Chapter Text
“...It’s like you’ve got bits of rubies stuck in your eyes.”
Giorno darts a glance at the bedroom mirror, only to find sea-green pools staring back at him. He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.
When they got home, Giorno immediately got Trish cleaned up and comfortably to bed in the master bedroom. Begrudgingly he told Fugo to phone their on-call doctor that they almost never call, (he didn’t dare tell Fugo he couldn’t so much as sense the house plants in the windowsill. That alone was too grim a thought for him to consider when he already had Trish to think of). Within fifteen minutes, the doctor sat in the room, examining her and redressing her wound and—after leaving a couple bottles of painkillers and antibiotics—told the three of them she would be just fine.
“You're not going to remove the bullet?” Fugo had asked.
The doctor shrugged and said, “Because of the placement, it’s more of a cosmetic choice for her to make now. I’m assuming she would decide to remove it, but it’s certainly not something we have to do tonight. Her body has been through enough. Better to let her rest for now.”
So, the doctor left, and Mista put on one of his usual movies in the parlor attached to the master bedroom. A spy espionage, one with fake explosions far enough removed from reality so that he could eat his beef jerky peacefully. Fugo sits with him, intermittently taking phone calls in the hallway to tie up loose ends in Siena remotely.
After missions, even pretty simple ones, they all seem to stay near each other without thinking about it. It’s a comfort Giorno slowly grew to notice over the years and be grateful for.
Though—and he squeezes Trish’s hand at the thought—usually she’s awake for half of the stupid action movie, falling asleep before the lead has a chance to save the girl with some fantastical sacrifice that works perfectly for the guy to catch the falling girl and they make off in a convertible to drive off into the sunset. Trish shifting in her sleep against his shoulder for the credits. He smiles smally at the phantom warmth, just to have the feeling slip from him.
The evening won’t stop replaying in his head. Killing was a stain he’d grown used to scrubbing out, sure. Though this kill is a firm bleach, the whole of his mind recolored by it.
A knock taps on the door before Mista pokes in. The paused movie behind him hazes blue light through his hatless hair. “Hey, Gio.”
“Hey.” Giorno straightens up, not realizing he’d put a crick in his back from hunching, “Does Fugo need help with the calls?”
“No, uh, it’s... There’s someone here to see you.”
On the left wall, the clock reads half past eleven. Giorno’s brows pinch, “Who is it?”
Mista shakes his head. “Guy refused to tell me. Just said you definitely would want to see him tonight.”
A prickle starts crawling up Giorno’s neck, but he nods, rising to pull the wrinkles out of his fresh suit before giving a last look to Trish laying in bed.
Even with the sick pale she has, the warm lamplight brushes a humming glow over her porcelain skin, eyelashes elegant under a swirl of hair like petals fallen and settled below a Sakura tree.
Giorno sighs. A goddess even when she’s asleep. With a bend down, he places a delicate kiss on her forehead, tells her softly, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”
He can almost hear her tease back, carrying the ghost of it with him as he follows Mista out.
Walking the hallway, he finds himself fidgeting with his sleeve. “Where did you stash the bastard?”
“Drawing room. West side.”
When they reach the door, Giorno opens it to find an older man with short greying hair in a dark trenchcoat standing by the curtained window, tall in mudded work boots that make Giorno think of poachers.
As the two mafiosos walk in, the man turns to greet them with a knotted face smeared by a scar from his ear to mouth that smiles far too well.
Suddenly Giorno’s skin crawls with the want for this visit to be done three times over.
“Don Giovanna,” the old man rolls out with a smoker's grumble, placing his hat under his arm to hold out a meaty hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
Giorno eyes the man and his outstretched hand, asks, “Excuse me for being plain, but what business do you have with me half an hour before midnight that couldn’t wait until morning?”
The stranger smiles wider, retracting his hand to reach into his jacket.
Instantly Mista is there putting a hand on the man’s wrist to stop him. But it doesn’t seem to bother the odd old man in the slightest.
“It’s ok,” the stranger soothes like to a child, “It’s just paper.”
After Giorno catches his gunman’s glance with a reluctant nod, Mista lets the man go. The stranger slowly pulls his hand out with a bundle of folded up papers, which he starts unfolding carefully, measuredly.
