Chapter Text
Risotto Nero, when he was younger, had hoped he’d never have to organize a funeral. His cousin’s still stuck vividly in his mind, a memory that sometimes would play on loop in an unpleasant display of the human mind.
(The screeching of tires, the burning of metal, the scent of alcohol on a breath. An open casket. His hand on his cousin’s cold body, whispering a goodbye. Fury bubbling in his veins.)
At 18, he took matters into his own hands. He would not say he was the type of person who cared about justice, but he had cared about his cousin. To take a life had not been as hard as he thought it might have been, and in some way, it brought him a relieved satisfaction.
Instead of trying to take an impossible step backwards, Risotto took a far smarter step forwards into the underbelly of Italy.
When he was freshly 21, he ended up deathly sick. He assumed it was an infection from the arrow, some remnant of a bacteria that had come from its last target. The memories of that brief but tortuous period in his life turned into only bits and pieces later on. He’d remember only dreamlike moments of forks melting in his hands, or screws melting out of their hinges.
None of that mattered anymore anyway. He adjusted to the worms in his veins and learned how to control them.
…Not by himself.
“You don’t look like you’ve got much of a sweet tooth,” was the first thing Sorbet ever said to him, hanging off Gelato like a vine, his arm wrapped around the other man.
Risotto–who had become done with other people’s shit at 15–looked up at them with tired eyes. “I don’t.”
“Hm,” Gelato smiled, “We’ll work with it. Nero, right?”
“Why does it matter to you?” He replied, on edge. (Who wouldn’t be? He hadn’t given them his name.)
“We have an offer, is all.” Gelato’s gaze felt like it dug into his soul, and the stern expression that rested on his partner’s face didn’t do much to make a good impression either.
Risotto tilted his head. “An offer.” He echoed. “Of what kind?”
“One I don’t think you’ll say no to.” Gelato winked, then turned and began walking away, Sorbet trailing behind.
It could have been curiosity that guided him that day, whether some sliver of the innocent type that could have lingered even then, or a more morbid kind. He was never truly sure.
Either way, Risotto found himself in a pleasant, hole-in-the-wall gelataria. It would only be years later that he came to properly appreciate the fact they’d paid for him, but as it was on that day, it only made way to increase his suspicion further.
The pair was at least upfront about it once in a location they deemed safe. “You see,” Sorbet explained between bites fed to him by Gelato, “While some teams in our organization can make nothing but a duo work, a hitman team would hardly be able to stand like that.”
He knew that the notion of Passione having come this far without a hitman team would simply not make sense, but the obvious question was not one he wished to ask; and he knew it would not be one they would care to answer.
His current gig had been an exceedingly low rank one that was just keeping a store front running. Thus, his opportunities to back out were long gone. In that moment, as he sat across from two assassins, he knew damn well there was a right answer. (Knew that I don’t think you’ll say no to meant you can’t say no.)
He was honest, however, about the lack of knowledge toward the power he had acquired. His lack of experience in a proper field, and the only life he’d properly taken. It seemed to be enough for them, because they laughed it off, leaned in close, and told him, oh they would get him to figure this out yet.
And they did.
There was an aspect to their teaching that Risotto never fully understood nor appreciated then, and that was the fact that the way they taught him never–once he took it to heart, of course–made him depend on them. With Sorbet’s background, he especially drilled into Risotto’s psyche the idea that no one had ever joined the mafia for a long and fulfilling life. Any step, any action, it could easily be your last. So–
“Hey, Risotto,” Gelato ruffled his hair, an action that always made him glare, but he didn’t snap, instead keeping a tight hold on the gelato in his hands, “Your stitches are messed up.”
“I did them myself.” He replied evenly.
Sorbet took a bite of his own scoop and sighed. “You know where our first aid kit is. Use it when we head back, and I’ll supervise.”
“Aw, baby, he didn’t fuck it up that much.” Gelato laughed, leaning in to get a nibble of Sorbet’s portion, to which Sorbet opened his mouth for Gelato to return the motion.
Risotto sighed deeply. This was the norm for after missions, a trip to the gelataria or Sorbet’s favorite place to get his namesake, and while the two could grind on his nerves, he preferred their voices to silence as the adrenaline of a kill wore off.
–Risotto was and always had been prepared to lose them. The issue came with the funeral. In that, he was lost. He already well understood that funerals were a very personal affair, carried out with the wishes of those who had died in mind. However, perhaps it was their final test, or something that they had, for once, neglected.
Gelato’s body was in alright condition, Sorbet’s…
Risotto did not eat as he should have for a week just to make sure it was put back into something resembling proper condition. Sure, he could have fixed it himself, but the concept was one of very few that made Risotto Nero sick.
But in the end, the funeral was arranged, a privilege he scraped together pennies for so he could give the men who were the reason he knew how to live and lead in the dark a respectful closing chapter.
He lingered the longest. The rest of his team knew to give him space, and so they did.