Chapter Text
"...Weep I cannot,
But my heart bleeds, and most accurst am I
To be by oath enjoined to this."
–
Giorno Giovanna sat in his spot next to the window on the funicular, feeling like a man on the eve of his sentencing. His thoughts laid heavy in his head, pulling him down with them into his seat. Trapping him there, physically and mentally—the image of Luca with his head caved in as he lay collapsed at his feet persisted.
Well. I’ve really done it now!
Passione, Luca’s likely employer, had eyes everywhere. They had tolerated Giorno’s taxi scheme, letting him turn a dime on their turf so long as he paid the fees or bribed his way out of them. But If the mafia hadn’t taken an interest in his “activities” before, they certainly would as soon as the news of Luca’s death reached a particularly well-ranked Passione member’s ears.
Giorno thought for a minute. He gave them less than a day to discover the body. Their scuffle was in broad daylight, and near a bustling airport—surely, someone would have noticed. Luca made no effort to hide his intentions of bashing Giorno’s head in and, likewise, Giorno hadn’t made any concessions as to what he’d do with the body afterward.
No, he wouldn't be surprised if the entire gang knew by now.
Giorno groaned, sinking his head into his hands.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all. While yes, he was intent on confronting Passione eventually, and very soon in fact, he had wanted to set the wheels of his master plan in motion himself—on his own terms. And not stumble his way into the race on nothing more than a hubcap. If only Luca hadn’t kneecapped him… in more ways than one. Regardless, he’d have to work with what he had. Giorno wracked his head for a moment more and decided he’d need to escape, for now. Go into hiding somewhere out in the countryside and gather the resources he needed while the all-seeing eyes of Passione were looking elsewhere. Slowly, he’ll build himself back up again. Maybe even gather a team and, with the extra manpower, find a path to the boss himself—
A loud tapping at the window beside him gave him pause.
He lifted his head up again to find himself face to face with a man on the other side of his window sporting an unusually shaped hat. He wore a crooked smile on his face—friendly, but with a touch of something feral in it, Giorno could tell—and waved at him. His other hand fiddled with something in his pocket, as one did with a lack of anything else to commit their free hand to.
An entirely banal scene, were it not for Giorno’s little mishap with Luca earlier. Something about this man and his sudden appearance in Giorno’s life was… disconcerting to him. The casual air of his countenance, the way he stood there with his hip cocked and hand tucked lazily in his pocket—there was an uncertainty to the man’s actions and his purpose that Giorno was not fond of. He waved back in a daze before he could stop himself, his eyes drawn to the man’s own.
He felt the air grow cold around him as soon as he did. The man's eyes were dark as a lake during nightfall. Nothing reflected out of them, bottomless as they seemed. A trap for any light daring to risk contact. Giorno flitted his eyes away with a shiver before he succumbed.
But there was danger spelled out in every inch of this man’s face. Could this be a gangster?
The man sauntered past the window, seemingly carrying on with his day before making a turn and entering the funicular itself. He stepped down the aisle, whistling and swaying his hips with every step as he gave each passenger a glance on his way to his destination. Eventually, he paused at Giorno's side and slid right into the seat across from him.
“Hey, how's it goin’?”
Giorno felt his heart freeze in his chest. The man seated in front of him was eyeing him playfully, getting comfortable—too comfortable with the way he spread his legs around—and popping a strip of gum into his mouth with an easy smile. Was this the man sent to kill him? This… oddly dressed, seemingly mild-mannered individual? Alarm bells were ringing in Giorno’s head as he observed him further. Once again, the man’s face was called to the stand, as it were. Despite the toothy grin he plastered on it while he chewed his gum, his face seemed at odds with his casual demeanor. It was the eyes, Giorno quickly realised once more. Those dark pits radiated a heat that was searing, deadly. He was like a live wire—a single touch, a slight misstep and Giorno would go up in smoke. A shiver crawled down his spine. He fought hard to escape the man’s gaze but knew they were the key to his intentions. Eventually, he relented, gazing right back with equal intensity; a challenge, issued.
