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When Fugo was growing up, his parents put him in piano lessons. He sincerely doubted that it was out of any love of the art form. No, it was just another part of his life that his parents could use to show off to others. And this talent was particularly easy to parade around like a little show pony. There were only so many times they could bring up his academic successes during parties, but a classy instrument like the piano was a whole other story. And why shouldn’t they have shown off Fugo’s musical talent? It’s not like they didn’t do the exact same thing with his older brothers. Like everything else during his life under their roof, Fugo took to the challenge like a duck to water. He had to. Who would want to listen to someone hit sour notes all day trying to reach a functional level of playing?
It wasn’t until he went to university that he truly began to like playing the piano. Out of the eye of his parents, the piano became a tool to vent his stress. When classwork became too much for him, he would sneak down to the few practice rooms at his school and pound out song after song if he was lucky enough to find an empty one. There wasn’t a guarantee that there would be a private space for him to play, given the size of the university, so he couldn’t rely on the instrument to help work out his emotions.
…Clearly, it wasn’t a reliable method of soothing his anger.
After dropping out, Fugo didn’t touch a piano again until he had a few months under Buccellati’s wing. He doesn’t know exactly how Buccellati found out that Fugo knew how to play the piano, but one day, he walked into the single-bedroom flat that mirrored Buccellati’s next door to find an electric piano sitting next to his couch. It wasn’t the elegant baby grand from his parents’ home, nor was it the somewhat out-of-tune pianos from the university. However, seeing the familiar instrument next to his excited friend, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited to see Fugo’s reaction, sent Fugo to the ground, tears welling up in his eyes and a fist between his teeth to prevent them from dripping down his face. Despite his help moving the piano and creative use of zippers to get it past doorways, Fugo never played while Buccellati was in the apartment with him. Logically, he knew that Buccellati could hear him play through the thin adjacent wall between their flats. It wasn’t out of any disrespect toward Buccellati or belief that he would judge Fugo’s playing if he were to listen in person. It was just Fugo couldn’t shake the looming stress of playing in front of others. It was like he never left his parents’ parties under the gaze of countless influential eyes ready to pick him apart like he was a soulless novelty. Even though he gave Fugo this incredible gift, Buccellati never pressed him for permission to listen. It was just another entry to the list of why Buccellati was objectively a better person than his family’s entire social circle combined.
It's funny how life works out sometimes. If he could go back in time, Fugo would’ve invited Buccellati to listen to him play. He deserved that much. He deserved so much more than what Fugo brought into his life.
It only took betraying the man who was single-handedly responsible for finding a new purpose in his life after making himself comfortable at rock bottom for Fugo to bring himself to play music in front of a crowd again.
When he returned to Naples after the disaster in Venice, Fugo had gone into hiding for a good amount of time. The train ride was spent stewing in his own frustration, first at his famiglia, then toward himself. Regret over leaving behind the few people in this world who gave a shit whether Fugo lived or died. Self-flagellation over the foolish thought that he would be spared just because he stayed behind while the rest of his team betrayed the Boss. Anger at Narancia for leaving him completely alone. All of these emotions ran through his mind for hours that were cursed to be uneventful, denying him a distraction from these thoughts.
He only returned to his apartment once to pack up some basic necessities and the few small items that he didn’t want to leave behind. With his bag strapped over his shoulders, he locked the deadbolt and didn’t look back. He wasn’t going to stay in his apartment waiting for some hitman to use him against his friends, and he couldn’t hide out in any of Passione’s safehouses for similar reasons. For a little while, Fugo took advantage of the situation and started traveling around Italy. There was no way that he would be able to leave the country, given Passione’s deadly strict embargo against enemies traveling across the borders. But he could make himself scarce within the national borders. He made one withdrawal from his emergency account, the one that Buccellati insisted he open and maintain, and left Naples. He did a pretty good job at laying low. Narancia and Mista had left some comfortable clothes at his place, and switching his perforated fashion for some strangely patterned skinny jeans, a beanie, and a baggy orange sweatshirt was enough to keep eyes glazing over him. He didn’t look all that different from the other travelers he met at hostels. Sometimes he was able to pretend that he was just another teenaged traveler backpacking around Italy. Hell, he even had the chance to go to Pompeii as a tourist with some people from the hostel! And he even had fun! (Or at least he did once they walked past the spot where that hitman melted.) But after a few weeks, Fugo took account of his funds and decided that he wasn’t able to keep up this lifestyle of traveling to keep under the radar.
