Chapter Text
It was a sight to behold. A grand, three story hotel, beautifully imposing, constructed of perfectly laid brick and lumber. The woodwork was exquisite, original, and could trace the building’s origins back to the 1900’s, if not earlier.
In fact, everything was original; the carpeting, every pane of glass, colored or otherwise, light fixtures, even the furniture. All of it, frozen in time from the moment it had been placed like the toy setting of a dollhouse.
The historic behemoth would have made for a wonderful landmark and thus a much needed source of funds for surrounding towns were it not for two glaring issues; one, absolutely no one had any idea where it had come from and two, it was currently on fire.
The blaze had attracted a substantial crowd of puzzled onlookers and what had to be every single fire department within about a five mile radius.
Unbeknownst to the audience, however, there was a third, much smaller group watching a good distance away, all gathered around a red sports car. Cigarette smoke wafted over their heads, fading into wisps in the dark smog filling the sky.
La Squadra di Esecuzioni, fearsome Execution Squad of the Passione, were currently strewn around the aforementioned car, save the two currently occupying the driver and passenger seats.
None of them were in top shape, they were all injured, exhausted, and for the most part, in less than agreeable moods.
Risotto Nero was perched on the hood of the car next to Prosciutto, who was all but chewing on his cigarette trying to ignore his own injuries. His hair was down, disheveled, and his hands were shaking slightly.
“Gee, if I’d known the fire would be this spectacular, I would have brought marshmallows,” Formaggio joked from where he was sitting cross-legged on the grass nearby.
Prosciutto rather forcefully exhaled a cloud of smoke and swiveled around to glare at him.
“Shut up, that mess was your-,” the sudden movement agitated his injuries and he cut himself off with a hiss and a pained shudder.
“It got us all out in one piece, didn’t it?” an exhausted Illuso asked, dark circles prominent under his eyes. He honestly looked like he was seconds away from collapsing were he not propped up against the side of the car next to Formaggio.
Prosciutto sighed before taking another drag from his cigarette and shaking his head, “What a goddamn mess…”
“To be fair, we are assassins,” Melone added from the passenger seat, “Nothing in our job description really says we’re not allowed to make a mess. Just look at Ghiaccio’s Stand.”
“Shut up, Melone,” Ghiaccio muffled into the steering wheel.
“Or Risotto’s…”
“Melone-," Ghiaccio sat up, pointing at the passenger.
“Hush,” Risotto interrupted, glancing over his shoulder at the duo in the car. Melone stuck his tongue in his cheek and tipped his head back so he was staring up at the sky. Ghiaccio just went back to being slumped over the wheel.
Risotto took a deep breath in through his nose and went back to watching the hotel burn. He was half tempted to ask Prosciutto for a cigarette but opted against it. There was probably enough smoke in his lungs right now and it wasn't going to help the pulsing migraine pushing against the inside of his skull.
“So, now what?” Sorbet asked, carefully checking the parts of his disassembled rifle which was spread all over his lap. Gelato sat nearby, head resting on his shoulder.
“You think the Boss is gonna be happy with, ya know…” he gestured towards the collapsing building with the muzzle of his gun, “That?”
“I mean, we did technically get the job done,” Pesci added, fidgeting with a light green kerchief and looking around at everyone, seemingly expecting a hopeful answer from one of his peers.
“Unless the Boss wants proof. Dammit…” Prosciutto sighed heavily, exhaling more smoke.
“Bro…”
Risotto didn’t have anything to add. He kept his eyes on his lap, his left hand limp and the other clutching his hat. Prosciutto’s words kept repeating over and over in his head.
What a mess…
One hell of a mess indeed.
Five Days Earlier…
Location: Naples (La Squadra HQ)
Risotto Nero was a busy man. Or, at the very least, he liked to pretend he was a busy man.
There was always a surprising amount of paperwork involved when it came to their duties. Most of it was files detailing the target, the act that had upset the Boss, and a list of possible locations they frequented, including favorite restaurants and hideouts. Everything else was generally a mess of handwritten notes of things that his men had observed on their own time.
He had plenty of faith in his men’s ability to gather intel or to do surveillance, it was the actual killing part that seemed to generate problems.
Or messes, specifically.
And the Boss wasn’t overly fond of messes.