The man paused mid-chew, lifting his head to look dead-on at Giorno.
“Okay, let’s just cut to the chase.”
He stood in a flash, driving his knee into Giorno’s chest before grabbing his head and slamming his face into the window. He planted his full weight onto Giorno’s back, one arm pressed painfully into his neck. The question of where the other arm went was answered quickly when Giorno felt the frigid steel of a gun’s muzzle pressed into his temple. His breath escaped him—he could only gasp pitifully in small bursts as he awaited the man’s next move, not wanting to provoke him further.
“Giorno Giovanna, is it?” The man drawled. “Care to tell me what exactly you were doin’ earlier today, right around the Napoli Airport?” He spat his gum out and pushed harder into Giorno’s neck. “It wouldn’t happen to involve a certain notorious little shitstain by the name of Leaky-Eyed Luca, would it?”
Giorno let out a pained wheeze. His face was pressed so hard onto the glass, he could see his breath fogging it up. Quickly, his thoughts raced to find a way out of his predicament.
“L-Luca, who?” Giorno rasped. “I-I have no idea w-who you’re talking-”
The man pulled the arm holding his gun back and smacked Giorno straight across the back of his head. He yelped, seeing stars and the edges of his vision closing in—he shut his eyes before the vertigo could set in.
“Don’t lie to me!” The man spat in his face. “We got several sources telling us you run a whole taxi racket at the airport. Luca handled protection fees up there, and the jackass hated anyone stomping on his turf. Yet you’re tellin’ me you never ran into the guy?” The gun returned to Giorno’s temple with a click. “You wanna give me your story straight this time, Giorno Giovanna?”
Giorno opted not to reply this time, but opened his eyes and glanced around him as best he could with what little visibility he had. From his tiny vantage point he could already tell the commotion was making waves. He could barely make out distressed passengers leaving their seats, pointing and gesturing at the scene before them. Not good. He needed to end this somehow before he drew too much attention to himself.
“Or,” The man went on, “are you still gonna deny your involvement with Luca’s death… even if I told you we got several eyewitnesses saying you did it?”
The gun pressed further still.
It was now or never.
He’d never used his… friend in this capacity before. But limited as he was in options, he’d have to try—even if it killed him. This gangster had every intention of doing so, anyhow.
Gold Experience burst from Giorno’s chest in a flurry of gold, pulled back its fist and rammed it straight into the man’s chest. A loud crack reverberated and time seemed to stop, allowing Giorno a second to peer at his adversary’s face for a moment. The alarmed look painting the gangster’s face was fleeting—swiftly turning into the dazed look of someone teetering on the edges of unconsciousness. He flew back and hit back-first onto the window on the other side of the aisle. His body slumped against the wall, and he moved with an unusual sluggishness.
Giorno took a step towards the man to assess the damage. He hadn’t wanted the situation to spiral the way it did, but seeing the gangster in that state, crumpled like a paper ball on the floor of the funicular, Giorno knew he was prepared to do whatever it took to secure his victory at this point. A victory that, unbeknownst to him, marked the moment fate began to unravel. The wheels of destiny turned and Giorno’s life, alongside the lives of many others, were set unknowingly on the path of change—that golden path that would set right what had gone so wrong, that would fill the void left vacant by another. As one fate ended, another sprung to life in its ashes.
–
“Our hangout’s just over there.”
Mista pointed over his shoulder, indicating a spot he could only guess at.
“The guys might give ya a hard time at first, but they’re cool once you get to know ‘em. Think you’ll fit right in!”
Giorno watched Mista turn and make his way across the street to an unassuming restaurant, a limp still in his gait. He’d almost feel guilty, if not for the man’s clear intentions of killing him just days ago. Mista was lucky that he had turned out to be exactly who Giorno needed during their fight—had it been anyone else and on a more ordinary day, it’s likely Giorno wouldn’t even have left him standing. But he was ready to put that behind him for the sake of his dream. He needed Mista, and his friends, on his side if he were to have even a breath of a chance at taking on the boss. And if it took a scuffle or two to convince them of his worthiness in their team, Giorno would take up arms, willingly.
