Chapter Text
Ugo Barone ran a brothel brimming with the sick and dying on drugs hard enough to kill horses, all of it five blocks down from the biggest theater in Naples. They found out the Saturday after the Speedwagon Foundation’s man––Clint Warwick as Trish came to learn–– tipped his hat and left, the hat’s brim having spilled poison all across the floor of their house.
So, this weekend they go to the Opera.
It's something high and tinkling like The Magic Flute , and she wasn’t excited to sit through the twenty minutes it took for their informant to send the green-light.
Some guy in a frilly green outfit prances across the stage as a knock sounds against the threshold to their nosebleed’s suite. Trish jerks to look, her long earrings colliding with her neck like windchimes.
“Ordered for you, My Don,” the soldato comes to bow beside Giorno, tilting the bottle for his approval.
“I’m grateful,” Giorno replies quickly. “Leave it here, please.”
From his seat behind them, Fugo mutters over their shoulders. “That was fast.”
With a swift motion, Giorno peels the note off of the bottom of the bottle, unfolding it as he says, “Seeing how well our spy scoped out the brothel beforehand, I would hope securing where the bastard’s lab is inside it would be easy.” His brows scrunch at the written note.
Third room down brothel main hall, wood hatch under red patterned rug. Security is three at front door, none near hatch room.
“Well that’s a warm welcome-in if I’ve ever seen one,” Fugo offers. “He probably left the keys in the door just for us too.”
“Do we change the plan, Giorno?” Trish’s eyes flick to him.
As he looks to her, his brows unknot, considering for a moment before closing the note. “We’ll proceed as planned. Slip in, take pictures of the research, evacuate civilians, then torch the place.” He stands. “Fugo, your post here with her.”
“Boss,” Fugo answers.
As Giorno takes his overcoat from the hanger on the wall, Trish feels a rise in her chest, “You know I could help, right? Watch your back. Make things go faster.”
“You don’t need to, I’ll have Mista.”
Trish sighs heavily, trying the boring obvious argument, “What if it is a trap?”
Adjusting his sleeves, Giorno answers, “The bastard doesn’t have experience with fighting men, we know that from how he’s been keeping his security the past week. Just because he’s attempting to place a lure today doesn’t mean it will be a very well-made trap.”
“Yeah, but a sharp stick still hurts, Giorno.”
After straightening out his coat, he looks to her, searching, before coming to lean closer. “I’ve been stabbed by a lot of sharp sticks, bella. What’s one more if it means we’re done with this mess sooner?”
Trish thinks to argue the point, that shoving through a hedge maze wasn’t his strong suit and what if he were to get captured by some ex-Foundation lunatic because the guy bet on him being reckless... though, in the end, her shoulders sink with a sigh. She meets his eyes––his look thick with hating the fingers under his skin puppetting him to run errands for someone else––and she nods, “Just be back before the intermission, I want to leave before my cafe closes. You promised me Bernelli’s chocolates, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Giorno answers, placing a soft kiss on her lips.
She thinks she can taste the cherry candy he popped in his mouth on the way here, even as he stands and goes to leave with a last nod to Fugo.
Soon as he’s gone, Trish turns back to the opera and sighs. Thinking she might actually pour herself a glass of champagne if only to dull the anxiety that would tax her for the duration of this reckless–ass plan.
Mista waits for him out back behind the theater, Porsche humming light into the humid summer air. Glancing around to ensure the lack of eyes on him, Giorno goes to slip in the front passenger seat.
After clicking the door shut and removing his gloves, Giorno notices Mista’s look. He sighs and pushes on, “How long ago did you receive confirmation on Warwick’s location?”
“Seven minutes,” Mista answers. “He’s still holed up in the Grand two blocks back, a good view for it. A car’s ready for him in the front for him to leave after he sees the brothel on fire. All in all, it sounds like he believed you, Gio.”
“Good. And you’ve got the bags in the back?”