Ultimately, he decided the best course of action was to return to Naples. It would be difficult to settle in a city where he was unfamiliar with the layout. He knew Naples well enough that he could mentally map out five escape routes, with at least one running through open, sunny spaces or low-populated areas, at any given moment. Naples was safety to Fugo. But he obviously couldn’t go back to his old apartment. The payments were still being taken from his primary account, so it still looked like it was in use to people weren’t directly watching from the streets. However, Fugo was hesitant to step into the building until he was certain the heat with the Boss had blown over. So, in the end, he decided to rent a cheap apartment on the opposite side of the city, so he could minimize the risk of someone recognizing him and ratting him out, even accidentally.
Eventually, word reached his ears of a turnover in power in Passione. Or to be more accurate, the Don of Passione “revealed” himself for the first time since Passione’s creation. As far as he could tell, the story was that the title of Don had been secretly passed between bosses since the 80s, each maintaining a level of secrecy because the devil you don’t know is always worse than the one you do. The most recent boss had an extra incentive to maintain his anonymity, given that he was a fifteen-year-old boy. The only reason why he revealed himself was because a civilian, his alleged daughter, was wrapped up in a deep-running coup against him. After cleaning house, Don Giorno Giovanna had stepped out of the shadows, surrounding himself with a trusted circle and redistributing power within the organization.
It was quite possible that the only people still alive to know the truth were Buccellati’s team, Trish Una, and Fugo himself.
And he was ecstatic that they all survived to be the ones who knew the truth! Fugo had been living with a stone in his gut for weeks until he heard the name of each member of his famiglia pass through the rumor mill. However, the public ascension of Buccellati’s team through the ranks had some serious consequences in his life. Although it wasn’t something they broadcasted, the Neapolitan people who knew Fugo considered him Buccellati’s right hand after years working beside him. Which, in turn, meant that the other Neapolitan members of Passione who knew Buccellati also knew Fugo; and Buccellati knew all of the Passione members in Naples, more or less. When Buccellati shot up the ranks, it was obvious that Fugo wasn’t by his side. He had enough degrees of separation from his usual Passione sources that Fugo wasn’t quite sure what the rumors about him were. However, they were clearly bad enough that Fugo was jumped the last time he wandered too close to his usual side of the city.
He couldn’t stay with Buccellati’s team; Fugo had hurt them too badly to ever face them again. He really couldn’t stay with Passione; apparently, it was on-sight if Fugo breathed wrong in the presence of a mafioso. He couldn’t even return to Naples as a civilian! What the hell was the point of sticking to what he believed in if it meant he had to give up everything he was trying to protect?!
It took several months of lying low, but Fugo was starting to find a level of contentment in his life. Satisfaction was still out of grasp, and he didn’t imagine that would be changing anytime soon, but he was comfortable. The biggest challenge was supporting himself. Although he had a solid amount of money in his bank accounts, he was nervous about the Data Analysis Team using his withdrawals as a way to track him down. There was any number of Passione members who would and could rat Fugo out, whether for a price or as a show of loyalty to the Don’s new right hand. So, apart from his initial apartment deposit, Fugo vowed to only touch his accounts in an emergency. That decision well and truly made, Fugo funneled his attention to finding a nondescript job that would be willing to take and support an emancipated sixteen-year-old.