At any rate, Mista’s rather flippant attitude over being beat soundly by the younger man didn’t surprise Giorno in the least. Nor did Mista’s lack of acknowledgement toward the whole affair today—it seemed he, too, was keen on putting it behind him once Giorno had passed his “interview” with the capo, Polpo. Former capo, that is (hopefully). No, Giorno saved any sentiment of surprise towards Mista’s… willing camaraderie. In truth, Giorno wasn’t entirely sure Mista would have agreed to his plan, let alone jump so eagerly into it. To kill his boss, and put himself in his place as the face of Passione in order to rid Napoli of the drug trade that plagued it—Mista had called him crazy. Understandably so. It was a pipedream, only one hooked on those same drugs Passione infected the streets with could have come up with such a foolhardy idea.
And yet, Mista spared not a second more to voice his support.
It was almost as if he had been lying in wait, ready to pounce on any opportunity to terminate his employer, risks be damned.
It was almost as if Giorno was fated to meet him.
The restaurant, Libeccio, came into view. Giorno stepped through the doors behind Mista, the murmuring from the customers inside and a rich aroma wafting towards him. A cozy air settled over him as they weaved through the main dining area, standing in stark contrast to the criminal world he just stepped into.
He was led to the back where a solitary table stood, around which three men sat. He could hear just above the din of the restaurant the biting tone of one of them, seemingly at the ends of his patience, addressing another.
“No, Narancia, you didn’t get it right at all. You just told me six times five makes thirty a minute ago, so how the hell-”
He heard a sharp thump sound—what he assumed was someone kicking the table—before another voice chimed in.
“Hey, Fugo, chill. Don’t make a scene. You know better. ”
“Right, sorry.”
Giorno took note of the men before him. There was a tall one on the end with a permanent glower over his features and unkempt hair that reached past his shoulders. On the other end sat the shortest of the three with wild, dark hair and an equal wild ferocity in his eyes. The one in the center proved most interesting to Giorno. He was wearing a suit that he could only describe as existing in the wrong century—a vintage number, if he were generous, in a garish green and riddled with the indents of would-be holes. On the boy’s nose sat a pair of round glasses, equally as antique. His hair was combed to the side, groomed to the point of excessiveness. Not a single strand dared defy the strict expanse of his bangs.
Mista limped on over to the men at the table, carefree as ever. He greeted them with a smile before stepping aside for Giorno.
“This the guy I was talkin’ about.”
The boy in green straightened up from where he had been leaning over the table, fixed his glasses and squared his shoulders. The look in his eyes grew cold. “Bring him here.”
Giorno proceeded with hesitation towards the end of the table. He gave his name and took a bow that none of the men seemed to really know how to respond to. A beat, and Giorno lifted his head again, catching his eyes on the fireplace sitting adjacent to the table. Several photos lined the mantle, all containing a man with a black bob, cut to his chin. He was smiling in every single one, the kind that reached his eyes. Giorno felt a bit of that disconcerting feeling he had experienced earlier in the funicular crawl back inside him and settle in his gut once more. Despite the warmth this man and these memories gave off, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end—as if a ‘presence’ were watching him. Silently, judging him. A deep breath and he set it aside for now, meeting the eyes of his new teammates instead.
Green boy gave him a once over before addressing him.
“I’m guessing you’re the one who… let’s just say, disposed of Luca.”
Giorno snapped his head back up. His eyes widened before he could stop himself—he quickly schooled them back into a placid expression in the vain hope he hadn’t been caught. Beside him, he spotted Mista stiffen at the mention of Luca. The gangster was not so subtly chasing his gaze, as if prodding him to dig themselves out of the hole they just fell in, but Giorno remained obstinate. Silence dragged on for a moment more.