Giorno finds tapping his finger on his leg isn’t making the seconds go by any easier. “Signore, I’d rather you state your business promptly so we can both return to our evenings.”
“You’re eager to get back to her? I’m assuming.”
The words score like a blunt razor down Giorno’s neck, and he glances to Mista before telling the man, “You will state who you are and what your business is. Now.”
Mista pulls out his revolver, again to the old man’s nonchalance.
"There’s no need for intimidation, boys.” The old man slides off to the side, coming to sit on one of the couches by the dark fireplace. “I’m a friend, surprisingly enough. Surprisingly... Sorry, I’m not the one who organized these papers.”
"And I’m sorry but who the fuck are you?” Mista spits with the gun barrel aimed at the man’s skull.
“Mista,” Giorno growls.
“No, it’s alright,” the scar soothes before addressing the gunman, “I’ll bet you’re wondering how your Boss learned to tear a man’s throat out like that.”
If before was a blunt razor down Giorno’s neck, then this was a sharp knife that drew blood.
It makes Mista shift uncomfortably, “Orders? Boss? Say the word and I’ll blow his head off I swear to—”
“Leave us,” Giorno says low.
“But... Giorno—?”
“I said leave us,” Giorno says firmer.
After a horrible moment of hesitation, Mista nods, “Yes, Boss.” And with a quick holster of his revolver, he leaves the room.
The click of the door shutting tolls like a clock’s chime, the seconds passing after it marked with a wordless ticking. Until finally, the old man nods like it was all good fun before he starts, “You know I’ve always wanted to—”
“You sent the masked men to kill me,” Giorno states simply.
The old man grins again, the muscles contorting over his skull tug the scar enough to pull his ear with it. “My name is Clint Warwick.” He slaps the papers on the table, stands and stashes his hands in his pockets, “And I didn’t send them to kill you.”
“Then what was your goal?” Giorno asks.
“To piss you off.” Warwick nods, then says with a sort of quiet awe, “And I would say they did an excellent job.”
Giorno tilts his head dangerously, “You’re about to experience it firsthand if you don’t tell me why.”
At that, Warwick grunts in dark amusement, bending to shift through the papers and pull a particular one. He holds it out to Giorno, who snatches it up to examine.
It’s a couple video stills stacked on top of each other. Bodycam footage. He squints to try to make sense of what he’s looking at... before it spears him through like a harpoon. And he looks up.
“There it is,” Warwick points. “That, that’s how the real friendships start.” With a pleased chuckle, the old man walks back to the couch, drops into it, and comfortably folds his hands over his stomach to enjoy the pause before saying, “Giorno, kid, I’m here to do someone else’s job. A man who’s far busier than me with his own family matters at the moment, and I’ll be honest with you, I don’t want to be here.” He looks to see the blond rooted to the spot. “Come on, sit down.” He gestures to the couch across from him.
Giorno just stands there, eyeing the man like he’d grown a second head. “Who sent you?”
Warwick groans, “Just sit down, boy.”
When Giorno doesn’t budge, Warwick exhales tiredly, reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”
Giorno replies automatically, “There’s no smoking allowed in this house.”
“Reeks of your stepfather, doesn’t it?” Setting the cigar in his mouth, Warwick hoists his lighter, a falcon with a beak that opens for the flame, grumbling, “But you’re above all that now, aren’t you.”
Next to him in an instant, Giorno snatches the cigar, “You know nothing .”
Impossibly fast, Warwick lunges to slam his hands over Giorno’s throat, the coffee table squealing as their weight hits the floor and knocks the air out of the younger.
The man roars close, “ No one but me or my woman touches my fucking cigars! No one! Understand!? Doesn’t matter if you’re a human or that devil's fucking demon spawn— the rule stands and anyone who breaks it dies!”
Bewilderment sears behind Giorno’s eyes right next to the deja vu that pounds adrenaline in his gut and fingertips enough that he realizes and hates why he hasn’t been clawing harder at the grip on his neck— though a new nag starts in his head and he focuses on it, manages to grunt, “Demon... spawn?”
