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The kid sitting in front of Massimo Toricelli couldn't possibly be old enough to be the boss of Passione. His blond bangs were curled into donut-like shapes on his forehead, the rest tied back into a braid. His face was smooth and youthful, not a wrinkle forming as his cheek rested on his fist, his legs crossed in the armchair across from Massimo's desk. He looked like he had homework due the next morning.
Then again, the boss had never been seen before. He never met with other crime families, and it was well known that "Passione" wasn't his last name. He kept his anonymity too well. He'd been replaced recently, so it was possible this was his son. Much like him, he could have been trained from a young age to take over from his father. Being a mob boss was dangerous, and no matter how "safe" the old boss had kept himself by refusing to meet with him and never showing his face, he was bound to die eventually.
Massimo grinned internally. He'd gone through that phase of being a young mobster, and looking back on it, he was manipulated so easily by men both in and out of the Toricelli family. He'd strike up a deal with this kid, slowly guiding it in his favor until he'd nabbed all of Naples from Passione.
He took a seat on his leather office chair, old enough for the shine to have worn away where his body regularly made contact, and folded his fingers on the desk in a tent shape. "It's nice to meet you, mister..."
"Giovanna," he replied, voice bright and a little nasal. "You can call me Giorno."
"And your bodyguard?" He glanced up at the man standing next to him, a little older than Giorno, in a crop top and floppy hat, a purple gun jutting from the waistband of his trousers. If Massimo wanted, he could pull the trigger and cause irreparable damage. Strangely, he carried an odd-looking turtle.
"Guido Mista. Please use his last name."
He gestured to his brother. "This is Domenico, my own bodyguard. Like Mista, he also has a gun, and will not hesitate to use it." He leaned forward. "Now, the topic of discussion. I believe Toricelli and Passione could be powerful allies. You've maintained a hold on your territory for a very long time, while we have expanded our own. You have all of Campania under your belt, don't you? Based in Naples of course. I admire your willingness to fly all the way to Sicily to meet me."
"I've had worse experiences on planes," Giorno replied.
"Do you have a private one?"
"Sometimes."
What could he mean by that? Was it borrowed? Did this kid get promoted to the position of boss after the old one retired, and has to ask permission to use it? "How old are you, Giorno?"
"Sixteen."
His eyes almost bulged from his head. Sixteen? Not even a high school graduate? Even if he was raised in a mafia family, there was no way this kid was strong enough—physically or mentally—to resist his manipulation. He his the mischief in his grin with a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "You must have worked hard to get to this position."
Giorno looked off to the side, moving his hand from his cheek to his chin. "Yeah... you could say that."
He didn't accept his praise. The first step became a lot harder. "I assume you don't want a drink, then."
"I wouldn't assume anything. I'm not licensed to drive either, but the one time I crashed wasn't exactly my fault." He glanced up at Mista, who grimaced, as if sharing a memory. "Our designated driver is..." He looked down at the turtle, which seemed to have a gem (or was it a key?) embedded into its back. "Elsewhere."
Either way, a simple question like that got Giorno to spill a lot of information. A talkative mob boss is a danger to their organization, and it seemed Giorno hadn't learned that yet.
Back to business. "In case you don't already know, the Toricelli family tends to focus more on taking over companies than trafficking drugs. I've heard that's what Passione is doing too."
"We are."
Another quick, impersonal answer. He just had to strike the right cord to get him to talk. It was like a benevolent form of torture. "Your drug trade was much more profitable than ours." When his father was in charge, Passione had taken over the Toricelli's drug market, stationing smugglers in their territory and forcing Massimo to find another source of income. With Giorno here, he could get it back and make millions more. "Why did you stop?"
"I thought it was immoral."
Immoral? He was a mob boss! His actions, direct or not, had people killed daily. He tensed his fingers. "I see. Does that mean your old territory is up for grabs?"
Giorno's eyes narrowed, and no matter how slight that action was, the power behind it sent chills through Massimo's body. "Absolutely not."
Domenico slid his hand over the gun holstered to his side, but removed it with a hand motion from Massimo.
"I mean no hostility," Giorno said. "You have your limits and I have mine. We don't tolerate the drug trade, but we've built up trust with the public enough that some people will waltz up to us and ask for our help even knowing they'll be in Passione's debt, to say nothing of our acceptance of women and queer people into our ranks."