Green boy cleared his throat with a grimace. “Well. There’s no point in denying it. ” His eyebrow twitched after every other clipped word. “Your timing is just a little suspicious. Just a tad. There couldn’t be a reason for that. Could it?!”
Instead of answering, Giorno studied the remaining two gangsters again. Long-haired man looked exceptionally bored, arms crossed and nodding off. The short one, meanwhile, was swinging his head wildly from Giorno to his teammate—gaping at them like they had each grown a second head. He could see the disconnect here, the threads he’d have to weave in order to rally this team behind his cause.
Green boy looked like he wanted to speak again but his sleepy teammate cut in before he could continue. “Fugo, you need to speed this up. How do you expect this little shit to respect you if you can’t even get to the point?” He slouched back into his seat with a deep sigh. “Whatever, do what you want.”
Giorno studied Fugo when he said this, watching his face twitch from shock to anger and back to the severe, authoritarian look it had before. He pushed his glasses up again as it slid down his face.
“R-Right, okay. Well. Listen, Giorno, truthfully we’re not really big fans of Luca over here. So I—we’d be willing to overlook this little… mishap of yours if you join us without any further incident. Mista told us you could fight and that you had a stand. And not only that but you’ve also proved your worth to Polpo. We could use someone like you! I think—er, no, I am sure you’ll be a great fit because—”
The loud trill of a phone ringing interrupted Fugo. Everyone jumped—Fugo scrambled up from his chair in such a rush, he bumped the table on his way out, knocking a cup off its saucer. Cursing under his breath, he hurried over to the front where the phone presumably was.
An awkward silence hung over the table once more.
If the long-haired man was capable of slouching even more, he could. Giorno almost thought he’d melt into his chair at the rate he was going. Mista cleared his throat, looked like he was about to say something and then decided against it. The shorter boy with the wild hair, seemingly oblivious to the tense air between his friends, leaned forward in his chair, all attention on Giorno.
“So, you really killed Luca?” His eyes widened impossibly larger. "Leaky-Eyed Luca?!”
Giorno blinked. “Yes, I did. We had a… disagreement.”
“Nice! He had it coming. I’m Narancia, by the way!” Narancia coaxed him over to the seat next to him. “That one’s Abbacchio. You met Mista already, and…”
“Fugo’s the guy you were talking to earlier.” Mista slid into the chair beside Giorno, grabbing the cup and placing it upright. “He’s pretty much our unofficial ‘leader’ if you can call him that, since Polpo’s not exactly available. Though, hm.” He let out a chuckle. “Sometimes Abbacchio’s got to coach him, if you get what I mean. Fugo’s a little high-strung, a hard ass about stupid shit—kinda a worrywart, too. Tell him to loosen up if he gets on your ass too much, Giorno. Trust me, he needs it!”
Mista held out the cup to Abbacchio, a silent request for a pour.
“Nope. Sorry.” Abbacchio shook his head. “Get yourself another pot.”
Mista gave him an odd look before continuing. “...anyways, if ya really want to know, the three of us—plus Fugo!—mainly do protection shit, like shaking down casinos and business owners when they’re due. And if they give us a hard time, we get to rough them up a little bit. Not the most dignified work, I’ll admit, but it’s where we get most of our cash.”
Indeed, it is not, Giorno thought, and neither will it get me very far in this organization. Luckily, I’ve already set in motion everything I need to speed things up…
When Fugo returned, all eyes shot up to meet his haunted gaze. The boy was clutching his chest like he was set to keel over from a heart attack. He was panting heavily—the news he’d been given over the phone was clearly dire enough to warrant him sprinting back to his team.
“Guys… Polpo’s dead.”
A gasp before the table fell silent again. Every gaze that had been on Fugo now slowly slid in Giorno’s direction. He felt the spotlight on him, the heat causing him to sweat. His thoughts raced and raced as the adrenaline surged through his veins.