“For our little weekend hunting trip, yeah.” Mista puts the car in gear and starts driving them through the back alley. “And, by the way, if we’re sharing that one bed in the hotel room tonight, I hope you don’t mind my snoring.”
Giorno sends him a tired look, throwing the gloves in the footwell. “You’ll be back the morning before your poker night, don’t worry––”
“Poker night?” Mista chokes on a laugh. “Gio, I don’t give a damn what I do with my weekend. I just don’t want to hear about it when we get home.”
The meaning catches Giorno off-guard. After pausing to collect himself, he turns in his seat to say, “What Trish doesn’t know won’t hurt her, it really is as simple as that. And in fact, she’ll be less stressed by not having to worry about it. The Palio, for example, that went well, didn’t it?”
With a shrug, Mista answers, “Oi, I’m not telling you how to work things with your girl. It’d be one thing if she wasn’t knee-dip in the business but, I’m just saying she’s famiglia . And that’s not how famiglia works, Boss. How you don’t know that by now––?” Mista shakes his head, “I don’t know.”
As much as he knows it’s his friend just trying to help, it sits sourly in his mouth. With a sigh, Giorno goes to remove his Opera coat and waistcoat. The gunman had always been drawn to gossip like a moth to electric fire. Trish just as much, one of the things he left to them. Though, it could be a pain sometimes.
It will pass, Giorno reminds himself. Always does.
Reaching behind them for one of the duffle bags to dig through, Giorno assures, “She’ll be fine. Fugo will take her to get chocolate and he’ll tell her what’s happening. By then we’ll be already done with Warwick and out hunting his CD copies and then this God-forsaken nightmare can be over.”
Mista nods, considers mentioning the grit in his Boss’ teeth but instead asks, “Bernelli’s?”
“Of course,” Giorno retrieves a Barretta, checking the slide and magazine before pocketing it in an under-arm holster he straps on. “Only the best.”
As Giorno continues equipping himself, Mista nods knowingly, leaning his face on his knuckles while he drives.
Near ten minutes pass before Trish hears her phone buzz. Hand pressed against her cheek, she’d zoned out watching the bird-people do... something also involving singing.
With a languid slip into her purse, she checks her phone. And her brows pinch.
Sitting upright, she reads the text three more times as she tries to process what it means.
Fugo’s phone number. It says, “Waiting for you, mistress.”
It has to be a joke. He’d said he was taking a short trip to the restroom a couple minutes ago and Fugo would never joke that vaguely or that... God, there's even a winky face at the bottom?!
Trish flips the phone closed, standing with her eyebrows raised. Only one way to find out, she tells herself, and slips past the curtains out of the suite.
In the thin hall lining the upper seating area, she doesn’t see any other members up, and certainly no sign of Fugo.
With a sigh, she chooses the direction towards the restroom and walks. Opera heels thudding softly against the red wool rug floor, she pulls the falling sleeve back up her shoulder, covering the bandage leftover from the Palio.
Giorno had picked out the dress. An emerald green slip, the back open with a tie that drew into a gold-adorned knot at her hip, and a cut for her leg to poke out, she’d loved it and he’d said it matched her eyes. A match made in heaven. God, she wishes it could’ve just been a boring Saturday night at home with him instead of this.
A thudding rhythm sounds from the door ahead on her right. Trish freezes. It comes from the stairwell, but promptly it goes quiet.
Trish stands perfectly still in the silence, waiting for what she can guess is right behind her.
Thin wire ropes around her neck and yanks back–– but in vain. Spice Girl willing it to a chewing gum consistency.
Her attacker staggers back in confusion. Pivoting on her stiletto heel, Trish pulls the wire from the man, has Spice Girl harden it back to wire before she slings it around his neck–– before allowing it to flare hot as magma.
Instantly the man chokes on death, voice silenced and throttled by his own flesh searing into steam, and he collapses from the shock alone.