While Stands like Melone’s or Illuso’s were as quiet as they were deadly and Sorbet’s was practically designed for an assassin, ones like Ghiaccio’s or occasionally Prosciutto’s had a tendency to attract unwanted attention (Pesci’s he honestly wasn’t sure about, since he mostly used it to lure and track while helping Prosciutto.)
Word was going to spread fast about someone partially dismembered and frozen solid on a hot summer day, or a household of people in their twenties rather abruptly dying of old age...or in Formaggio’s case, throwing a shrunk eighteen wheeler at the second story of a target’s house and returning it to its normal size right as it smacked into the window, crushing the entire front of the building and killing everyone (save the family cat, who he’d smuggled out beforehand) inside. Formaggio thought it was funny, Risotto wasn’t inclined to agree.
Sure it got the job done but Risotto was relatively certain stunts like that were one of the possible causes of their slowly dwindling paychecks. He never enjoyed trying to dodge any questioning from the police, but generally they were easily bought off and would leave them alone.
Bills they couldn’t pay kept stacking up and they fell short of much needed supplies. It made everyone considerably more irate than usual, since they were often literally being stretched thin on jobs that were well below what their pay grade should have been.
Risotto laid aside his pen and massaged his temples with his fingertips. In all honesty, he prayed that nothing was going to happen today, no absurd drama, everyone was just going to do their jobs and do it quietly…
The phone rang. Risotto answered it before it even had a chance to ring twice.
“Risotto Nero,” he answered, clipped and professional. Strangely, there wasn't an immediate response, and silence was all he got in response save his own breathing.
"Hello?"
"Geeze, prank callers don't have a chance against you, do they?" a sharp female voice replied.
Risotto sighed heavily through his nose, "Hello Shelia, what can I do for you?"
The Boss himself was massive enigma with his own mysteries to solve, but one Risotto both understood and was equally baffled by was that of Shelia E.
Shelia was one of the Boss' body guards, one of his messengers, and one of his enforcers. She was surprisingly serious for a girl her age, but then again, she'd earned her position from crushing a rival mob's organization and claiming their casinos for the Passione at the ripe age of ten. Risotto had no idea if she had her Stand by that point her not, but that didn't matter to most, nor did her reasons for wanting to join the Passione so young. Not that anyone knew her what her reasons were, Shelia E. was very much a person who kept her secrets close to her chest.
She had a sharp tongue and didn't suffer fools, but despite that, she was professional and diligent. Risotto quite liked her, if he were honest, and he liked to think they had a good rapport when it came to information exchange. It was a shame she had such a strong aversion to meeting the rest of his team (something she'd never elaborated on and Risotto had never pushed at risk of getting his throat ripped out), they'd probably like her too.
"What you can do for me is listen," Shelia replied shortly, "Boss has a job for you and La Squadra, pretty big one too."
Risotto raised an eyebrow, "Oh? All of us?"
"Usually a big job implies that, yes," she said, "Me and some of the Boss' intel gatherers threw together a file of all the information you'll need, you should be getting an email shortly about the targets."
“Targets?”
Multiple targets wasn’t anything new, but it was uncommon. Usually any additions to the body count were casualties who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The email notification sound pinged on his nearby computer. He reached over and opened the link and it was, of course, encrypted, so a loading bar popped up after and slowly began to fill. Very slowly. He let out an annoyed grunt.
"Yes. Targets. As in more than one," she sounded peeved, "I told the Boss I could handle it myself but he insisted on giving the job to you and your men."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or not."
"Be flattered."
"While I'm waiting for this, technology being so amazingly speedy as it is," Risotto glanced at his computer screen, still loading, "I don't suppose you can tell me a little bit about what exactly it is I'm getting into?"
"It's all in the file, Risotto. Figure it out yourself," and with that, Shelia E. hung up. Risotto couldn't even bring himself to be irritated, he expected that response from her, that's just how Shelia was. She wasn't there to help, just to be the Boss' go-between. With a sigh, he placed the phone back on the cradle, which was when the file decided it was done loading and opened with another ping.
A few things stood out to him. First of all, the files were more detailed than what they usually got, and had photos attached separately, but labeled accordingly to indicate which folder they went too. Rather a lot of photos, actually. Many of them seemed to be photos of the same old fashioned building in a field out in the countryside.