Ultimately he found a bar that was willing to employ him. At first he was waiting on or busing tables, but after weeks of customer service that did wonders for his anger issues, the owner found Fugo plucking at the keys on the piano off to the side. From there, a deal was made. Fugo wouldn’t have to wait tables anymore (which was a godsend to both himself and the owner) so long as he was willing to play the piano for the patrons. He would help to create a soothing ambiance and take a request or two, and help out the closing team at the end of the night, all for a slight pay increase. Fugo was reluctant at the thought of playing for strangers, but the extra money wasn’t something that he could turn his nose at. Besides, he had already suffered enough because of a decision made to preserve his own ease of living. It wouldn’t hurt to push himself out of his comfort zone for once.
It was a little rough at first, but day-by-day, Fugo realized that the patrons of the bar were nothing like the faceless rich pricks his parents dangled him in front of. Some would choose tables near the piano just to listen while sipping a glass of wine and would clap politely when he finished a set. However, most people barely noticed he was there. The music was simply a part of the atmosphere, noticeable when it stopped but just a part of the environment during an evening out. A few times a night, a patron would slip him some cash in return for a song request. Admittedly, he had to teach himself how to play by ear. It wasn’t a skill that was necessary to learn when he lived with his family. Playing by ear raised the risk of flaws and that was not a gamble he was willing to make in the Fugo household. But the people at the bar didn’t give a single shit when he played a sour note. As long as he didn’t linger on it, it was probable that no one noticed.
That night was a particularly lucrative night for requests. A woman had passed him a handful of lira, requesting that he play Hotel Supramonte. Modern songs were the more commonly placed requests; however, they weren’t pieces that Fugo was completely confident in playing. Fugo had to learn to adapt quickly because it wasn’t as though bar patrons were commonly requesting classical piano pieces. His fingers lightly brushed against the keys, trying to find the proper arrangement before he fully committed to the song.
When he was certain that he knew the key of the song, Fugo fully pressed his fingers against the keyboard. Not too loud; the song should be in the back of the patrons’ minds. It shouldn’t distract from their conversations. This song in particular didn’t require a heavy hand, which led Fugo to getting lost in the music. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to linger on the meaning of the song, but he couldn’t help but drown in the sentiment.
Fugo wished that he could find happiness in the simple joys in life like the speaker in the song. He would give the world that he could find a small piece of comfort in the mild annoyances of everyday, civilian life, because that meant that he was free to experience them rather than being dead or held captive in some backroom. Instead, Fugo was stuck with regrets, confusion, and a whole slew of anger issues. Though he really shouldn’t be seeking solace from this song specifically. It spoke of someone who previously suffered because of circumstances out of his control. Fugo’s isolation and suffering were fully self-inflicted because of one moment of hyper-clarity. He had no hope of finding peace within the song’s message.
When the final notes rang out, Fugo decided that it was best to end his set here and take his break. He needed to take a minute to settle his thoughts, and his fingers were tired anyway. He walked up to the bar proper and took the water offered by the bartender. As he drank, the bartender sidled up and lowered his voice.
“Hey, Pannacotta?” There was a slight look of concern in his eyes that put Fugo slightly on edge. “There was a man asking about you earlier.”
“Oh, who?” After a few months playing at the bar, there were a handful of patrons that Fugo knew by name, though he couldn’t think of anyone that would ask for him specifically. Most would just flag him down when he took a break or strike up a conversation when he was improvising at the piano.
The bartender shrugged, and the furrow in his brow deepened. “No one I recognized. Definitely not a regular. He’s sitting in the back over there.”
Fugo looked over his shoulder, squinting under the low lights. He took a sip of the water as he scanned the line of tables along the back wall. This was a mistake because the second his eyes locked on the right table, the water went down the wrong pipe.
He was wearing a comfortable turtleneck and slacks rather than his usual suit. His golden hair clips had been replaced with basic hair pins. For all intents and purposes, he looked more like a civilian than a high-ranking member of the mafia. But it was undeniable that Bruno Buccellati was sitting at a table in Fugo’s bar.
