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The back room of Libeccio smelled of stale tobacco and cheap grappa, sharp and medicinal. Abbacchio sat in the corner booth with a glass of red wine that tasted like vinegar, his long legs folded awkwardly under the low table. The vinyl seat stuck to the back of his thighs.
Something crawled up the nape of his neck. A warmth that made the fine hairs there stand on end.
Abbacchio took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around his fingers as he shifted his eyes just enough to scan the room. Bucciarati sat at the main table with a ledger open before him. Pen poised above a column of figures. The pen hadn't moved in minutes. His hand rested motionless on the paper.
He was watching Abbacchio.
Those dark eyes followed the arc of the cigarette from Abbacchio's lips to the ashtray. Traced the line of his jaw as he tilted his head to exhale. The attention was so focused it felt like fingertips ghosting along skin without making contact. Bucciarati's lips were slightly parted. His breathing visible in the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the pressed white suit.
The wine turned sour in Abbacchio's gut. He looked away quickly, taking another drag to steady himself. It didn't mean anything. Bucciarati was his Capo. A good man. The kind of man who actually gave a damn about his people, who'd pulled Abbacchio out of the gutter when no one else would have.
The kind of man Abbacchio had no business wanting.
He kept his eyes on his wine glass, watching the light catch in the liquid. When he finally glanced back up, Bucciarati was still staring.
Their eyes met.
Bucciarati blinked rapidly, like he'd surfaced from deep water. Color flooded his face, first his cheeks, then spreading down his neck to disappear beneath his collar. His jaw tightened. He jerked his attention back to the ledger with enough force to make the papers shift.
"Fugo." His voice came out too loud, the syllables clipped. "The calculations on the third page are illegible. Review them again."
He bent over the numbers with exaggerated concentration. Shoulders rigid. One hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles gone white.
Abbacchio looked down at his wine. His pulse hammered in his throat.
That look. That prolonged, unwavering attention—it meant something. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe Abbacchio was just projecting patterns onto nothing because that's what his brain did now.
Bucciarati was thorough, observant. It was part of what made him a good Capo. The flush on his face could mean anything.
Abbacchio picked up his cigarette. Took a drag. Set it back down and watched the smoke curl toward the stained ceiling.
He didn't let himself think about it. Couldn't afford to.
The invitation came two days later during a relentless Neapolitan drizzle that turned the cobblestones to mirrors.
Abbacchio stood on the narrow balcony, elbows resting heavily on the rusted iron railing, letting the drift of the rain catch him. Water beaded on the metal under his arms and dripped steadily into the alley below, counting down the seconds. A cold droplet landed on his neck, sliding under his collar, another plastered a strand of silver hair to his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe them away. He just took a slow drag, the cherry of his cigarette hissing faintly against the damp air.
The glass door slid open behind him.
Bucciarati stepped out. In the grey light, his white suit looked like it belonged to a different world, freshly pressed, defying the humidity that was already making Abbacchio’s clothes heavy. Not a crease was visible. Bucciarati smoothed his lapels. He adjusted his cufflinks with a sharp, nervous twitch. He checked his watch, stared at the face without really seeing it, and then checked it again.
"Leone."
Abbacchio straightened, crushing the wet cigarette into the railing. "Capo."
"Tonight." Bucciarati kept his gaze fixed on the street, tracking a passing car with unnecessary intensity. "There's a restaurant near the harbor. La Scogliera. Eight o'clock."
His hand lifted slightly, then dropped back to his side. Fingers curling into a loose fist.
"Wear something suitable," Bucciarati added, his voice dropping. "Something... nice."
A pause. The rain filled it.
Abbacchio's ribs went tight. "Understood."
Bucciarati turned his head then, finally meeting Abbacchio's eyes. The look lasted three seconds—long enough for Abbacchio to see something raw and uncertain flash across his Capo's face before it disappeared behind a professional nod. The glass door slid shut with a final click. A moment later, he emerged on the street below.
He walked straight into the rain without opening an umbrella. Shoulders squared against the downpour.
Abbacchio remained on the balcony, leaning over the rail as water dripped from his bangs, watching from above until the white suit vanished around the corner.
So that's what this was.
He should have expected it. Should have seen it coming. Bucciarati was a man with needs like any other, and Abbacchio—well. He wasn't much, but he could provide that at least. Could give his Capo whatever he needed. It was the least he could do after everything Bucciarati had done for him.
The thought settled in his chest, heavy and familiar. He wasn't disappointed. He couldn't be. This was more than he deserved anyway.