Were the targets there? Whoever the Boss had gather this information (probably Shelia, he assumed) must have been absolutely certain they were, or else there probably wouldn’t be that many pictures. Risotto went back to the document and skimmed the text which was when a particular phrase caught his eye.
Stand users among the defectors.
Users. Plural. Grand.
He turned back to his desk and picked up his phone. Shelia E. had not been exaggerating, he was most likely going to need everyone for this job.
Location: Pascarola (Abandoned apartment adjacent to luxury hotel)
“Do you think we could ever convince Risotto to get a hot tub?” Gelato asked, not looking away from his binoculars as he watched their target lounging in the hotel Jacuzzi sipping some colorful alcohol beverage adorned with a little umbrella.
“Probably not. Pretty sure we’re late on the electric bill again,” Sorbet replied from somewhere to his immediate left, “And can we agree that his chest hair is objectively a worse crime than murdering two of his superiors?”
“Oh absolutely,” Gelato agreed, making a face as one of the women in the same Jacuzzi lovingly stroked her hand over it, “You think he combs it?”
“I bet he makes one of his chickadees do it. What, you didn’t think to check for that while you were poking around in...whose brain was it?”
“The blonde who’s missing her left canine, the one in the green swimsuit. And no, I didn’t think to check. I figured there was, you know, more important information we needed.”
“Like that she apparently really likes green apple flavored condoms?”
“That was the first thing floating around in her vapid skull, and I thought it was funny.”
“You would,” Sorbet chuckled, “We’re clear to let the show begin then?”
Gelato sat back, double checking the small, empty room around them and ensuring the only occupants were their two chairs and them and that the deadbolt was still set in place. He grinned.
“The stage is all yours, babe.”
The sound of Sorbet’s rifle being cocked was surprisingly loud before he braced it tightly against his shoulder, leveling it on the window ledge, balanced on its bipod.
While it was true that they had gone to extensive lengths to ensure they wouldn’t be disturbed, Sorbet had good reason to be cautious.
His Stand was a tall, slender humanoid, limbs jointed almost jaggedly with visible silver rivets that stood out against whatever dark material it was composed of. It was dotted with precise glowing red patterns that ran all down its arms and legs, and it had no face, but rather a single large cyclops eye that resembled the end of a rifle scope, complete with a red crosshair. A high silver collar adorned its neck and fanned out across its shoulders, curved like armored shoulder pads. It was positioned directly behind him, holding what looked like a pair of red tinted MX goggles over his eyes.
Depeche Mode, a Stand with aim so precise it could direct a bullet between the gaps in floor boards without damaging the wood.
While powerful, the drawback and the reason Sorbet trusted Gelato to mind his back was those goggles. He couldn’t move, all of his focus was on whoever was framed in the scope of his rifle, and that meant that if they were ever attacked, he was a severe disadvantage.
But Gelato was there, the room was empty, and the only other thing that mattered was the man in the Jacuzzi, the metaphorical spotlight was shining on his target and just the two of them as the audience as he squeezed the trigger.
The bullet passed cleanly through one of the gaps in the mesh fence, red splattering everywhere and spraying the fake tropical plants as well as the now screaming groupies who were now scrambling to get away from the corpse, which had slumped over and was currently bobbing in the frothing stained water.
“Oh, bravo! Splendid show!” Gelato applauded, waiting for Sorbet to withdraw the rifle after the casing was ejected from the chamber, catching it in his hand without so much as turning his head. His Stand returned to its user as he leaned back, giving Gelato an opening to throw his arms around his boyfriend’s neck.
“What, were your expectations that low?”
Gelato let out an exaggerated gasp and covered his mouth with both his hands, “I would never!”
His arms returned to the embrace as he plopped himself down on Sorbet’s lap, “You haven’t missed a shot since we met, why on earth would you assume so little of me?”
Sorbet chuckled, “Haven’t missed a shot, eh? Does that include your heart?”
“Psh! Cupid didn’t stand a chance!”
He smiled, lowering his rifle down so the butt was resting on the floor and his one arm was now free to slide around Gelato’s waist.
“You’re right, my mistake.”
“Oh don’t ‘my mistake’ me!” Gelato scolded playfully, tapping Sorbet on the tip of his nose, “I expect an apology for such a rude assumption!”