I’ve bluffed my way out of Luca. Now, Polpo—how do I proceed…?
Those threads he’d grasped were slowly unraveling from him—if he lost them now, he was back at square one.
Abbacchio acted first. He shot up from his chair, knocking it on its back and rushed to Fugo’s side. “What’s your game, kid?!” He asked in a shout, as if Giorno wasn’t playing it by ear, the rules lost even to him. When he didn’t answer, Abbacchio looked away with a click of his tongue.
“Hey, hey hey, hold on, guys!” Mista stood next. “Let’s not get hasty—I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for—”
“Yeah, why’d you kill him Giorno?!” Narancia’s turn. He stood too, slowly. “What the fuck. That was our capo!”
Giorno let his gaze fall to his lap, lingering there as if he held the solution to his predicament in his hands all along.
“WELL?!” Came Fugo’s interrogation. “Say something!”
Finally, Giorno met Fugo’s gaze again. He took a deep breath, making sure he had his complete attention.
“Polpo… told me something very interesting when we spoke.”
No one said a word more. Giorno took this as his cue to continue, the snares catching those threads anew.
“He told me that the most important thing in the world was trust. Trust in others is what allows one to achieve even the impossible through the bonds of a team. To betray that trust would be the ultimate insult in the eyes of a gangster, and murdering them for that infraction would be entirely justified in the eyes of God.
“Fugo, sir, please understand that I did not act out of pure malice to your gang, nor were my actions entirely in self-preservation as they were with Luca. Your capo simply betrayed the trust I had given him when we met—trust that would have been so paramount to our cooperation as fellow gangsters. As you’re aware, he gave me a test. Unbeknownst to him, I was testing him in kind. But rather than assessing his capability as leader, I was looking for something deeper.”
In his mind, Giorno saw his school janitor’s mangled corpse on the steps to his dorm and Polpo’s stand callously tossing him aside when it saw Giorno. The trial that Polpo arranged for him was a farce. The capo had every intention of killing Giorno and anyone else unlucky enough to get involved. He recalled the rage that bubbled up inside him upon the realisation—and the subsequent determination that surged through him, sealing Polpo’s fate.
“To have acted so odiously as he did, to abuse those less fortunate, all in service to himself, I simply could not let that pass. Polpo proved himself to be a snake, someone who would betray while espousing the virtues of trust, in equal measure. He had failed my test. He was unfit to carry our team. Therefore, I… disposed of him upon realising his role in the gang, and in our team here as capo, was nullified. It was, after all, necessary that I tied off those loose ends that would have ensnared us should they be left unattended.
“As odd as this might seem, it was the only thing I could think to do to gain your trust. I wanted to prove that my intent with Passione was genuine and that I was worth having in your team. I am not here to simply assist—I want to be your equal. I assure you all that I would lay my life on the line as easily as I would end another who would threaten me or my friends.”
Yet again, no one dared speak. Giorno side-eyed Mista in the silence that ensued and saw that the gangster was beaming. If the confused glint in eyes hinted at anything substantial, he didn’t voice it. Nothing could detract from his glee.
Narancia looked confused as ever. Giorno felt assured that the little gangster’s role in their team was neither tactical nor intellectual—paid, not to think but to act.
Abbacchio was giving him a rather loathsome glare, like he’d just stepped on Giorno and found him stuck under his boot. He scoffed, turning to his leader. “He really thought that little speech of his would work! Fugo, please tell me we’re not taking him for his word here.”
Fugo was busy looking shell-shocked. It seemed Giorno’s words had their intended effect after all—like a slow poison it injected deep, proliferated drop by drop through the vein, until the effects were felt all over. Fugo was slowly succumbing to Giorno’s dream—and Giorno could not have been more relieved. He knew these next few moments would thread the change that altered everyone’s patchwork destiny forever.
“I… that’s…” Fugo let out the breath he was holding. “That’s exactly the kind of thing Bucciarati would have said to me.”
