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“Me? Walk for Versace?” Mista laughs, teeth flashing in the dim candle light. “You’re fucking hilarious. Anybody ever tell you that, new guy?”
Giorno shrugs. “On the contrary, I’ve been told I lack humor at times. I wasn’t joking when I said you should. Could.”
“You really think I’m runway material?” Mista snorts dismissively. “Take a closer look, man. I’m hot. I have nice abs and I’m the neighborhood guy you want washing your car in the summer. I’m not meant to dress up in a leather bodysuit and walk all menacing-like in front of Fortune 500 CEOs.”
“And do I suit the leather bodysuit?” Giorno says, amused.
“Sure, why not,” Mista says. “You’ve got the jaw, the nose, the cheekbones. You’re a natural-fucking-blond, too, aren’t you? You’ve got everything you need.”
Giorno’s lips twitch into a grin for the first time that night. He tries – and likely fails – to keep the smugness off his face, satisfaction at having teased out the response he wanted. “Are you jealous, Mista?” he asks, keeping his voice as innocuous as possible.
“Giorno,” Bucciarati says sharply, a reprimand and warning, but Giorno ignores him. Mista’s got the message, if the subtle way he leans back against his seat is any indication.
“Of your face? Nah. I like myself just the way I am, cheap looks and all,” Mista says nonchalantly, twirling his fork along his fingers. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of how quick you’ve made it, though. Golden boy of the season, aren’t you? First show at eighteen in some no-name charity event, six months later you’re walking for Chanel. Wanna let us in on the secret to success?”
“It was only luck,” Giorno says, knowing how untrue that is. “The same luck that’s brought me here with you all today.”
He spreads his arms out wide, encompassing all the other people at the table with him. To his right sits Fugo, picking at his pasta with that vaguely-annoyed expression he always has on when he’s not sorting out their daily appointments and booking shows for them. To his left, Narancia, scarfing down as much of his spaghetti as he can before Fugo forcibly reminds him of his ongoing diet.
Abbacchio sits at the end of the table with his arms crossed, singular salad still waiting untouched in front of him. Giorno’s noticed that about him from the few group meals they’ve had so far – Abbacchio and his strange aversion to eating anything at all. Giorno won’t form any assumptions before he has concrete evidence to work with, but he knows how common that is in their line of work, and he’s heard Abbacchio complaining to Bucciarati before about how easy it is for him to gain muscle.
Not a good thing for the kinds of clothing that Abbacchio models for, obviously. Giorno understands, but that doesn’t mean he has to feel any sympathy for Abbacchio when the man has been nothing but unpleasant for the entire time they’ve known each other.
Bucciarati, on the other hand, has been more than welcoming. He’s still the only one who knows the real reason why Giorno sought out this organization in particular, but he hasn’t shown any signs of Giorno’s recruitment being abnormal. He’s considerate, he isn’t creepy, and he seems to genuinely want the best for his team.
It would seem almost too good to be true if Giorno didn’t know exactly what Bucciarati’s doing. Getting his team completely and utterly devoted to him, not the agency; outsourcing photographers and stylists from independent agencies not already contracted to Passione; bringing in Giorno of all people even after hearing his true aim.
Giorno knows what Bucciarati is doing. It just so happens that his own goals also align with Bucciarati’s, so he’s inclined to help the process along. And right now, that involves increasing the reputations of everybody in Bucciarati’s group until they’re getting booked for their own names and not Passione’s.
Abbacchio has dug out his own cult following already with the more avant-garde projects he does, but Giorno knows that Narancia still sticks mainly to teen magazines and the occasional commercial, and Mista seems to be limiting himself to Abercrombie shoots that have him shirtless in low-rise jeans, cracking one of his signature self-satisfied smiles.
Bucciarati made a name for himself long before the rest of them, Giorno knows. He doesn’t need any help in that department; not when a single appearance during the Paris Fashion Week makes him more than the rest of them combined can get from a dozen commercials otherwise.
It was strange that he decided to pivot into managerial work at the peak of his popularity, but it seems like the rarity of his public appearances has made them just that more notable. What Bucciarati has done is nothing short of a miracle, but Giorno knows (knew) that his team was struggling to make as large of an impact – he was counting on the fact when he planned his chance encounter with Bucciarati.
Now all that’s left is to push that team out into the spotlight. Giorno already took the first step when he saw to it that Polpo suffer a little accident during one of his midday meals – asphyxiation on a banana is a bad way to go, but everybody saw it coming, didn’t they?
Nobody batted an eye when Bucciarati immediately took on the Polpo’s mantle with all the responsibilities and power attached to it. It’s only natural for the rest of his subordinates to also move up a notch in the social hierarchy, and Giorno intends to keep that momentum going all the way to the top.
Mista is only the first. The most interesting to Giorno, certainly. Seemingly the most receptive to Giorno’s suggestions despite his relative unstable position in their little group, sure. But Giorno’s begun with him because if he squints, tilts his head a little to the side, he can see something intriguing in the way Mista holds himself.
He isn’t wrong about himself and the image he’s built up; Giorno’s seen enough of his shirtless pinups to know that much. But past the handsome dimple and strong eyebrows is something more versatile than Mista keeps insisting on. Something alluring. Someone Giorno wouldn’t mind seeing in something more luxurious than a Calvin Klein logo peeking out of his waistband.