“Didn’t I buy you dinner yesterday?”
“That was yesterday, and you know what I mean!”
He was seconds away from swooping down to kiss his beloved when the muffled ringing of a phone interrupted the otherwise serene silence of the empty space.
“Oh my god, why?!” he griped.
“It’s probably Risotto, he always had admirably bad timing.”
“Yeah, well, he can wait until after- hey!”
Ignoring Gelato’s protest, Sorbet stuck his hand into the upper left-hand pocket on his jacket to retrieve the cellphone tangled among their seemingly endless supply of shared snacks.
“See? Told you,” Sorbet said, showing Gelato the miniature screen before pressing the answer button.
“What’s up, Riz?” he asked, putting the phone on speaker so a pouty Gelato could participate in the conversation.
“Have you completed your assignment?” their leader’s deep voice answered, slightly static-y from the speaker.
“But of course!” Gelato replied smugly, “Would you expect anything less than perfection from us?”
Risotto didn’t reply.
“I'm going to hope you didn’t call just to make sure we hadn’t eloped to run off to Moscow,” Sorbet joked, passing his rifle to Gelato who carefully leaned it against the wall under the window beside them.
“Moscow isn’t your style anyway,” Risotto replied bluntly, “You two would go to Paris, or Tokyo.”
“See, that’s why we won’t run away!” Gelato piped up, Sorbet laughed.
“Seriously, what’s up though?” he asked.
“If your job is complete, I need you to return to our HQ as soon as possible.”
“Is it-.”
“Yes, it’s important.”
“But you’re not gonna tell us over the phone,” Sorbet exchanged looks with Gelato.
“It’s something the others will need to hear too.”
“Wha- the others? Wait, Risotto-!” Gelato tried but the phone line went dead, leaving them with just the buzzing of the dial tone.
“Wow, talk about vague,” Gelato rolled his eyes.
“He’s like that, you know this,” Sorbet replied, dropping the phone back into the same pocket he’d pulled it out of.
“True…”
Sorbet went to push Gelato off his lap, but his boyfriend was having none of that and shoved his upper body weight into Sorbet’s chest, causing the chair and by extension the pair of them, to go tumbling backwards onto the floor.
“Augh! Gelato! My rifle-!”
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” Gelato said dismissively, placing his hands on the floor on either side of Sorbet’s head.
Sorbet glared at him, but it was half-hearted, “Seriously?”
Gelato lazily stroked his finger down the front of Sorbet’s throat, over the curve of his Adam’s apple to his sternum, “We still have something to wrap up, or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, but can’t it wait?” Sorbet protested, “Risotto didn’t sound like he had a lot of patience to spare right now.”
Gelato mulled this over for a moment before shrugging, “We’ll just tell him we got caught in traffic.”
Location: Ripuaria (private residence)
Ghiaccio was pissed off. Granted, this wasn’t anything new (Melone frequently liked to equate his general disposition to that of an extremely irate cat) but chasing his target through the target’s own house in one of the most frustrating and annoying games of hide and seek was a surefire to make his mood worse.
The entire west side of the house now bore a striking resemblance to an overworked and poorly maintained freezer. Huge, jagged slabs of ice were splayed all over the walls and floors, frost was plastered so thick over the windows you couldn’t even see through them anymore.
Ghiaccio stalked through the mini arctic waste, all subtly completely gone now since his target had bolted upstairs and had proceeded to run him in circles even after he’d iced over the doors.
He’d managed to corner them in this particular area, the dining room and the kitchen, and narrowing any further chance of escape, especially with the thin sheet of ice forming on the floor. Getting around was no issue to him because of his Stand’s nature but to anyone else…
A yelp and a crash caught his attention and he quickly headed towards the sound.
“Alright, jackass! Quit playin’ around! I’m getting sick of this stupid cat and mouse game you’re playing!” he yelled, “Which is just goddamn stupid! Why cat and mouse specifically?! Cats hunt other shit too like birds and rabbits! And what about hunting dogs! Goddamit!”
“Y-you’re crazy!” his target shouted, voice echoing off the walls of the now icy cavern.
Right as he turned the corner into the kitchen, his target had just barely managed to pry the sliding door to the patio open and had stumbled through in the most ungraceful manner possible as he fell through the screen.
Ghiaccio had forgotten there was a patio.
