couch. It became the team's shield, but Prosciutto and Ghiaccio refused to cower in fear, standing proud. Risotto didn't even budge from his seat. — What are you looking at, you sightless manlet?! And you with the suit! You smell like cheap cigarettes, and your suit sucks! That thing without a neck was calling its brother! Which one of you is the neckless freak's brother?!
— What did you call me?! A manlet? — Ghiaccio shrieked, almost foaming from his mouth. — You little sl-
— Trish is not only a teenager but our tyrant boss' daughter. Don't engage her. — Prosciutto crossed his arms after shoving Ghiaccio away, trying to give Trish the stern father look he'd give his subordinates. — Listen, young lady, my name is-
— I don't give a shit about your name! Are you British or what?! Your overbite is as massive as your forehead! — Trish looked at Prosciutto as if he was a bug. — Once I meet my father, I'll ask him to raise your payment so you can fix your teeth and buy yourself some authentic clothes! You're a mess!
Formaggio, Illuso, and Melone were hollering behind the couch as a crying Pesci and a rabid Ghiaccio sat side to side. Risotto had an unreadable expression, silently watching as his second-in-command marched toward the others and sat beside his brother.
— Melone, do your thing. — Prosciutto grunted, not wanting to acknowledge how deep Trish's words cut him. — I'm not going to argue with a girl half my age.
— As you wish. — Melone wiped a tear and got up, walking toward Trish. She looked at the man with a cocked eyebrow as he put a hand on his hip, cocking it to the side. — Hi, my dear!
— This nigga's gay, we're so fucking doomed...
— Shh!
— Who are you? — Trish was still wary of everyone but seemed to lower her defenses at the sight of Melone. — You're weird.
— I am Melone Belucci, sweetheart. The men you met are Formaggio, Ghiaccio, Pesci, Prosciutto, and Illuso. They're my coworkers. That man watching us ever since you came is Risotto, our boss. — Melone chirped, looking like an average nice guy. He was a nice guy (whenever he was not being creepy). — I'm very sorry you got abducted in such terrible conditions... We wish we could bring you here without using force. However, we couldn't decently abscond with you with Bucciarati and his men looking for you.
— That baldie stinks... — Trish muttered like a child upset over her older brother burping on the dining table. — He grabbed me like a toy and tossed me inside the glove compartment, and he heard many songs with a lot of slurs! He said those slurs! Is he allowed to say those slurs?!
— I don't think he is, but... We must ask for your forgiveness, Trish. Sadly, most of us are either orphans, didn't have good female roles, or left home many years ago, so we don't have the necessary education to behave before a lady. — Melone was an annoying shit-talker 24/7, but his sweet talking gradually calmed Trish. — We would definitely offer better conditions in other circumstances. I hope you understand it.
— ...at least that monkey brought the groceries in. — Trish sighed and grabbed one of the mineral water bottles, narrowing her eyes. — Where's my stockings?! And I asked for FIVE water bottles, but there are only four! Where's the fifth?!
— We got it, bitch! Because our friend is dying! — Ghiaccio barked as they tended to Formaggio's wounds behind the couch. — If you don't like it, tell your daddy or something!
— Well, maybe I will tell him! — Trish barked back, her Stand getting into a defensive position again. Ghiaccio got his head smacked and stopped talking. — I'll tell him everything, and he'll-
— We believe your father isn't the person everyone thinks he is. We didn't bring you to our hideout to hurt you or make anything mean to you. I promise you, Trish. You'll leave this place the same way you came. Safe and sound. — Melone uttered, watching as Trish's body language gave away her growing trust in him. — I'm sorry you had to go through this. Your father won't talk to us in fair terms if you're not with us.
— What type of man is my father? — Trish gulped, feeling her curiosity win over her senses, and stepped towards Melone. — Do you know him?
— I do.
Risotto's voice cut the air, thick and hoarse. Trish had to step back to feel safe again, staring at the man as he towered over her, taking hard steps in her direction. The girl felt her knees buckling and wondered if Melone had meant it when he said she wouldn't be harmed. Something in his eyes seemed familiar. He had the same look as Abbacchio. The look of someone who probably lost a lot in the past.
— Your father is mean and deceptive. He treats his workers like scum, not paying them decently and leaving them to rot. You must be thinking we brought you to a decayed building to murder you, but this place is our home. This very own place is the one we've been rotting inside for years. — Risotto muttered, keeping his eyes on Trish's. The fear subsided. She felt... sad. — You are young, but I have a feeling you know how it feels to lose someone you care for. Don't you?
— ...yes. — Trish pursed her lips, lowering her eyes to the ground. — I... I lost my mom... That's why signore Pericolo brought me to Bucciarati in the first place. She believed my father should know about my existence. But... Everyone wants me now... Dead or alive...
— I give you my word I'd let your father take every one of my men down but not lay a single finger on you. — Risotto slowly put his hand on Trish's shoulder, giving it a gentle but firm grip to comfort her. After all, she was nothing but a little girl. — My team and I had a different plan. However, I believe you deserve better, so I'd like you to cooperate as we change our route so everyone gets benefitted. We get what we want, and you get back to safety. Does that sound fair?
Trish took a look around the living room, finding herself pensive. Risotto and Melone looked at her with genuine empathy. Pesci had calmed down and helped to push the couch back up so they could lie their wounded friend down. Formaggio, the brute who brought her in, looked very relaxed as Illuso and Prosciutto tended to his wounds. Even Ghiaccio helped, holding a water bottle to his mouth. Although shady, those men didn't look bad anymore. Maybe they did the wrong thing because others had failed them when they shouldn't.