Fugo wanted to shatter into a million pieces when those large, blue eyes locked onto him, filled with concern as Fugo coughed up a lung. How the hell did Buccellati find him? He had covered his tracks so well, or at least he thought he did. Fugo didn’t have the Neapolitan soldati memorized, and he especially didn’t know who had been accepted into Passione’s ranks since he went into hiding. However, he couldn’t have been that out of touch that he left enough loose strings for someone in Passione to completely unravel his life that quickly.
The bartender sensed his stress and leaned over the counter. Whispering, he said, “If you want him out of here, he’s already gone. We’ve got you.”
Fugo, although touched by the staff’s concern toward him, shook his head. “No, he’s fine. I just didn’t expect to see him here. I might need to take a longer break than usual.”
The bartender nodded and assured him that he’d let the owner know. Fugo was thankful for the staff here. He was certain that they had guessed that he didn’t have a great home situation or something akin to that, though no one ever pressed him about it and Fugo never broached the topic. They were an amazing lot of people. Maybe if the conversation went well, he could swing some benefits for the owner from Passione?
Fugo felt like his feet were made of granite as he walked from the bar to Buccellati’s table. In the back of his mind, he could feel Purple Haze scratching at the edges of his psyche, but Fugo took his nerves, smothered them, and put a lid on them. The distance to the table wasn’t as wide as it seemed from the bar, so Fugo was at Buccellati’s table in no time at all.
The two stared at each other for a few long moments, as though they each had seen a ghost. The spell over Fugo broke first, and he started to greet his former capo.
“Buccellati—.”
That was all he was able get out before Buccellati shot out of his seat and pulled Fugo into a constricting hug. At first, Fugo stilled at the sudden contact, but quickly returned in kind. Buccellati’s fingers gripped Fugo’s jacket so tightly that he might as well have unzipped a part of his back so he could dig them in deeper. Out of the corner of his eye, Fugo noticed some of the tables turning to stare at them. He felt his cheeks start to flush and tried to slip out of Buccellati’s hug, but hearing a sharp inhale through Buccellati’s teeth put a stop to that attempt. Instead, Fugo rested his head against Buccellati’s shoulder until he was done hugging.
“I am unbelievably happy to see you’re safe,” Buccellati said. With one more squeeze he pulled back. He readjusted his sweater, composing himself in record time, before gesturing to the table. “I don’t want to take up too much of your break. Please, sit with me?”
Fugo sat down, hands still gripped around his glass. Buccellati slid his wine glass and plate to the side of the table so he could fold his hands in front of him. He didn’t talk immediately, instead staring at Fugo like he couldn’t believe that he was sitting right in front of him. In the spirit of showing his capo a bit of mercy, Fugo started the conversation.
“How did you find me?”
Buccellati laughed to himself. “You have Narancia to thank for that.”
“Narancia? I must not have been hidden as well as I thought,” Fugo said, with a little bit of pride for his friend.
Buccellati grinned at the jab, but his smile slowly faded as he gathered his thoughts. He grabbed his glass and watched as the wine spun along the edges. “He was really torn up when he went to your apartment and you weren’t there. I’ve never seen him more dedicated to anything than those weeks trying to find you.”
“Shit,” Fugo dropped his head into his hands and groaned, “Naranciaaaaaa.”
“He’s been working with the head of Data Analysis every free moment he’s had, not that we’ve had a lot of free moments recently.” Fugo wholeheartedly believed that. The lines beneath Buccellati’s eyes have only gotten deeper since they last saw each other.
“Well, it’s nice to hear that he doesn’t completely hate my guts. Unless his searching was so he could punch me in the face.”
“Fugo, you know Narancia well enough to know that both of those things can be true.” The two lightly laughed, but Buccellati’s face slowly fell back into a professional stoicism. “He…uh…he had a rough run-in with a psychological Stand user. We aren’t sure what it forced him to see, but we have our guesses.” Fugo’s stomach dropped all the way to his feet as his mind supplied some guesses. “After that fight, he threw himself full force into finding you.”