With that, Trish dashes down the hall, throwing open the stairwell door to see on a platform below–– Fugo on his knees being strangled by his own man with a wire, a body floored already with the other attacker sporting a broken nose and holding a gun to Fugo’s head.
Fugo sees her and blurts, “Trish!”
Both men look. With a swear, the one with the gun points at her and shoots.
Three shots, all of them made soft by the time they reach her and she hurries down the steps. On the way, Spice Girl wills the railing on her right to be as breakable as bread dough. Trish grabs onto it and, with a yell, yanks the crumbling railing free to swing at the two attackers.
When she lets go, she lets the end harden back into metal for a satisfying clank that knocks both men down.
Hurrying down the last of the steps, Trish makes it to Fugo and kneels beside him as he rips the wire off. “You alright?”
Fugo coughs, bruising already appearing on his jaw and throat, but he manages, “Fine. Trish, I was going to tell you later but things must be compromised––” Fugo falls into a coughing fit.
Trish’s brows furrow. “What?”
Fugo says hoarsely, “I’m taking you to get chocolate later, Giorno can’t make it. They’re going after Warwick.”
“...What?!”
The stairwell door on the platform above them bursts open and armed men rush out.
Trish looks just in time to watch one point a gun at them.
Spice Girl grips the metal panel in front of them and pulls it up to create a shield. Hardening it in time for the bullets to crash against it.
“Come on!” Fugo yells over the din, tugging her to get up.
She gets to her feet but runs at a hunch, Spice Girl softening the bullets as they make it to the stairs down and take them roughly— Fugo listing against the railing but firming putting himself between her and the oncoming attackers thundering down after them.
At the bottom, she shoves through the door and they stumble into the hall.
Empty. She looks left, then right. Sees a barrel round the corner and a man yell, “They’re right here!”
Fugo grabs her hand and they run down the hall in the other direction. They take a hard left and Fugo hits the wall like his balance is bad.
Trish grabs his arm. “You’re not alright, what did they give you?”
Fugo’s eyelids droop, but he pushes himself off the wall. “Nothing that stops you from running to the car.” He shoves the Mercedes keys at her. “In case I can’t keep up.”
Trish shakes her head violently, “Your martyr ass is making it, come on!”
Grabbing his hand, she runs the hall, Fugo stumbling but matching her adjusted speed. Their route to the car should be out to the east end and parked in the alley. So, right here, and then through that door at the end out the kitchen’s exit—
“Trish!” Fugo shoves her down.
Trish hits the ground, rolling to see Fugo be rammed against the wall by a massive body like a football tackle.
“Fugo!” She scrambles up, summoning Spice Girl.
From his place gripping Fugo’s throat, the assailant notices and gives her a sloppy grin. Two shouts sound to her right, a group of them with guns headed towards them.
“Just run!” Fugo grounds out, Purple Haze’s form simmering over him. “I can handle them if you just run!”
She could— Trish has a split second where she considers running with her tail tucked, before she shakes herself, disgusted.
Run and ruin her pride? Not a chance in hell.
With a quick slip of it from her holster, she brings out her last resort, a Barretta, and fires two shots into the big guy’s skull. Grin swiped off, the massive goon falls like an oak tree.
She really doesn’t like using her gun. Feels too cheap.
The two shells drop to roll on the floor. With a short sweep, she kicks them at the oncoming group rounding the corner. On impact with her heel, Spice Girl wills the metal to break apart like bread crumbs, punching them through the air— so the group takes them as high-speed buckshot.
Fugo blurts, “You had a gun this whole time?!”
“I always have a gun!” Trish fires back. “What kind of mafia girl would I be if I didn’t?”
Fugo looks like he’s about to quip back, but then his eyes snap over her shoulder—
Trish turns just in time to dodge a punch for her ear. With a hard elbow, she hits the guy in the nose for him to stagger back.
More shouts and Fugo struggles to get up. Swearing as his weight is dumped back on the floor.