The bathroom mirror showed a man in black silk. The shirt unbuttoned to reveal his collarbone and the hollow of his throat. Abbacchio applied cologne to his wrists and studied his own reflection.
The silk clung to his shoulders, draped over the lean muscle of his arms. His hair fell silver and loose, framing sharp cheekbones. He saw the shadows under his eyes. But he could work with this.
He buttoned one more button on the shirt. Then unbuttoned it again. The fabric fell open just enough to show the dip at the base of his throat, the pale expanse of skin below.
If this was what Bucciarati wanted, Abbacchio would give it to him. Gladly. Whatever his Capo needed.
La Scogliera occupied a narrow building wedged between a shipping office and a closed tabaccheria. Warm light spilled from its windows onto the wet pavement. Inside, white linen tablecloths glowed under candlelight.
Abbacchio paused in the doorway. This wasn't what he'd expected. He'd thought—well. Somewhere more discreet, maybe. But this was a real restaurant. The kind of nice place people came for anniversaries.
Bucciarati was already seated, half-risen from his chair when Abbacchio approached. His Capo's usual composure had fractured at the edges—he knocked the wine bottle with his elbow reaching for a glass, caught it before it tipped, then poured with agonizing slowness. The burgundy liquid crawled up the sides of the glass. When he set the bottle down, his hand trembled.
Abbacchio sat. "Capo."
"Bruno," Bucciarati said quickly. "Please. When it's... when we're not working."
"Bruno." The name felt strange in his mouth. Intimate.
They sat in silence. Bucciarati would open his mouth as if to speak, then close it again. His gaze dropping to his plate. The candlelight caught the gold details of his suit—the zippers, the small pins on his lapel—making them flash with each shallow breath.
"The wine." Bucciarati's voice broke the quiet. "Is it acceptable?"
Abbacchio tasted it. Better than what he usually drank. "It's good."
More silence. Bucciarati traced the edge of his plate with one finger. Around and around. Then, as if forcing himself past some internal barrier: "I ordered the branzino. They prepare it whole here. The chef—he's from Amalfi, I think. Or maybe Positano. One of the coastal towns. They know fish there. Obviously. Because of the—the sea." His fingers drumming against his wine glass. "You don't have to eat it. If you don't like fish. I should have asked. I didn't ask. I just assumed—"
"I like fish," Abbacchio said.
Bucciarati's shoulders dropped fractionally. "Good. That's—good." He lifted his glass, taking a long, uncharacteristic pull of the dark vintage. He lowered it slowly, but the base hovered an inch above the white linen, suspended in a hand that had simply forgotten to finish the motion.
His eyes had stopped darting around the room. They were fixed on Abbacchio.
Abbacchio felt the weight of it hit him like a physical touch—a heavy, humid pressure that started at his hairline and dragged slowly down the sharp shadow of his jaw. Bucciarati was staring, his pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, drinking in the way the candlelight caught the silver strands falling over Abbacchio's eyes. His lips parted, just slightly, a soft, ragged exhale escaping as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
"Leone."
The name was barely a breath, a vibration in the quiet air between them that sounded less like he was speaking to Abbacchio and more like he was speaking to himself.
Abbacchio froze, his own glass halfway to his mouth. "Yeah?"
Bucciarati just sat there, bathed in the warm glow, looking at Abbacchio as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
"It suits you." The words came out before Bucciarati seemed to realize what he was saying. His eyes widened slightly. "I mean—not that you're—I don't mean to say you're like a—" He gestured helplessly with one hand. "You just. You carry yourself. Like there's this..." He trailed off, color rising in his cheeks. "Never mind. That was stupid."
It wasn't stupid. Warmth crept up Abbacchio's neck. He wanted to tell Bucciarati he was wrong, that there was nothing strong or proud about him anymore. But his Capo looked so embarrassed, so uncertain, that the words died in his throat.
"The weather has been terrible lately," Bucciarati said abruptly, latching onto the new topic with desperate force. "All this rain. Very unusual for February. Or is it normal? I can't remember—" He cleared his throat. "Do you mind it? The rain?"
Abbacchio blinked at the question. "Not really."
"No?" Bucciarati leaned forward slightly. "Most people complain. But you—I saw you the other day. Standing in it. For twenty minutes at least. Just smoking. You didn't even—" He caught himself, seeming to realize what he'd just admitted. His face went redder. "Not that I was watching you. I just—happened to notice. From the window."