Shit!
Without hesitation, he ran after the panicked man, and Ghiaccio was not a slow runner. The target was clawing at the lock on the gate when the hitman grabbed him by the back of his shirt, practically lifted him off the ground, and hurled him into the pool with a substantial splash. The droplets froze and hit the floor like discarded gemstones before they even came close to wetting his clothing.
“Bastard,” he spat, watching the man flail around, “You actually made me waste my energy chasing after you.”
“W-wait! P-please! H-have mercy! W-what do you-?!”
Ghiaccio kicked the frozen shards back towards the pool, and the swipe of his foot created a smooth wave of frost. As soon as that wave hit the water, it snap froze, devouring the panicked man in a massive, solid block of frozen chlorinated water so that the only thing visible now was one arm and his head. His fingers twitched for a moment then went completely still.
“Tch. Pain in the ass,” he growled, letting the area around him affected by White Album slowly dissipate. The frost on the windows was already melting away. It was too much wasted energy to leave it up.
His phone rang, the sudden noise making him jump before he cursed again while digging around in his pocket for his phone.
“What?!” he barked as soon as he hit the answer button.
“Bad time?” Risotto asked calmly which, somehow, just annoyed Ghiaccio further than it was probably possible to be annoyed.
“What is it? I just finished the goddamn job if you’re calling to check up on me,” he snapped, kicking another one of the stray frozen shards into the pool.
“So that’s a no then. I need you to come back to our HQ.”
“Huh? What? Why? Don’t believe me?”
“No, that’s not why, Ghiaccio, and you know that. I have something very important that I need to discuss with you and the others.”
“And that is?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Are you serious right now?!” Ghiaccio snapped, “Is it that hard to-.”
Silence.
“Risotto? Risotto?!” he screeched into the speaker, but the only answer he got was the dial tone.
“What the f-?! Goddammit!”
Ghiaccio hurled the phone onto the frozen surface of the pool with enough force the plastic and metal exploded, the pieces scattering in every direction.
“God dammit to hell, Risotto!”
He ran over to the gate exit, forgetting momentarily that it was still locked before he grabbed it, covered it with ice, and tore it and a sizable chunk of the wood off the gate.
“Goddammit!”
Location: Casoria (private apartment)
There was an insanely annoying noise blaring somewhere in the apartment.
Melone straightened up, getting his head caught on several of the dresses hanging over the shoe shelf he’d been rummaging through and frowned.
First off, it most likely wasn't a phone. He’d cut all the lines beforehand and the target hadn’t had a cellular phone on hand, not that he needed it anymore. Second, there wasn't a reason for it to either be a burglar alarm or a fire alarm, which he'd also cut. But that was beside the point.
The point here being, it was annoying and disrupting Melone’s fun, so he decided to do the professional and mature thing and just ignore it until it stopped going off.
Meanwhile, he flung open another set of drawers in the expansive closet. Sure enough, the noise died out until all he could hear was Baby Face playing with the dismantled remains of the target.
He soon settled back into his usual habit of looting his target’s belongings, or their clothes and unmentionables specifically. Sure he’d sometimes take trophies, especially if something unique caught his eye or the mother had been a special host, and these two certainly had some champagne taste.
Melone was all over the designer brands, knowing that despite the size differences, Prosciutto would approve of any selections he brought home.
He’d just pulled out a lacy chemise in his favorite shade of purple from one of the drawers when the noise started. Again.
And again, he ignored it to try on a cute lavender tanktop with a lacy strip down the side and a pair of tight black pants instead.
The noise blared for a third time.
Melone rolled his eyes and would have gladly continued his little game of dress-up had a small voice not caught his attention.
“U-um…”
He turned around, unsurprised to see Baby Face in the doorway holding what looked to be what was left of the victim’s jaw, teeth included, all blocky from when it had been torn off.
“What’s wrong, Baby Face?” he asked, grabbing a black fur coat off one of the hangars and pulling it on before admiring himself in the full length mirror.
“There’s a noise...coming from your clothes. I think?” It pointed at the bed where Melone had discarded his normal garb and boots. He paused for a minute and then realized very abruptly and somewhat to his dismay that it was his phone and the noise in question had been one of the silly ringtones he'd changed the notification sound to.