Warwick shoves his hands harder on Giorno’s throat, the pressure summoning that buried smell of his old attic along with a new fire—a similar fire to earlier today—and abruptly something burns in the back of his throat, back of his skull, his eyes, and he blinks through it. The broiling returning like his insides are on fire and he struggles, his spine squirming from the heat until he can’t take it anymore and jerks up with a yell, the weight on him suddenly nothing and he shoves it off. Lands the other body on its back and slams his own grip over the scum’s throat. Breathing brokenly but heaving pressure down on the other’s throat below all the same.
In between airless gasps, the scarred mouth rasps, “Go on, tear it out.”
Despite the heady fire in Giorno’s stomach, the words cut to bone. A blooming horror slackens his limbs, his grip.
The second Warwick can get in a full breath— he punches Giorno in the throat and gut.
Air knocked clean out of him, Giorno falls to his side to gasp as the older gets up. As Giorno’s lungs fill, the sweet air scrapes his throbbing throat like shards of glass and he falls into coughing. While the burn in his throat is expected, that odd kind of burning is in his skull still— and Giorno squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the shiver his body does at the thought that the burning inside him must be connected to what he saw in the bodycam footage. There was no other explanation. And the man looming above had come just to see it in person.
After plucking his cigar from the ground, Warwick takes a step back to admire his handiwork while Giorno steadies his breathing, a mindless hand going to his neck.
Warwick nods, clearing his throat before saying hoarsely, “Yes, dear boy. Once your purposes are fulfilled, you’re just a demon’s spawn for me to slay so I can go home. Don’t forget it.”
“Purposes?” Giorno croaks up at the man. “What Goddamn purposes?”
A broken sigh coughs from the old man’s nostrils and he mutters to himself tiredly, “The things I have to do to get business done with this new generation.” Warwick turns, pushes through a couple more papers as Giorno gets up and tries to reign in his thoughts while the anger floods his limbs enough it seems to cause an ache in his fingertips.
Purposes. Giorno forces himself to calm. Clearly the man wasn’t an idiot and wouldn’t lay a hand on a damn mafia boss unless he knew he could get away with it—Which only made Giorno’s skin crawl all the more.
“Call it a job.” Warwick slips a stapled stack of paper free, brings it to the younger. “And I think you’ll find it’s something you would be doing on your own anyway.”
He could kill him, though. Right now. The thought twirls around on a stage in Giorno’s head, the old man in flames in his fireplace like a tease in a pretty dress.
Though, he can’t deny he’s curious about how this stranger can be so confident and calm and okay with strangling him in his own damn house.
Forcing a rough exhale through his nose, Giorno takes the papers. While Warwick strolls to the dim fireplace and sets his arm on the mantel, the younger looks the papers over, snagging on the wheel symbol in the upper righthand corner.
“Speedwagon,” Giorno says.
Warwick sends a glance back at the mention.
The Speedwagon Foundation, supernatural treasure hunters and part time philanthropists with closed-doors that only leaked rumors of the unnatural horrors that they tinkered with inside. Giorno’s eyes dart from the paper to the man, “Am I so dangerous that the Speedwagon Foundation wants me mounted on their wall?”
With a smirk, Warwick offers, “They’re a concerned party. Concerned citizens, let's call them. And they want your assistance hunting another man.”
“You sound separate.”
“I am, so to speak. I left for a different life. But I came back to settle an old debt.”
As the old man seems to slip into memory, Giorno leaves him to it and goes back to skimming the file. The file on a... particularly horrendous man. Ugo Barone.
“And the Foundation wants me to sanction a killing on this man for them?”
“No,” Warwick stashes his hands in his pockets. “We need him alive. He's been doing a bit of research on his own that we need back.”
“Research?” Giorno asks. “It says here he runs a highly successful brothel. Is the Foundation interested in revamping an underground sex work sector?”
Warwick sends him an unamused look. “He used to work for the Foundation until he got kicked out for unsanctioned experimentation. But he quit and ran off before he could be properly cleansed.”
The way Warwick says ‘ cleansed’ makes Giorno think more of how you would gut a fish. “Alright, but why now? He’s been out of your Foundation for years.”