You were watching me. Abbacchio's stomach flipped. He tried not to read too much into it. "I've been rained on worse."
Something flickered across Bucciarati's face. Concern, maybe. His lips parted like he wanted to ask more, but then he seemed to stop himself. His hand moved across the table, fingers spreading on the white linen like he might reach across it, before curling back into a loose fist.
"When I was younger," Bucciarati said suddenly, "I used to fish with my father. Before—" He cut himself off, jaw working. Then, quieter: "The sea was the only place he seemed... at peace."
Abbacchio went still. Bucciarati never talked about his father. Never talked about anything personal.
"He taught me to read the water," Bucciarati continued, his gaze distant. "How to see where the fish would be by watching the surface. You have to be patient. You have to pay attention to the small things—the way the light hits, the current, the—"
He stopped abruptly. Color flooding his face. His eyes widened slightly, like he'd just realized he'd been speaking out loud.
"I'm sorry." Bucciarati reached for his wine glass. "I'm talking too much. This isn't—I don't usually—"
"I like hearing about it," Abbacchio said before he could stop himself. And it was true. He wanted to know these things. Wanted to know everything about Bruno Bucciarati.
Bucciarati looked up at him, startled. Something soft crossed his face.
"What about you?" Bucciarati asked. "What do you—when you're not working, do you—" He seemed to struggle with the question. "Is there anything you like to do?"
Abbacchio shrugged. "Nothing much. I'm not that interesting."
"That's not—" Bucciarati stopped himself. Tried again. "Music? Do you like music?"
"Yeah. I guess."
"What kind?"
"I don't know. Whatever's playing." Abbacchio paused. "I used to play piano. Before."
"Really?" Bucciarati's whole face brightened. "Would you—I mean, if you wanted to, sometime—would you play? For me?" The question came out rushed, like he was afraid Abbacchio would say no if he didn't ask fast enough.
The earnestness in his voice made Abbacchio's chest ache. "If you want."
"I do." Bucciarati smiled. It was genuine, reaching his eyes. "I'd like that very much."
The food arrived. Bucciarati had been right—the branzino was prepared whole, its silver skin crisped to perfection. Bucciarati watched as Abbacchio took the first bite. His attention so focused it made Abbacchio's skin warm.
"Is it good?" Bucciarati asked.
"It's perfect."
"You're not just saying that?"
"No. Really. It's the best thing I've had in..." Abbacchio trailed off. Years, maybe.
"Good." Bucciarati's smile was almost shy. "I'm glad."
The silence that followed felt different. Warmer. Bucciarati kept glancing up at him through his lashes, his gaze catching on Abbacchio's hands, his mouth, the line of his throat above the open collar. Each time Abbacchio moved—reaching for his wine, breaking bread—Bucciarati tracked the motion like he was memorizing it.
Abbacchio let himself sink into it. This feeling. This moment. Even if it wasn't real, even if it was just prelude to something else. He could pretend, couldn't he? Just for tonight. He could pretend they were on a real date. That Bucciarati wanted him for more than just his body. That this mattered.
It was dangerous. He knew that. But he couldn't help himself.
"You should eat more," Bucciarati said quietly. "You've gotten too thin."
"I eat enough."
"You don't." Bucciarati's voice was gentle but firm. "I've noticed. You skip meals. You drink instead."
"You don't need to worry about me."
"But I do." Bucciarati held his gaze. There was something almost pleading in it. "You matter to me, Leone. More than you—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching. "You matter."
The tightness in Abbacchio's throat made it hard to swallow. He wanted to believe it so badly it hurt. "Bruno..."
"I mean it." Bucciarati reached across the table. His hand stopped just short of Abbacchio's. "I know you don't see it, but you're—you're remarkable. And I—"
He seemed to lose his nerve. His hand hovered there, trembling slightly.
Abbacchio looked at that outstretched hand. At the vulnerability in the gesture. Something dangerous unfurled in his chest.
Slowly, carefully, he reached back. Let his fingers brush against Bucciarati's.
The contact was electric. Bucciarati's breath hitched. He turned his hand over, palm up, and Abbacchio slid his fingers between Bucciarati's. They fit together perfectly.
For a moment, everything was perfect. Abbacchio let himself have this. Let himself believe in the candlelight and the wine and the way Bucciarati was looking at him like he was something precious.
Then Bucciarati's face went bright red. He pulled his hand back suddenly, nearly knocking over his wine glass.
"We should go." The words came out strangled. "The rain is getting worse."