The room deflated at his words. Hostility fizzled to nothing, and any leftover tension was slowly relieved. It’s like Fugo had loosened a pressure valve, letting relief wash over everyone as the air grew sombre, less oppressive. Everyone could breathe easy again, but a strange sense that this was all… fated, somehow, settled uncomfortably in their hearts. It was like they were being entangled in something greater than them—puppeteered by a destiny that placed this golden boy at their doorstep. The very same destiny that had taken their dear friend and leader out of their lives.
–
When Bucciarati died, the entirety of Napoli mourned him. The streets were deserted of the usual bustle of workers commuting to their jobs. Shops were closed up early. Children didn't play, didn't smile or laugh for their friends or family. School was a difficult affair, and many were keen on simply calling it a day earlier than usual. On the day of the funeral mass, Bucciarati's family sat four in a row in the very first pew, their heads down, lit by the many candles that surrounded their leader’s casket, and hands clasped in their laps. They watched as one by one, the city walked the aisle to the casket to give their respects, many they recognised and even more they didn't. The few that spared a glance to the obvious gang members sitting at the front row showed obvious pity. At the very least, it gave the four of them a small sense of comfort. Bucciarati was loved, and they would be loved as he was, so long as they respected his dream. Carried out his final wishes.
Officially, it was ruled as “gang violence.” Bucciarati had answered a call to deal with a certain tradesman, said to have driven the client's daughter into suicide. The encounter turned violent, then swiftly it turned deadly. Bucciarati was, apparently, last seen falling out the window of the man’s apartment. Whatever happened up there between the two of them, no one would know.
Of course, said tradesman still had to be dealt with. A swift bullet to the head, then bribes were handed off, stories were sold—all to keep up the illusion. All to stave off rumors that got closer to the truth than what was comfortable. An assisted suicide via magical sculpted object would never go over well with the public, let alone the boss. Even Polpo—capo to their ragtag team and thus, closer to them than their cryptic leader—had the wool pulled over his eyes regarding what truly happened to his favourite subordinate. His reaction to the news was curt. Detached, even, and better than anyone could have anticipated. Quickly, the situation was swept under the proverbial rug and the team was permitted to function as before.
The transition was not easy. A small struggle of power ensued before it became clear three out of the four of them did not care enough to take charge whenever it displeased them. Slowly, everyone’s roles became clear to them and they slotted themselves into place without further incident.
The photos on the mantle at Libeccio’s were Fugo’s idea. Anything he could do to make sure he never forgot what his hero looked like in his happiest moments, he would commit to. Every morning, a greeting for his soul watching from above, and every night a buona notte. The fact that it felt like a deification was not lost on any of them. Fugo’s rampant insistence on keeping the mantle clean and tidy whilst addressing the man as if in person was concerning at best. At worst, they feared he would be next. Soon, however, no one could shake that, indeed, it felt like someone was looking after them—whether it be their near supernatural luck that followed them like a shadow or simply the chills they felt every time a stray glance fell on one of the photos. Which is why the appearance of a certain Giorno Giovanna in their lives became a greater concern than simply a hotshot kid looking to join the mafia for kicks. Now it was a matter of adhering to Bucciarati’s wishes, hypothetical or otherwise.
Bucciarati who, the more everyone spared a glance at the new recruit, seemed to manifest in every action Giorno took and in every heartfelt speech he gave.
If Fugo had the paradoxical sense to believe in destiny, he would have seen that these were cards being dealt to him and not idle coincidences. As it stood, he just wanted to know what it was about this kid that irked him so. Was it jealousy, perhaps? (rather than entertain that thought further, Fugo would have preferred the acrid taste of his own stand’s poisonous capsules)
More importantly, what would Bucciarati do? That was the question he found himself revisiting time and time again—to ground him every time he lost himself in his own head, drowned by his anger or distrust or some other negative emotion. If Bucciarati believed in destiny, and he probably did, he would have found some way of elucidating Giorno’s purpose to them all. He would have also welcomed the recruit with open arms. The man had the heart of a lamb, despite the fiery, bold exterior he projected to the world. He could see the good in even the most vile of sinners. Maybe they would have even been friends. He certainly wouldn’t have been blinded by jealousy (nope, not going there again!).
