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Abbacchio couldn't fight the urge to glower as he was pat down on the way out of Polpo's holding cell. How in the hell was it fair that he and his partner reaped punishments far beyond what Abbacchio sowed while these assholes could work in the comfort of Polpo's pocket and still have the gall to look down on him? Bastards. Every single one of them. He couldn't even be comforted by the thought of them hanging themselves on their own rope. Passione had resources beyond Abbacchio's wildest dreams, beyond simple, mortal things like money and political connections. So long as Passione needed them, these officers would be actively chained to the syndicate.
The reminder of those chains didn't do anything to improve Abbacchio's mood as he exited the prison. Once he was beyond the doors, he started patting his pockets, desperate to find something to take the edge off after sitting through that shit-show of a conversation. Though calling that a conversation was being more generous than Abbacchio's been in his entire life. A conversation implied that a meeting with Polpo was a dialogue. No, Polpo talked at you, and you responded in the way he wanted. That was the advice that a wise, if mouthy, teenager gave him after Abbacchio recovered from his fever.
Damn it! He could've sworn he had a loose one or two in his pockets! Did he really smoke them already?
"Looking for something?"
Abbacchio started at the familiar low tones. Leave it to Buccellati to suddenly appear when he was feeding into the siren call of self-medication. At least it was sunny out today.
Abbacchio sighed through his nose and leaned against the prison wall. "Just needed a cigarette. But of course, I can't find jack shit when I need it!"
Buccellati pursed his lips. "I swung by here after finishing up my business to check-in about your meeting with Polpo. But I think you answered my question before I had the chance to ask it." He offered a sympathetic smile. "That bad, huh?"
"That obvious? I don't know how you put up with him, Buccellati."
Buccellati looked to his side and started unzipping into his abdomen. "It gets a bit better with time. Fortunately, you shouldn't have to deal with him too often. Not as long as you have a team leader to act as a go-between." His eyes, well they didn't light up exactly, but they did get a little bit more energy when he found what he was looking for. "Here! I'm not certain about the brand, but it should still light up, at least."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of a single loose cigarette between Buccellati's long fingers. Not even in a box; just floating free in his zipper space. Hesitant and confused, Abbacchio slowly took the cigarette and the lighter that was offered soon after.
"I didn't take you as a smoker," he said as he lit the end.
Buccellati leaned against the wall next to Abbacchio. "Not particularly. I'm more of a social smoker. You'd be surprised what people will let slip during a smoke break."
"Hm. So you don't sneak one to take the edge off?"
"I have other vices for that." Buccellati smiled, more to himself than Abbacchio because he didn't elaborate further on that. Instead, he asked, "What happened during the meeting?"
Abbacchio removed the cigarette and let the smoke escape around his teeth. "He was talking about transferring me to a different team."
Buccellati definitely reacted to that. His head turned so fast, his bob could barely keep up. "What? No!"
"Trust me, that's about how well I reacted."
"Internally, right?"
"Yes, internally. My death wishes have never gotten that bad."
Buccellati sank back against the wall, looking like the weight on his shoulders just got that much heavier. "He says that I'm ready to lead my own team, then he tries to take my team out from underneath me. What the hell is going through his head?" He turned to face Abbacchio better. "Do you remember where Polpo wanted to transfer you?"
Abbacchio let another drag drift in the air before responding. "Data Analysis."
And holy hell, did that catch Buccellati's attention. His expression in that moment had more panic than he'd seem Buccellati express in all of his time knowing him. No, not just panic. Fear. "What? No! Why would he suggest putting you there?"
"He said it would be a good use of my skills from the force." As unsettling as Buccellati's response to the news was, Abbacchio couldn't resist the bitterness leaking into his voice. Not after what Polpo revealed. With a dragged out pause, he added, "And he said it would be a waste of my Stand's abilities to stay at the street level."
Abbacchio dropped his hand to his side, smoke trailing the way down. "Buccellati, why does Polpo know about my Stand?" Buccellati stayed silent for a few seconds too long. By the time he opened his mouth, Abbacchio was snapping. "The hell happened to staying quiet about my abilities?! To playing my cards close to the chest?!"
Buccellati stared at the street, unfazed by the glare that Abbacchio was shooting straight through his skull. He felt the anger simmering in his gut steadily rising to a boil the longer the silence stretched on. After taking his sweet time to collect his thoughts, Buccellati finally spoke.