Fugo white-knuckle gripped the edge of the table and did his best to keep a leash on his concerned anger. Through clenched teeth, he cursed, “Damn it, Narancia.” Buccellati reached across the table and ran his fingers over Fugo’s hand until he relaxed his grip. With a sigh, Fugo asked, “Why are you here, Buccellati? Are you here to punish me for betraying the team? It would make sense, given that going against you all is now going against the Boss and his inner circle. Or is less personal than that and because I hid away from Passione as a whole?”
Buccellati looked like Fugo slapped him across the face. “Fugo, do you truly think so little of me?”
“NO!” Fugo took a deep breath and tried again. “No. But you’re in a new position, and there are expectations that come along with that. The soldati have made that incredibly clear.”
Buccellati set his jaw in annoyance and looked to the side, like he could see across Naples through wall. “Ah, yes. Those idiots. We’re dealing with them. We overheard those bastardi when we went out shopping one weekend. The ones who were bragging to others about how they beat you within an inch of your life.—”
“An exaggeration. They roughed me up, at best. My wallet was hurting more than my body because I couldn’t work for a few days when I was recovering.”
“—Between all of the hot-heads on the team, you can probably assume how well that went.”
“Somehow, I can’t see them wanting to defend me.”
Buccellati burst into full-blown belly laughs at that claim. When he was able to speak again, he said, “Giorno had to steal Mista’s gun to prevent an outright massacre. I’m pretty sure Trish broke one of their teeth. We…I think we’ve been a bad influence on her.”
Fugo’s eyebrows shot right up at that. “Really? Trish? Why would she jump in? She barely knows me, and I turned my back on her.”
Buccellati ran his fingers around the stem of his glass. “Trish doesn’t resent you for your choice. She’s not a fan of how dismissive of her life you were—Mista told her what you said—but the decision itself? No, she completely understands that.” He sighed and shook his head. “Those few days really took a toll on her. She had a bit of a breakdown once things were safe enough to breathe. When she said that her life wasn’t worth four…people on death’s door, it just broke my heart.”
“Four?! What the hell hap—?”
Buccellati held up a hand. “That is a very long story that we can have in private.” Translation: there’s confidential Passione business or Stands involved. Fugo completely understood.
“Regardless, you do know that I didn’t order them to do that, correct?”
Fugo groaned and dropped his head into his hands, but still nodded. “No, I know you didn’t send out a hit on me.” He lifted his eyes out his hands and stared at Buccellati. His shoulders drooped, weighed down with exhaustion.
“Buccellati, if you’re here for an apology, you’re not going to get one. I regret what happened, I genuinely do. But I can’t look back at the situation and think that I would’ve done anything different. I just can’t wrap my head around what you drove you all to fight against the Boss. I’m sorry, but that’s not something I can do.”
Buccellati shook his head. “No, I wasn’t expecting an apology. I gave you a choice, and you stuck to what you thought was best. I wouldn’t begrudge you for having independent thoughts. And I would hate to think that you would throw away your morals, just because you put your trust in me, or that I could manipulate that trust to get my way. That’s not a man that I would ever want to be.”
“Then what are you getting out of this?”
“Is it so hard to believe that we’re all worried about you?”
Fugo couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Really? You’re telling me that they’re not getting a little bit of schadenfreude at my situation? I stayed behind to remain loyal to Passione, only for Passione to show that it doesn’t particularly care about loyalty. Ha ha ha, poor stupid little Fugo! He gave up everyone he cared about and lost everything in return! What irony!”
“Fugo.” Buccellati’s voice was sharp, pulling out the tones that he uses as a leader rather than a friend. “That’s enough. No one, no matter how angry they are, wish you any ill will. We all wanted to make sure that you were safe. Admittedly, Mista said that he wanted to punch you the face himself, so keep that warning in mind. But no one wants you to struggle.”
Fugo sincerely doubted that, but it wasn’t unusual that members of the team hid terrible information from Buccellati. It wasn’t unlikely that he thought that he was telling Fugo the whole truth.
“We recently tracked down the narcotics team,” Buccellati said, taking a sip of his wine.
Fugo didn’t know what how to feel about the topic shift, so mirrored Buccellati and sipped at his water until he continued.