Contrary to all that was endemic to Fugo, he decided to stop thinking too hard. If Giorno wanted to fight for them—die for them, even—that was his prerogative. Never mind the fact that he killed a member of their gang and their sorry excuse for a capo. Fugo was no stranger to murdering other gangsters and threatening countless more to prove his worth. A soldier was a soldier, more cattle to the slaughter... it just so happened that this one was also their fated north star that would lead them out of the path of bloodshed and onto the path of victory.
–
“Is Bucciarati that man…” Giorno pointed at the mantle. “...in those photos over there?”
Fugo nodded, his face solemn. “Yes. He was our former leader. Would have been capo if not for…” He gestures, vaguely, with his hands. “...all of this. He just had the know-how, was compassionate to a fault and diplomatic when he needed to be. Sometimes—and I swear I’m not bullshitting, everyone here can attest to this—I can even hear him speaking to me, still. I… honestly think he would have liked you. I just have a feeling.” He finished with a sad smile.
Giorno spared another glance at the mantle. As if conjuring the spirit himself, he felt that ‘presence’ centralized there again. It was not unlike the aura of another person’s stand this time. When he fought Mista, his stand felt fragmented—he could feel the individual clusters of stand aura all around him buzzing like fireflies. His own, however, was solid as can be, warm and comforting. This was how the presence felt to him now, but more. Like a soft blanket, a comforting pat on the back. Foreign feelings for him, ignited anew. He wanted to drown in it.
“You must think I’m crazy.”
Giorno shook his head profusely.
“Not at all. I’m touched by your words, Fugo. This man obviously meant a lot to you all. I can only hope to live up to his expectations for me.”
The group settled into a comfortable silence at that. The warmth that Giorno felt from their conversation persisted, leaving him feeling content and perhaps even confident with the group he found himself in. Mista had swung his arm around Giorno as if in silent support (or maybe it was he who needed support in case the sentimentality left him in shambles). Narancia was quiet, but looking into his eyes Giorno could tell he was reliving those past moments with his beloved leader as he studied his shoes. Even Abbacchio seemed to simmer down for the time being, casting reverent eyes at the photos on the mantle. Perhaps this was Giorno’s chance—perhaps this group was what he’d been searching for, all this time. No longer would he need to run from the challenges in his life and neither would he let them oppress him. He had what he needed right here, and it was clear they needed him too. Perhaps even more.
The impromptu vigil for Bucciarati seemed to last forever, a warmth that spread throughout, but it wasn’t long before someone realised the true immediate issue.
“So, like, Polpo’s still dead,” Mista began, treading carefully. “That means we’re down a capo. One of us has gotta step up. And you know, I’ve been thinking. I’m a pretty good fit aren’t I?! I was practically made for this job. Polpo even said so himself—I’d be next in line for capo if I wanted it.”
Fugo made an impressively misshapen expression at that suggestion which was mirrored by his other teammates. “Like you’d handle that. I can’t see you lasting a day being our capo, Mista. All you know is to shoot and ask questions only while you’re shooting! Admit it, you only want this so you can buy more of those awful ‘designer’ clothes you like to wear.” He punctuated this with a pair of air quotes.
Mista dared to look revolted, but didn’t protest further. He opted to simply cross his arms and study a spot by his boot. Giorno guessed—and was far from surprised—that Fugo had been right on the money. Uptight and seemingly neurotic as he was, Fugo was still highly observant. Giorno could tell he’d already pieced together everything that had happened the previous few days by the time he’d stepped foot in Libeccio. Clearly, he was sharp, a quality a leader should have, but his inexperience and lack of patience would make being capo difficult.