“We found one of his moles that’s been sending him supplies. And recently the worm broke just to tell us some very... unsettling things about what Barone has been up to— besides being a frequent buyer in the human trafficking ring that runs through Napoli. Your department by the way, kid.”
Giorno replies like a reflex, “Passione long ago dipped out of human trafficking.”
“So I’ve heard. That’s why this is your department, the Foundation figures you’d want to help clean up a stain in your home city.”
It stings. Giorno hates to admit it, but the underworld was like a furled-up curtain sometimes, so many folds in the dark beside a sunny window that it became harder to make out those few new marks deep in the fabric’s shadows, not to mention when it was your own bedroom’s curtains. Passing them every day only solidifying that everything was fine. Only at night when you unfurl them could you notice, and even then how could you without a full moon’s light shining through? He shivers at the idea that such a stain existed on his city for as long as it apparently has. And, he finds himself somehow grateful that it got brought to his attention, even if it was this disgusting piece of shit who delivered it to him.
Giorno sighs, “So he stole a couple things on his way out?”
With an unearthed graveness, Warwick nods, “We need the stolen samples and the man back, before he realizes how much he can get by, well, distributing his product.”
The solemnness by which the old man says it strikes Giorno, as he thought the man was simply following orders, but... the way he glares at the floor suggests he might actually care about stopping a fiend from hurting innocents. And, as much as Giorno had already planned this old man’s untimely retirement, he could at least find satisfaction in using this piece of shit to take down a yet bigger piece of shit beforehand.
Though, and Giorno clenches his jaw at it...
“You’ve made a convincing case.” Giorno reorders the papers in his hands, “And I can’t deny that I appreciate the somewhat anonymous tip,” he drops the stack back on the coffee table, “Though, if I did find a reason to refuse to help you, I’m assuming it would not be without great consequence to me?”
A satisfied look pulls at Warwick’s scarred lip, and he reaches into his jacket to pull out a CD. “That poor old grandma’s bakery wouldn’t be the only thing out of business.”
From under darkening brows, Giorno glares, “I could kill you where you stand.”
“After today,” Warwick huffs, “I have no doubt of that fact.” He licks his lips. “I have contacts with copies ordered to send them out to every one of your precious capos and politicians in your pocket should they not hear from myself in good health within the determined intervals, starting today.” Warwick flips the CD over in his fingers. “Public figure that you are, the papers would have a field day. Capos you’ve had under your heel would leap at the opportunity. You would be ostracized from your own organization as a dangerous anomaly, a freak.”
The last word reverberates around Giorno’s skull like broken glass in a paper bag about to tear open.
So he nods like that makes sense, tries to exhale the tension from his shoulders, “And after I hand over Ugo, do I have a guarantee that that’s it? You won’t ‘need my services’ anymore and I can find every existing copy of that CD on my desk by the next morning?”
“A whore doesn’t ask when she’s done,” Warwick says matter-of-factly. “Just does as she’s told and trusts she will be rewarded by the end of the night.”
Giorno grunts in dark amusement, before growling, “You haven’t given me much of a choice.”
It’s at this that Warwick smiles like it’s a kind wisdom to say, “There’s always a bigger fish, young Giovanna. You just have to know what kind of hook to use.” And the old man reaches, Giorno flinching when the man pats his cheek, once, twice, before turning to leave.
The contact leaves a residual burn on his face, rooting Giorno to stare into the fireplace with visceral dreams of arson and murder and blood as the subject of said thoughts reaches the door.
“Oh, and one more thing, boy.” Warwick stops with his hand on the handle, “I’d almost forgot— I need a blood sample from you.”
“A blood sample?” Giorno asks.
“Yes, see,” Warwick pulls his cigar back out, places it in his mouth, “The masses will believe footage as easily as pigs believe slop is food, but the Foundation will want cold proof.”
In the bodycam footage, that still image had been of him—on his fucking hands and feet like a Goddamn dog—lunging at the camera like a cornered animal with eyes flaring a brilliant crimson.
Giorno crushes his fists closed to steady them.
Bringing the lighter up to his cigar, Warwick waits for the embers to sizzle to life before he asks, “Do you know why they called me back in?”