“Drugs produced by a Stand. Completely untraceable by normal means; barely so through supernatural ones. It’s truly a testament to the abilities of the Data Analysis Team that they were able to find a single trace of the team.”
“Buccellati, I don’t mean any disrespect, but what does this have to do with anything?”
Buccellati’s face went professionally slack. “In Venice, you made a choice. You said that you weren’t able to survive outside of Passione, and in the end, you didn’t betray the family. However, at the request of the Don of Passione, I have come here to give you the opportunity to confirm your continued loyalty to the family.”
Fugo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t know what to expect from Buccellati, but it certainly wasn’t this. Whenever he gave himself the luxury of imagining a life where he tried to return to his famiglia, there were two routes that his mind led him down. In the most idealistic scenario that he allowed himself, the others accepted him into the fold. He never could bring himself to think of a world where there were no hard feelings, but he believed that with time, he’d be able to earn back their trust and friendship. The more realistic scenario that crossed his mind was Fugo being turned away at the door when he returned, not getting the chance to explain himself. On his lowest days, his mind would lead him to fantasize about his former team not allowing him to walk away. However, no matter how many scenes that played through his mind, Fugo never considered that his return would ever be conditional.
“That’s why you came alone. You’re using the others as a carrot to goad me into accepting your deal.”
Buccellati didn’t even have the shame to look remorseful. “There is one other option available to you.” Fugo raised an eyebrow as Buccellati took a final sip of wine. “One of the conditions that I would not compromise on when we were determining who would ascend the ranks was the assurance that my team be allowed to leave Passione should they ever want to step away from the family.”
Fugo’s jaw dropped at the words. A reality that seemed so impossible that it never crossed his mind. “No strings attached?”
“No strings attached.” Buccellati slid his empty glass to the side and rested his hand on Fugo’s arm. “I want you to know that you don’t need to be a part of Passione to be a part of our famiglia. Trish certainly isn’t, but that doesn’t make her any less of one of us. If you’re happy here, I’m more than willing to support you. However, you don’t need to make yourself a stranger to us.”
Buccellati stood up, brushed the crumbs off his slacks, and straightened out his sweater. As he walked away from the table, dropped his hand on Fugo’s shoulder. “You don’t need to make a decision today. Please take a few days to think about your answer.”
From the look in his eyes, Fugo could tell what Buccellati wanted him to choose. Fugo wasn’t certain that he would be able to meet Buccellati’s expectations, but he was willing to the decision the thought it deserved.
Buccellati passed Fugo a business card for Libeccio with a time and date scrawled across the back. “Please join us for lunch. I expect your answer by then.”
The please was a nice touch, but it was simply a formality. They both knew this was a direct order from Buccellati, one that Fugo wouldn’t disobey even if he chose to leave Passione. Fugo took the card with a quiet thanks and tucked it away in his jacket.
Buccellati looked toward the door with a sad smile. “I suppose I should be heading out. I would hate to think I’m imposing on your space, and I assume you have another set to play.”
“You’re welcome to stay.” Even as Fugo said that, he knew he was lying though his teeth. His stomach was churning at the thought.
Buccellati shook his head. “No, I get the impression that I would be more of a stressor. However, if you are playing some other night and felt like inviting me, I would be happy to hear every note.” Buccellati held his arms open, a shy smile crossing his lips as he waited to see if Fugo would reciprocate. Fugo stood and returned the hug, a far less desperate one than the one from earlier.
“It was good seeing you again, Fugo. I’m glad you’re safe.”
“You as well. Please let the others know that I’m happy that they’re okay.”
“I will.” Buccellati pulled away and nodded at Fugo as he started walking to the door. “I’ll see you soon.”
Fugo resisted the urge to run his fingers over the card by taking the dishes from the table and returning them to the kitchen. The staff accepted them gratefully, but Fugo was barely able to return the social niceties. He felt his mind falling into the artificial neutrality that usually accompanied a suppressed panic attack. He kept those strong emotions under lock and key until he had finished his sets and returned to his apartment. He didn’t even change before he flopped onto his bed, flipping the card between his fingers like turning it over would reveal some hidden message. Something that would help to guide him, or, better yet, something that would make the decision for him.