Nearly tripping over the pile of clothes he’d tossed aside in the process, he rushed out of the closet and practically dove onto the bed, grabbing at the pockets until he felt the shape of his phone.
“H-hello-?” he said breathlessly, then realized he hadn’t even hit the answer button in his haste.
He groaned and tried again.
“Hello?”
“Three rings? You’re getting better, last time it was five.”
“God, Risotto,” Melone rolled his eyes, disposition changing immediately now that he knew who it was, “You sure know how to ruin a boy’s good time.”
“I’ll take it that means your target is deceased?”
Melone glanced over at his Stand, sitting motionless on a nearby chair while its offspring happily played with the scattered parts of its victim. Not that there was much left, an eye, an arm, half a hand, the jaw from earlier was long gone now.
“Of course,” he said gleefully, flinging himself down on the bed, blond hair fanning out dramatically over the pillows, “Baby Face is just...digesting right now.”
“...sure,” Risotto sounded non-plussed, immune to the knowledge of how unsavory Melone's Stand was.
“Anyway, surely you didn’t call just to chit-chat,” Melone hummed, sitting up and tossing his hair so it settled back in its usual style, falling over his one eye.
“If you can tear yourself away from your ventures, I need you to come back as soon as you can.”
“Why? Is there some sort of emergency?” Melone asked with a frown before his attention was diverted to a plain gold chain laying on the bedside table.
“No, but its still important. You and the others will get an explanation once you’re here.”
“The others?”
“Yes, or did you forget you have coworkers?”
Melone scoffed, “Of course not. Ghiaccio is dreadfully hard to forget.”
“Good, and try to leave soon, don’t get caught up in having too much fun.”
With that, he hung up. Rely on Risotto to be nightmarishly vague but Melone was more intrigued than irritated.
“Oh my! It seems my mysterious leader has a surprise for us!” he proclaimed, hopping off the bed. Baby Face watched him curiously, chewing on what was left of the hand.
Melone tossed the jacket to the side and went back into the closet.
“But before I go…” he opened one of the suit jackets and grinned, tugging it open to examine the tag, “I wonder if Prosciutto would like these, I could at least bring some home for Pesci. He could always use a nice-.”
He cut himself off as he absentmindedly ran his thumb up the seam, the texture giving him pause. After taking the soft fabric up in both hands he held it close to his face due to the poor vision in his one eye. It wasn’t something that was obvious right away, nor was it something a lot of people paid attention to for that matter, but Melone was acutely aware of the tiny little things that distinguished genuine brands from very, very well made knock-offs.
Oh, no freaking way…
He tossed the suit aside and grabbed another, ripping it open and examining the seams again. He did this with another, and a dress, and then went back to the fur coat he’d just had on a few moments ago.
“These are all fakes! What a bunch of cheapskates!”
Location: Quarto (resturant)
God the booths here are ugly, Illuso concluded, taking a sip from the bottle of wine he’d stolen from the bar. There wasn’t a single person here to comment, or if there was, they most certainly had more pressing matters on their mind.
Like avoiding Illuso and his prowling Stand, for example.
The wine wasn’t particularly good so Illuso just tossed the bottle aside, letting it hit the carpeted floor with a thunk, spraying alcohol everywhere which quickly began to soak the rug, which was also ugly.
The person in question was the owner of the restaurant who had stopped paying his dues and tried to pay off the loan sharks to leave him alone instead. Clever, but unluckily for him, Illuso wasn’t so easily bought off. Not a chance. Money was nice, but killing was more fun.
All the loan sharks had been properly reprimanded and they readily ratted out the owner to save their own skins. Quite honestly, Illuso found it rather funny.
He curled his lip up in a nasty, predatory smirk.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ghoulish form of his Stand moving in between the tables, quick, light. It wasn’t like their target could see it, but then again, that would just make trapping him all the more satisfying.
Illuso hummed as he traced his finger along the edge of one of the tables before abruptly grabbing the vase on the table and hurling it in a random direction. It hit another table and exploded into a shower of glass shards, soaking the tablecloth and knocking over the occupying centerpiece. The act of total random destruction had the effect Illuso wanted. It was soft, but he heard a cry of surprise immediately followed by another muffled noise that sounded like a groan of despair, the realization of what they’d just done.