Giorno doesn’t give the man the satisfaction of an answer, just stares into the dark fireplace and waits for the blow.
“Because I’m a monster hunter,” Warwick says, “A very successful monster hunter.”
Giorno nods like that’s fair, “And I’m just some demon’s spawn for you to kill when the night is done, then. But I’ll tell you—” he turns to face the old hunter, to glare and drip as a long blade slick from use, “You may try, but you won’t succeed.”
With a scarred smile that reaches his eyes, Warwick tips his hat, “Buonosera, Giorno Giovanna. I look forward to our next meeting, and I think, so should you.”
The door clicks shut. That clunky chime of a clock telling time, the passing of another interval, only this one marks the beginning of a night devoid of sleep, and, he thinks, the first of many.
Only now that he’s fully alone does Giorno allow himself to gulp and feel the way it scrapes down his bruised throat as nostalgic. Only alone does he let his face slip as he turns to kick up the coffee table with a harsh shout. The papers flying about. His face— his face a cruel joke printed on so many of them now raining down as he just stands in it like it’s a thick slow snow that could bury him if he would just stay there long enough and let it. He breathes in and out—hating that tightness in his throat—and clenches his fists until he feels his palms prickle open with warm blood.
His blood. His father’s blood. Whatever the hell that means he is now.
---
After managing to sit himself down in the desk, calming himself by making a few notes, a few calls, and finding that Fugo had gone to bed himself, Giorno makes his way back to the master suite.
Easing the green door open, Giorno makes out that Mista has finally passed out on the couch in the suite’s small parlor. The gunman’s figure strown haphazardly on the couch in front of the movie reached the end of its tape. The VHS blue light loud and bright but somehow Mista sleeps through it.
Snack wrappers and soda cans litter the table. It happens every time, and he used to reprimand Mista for the stains on his furniture, but now there’s familiarity to the sight that warms Giorno, especially after this evening.
Quietly, he shuts the door behind him before moving closer to see Mista clutching the remote to his chest. With an amused hum, Giorno retrieves a forgotten Snickers bar off the floor and gently trades it for the remote like it’s the holy grail. After clicking the off button, the bright blue fades to leave the room bathed in muted moonlight, and Giorno sends his friend a last grateful look before slipping away to the bedroom.
As he enters, it’s to find the lamp by Trish is still on, her head tossed only enough to suggest she had shifted in her sleep.
This door he clicks shut even softer. Praying it could stay shut behind him forever, he hopes neither of them might ever need to leave this little paradise they’ve created.
Back when the honeysuckle in the garden had turned its sweetest, deep in the June that Trish turned twenty, she came back. It feels like an eternity ago despite only being a couple years. She had her singing career, still a growing plant she loved caring for—just potted now—but she came back because the hum under her skin grew too loud. The memories contorted into nightmares with fears no friend or therapist in that world could understand. So she came back here, to this underworld, to hell. The only home where she said she belonged to this day.
Giorno takes his seat by her bedside, settles in to calm his nerves by watching her chest fall and rise steadily, softly.
He had tried to keep her away. Took her to the train station himself when they were sixteen, only to pick her up from it several summers later.
Even when they were younger, it had taken him little time at all to recognize how Trish truly came from royalty. The way she held her chin high and how she could wear a crown she dusted off a chair. Growing older only won her more jewels for said crown.
Trish told them what she wanted, and how they were going to go about giving it to her. It wasn’t a town hall discussion whether she was to stay and help them re-mold their lives, because, apparently, they had all slipped away without her.
So they did their best to oblige. She got Mista a real date with the right lipstick. She got Fugo to stop smoking his pack a day. And, impressive on its own, she got Giorno to tell her what was bothering him.
And, she had told him, on that afternoon with her lips painted a soft mousy pink, that it had been what was bothering her, too.
After that talk under the maple tree, and after another, and another after that, that soft pink became her favorite lipstick to wear, and since then she always teased that she hadn’t fallen in love with him, but with how the color set on his lips better than on her own.
Giorno sighs softly at the memory. Losing himself in the downy of sunlight laying on his face in the garden, the wind tossing her curls against his chest when she shifts closer.