Oh.
Reality crashed back in. Of course. They'd had dinner, played at whatever this was, and now—now they'd get to the real reason Bucciarati had brought him here.
Abbacchio's stomach dropped like a stone. He'd known. He'd known from the beginning. But for a few minutes there, he'd let himself forget. Let himself hope for something impossible.
He stood. "Yeah. Alright."
The happiness had been borrowed time. And now the bill was due.
The sky had opened completely. Rain hit the pavement so hard it bounced, soaking them within seconds. Abbacchio's silk shirt clung to his skin, water dripped from his hair into his eyes.
Bucciarati stopped beneath an old stone archway. Chest heaving. They stood close enough that Abbacchio could see water droplets caught in his eyelashes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body in the cool air.
This was it.
Abbacchio's pulse hammered in his throat. He tried to prepare himself, to remember that this was fine. This was what he'd expected. He'd give Bucciarati what he needed and that would be enough. It had to be enough.
But the ache in his chest wouldn't stop. His throat burned with something that felt suspiciously like tears.
Bucciarati stepped closer, crowding into his space. Water ran down his face in rivulets, plastering his dark hair to his forehead.
"You are..." Bucciarati's voice cracked. "You're breathtaking, Leone."
The word cut through him. Abbacchio closed his eyes. Even now, Bucciarati was being kind. Being gentle. It would have been easier if he'd just—
He tilted his head back. Offering his throat to the rain and to Bucciarati. Surrender.
He waited for hands in his hair. For lips against his neck. For the moment when the pretense would drop and they'd get to what this really was.
But nothing came.
No grab. No kiss. Only the deafening sound of rain on stone and the thunder of his own pulse in his ears.
Abbacchio opened his eyes.
Bucciarati was staring at him. Not at his throat, exposed and waiting. At his face. His expression caught somewhere between wonder and devastation, like he'd just watched something beautiful shatter.
"Leone." Barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
Abbacchio's breath caught. "I thought—"
Bucciarati's hand rose slowly. Trembling. His fingertips ghosted along Abbacchio's jaw, so gentle it was almost unbearable. His thumb traced the sharp edge of Abbacchio's cheekbone, wiping away water—rain or tears, Abbacchio couldn't tell anymore.
"No," Bucciarati breathed. His eyes searching Abbacchio's face like he was looking for something he'd lost. "Not like this."
The tenderness in the touch cracked something open in Abbacchio's chest. This wasn't— This didn't feel like—
Bucciarati's other hand came up to cup Abbacchio's face. Both palms cradling his jaw like Abbacchio was something precious. Something that might break. His forehead dropped forward to rest against Abbacchio's, water streaming down both their faces, breath mingling in the small space between them.
"I wanted..." Bucciarati's voice broke. Started again. "Dinner. And talking. And learning what makes you smile. I wanted to do this right."
Abbacchio couldn't breathe. The rain pounded around them but all he could feel was the warmth of Bucciarati's hands on his face. The way his Capo's thumbs stroked his cheekbones with devastating gentleness.
"I don't understand." His voice came out broken.
Bucciarati pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Rain dripped from his lashes. His lips parted, closed, opened again. Words seemed to fail him. He smiled. Small and uncertain and so achingly soft that Abbacchio felt it like a physical blow.
Then Bucciarati leaned in. Slowly. Giving Abbacchio every chance to pull away. Their noses brushed. Foreheads touching. Breath ghosting against lips.
"May I?" A whisper against Abbacchio's mouth.
Abbacchio's answer came out as a broken sound, half-sob, half-laugh. His hands found Bucciarati's lapels, fingers twisting in the wet fabric, just holding on.
"Please."
The kiss was soft. Chaste. Bucciarati's lips pressed against his with such careful reverence that Abbacchio's knees went weak. Warmth and gentleness and a tenderness that made Abbacchio want to cry.
Bucciarati's hands stayed cupped around his face. Thumbs stroking. Holding him like he was something worth cherishing.
When they parted, Bucciarati didn't pull away. He stayed close, foreheads still touching, one hand sliding back to cradle the nape of Abbacchio's neck. His fingers threaded through Abbacchio's wet hair, slow and reverent.
Abbacchio's breath shuddered out. His fingers tightened in Bucciarati's jacket.
The rain continued to fall around them. But here, with Bucciarati's hands gentle on his skin and his breath warm against Abbacchio's mouth, the world felt safe.
For the first time in years, the static in Abbacchio's head went quiet.