"I see." This kid was stronger than he thought, but he must have some weakness. He pressed the button on his intercom. "Laura? Forget the, er, treat for our guest."
"You have women in your ranks too? You're more admirable than I thought."
What a bold admission to make. "No, Laura is my fiancee."
"How many days does she have left here?" Domenico asked.
Massimo scowled at him. "Don't say that in front of this kid," he hissed. "Especially not after talking about his 'moral compass.'"
"I heard that, you know." Giorno leaned back in the chair as if assessing the situation. Massimo was cold with fear again. "Would you mind elaborating?"
This Giorno kid had some trick up his sleeve. For the sake of the Toricelli family, he needed to secure this deal, and lying or covering up the truth made the results unpredictable. "Laura has 365 days to fall in love with me, or else I'll let her go. Right now she has 272 left."
"And why did you give her this ultimatum in the first place?"
"Oh, well, you know. I had to make her mine. You know how it is with women. Girls."
"I don't. I'm gay."
Massimo balled his fists, looking up at his brother for assurance. "I'd like to return to the topic of discussion. If our families combine forces, we can rule over the companies of Italy and rake in billions. Don't you want to join me?"
The door to his office opened, and in stepped a blonde woman carrying a silver platter. On the metal were several neat lines of white powder. Giorno grit his teeth and began to shake.
"Laura, I told you not to bring that," Massimo growled.
"I was holding it anyway, and I didn't know where to put it." Laura spoke with a strange accent, but her pronunciation was clear. "Maria didn't want anything to do with it. What, do you want me to pour all this nice coke back into bags for you to give to your drug traders?"
"You really thought giving me cocaine was a good idea?" Giorno said, frighteningly calm. "And it really doesn't seem like this woman likes you."
"We didn't exactly get off on the right foot." Laura seemed unaware of the situation at hand. Giorno didn't exactly dress like a mob boss, wearing a formal suit to all occasions. Instead his suit had a heart-shaped chest cutout, ladybug brooches, and gray flowers patterning the black suede. "He did kidnap me, after all—but I forgave him."
Giorno looked Massimo dead in the eye. "Mista?"
"On it, boss," he said.
Mista drew the gun from his pants, a short-nosed revolver, and sent three bullets—where? They didn't seem to be aimed at him, but as if they were dancing around the room, bouncing off invisible corners.
All three dug themselves into his shoulder.
Domenico had already drawn his weapon, a handgun, and fired twice, hitting Mista in the chest. The bodyguard slumped over, dropping the turtle in his off-hand, and fell onto the arm of Giorno's chair.
And somehow, Mista was up again, no wounds to be found. He reloaded his gun and fired all six bullets at Domenico, each one pushing its way through his skull.
His brother fell face-first, blood leaking from his wound into the beige carpet.
Laura dropped the tray, screamed, and ran out of the room.
"You sell drugs and kidnap women," said Giorno, eyes lidded. He didn't seem to react to his bodyguard getting shot, and that made Massimo quiver more than his brother's death. And how did he heal from those gunshot wounds? Did Giorno somehow have magic powers? Impossible! "Yes, you're a criminal, but more than that, you're pond scum. Since you're going to die anyway, I think I'll tell you what happened to our old boss."
Massimo dashed for the door, but some unknown force blocked his exit.
"To put it simply, I killed him—infinitely."
Against his will, he began taking painfully slow steps backwards. Forces he could not see surrounded him. The world became blurry, the office faded into a void the color of bubbles on black soap.
"This is Requiem."
And he was gone. Dead. Again. Ag—
Giorno stood from his seat and picked up the turtle, Coco Jumbo from the ground. He looked through the red part of the key. "You can probably get rid of those meeting notes."
From inside the turtle, Fugo gave him a thumbs-up, and put his notepad and pen into his pocket.
"What are we going to do about the Toricelli family now?" Mista asked, following Giorno out of the room. "Someone's gotta inherit it, right?"
"Hopefully in the chaos, no one does."
Laura, cowering in the corner, looks up at him. Not relieved, but she would soon learn the true meaning of her freedom.
"At least this woman can go find someone better than that asshole."