— Okay... — Trish sighed, nodding in acceptance. Risotto's comforting grip on her shoulder became too much, and she respectfully shoved him away, sitting on the empty couch across from the men. — But what about Bucciarati? I barely know those men, but I'd feel terrible if they died because of me...
— And they will. Once your father finds out they let someone kidnap you, their lives will be ended in the cruelest manner ever. — Risotto said too bluntly to Trish, not used to talking to teenagers ever since Pesci became an adult. — That's what I've been thinking about ever since you arrived. Seeing my men being defeated by a kid with apparently no maestry in using her Stand makes me realize we're hopeless by ourselves.
— I hate to admit it, but you're right. We're weak and pathetic. — Prosciutto growled, still frustrated about the situation (and offended by Trish's comments about his clothes and appearance). — We'll end up just like them.
— Are you two implying what I believe you two are implying? — Illuso grumbled, clenching his jaw. — I'm not working with those losers.
— And I bet they don't wanna work with us. Dayum'... That Narancia boy must hate me now since his friends beat his lil' ass because of me. — Formaggio snorted through the pain, trying not to choke on the water as someone he couldn't see cleaned his wounds. His attention was somewhere else. — Watcha' think, Ghia?
— Working with them? Sucks. I don't wanna do it. — Ghiaccio muttered under his breath, tired of being Formaggio's personal waiter. — I'd prefer to work with those two twinks. They're useless but professional. Their gay tryst gets them going until the deed is done.
— They scare me. But... — Pesci sighs, letting go of the ice cube he's holding against Prosciutto's knee. — They'll be coming after us anyway... Right? Why don't we cooperate?
— That's the point, Pesci. You're an intelligent man. — Risotto praised Pesci, causing the others to gasp. — Bucciarati and his men can't afford to lose the boss' daughter, not after getting on his good side. The news must be running wild now, and they have no time to lose. Once they locate us, they'll come with murderous intent. They're not weaklings, that's for sure. If that was the case, anyone else could be at their place. I'm also sure they have their problems with the boss. They got what we need. We can finally avenge Sorbet and Gelato. We can finally be free.
Silence fell upon the room, each man lost in their own thoughts. Risotto saw his men changing their expressions and looked at Melone, knowing exactly what they should do to start their new and improved plan.
[...]
Bucciarati gripped the steering wheel so hard it could break. His team was cramped inside the van in different states of panic and despair as they drove for every inch of Naples in search of Trish to no avail. The girl was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was already dead when they got to her.
A fight erupted once Narancia broke free from the glove compartment and got to his friends, warning them about Formaggio's arrival. He barely explained what happened before Fugo started hitting his head against the wall, saying things he never thought a friend could say to another. Abbacchio got into the discussion as he got blamed for allowing the boy to go on his own, and then even Mista joined the heated argument to protect his lover. Giorno and Bucciarati watched it until the capo grew tired of that silliness and said not-so-gentle words to make everyone shut up and get into the van.
The team had to retrieve Trish before anyone discovered they lost her to traitors. Abbacchio and Fugo were too stressed to drive, and Giorno wasn't good at it. Narancia was in the backseat with Mista, the only one who didn't try to hit him besides the newbie and the capo — the boy had bandages on the side of his head and dry blood dripping down his nape. The silence was gruesome. Bucciarati wanted to comfort his boyfriends, but the gunner and the ex-cop were too far from his reach.
Bucciarati's laptop notification cut the quietness, and the capo swerved the van into the sidewalk, almost hitting a pole as everyone stared at each other in panic. If the boss already knew the news of his daughter's disappearance, his elite squad would catch up to them very soon and put them through unthinkable horrors. The electronic was passed upon their hands to the capo, and he sighed, ready to see the sky collapsing over their heads.
Melone: whatsupppppp niggas ;)
formaggio here
a friend of a friend of a friend gave me your contact
(melone hacked your connection with the boss :P)
dumb ass bitch won't even use a proper uuuuh what do you call those
connections
anyways
we got ur girl
she likes us
she's playing cards with us
ermmmmm she kicked nonno's ass
we're not handing her back lol
u friend shot me fuck him
tell narancia i said fuck him
weird looking bitch ugly looking bitch gaunt looking bitch stinky looking bitch faggot
oops i don't have an f-pass forget i said that
Greetings, Bucciarati. It's me, Risotto Nero. I believe we've put you and your team in a disadvantaged situation since we kidnapped the boss' daughter, who used to be in your care at the boss' orders. She's unharmed and in perfect condition, so don't worry about her state.
Trish and I had a proper talk. I believe she is not comfortable with the idea of meeting her father. I do not trust him either. He took almost everything from me, from my friends' confidence to our freedom. That's why I, Risotto Nero, and my team, La Squadra di Esecuzione, have decided to betray the boss.
We will not handle Trish back. She deserves a better life. Only God knows what that wicked man wants with her. I do not desire to hurt the little ones. We're old men with no future, but she's a girl with a lot to live. Even if we die on the way, Trish will not be delivered to her father as long as we breathe. Instead, we will take her to a safe place before setting out to find the boss.
You and your men are invited to join us. If not, you are up for a challenge because my men and I will not back down without putting up a fight. Here's our address. We are waiting, regardless of your intention.
Vico Pallonetto Santa Chiara, 8, 80134. Here is our address.
ayo bring the bad bitches with ya
Bucciarati stared at the screen in shock, not knowing what to think or say to his men. He sighed loudly and rested his head against the steering wheel, getting their map and marking their destination before hitting the pedal again.
— Hey, kid? — Bucciarati broke the silence as the others shared the laptop to read the messages, looking at Giorno through the rearview mirror with a sly smile. — I think we've found an easier way to complete our goal.
That was going to be a hell of a ride.