With a jerk of his head, he directed Man in the Mirror towards the source of the sound. It pounced onto a table like a frog, poised for just a moment before leaping down onto something that uttered a surprised squawk.
Illuso leisurely made his way over, picking up one of the glass shards and carefully turning it over in his hand.
Could his Stand kill his target? Easily, but doing the dirty work with his own hands was the best part. His favorite was dragging his victim over to a mirror when he slit their throats so he could make them watch as they bled out.
Alas, the mirror was too far away and too high up and he was in a populated area with few mirrors to slip out of. He needed to be a bit cleaner than usual.
As soon as he rounded the table his Stand had previously been perched on, he found his intended victim pinned under Man in the Mirror, flailing around like a fish very, very far away from any water source. As soon as he looked up and saw Illuso, he went stiff and his eyes filled up with tears.
“P-please...I-I’m s-sorry...I’m so s-s-sorry…” he sobbed.
Illuso shrugged, “I’m afraid apologies won’t do much now, especially not for me. You’re welcome to beg as much as you want though.”
He grinned, “I do so love it when my victims grovel.”
Man in the Mirror grabbed the man by his thin hair, forcing his head up and exposing his surprisingly thick neck. Illuso smothered the man’s face with his palm, pushing his head even further back and bending it back at an angle than the human spine wasn’t probably meant to be bent at.
After positioning himself to make sure he avoided any bloodspray, Illuso reached around under his Stand and stabbed the shard into the side of the man’s neck right where the delicate veins were. Blood spurted from the wound, then began spraying when Illuso quickly withdrew it. Both he and his Stand released the man’s head, letting it fall to the floor with a thump as he gurgled and writhed under Man in the Mirror.
Illuso watched, pleased with his handiwork as the pool continued to grow, turning the dark green carpet an ugly purple-ish color. When the man’s twitching ceased, his Stand climbed off and stood next to him, swaying slightly as if being gently pushed in a breeze.
He tossed the blood-stained shard aside before using one of the cloth napkins to make sure he wiped off any stray droplets of blood.
The job was a bit boring, it went faster than usual, but it was done. That and this restaurant wasn’t nearly as exciting a hunting ground as someone’s private abode, or his personal favorite, a shopping center (so many places to hide, and so many places to stalk).
Illuso went over to the mirror to peek through his own special window at the clueless diners. He noticed someone, a young blonde woman in a green dress, look at him directly, jump a little, then shake her head and quickly go back to whatever conversation she’d been engaged in prior to that. A smile spread across his face. Maybe he could have a little more fun today...how hard would it be to nab another diner to play with?
His eyes flicked over to the older woman at the front, probably the hostess, who had answered a phone and then got a funny look on her face.
Excuse me? You’re looking for who? He read on her lips. She looked around, puzzled, then looked down at the binder resting on the podium, running her finger down the list of names for reservations, I’m...not sure we have someone named that here. What did you say their name was? Illuso?
Ah, there was his cue.
He slid casually into one of the booths he could see was empty, draping his arm over the back as he clicked his fingers and he effortlessly departed the mirror world and materialized in the very booth he’d been sitting in. As soon as he stood up, a passing waitress shrieked in surprise and dropped the tray she’d been carrying. Everyone in the room turned to look at the commotion but all Illuso did was flash the crowd a smile and make his way over to the front.
“Phone call for me?” he asked the bewildered hostess, who had also been watching the prior mess.
“H-how did you-?”
Illuso didn’t let her finish and plucked the phone out of her hand, “Consider it intuition. Illuso here.”
“There has to be a more efficient way to contact you when you’re on a job.”
Illuso shrugged, “Sorry boss, phone providers haven’t quite reached the point of...ascended cellular reception.”
The woman continued to stare with her mouth hanging open slightly.
When Risotto didn’t reply, Illuso sighed, “What’s up?”
“It sounds like you’re finished, so I need you to come back immediately. We have something important to discuss.”
“What did I do this time?” Illuso teased.
“You didn’t do anything, and its something I need to discuss with everyone.”
“Oh my, how dramatic,” Illuso said dryly.
“Don’t be dismissive, I’m not joking.”
“Mhmm…” Illuso replied, glancing at the hostess and rolling his eyes.
“Illuso.”
“I’m teasing, I’ll head out right away.”
“Thank you,” Risotto said shortly before hanging up the phone.