But Fugo would never have such luxury, nor would Buccellati impose his will over the futures of his subordinates. Not with Giorno’s promise of freedom in play. He set the card aside before his arms gave out. If he didn’t, Fugo might’ve fallen asleep with the card still in his hand.
Did Fugo deserve to leave Passione?
Did he want to? Could he be happy, getting by as a pianist? Maybe getting another job on the side, occasionally seeing his friends, and living a simple, average life?
Could he do that? Did he even know how? He was a rich kid forced to be perfect at all moments. He has unchecked anger issues, and a virus that represents them courses through his very soul. The only place he has ever found a home was in a life of crime, which he ruined with one choice. How does someone like that live normally?
Fugo grew up resentful of his parents for controlling every aspect of his life. Yet, he was so, so incredibly burned when he was set loose at university and had to make his own decisions. He had settled into a content role alongside Buccellati, taking orders for years. But the second that Buccellati trusted him to choose his future for himself, Fugo blew up his entire life.
Fugo stretched his sore fingers over the sheets, wincing.
He hated that he wished that someone would make the decision for him. He wanted to step out of his body and beat the shit out of himself for trying to sink back into the compliant skin that he wore when living with his parents.
He…he wanted to talk to Narancia. Was he the best at giving mature, well-thought-out advice? Absolutely not, they got on each other’s nerves more often than not. But Narancia was a good sounding board when Fugo needed to work out his thoughts. He had a way of asking questions that cut through Fugo’s ramblings that were worth making him stop and explain his reasonings. Eventually, these explanations would lead him down a path that placed him right at the finish line for a solution. To this day, Fugo wasn’t certain whether Narancia knew what he was doing. That boy was somehow smarter and dumber than he could ever expect.
Fugo flipped to his back and stared intently at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled through his nose. “Narancia. Buccellati reached out to me and told me about the deal he and Giorno are extending to me. Do you know about it? The one to take out the narcotics team? Knowing you, they included you in the planning, but you lost focus again.”
“Hey!” the Narancia in Fugo’s head objected.
Fugo got off the bed and started changing out of his suit into more comfortable sleepwear. “But he also gave me the option to leave Passione altogether. I know that he meant for that to be a show of mercy, but I don’t think I really have the right to leave. Not after that little show in Venice.”
“Well, that’s pretty dumb. Why would Buccellati offer you something like that if he didn’t think you deserve it?”
“That’s not the issue. I don’t think I should get off Scott-free. I hate, I HATE that you all went through so much and I wasn’t there to help you. I don’t know what happened—I probably won’t until I’m allowed to see you again—but I just know it was terrible. But despite all of that, despite how much I regret not being there to fight by your side, I don’t feel bad about my decision. Does that make sense?”
“No. The hell are you talking about, Fugo?”
Fugo sighed as he walked into the bathroom and started washing his face. “I just can’t understand why you all would risk everything for Trish.” Fugo’s hands stilled as he scrubbed the washcloth against his cheek. “Okay, I can at least understand Abbacchio. He was there to support Buccellati more so than Trish. And who knows what was going through Giorno’s head. He clearly had some sort of power play in the background. But you, Buccellati, and Mista? I don’t get it.”
“Well, why do you have to get it? I get that you’re a big know-it-all, but you don’t have to actually know everything. You know that, right?”
Fugo distracted himself with his toothbrush until he could stomach answering. Once he wiped the froth from his mouth, Fugo continued.
“Narancia, you know how I get. I don’t get frustrated with things. It’s all or nothing with my temper. It’s a simmering pot that’s about to lose its lid at any moment.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Screw you, too.” Fugo felt a little bit of embarrassment that he rolled his eyes at his own mental voice. “If I don’t understand the why, everything is going to come to blows again. Maybe that would be a good thing! Maybe that would get all of the bad blood out in the open and burn it away. Or maybe I’ll be kicked out and disowned by another family that can’t deal with my shit anymore!”