Still, it was good enough. And it had to be, for Giorno wasn’t awash with options at the moment.
“If I may,” Giorno began, ”wouldn’t it make sense for Fugo to take up the mantle? He is your leader, after all.”
“Who said you got a say in this?” Abbacchio grumbled from where he was standing. Somehow, he had sidled closer to Fugo during the whole exchange. “Brat. Already yapping like we’re pals. Don’t think we suddenly trust you after that cute little speech you gave us. Know your place.”
Like a switch was flipped, Fugo’s expression fell and he squared his shoulders. Feet together and back straight, he was once again the perfect soldier that Bucciarati would have wanted him to be.
“W-Well said, Abbacchio. Let’s not lose our heads over what happened today. Giorno, don’t take this personally but you’re still new. And, uh, well you already started killing people. While I appreciate what I think you’re trying to do, I can’t exactly put my full trust in you just yet. You’re honestly in big shit with Passione right now after all this—especially once news of Polpo's death spreads—so if you don’t want to get mixed up with some really messed up guys I’d suggest you shut up, keep your head down and do what you’re told.”
Giorno nodded, a placid smile on his face. “Of course, Fugo. I’d never think otherwise. It was only a suggestion. If you’re not ready for the role of capo, I’d certainly understand.”
Fugo’s fists balled up at his side and began to shake at that remark. He was geared up to fire back until Narancia cut in. He grabbed Fugo’s arms as if he’d seen this play out countless times before and wasn’t eager to watch it again.
“Well, uh, I actually think Giorno’s right—you should just be our capo, Fugo. Wasn’t Bucciarati coaching you anyway? I mean, duh, Bucciarati should have been the one to step up but he’s not here so… I think he’d want you to do it. For him.”
Mista hummed in agreement. “Yeah… yeah, I guess he would. You’re basically our leader anyways, Fugo. What’s the difference?” He winked at Giorno after this remark, certainly thinking he was helping even if he wasn’t completely privy to the boy’s plan.
For a moment, Fugo kept his head down, not saying anything. He briefly met Abbacchio’s eyes, to which the older man only grunted and turned his head away. “Do whatever. I don’t care,” he said, echoing his retort from earlier at the table.
Then, finally, Fugo faced his team to say, “f-fine. Fine! I’ll take Polpo’s place as capo. But don’t think it’ll be easy from now on! Polpo’s got a lot of enemies and we still have to find—”
Narancia cheered and pounced onto his friend, arms engulfing him in a tight hug. Fugo shriveled up like a cat caught in the rain on contact but soon relaxed into his arms. He turned his head but the tears welling up in his eyes were still visible. Giorno turned and saw the scene was having the same effect on Mista, who was not-so-subtly wiping the corner of his eye with his sweater. Abbacchio, unsurprisingly, remained as stoic as ever. Though, Giorno didn’t miss the occasional quirk in his frown threatening to betray him.
And, well, all’s well that ends well, isn't that right? Giorno let a pleased smirk grace his face. So, Bucciarati’s protege got his big break and Giorno got the golden goose. Treat it well, and he had a team worth fighting for—and one that’d fight for him. All it took was a bit of willpower on his end… or did it? Somehow, Giorno knew there was more to it.
He never believed in destiny until now. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t normal. Something changed that day, when he stepped on the funicular and met that madcap, pistol-toting gangster with wild eyes and equally fierce grin. And Mista himself seemed to feel it too. Giorno couldn’t determine any other explanation for why he’d jumped so willingly into overthrowing Passione’s elusive boss. Maybe he, Fugo and the rest of them had been shackled all this time by a fate that they’d never wanted, was forced upon them by circumstances beyond their control. Living like slaves, blind to their destiny, blind to all other outcomes. Maybe Giorno’s arrival in their lives was the universe’s way of giving them a second chance, a way to alter what was predetermined. To illuminate the golden path out of impending darkness.
Giorno could only hope that this golden path was one that would be their deliverance from that accursed fate.