"Everything I said was true. Only idiots and people using intimidation tactics reveal their Stand's power without a second thought."
"Then what the hell, Buccellati?!"
"Polpo," Buccellati said with an intense finality, "is a different case. Once someone passes their initiation, it's their leader's job to report on their Stand's ability. If you were one of Passione's free agents, you would've been expected to give the report yourself."
"Fucking hell," Abbacchio mumbled, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. How else was he supposed to react to someone revealing the inner workings of his soul without his knowledge. Would Buccellati have ever told him if Polpo didn't tip his hand with his musings?
"Data Analysis," Buccellati mused, pivoting from the issue as the storm raged in Abbacchio's mind. His perfect bob was starting to spring in all sorts of directions as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Why did it have to be that team?"
Pushing the sting of betrayal to the side, Abbacchio took another drag and spoke before the smoke cleared his lips. "What's…wrong or up or whatever with that team?"
Buccellati looked like he could use a smoke or a hard drink in that moment. "Data Analysis is a death sentence, especially for people with Stands like yours."
"Like mine?" Abbacchio twisted the cigarette between his index finger and thumb. "You mean non-combat Stands?"
Buccellati blew his bangs out of his face in a rare display of his age. (Abbacchio couldn't help the small twitch of a smile seeing that.) "Abbacchio, what's the most valuable commodity in a criminal organization?"
"Based on context, I'm going to say information."
"Great instincts. Now, imagine that and increase it ten-fold in an organization that values secrecy so much that the head is completely anonymous even to its members. How do you think the team dealing in sniffing out information is treated?"
The last of the cigarette fizzled out as it reached the filter. "Shit."
"You'd have a better chance in front of a firing squad," Buccellati said, contemplation slowly replacing panic. "You have to be very cutthroat and exceptionally lucky to have a long life on the Data Analysis team."
"Well, fuck me then." Abbacchio looked around for a trash can, but seeing none nearby, he dropped the cigarette butt. "Guess I'm dying after all."
Buccellati raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Polpo's word is law where I'm concerned, right?"
Buccellati pressed a knuckle to his lips in thought. "That is true," he admitted. He was silent for a few moments longer before shrugging. "I suppose we can't stop him from wanting to transfer you. Though if he were to ask me, sending you to Data Analysis would be quite the disastrous mistake. What with the alcoholism and all."
Abbacchio bristled at that. He was not an alcoholic. He had an alcohol problem, yes. A dependency that could lead to alcoholism. But he wasn't, officially, considered an alcoholic. Maybe the distinction wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things, but it was important to Abbacchio.
But he couldn't blame Buccellati for not caring too much about the semantics. To someone helping him detox, all problems caused by alcohol must look the same. What difference does a term make when you're dealing with a lap full of vomit.
(And Abbacchio thought that he was improving…)
Buccellati pushed away from the wall, looking more certain than he had since approaching Abbacchio. "Yes, someone with an alcohol problem would be a terrible fit for the Data Analysis team. Loose lips sink ships, in vino veritas, and all the fun stuff." He sighed dramatically. "I'll be sure to let Polpo know about that issue should the conversation of a transfer come up. Ultimately, it's Polpo's decision, but I'd hate to arm someone with a compromised mental state with the ammunition necessary to destroy the family as a whole."
Buccellati bent down and picked up the cigarette butt. There wasn't a trash can in eyesight, so he closed his fist around the garbage, no doubt to hold onto it until he could throw it away.
After he stood up, Buccellati patted Abbacchio's shoulder. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I know I always want to rest after speaking with Polpo."
"Uh…sure. Thanks."
Abbacchio wasn't certain what else to say before Buccellati walked off with a wave. Polpo was nothing short of the most intimidating figure he'd ever met. He shuddered to think about the members who were considered higher than him in Passione's hierarchy. And yet, here was Buccellati, ready to stretch the truth just to keep him around. People didn't fight for fuckups like him. The prize wasn't worth the cost.
But Buccellati was trying to keep him. That was…something, at least. Stability? Loyalty? It would be nice to consider it a bond, but he didn't think they knew each other well enough to form one of any substance yet. But it was something. Abbacchio could work with something.
"Hm." Abbacchio watched Buccellati's retreating back until he turned a corner. What an…interesting guy, he thought as he turned to walk in the opposite direction, taking Buccellati's advice and heading back to his apartment.