Trish grimaces at watching him, turns to shoot the broken-nose guy in the face, the body dropping as she kneels by Fugo.
“It’s gotta be a slow-acting thing they put in you,” Trish takes his pulse, checks his eyes.
“Makes no sense why they wouldn’t be using something more instant, they’re too confident,” Fugo murmurs more to himself, his eyes scrunching up. “Fucking hell, it’s too bright in here.”
“Arm around me.”
“No, Trish I’m supposed to look after you and—“
Trish slaps the gun in his palm. “Can you point and click?”
Fugo eyes the gun before slipping his fingers around it, meeting her stare with a firm nod.
“Yeah? Alright, I’m counting on you, cheese boy. Come on.”
Slinging his arm around her shoulders, Trish helps Fugo back to his feet, Spice Girl offering extra help as needed.
“Now, let’s—“
Gunfire sounds from the left, and Trish looks to see a grunt pointing a barrel at them. Almost instantly, the guy drops. Fugo’s arm raised from firing the baretta.
Fugo grunts, “Let’s go.”
Trish nods with a proud grin, “That’s my bodyguard.”
They hurry down the hall for the door to the kitchen, pushing it open for the metal worktables and steel pans she accidentally knocks into as she pulls Fugo along.
The few workers send them confused looks, but don’t stop them as Trish hurries to the next room of the kitchen, almost slipping on the red juice. Meat hangs in rows from a metal rod grid over a table, a stark contrast to the monochrome black and white tiling. The butcher’s room.
At the green ‘Exit’ over the door out to the alley, Trish nearly sighs relief. Fugo’s weight growing limper by the second.
She doesn’t take two steps before a hit against her back shoves her down.
Trish falls to the ground with Fugo, the other rolling to fire two shots into the assailant.
Both shots land in his neck, she sees it happen. But they don’t spurt blood.
Her eyes widen.
Their attacker growls, massively muscular through a tattered muddied shirt, and advances.
Back protesting, Trish gets up to a crouch, “Spice Girl!”
Her stand appears, landing punches on a body that barely staggers at it. Trish uses the time to grab a kitchen knife from the block next to her and skirt the workstation. She aches at leaving Fugo’s side, but it’s not for long.
Fugo fires and has to make several shots in the thing’s eyes before it roars in pain.
Just as he finds the weak spot, the gun clicks hollowly— empty. Fugo throws the gun at the body’s skull to keep its attention.
A face bleeding crimson from its bleared eyes slows to stand over him, snarling.
Fugo swallows.
Just as the thing raises its fists, Trish jumps from the table behind to hop on its back, sinking the kitchen knife in the base of its neck and shoving it deep with a triumphant whoop.
It heaves a howl that rattles down Trish’s spine, any victory she felt vanishing as it desperately tries to throw her off.
“Let go, Trish!”
It shoves her through the meat hanging from the ceiling, the hooks catching at her cheek, her ear, her sore shoulder and she cries out. Before she can let go, it rams her into the wall. She feels ribs smart like glass cracking inside her, made worse when she drops to the tile floor.
The air knocked out of her— though she doesn’t want it back with the way her diaphragm screams without moving— her head blares in a language of fog, warm wetness on the back of it. She weakly rolls onto her stomach, the heels of her palms rubbing the gripless tile to try to move. To try to get away as she hears more footsteps. She has to get back to Fugo…
Hands grip her shoulders, heaving her onto her back for a firm punch across her jaw. Another form appears from somewhere, kicking her in the side. She cries out through screaming teeth. Something sharp prickles her neck, but the small sensation is lost in the other more pounding ones.
Across the room, she hears her name called like faded porcelain belonging on a prettier shelf.
With effort, she turns her head to look. Fugo is there to meet it with another yell, angry and heaving and she catches a glimpse of Purple Haze’s effects on two bodies that drop right as a grunt kicks Fugo across the face.
Purple Haze vanishes, and Fugo’s head stays down.
A dirty sack pulls over her face, and the world goes dark.