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The grandfather clock across the room ticked quietly, pendulum swinging with a low 'click' after every loop. The face read three-fiftyseven AM. The room was near pitch black, illuminated by only a small ceiling lamp in the middle of the room.
Risotto Nero came to his senses, blinking at the white luminescence and looking around. The darkness seemed to swallow up everything around him, minus that grandfather clock in the corner. The only thing that could be seen was a small, mahogany table, a stack of chips in the middle, and the blonde man sitting across from him.
His head was bent downwards, as if he didn't want to show his face. He was shuffling cards, organizing the deck with a steady hand before sliding five over to Risotto without a word. Placing the stack to the side, he held five of his own in his grasp.
"Royal Flush."
Prosciutto's voice seemed hoarse, like his throat was being pressed. He didn't look at up at Risotto, who was staring at him with parted lips. He didn't even remember the rules of this game.
"...One of a kind."
Slowly, Prosciutto's hand stretched out and took a chip off the center, sliding it towards himself.
This continued for God knows how long. Eventually, the grandfather clock chimed, causing Prosciutto to jump and drop his hand. He sighed, still refusing to show his face as he bent down and picked them off the floor.
"..Prosciutto."
He bent back to his full height.
"Yes, Capo?"
"...Why are you hunched like that?"
Prosciutto said nothing for the longest while.
"...If you answer me, I'll answer you, got it?"
Risotto felt a chill down his spine, before nodding. Prosciutto seemed to know what he did anyway. He tilted his head up, finally meeting eye contact. Bags were under his eyes, his skin paled.
"Risotto. Answer me this."
Risotto blinked, before he felt Prosciutto's hands clawing at his face, the blonde suddenly almost a few inches away from him. His calm expression had turned into one of fear.
"Why am I like this?"
Risotto broke free, staring his friend down. He was sliced and gored at the waist, ribbons of what looked like tendons and organs hanging off the table. His legs held on only by strands of muscle fibre and bone, one hanging off the table.
"Risotto, you said you'd answer me!"
He was jolted awake, cold sweat dripping off his forehead.
Risotto Nero was not in some black abyss. He was in a hospital room. Bandages wrapped his torso and chest, covering the bullet holes and stitches. The gentle breeze set by the ceiling fan blew on his face as he noticed the creeping sunlight through the window.
Just a nightmare.
He was at the headquarters.
Sorbet and Gelato slept on the couch across from him, Sorbet's arms wrapped around Gelato's chest and holding him tightly. An ashtray sat on the coffee table, a recently snubbed cigarette still burning inside it.
Risotto stood up and walked out of the living room and into the hall. Melone stood against the wall, leaning on it and shaking.
"Mel. Something wrong?" He called out, stepping forward. Melone shot a glance at him, before choking on his words and doubling over.
"I'm fine. It's j-just something I ate, probably."
"C'mere, I gotcha." Risotto resumed his trek towards him, hoisting the younger man's arm on his shoulder and giving him support.
"It burns."
"I would think it does."
He helped Melone walk towards the stairs, only for him to trip and begin heaving. Blood began pouring out of his mouth, coming out in sickly clots.
Risotto sprinted towards the kitchen. Ghiacchio was here.
"Melone's sick. Badly. Wake Gelato and Sorbet up, call a hospital, help me get the guy to-"
"Risotto."
Ghiaccio's voice was chilling, rendering Risotto's blood ice.
"I can't breathe."
It was then he realized bloody hole in Ghiacchio's neck.
He had learned what happened to them by the same people who killed the Boss.
Giorno was the new don's name. He was young for his job, but he said he would be doing whatever he could to improve Passione. He had come in one day, sitting down next to Risotto's hospital bed.
"Can you tell me about La Squadra?"
He had. He told him about Sorbet and Gelato. He told him about their attempts to find the Boss's identity. He told him the name of every damn member, he told him everything about them, every death he had read or heard about, he dripped every word with increasing venom and anger.
As if he didn't know Risotto was aware that the leader of their murderers was standing right in front of him.
He stared at the tile ceiling, listening to the ticking of the clock. He couldn't sleep. Not now.
He let his mind wander.
He let himself think about Formaggio and the flames. He let himself think about Illusio and such unknown circumstances. He let himself think about Prosciutto and Pesci and the train. He let himself think about Melone and the snake. He let himself think about Ghiacchio and the thought of impalement.
He thought about the bullets that struck his skin.
He turned himself over, staring at the wall. Eleven-fourty pm. He couldn't sleep. Not now.
Not now.
Not now.
He was standing with Prosciutto again.
It was sunset, a beautiful red and orange sky spread out above.
Prosciutto was okay. He wasn't mutilated. He was the way he was supposed to be.
Living, breathing.
Alive.
They were in some sort of road. Things were going in slow motion. Risotto felt light headed.
"...Riso."
His voice was normal. He was calm. He watched Risotto stumble and fall to his knees.
"Calm down."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
He kneeled down in front of him, quirking an eyebrow as he stared.
"You're dead. You're all dead. It's my fault."
"...How's it your fault, Capo?"
Risotto pried his hands away from his head and forced himself to stare Prosciutto in the eye.
"I shouldn't... I shouldn't have ordered you all to go on your own. You all died and it's because of me."
Prosciutto's mouth pressed into a fine line as he stood up.
"Stand up, Risotto."
He did as such, albeit still hunching over. He felt Prosciutto's hands press on his shoulders.
"Don't beat yourself up, Capo. You need to feel lucky. You lived. You lived unlike all of us. I need you to wake up, but I need to ask you something."
He could feel others standing nearby, feeling their gaze. Prosciutto gave one final, warm smile.
"...Don't forget us, alright, Risotto?"
He wakes up on the verge of screaming.
He room is quiet, dense, cold, lonely. The clock says midnight. His head spins. Giorno is coming back tomorrow. Everything overwhelms him at once and he nearly misses the trash can next to the bed as he vomits.
He can feel Prosciutto touching him still. He can feel the others with him. Everything is tightening and closing in and he wants it to stop stop stop
He's collapsed on the bed, near hyperventilating into his hands as he let himself break down and cry.
Risotto Nero passed out once again begging for forgiveness.