“Giorno?”
Her hand finds his and his mind returns to see her looking up at him worriedly.
“Buonosera , bella .” Giorno returns her hold with both hands. “How are you feeling?"
“I’m okay.” Though the concern doesn’t leave as she blinks more awake in the lamplight, “Who was the guy you talked to?”
He knows his smile doesn’t falter, but worries about it anyway, “No one you need to stress about right now. I’ll have it sorted out by morning.”
Trish groans and starts trying to sit up, “You’re going to sleep tonight. Even if I have to drag you into this damn bed myself.”
Amusement tickles between his lungs and he sighs small with it, stacking the pillows behind her so she can sit up more comfortably. “I’d like to see you try. Here, you should drink some water.”
As he reaches for the glass by her bed, Trish blurts, “The hell is that?!”
Giorno freezes. After everything today had brought, he has this split-second horrible thought that maybe he’s grown devil horns or wings or maybe has a snake head sprouting already—and he dares to ask, “What?”
Trish shifts her gaze to his with a sinking disbelief, “Did that guy lay a hand on you?!”
Giorno’s hand flies to his neck that must be purpling, like a kid caught red-handed, and he pulls his collar up mindlessly while covering, “It’s nothing. Just business that went south, and I took care of it. Here, you should drink.”
She takes the offered water and half-slams it back on the bedside table. “Business my ass. Mista saw the guy out. And no one’s able to touch you like that and still be walking unless...” Trish trails off, realization sinking like an anchor in her eyes, and Giorno knows it’s an uphill battle when she gives him that look with, “What did he tell you?”
The urge to push that it was nothing rises, but before he can say anything—Trish’s brows harden and she pleads further, “Giorno, just tell me.”
With a relenting sigh, Giorno leans back to massage his face and think. Questions of his own swirl thick in his mouth, muddling enough that he knows if he tries to lie it’ll be too messy for her not to notice it’s a fake. So, he polishes it with a truth, “The man was from the Speedwagon Foundation. Some researcher, apparently. One of theirs ran off with too much information and they want to hire our services in hunting the man down.”
“The Speedwagon Foundation?” Trish says. “But they just do ghosts and Indiana Jones glowing artifacts, and they practically have their own army and the money to bribe and carry out whatever they want on their own. Why the hell do they need us?”
Giorno offers, “We’re useful as a way that can’t be traced back to them. It’s a manhunt they don’t want alot of eyes on, even in their own organization.”
To his chagrin, the pieces click together on her face too quickly. Trish says measuredly, “You mean, you’re useful to them.”
Giorno stares at the ground, tries to conjure up a good lie for her so she can sleep soundly tonight, but before he can settle on something solid and tangible, her fingertips brush his chin, lifting his gaze to hers.
“Tell me,” Trish says kindly, but with a firmness underneath. “What’s going on with you?”
The question stabs him deep. The worry in it serving to tell him he’s created an insecurity in their house, a foundation that shouldn’t be cracking how he’s letting it— and that’s something he couldn’t stand seeing in her eyes.
Giorno pulls his head away from her touch. Hesitating before offering softly in that way he knows she wants from him, “You got hurt because I wasn’t careful enough. It was reckless of me and I apologize.”
Shoulders standing down, her tone melts as she salves, “It’s part of the job. It’s fine, Giorno, and you know it. Sometimes we don’t have control over what happens.”
Giorno bites his lip. Sees his list of concerns all at once and says none of them.
He worries she read too far into it when she murmurs, “Come here,” and taps the bed bedside her.
Despite how he’s since washed up and put on a fresh suit, he feels unclean. Like he shouldn’t populate the bed with whatever grotesque plant is making its way out of his ears, his eyes and mouth. But her eyes say denying her would be unforgivable. So, relenting, he lifts himself to sit on the bed by her, allows her to coax his head into her lap.
Half a minute passes of her just sliding touch through his hair. And he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the way it eases his shoulders. Despite how tall she holds herself, Trish has always had a talent for making others feel delicate, taking care to hold people like they were made of too many broken pieces. It took months for him to understand it as a gift, and even longer for him to learn how to return the gesture as small touches laced with care.