“Buccellati wouldn’t do that!”
“Yeah, well, Buccellati also wouldn’t typically use me as a weapon for assassination either, but here we are!” Fugo’s arms dropped to his side. “Shit.”
It wasn’t as though Fugo was unaccustomed to assassinations. In a sick way, it was one reason why he and Abbacchio were able to bond in the early days of being teammates. But the kicker was that their hits were always at Polpo’s call and completely behind Buccellati’s back. And Fugo was willing to get his hands dirty to keep the man who saved him out of messes that he didn’t deserve to deal with. Despite the raw destructive power of Fugo’s Stand, Buccellati avoided using Fugo as a grenade to toss at Passione’s enemies. No, Fugo wasn’t averse to killing. He wasn’t sick enough to take pleasure in it; rather, it was just an occupational low that he had to deal with. However, Buccellati never made him feel like a weapon; at least, not until he and Giorno decided to throw him at the narcotics team.
Was…was Fugo mad at Buccellati right now?
…No. That wasn’t quite it. This wasn’t an insurmountable betrayal of trust. He knew what the absolute worst of this sort of betrayal felt like, and he knew that Buccellati wasn’t capable of reaching that. Perhaps he was disappointed? Not that he had any right to be. He stepped away from Buccellati’s side, Buccellati used him for his brutality in turn. It was simply a way to balance the scales.
“Oh, come on, Fugo. Don’t be a dipshit. Buccellati wants you back and hates drug dealing. Of course he would combine the two!”
Putting aside Fugo’s concern toward what loneliness has done to his mental state, that was the more logical answer. In a strange way, this was a display of trust. Who else could maximize pain toward the drug dealers of Passione? Maybe if he got rid of the bane of Buccellati’s life, Abbacchio and Mista might actually hear him out. It definitely wouldn’t be enough to get them to forgive him, but maybe if he made the bastards suffer, it would give Fugo some chips to bring to the table.
Ha!
“Well, what about the other option? You could leave Passione, and we could hang out like normal when we’re not working!”
“Honestly? I don’t think was really an option in the first place.” Fugo dropped back on his bed and pushed his bangs out of his face in frustration. “I never betrayed Passione. I turned my back on your decision, but not the family itself. I meant what I said. I don’t think I really have a life available outside of the mafia. I’m a little too fucked up for a normal life.” Fugo vaguely gestured to the room around him. He winced at the slight crack in his voice when he added, “All of this is just me playing pretend.”
“I thought you were playing piano?”
Fugo barked out a wet laugh and shoved his palms into his eyes to keep tears back. Blindly, he reached his hand toward the head of his bed until he grabbed his pillow. Once in his grip, Fugo shoved his face into the cushioning and curled around it.
“I just want to go home.”
───※ ·✥· ※───
Fugo brushed his hole-filled jacket down as the hostess led him to the familiar back room. When he walked through the doorway, he caught sight of Buccellati sitting at the table. He wasn’t sure if the white suit comforted him or filled him with dread. When he noticed Fugo lingering, Buccellati stood up and greeted Fugo.
“Buongiorno, Fugo. I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you?”
Fugo shook his head. “No that’s fine. I trust your judgement, though there’s nothing bad on the menu anyway.”
Buccellati gently set his hand between Fugo’s shoulder blades and pushed him toward the table. Fugo couldn’t help the slight twinge in his eyebrows when he saw the others at the table. Rather than the team that had been together for months with the possible inclusion of the new Don Giovanna, two completely unfamiliar people sat at the table. One, a scrawny older man wearing a Borsalino hat. The other, a girl floating around his age with heavy facial scarring. Both had black lines around their left eyes, though Fugo couldn’t tell if they were tattoos or natural ocular markings.
Fugo looked at Buccellati for help understanding the situation. But rather than explain immediately, Buccellati gestured to the table.
“Please take a seat. We have a lot to go over.”