Giorno rubs the side of her knee with his thumb––tracing just another of the elegant curves that make up her––when Trish offers, “You can just start talking. It doesn’t have to be a right answer.”
A small huff ruffles him, and he mutters, “You know by now that I don’t have the right answer.”
She hums, “And nothing hurts more in the world for you than that.”
It earns a smile from him, and he pauses, fumbles it a moment before telling her, “They want to ruin us, Trish. The whole organization, and I’m just the thread they can yank out for it to all fall apart.”
Trish seems confused for a moment before asking, “They have something on you?” Then realization dawns. “The bakery. Wait, they planted cameras? And if the Speedwagon Foundation’s people publish it as true, it’d be the truth to too many people. God––”
Abruptly Giorno sits up and faces her on the bed with what he hopes looks more steady than what he feels, “We can’t let it happen Trish, not after a decade of work and the lives that have been sacrificed to build Passione up to what it is now. It can’t be torn down like this.”
Despite how he knows his delivery was steady enough, he sees it sting in her eyes. But hurriedly she buries the look to take his hand. “We won’t,” Trish pushes. “We’ll find the stand user that makes people go berserk like in the bakery and nothing like it will happen to anyone again. We’ll take the bastard down together. Alright?”
Giorno nods, “We can start with the masked gang, too. Whether through a burner or not, I’m sure their head at least made contact with whoever was––”
“Giorno,” Trish stops him gently. “What else?”
There was no evading her. She’d seen his footwork too many times to not see the signs. So, he sighs. Traces the lines in her hands as she squeezes his, prompting him.
He could lie, he could shove off the real question and offer a different answer. It would be simple and save time and emotion. Though, something in this small moment tugs at him. The residual feeling of her carding through his hair is warm and giving, asking him to slough off his worries so she can wash him clean. And, after squeezing her hand in his, Giorno parts his lips, allows it to slip out of him quietly, “The man knew who my father was.”
“Your father?” Trish tiptoes on the word with small breaths, knowing how sharp it can be.
A jittering nag starts up between his ears at the confession, so he salves it with, “Trish, you can’t tell the others. Not a word to anyone, promise me.”
Trish’s eyes puzzle, though she says kindly, “Of course, I promise.”
“And,” Giorno says carefully, “everything that I tell you about this is all that you need to know.”
He sees the gravity of it in Trish’s eyes. How guarded the pieces of him are that she is willing to accept his terms in order to hold even just one more part of him.
Measuredly, she nods, “I promise, you won’t have to worry, Giorno.”
As her hand comes to settle on his cheek, the tension in it nearly stings. He takes her hand and kisses the palm of it. Treasuring the softness there for a moment longer before telling it, quietly, “My father wasn’t... he was something horrible, apparently. And the Foundation thinks that I... That they can use that tape of me, and that I’ll do anything for them as long as they don’t publish it because they think I only care about my image and not about how destroying Passione will definitely tear Italy apart, and I...”
Trish’s hands push over his, holding them tight enough to stifle the shaking that had started.
Patiently waiting as she is, Giorno can’t bring himself to look at her, can only confess, “The Foundation believes I’m a danger that needs to be watched and... I don’t know how to prove that I’m not.”
Trish lets it settle in the air for a moment, her eyes tracing the corners of him. After a soft rub of his fingers, she says softly, “You know, it’s ok to not have the right answer.”
Giorno huffs wryly, her humor serving more to cut the tension than to ease it softly. “You shouldn’t have to find the right answer for me.”
“You know I live for that hunt.”
It tugs at the corners of his lips, and he’s reminded again of how resilient Trish is to actually want and actively choose this life with him.
Reaching, Giorno brushes loose hair behind her ear just to settle touch on her cheek. “Give me a hundred years, and I’ll never understand even a fraction of you.”
Trish leans into his touch, unable to stop that insatiable pout that surfaces, “Only a hundred?”
At that, Giorno chuckles, “We’ll find out when we get there then.”
Trish shifts under his palm, her lips brushing his fingers in a soft kiss. “Together?” she asks.
With a soft smile, Giorno nods, “Without a doubt.”