He let out a sigh and passed the phone back to the hostess, “Work stuff.”
She just continued to stare, "W-where were you-?"
“Before I leave though,” he interrupted and gave her his best smile, “I’d like to take a look at your menu, I feel like my coworkers would appreciate it greatly if I brought food along to our meeting."
“O-oh! Of course, sir. Please hold on a moment.”
The woman dove under the podium and pulled out a nearly laminated folder with the restaurant's name on the cover.
“Please let me know what you want, I’ll put your order in right away.”
Illuso continued smiling and nodded, flipping the pages open. It would be easy enough to pick things the others liked and, more importantly, easy enough to smuggle the food out without paying a cent.
It wasn't murder, but at least he got to have a little more fun before he returned to Risotto.
Location: Antiniana (private residence)
A loud meow made Formaggio look up.
“Oh c’mon! I told you guys you needed to be patient. Good food doesn’t just happen right away!”
The calico sitting on the counter meowed back in response.
He grinned, “Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a critic.”
The black cat closest to him chirped curiously and he gave it an affectionate scratch behind the ear. The third cat, a big fluffy ginger, was examining the jar that contained two shrunken men who were screaming and banging on the glass.
Could he just let them suffocate? Well, duh, but that was boring though, and you could do a lot with small things. He could've let the men go and had the cats chase them like mice, but that risked them escaping. The cats deserved better than that, in his personal opinion.
“I’m tellin’ you, you guys are gonna love it,” he said fondly to the felines as he set about mincing the vegetables he’d pulled out of the fridge while whistling a carefree tune, “The meat’s gotta be nice and tender.”
Judging by the fact one of the men was bawling now, they’d probably overheard the threat, but Formaggio hadn’t decided if they were going straight into the pot or if he was going to feed them through the grinder first. Maybe one of each?
Nah, grinder, he needed to get all those bones pressed before he gifted it to the cats. Pointy painful bits wouldn’t do at all.
He grabbed the meat grinder by its little hand crank and tilted the frying pan he’d preemptively seasoned for this moment feeling the heat radiating from the iron.
“Now, which of you boys is going first?” Formaggio asked, poking the jar as the cats continued to observe with predatory feline interest.
The big orange one batted its paw lightly against one side near the guy on the left.
“Alrighty, if you say so!” he snatched up the jar, giving it a good hard shake and listening to the sound of bodies smashing into the glass and surprised shouts. Ah, music to his ears!
Using a pair of tongs, he plucked the chosen victim out of the jar by the collar of his shirt and placed the jar right next to the burning stove.
Formaggio grinned wickedly as he dropped the victim into the grinder and...well…
He didn’t spend particularly long screaming as his bones and flesh were ground to a pulp, one of the many benefits of dealing with them when they were small and and didn't struggle like during exhausting task of tying them up in order to dismember them.
The only issue was that it didn’t produce nearly enough meat, something which Formaggio quickly rectified by deactivating his Stand and returning the sopping heap of flesh to its normal size as it hit the floor.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” he said to his audience as he shoveled a slab of the meat onto the seasoned pan with a spatula, the fluid sizzling loudly and splashing hot droplets everywhere. Not his cleanest work but that wasn’t really the point, now was it?
The remaining target just watched in terror before expelling the contents of his stomach.
“That’s your own fault,” Formaggio said, waving his spatula around, “Now you gotta sit around in your own puke until I’m done with your buddy.”
While he was shoving the meat around, his phone rang, which was a problem given both his hands were currently occupied.
“Shit…” he grumbled, leaving the spatula resting on the edge of the pot before quickly turning the heat down to ensure either the meat didn’t burn or the water didn’t completely boil over and make a mess everywhere. Or more of a mess than there already was.
“Yo,” he answered.
“You...sound like you’re in a good mood.”
“Hey boss!” Formaggio greeted cheerfully, “What’s up?”
“Well, uh…right, I needed to see if you were done with-.”
“Not quite yet, meat isn’t quite well-done, can’t serve it until then."
It seemed to take both Risotto and Formaggio a moment to process what he'd just said.
"Look I didn't become a cannibal, okay? Just wanted to treat the owner's cats!" He quickly elaborated.
"Regardless, I need you to finish up and come back here, and sooner rather than later. Understand?”
“Eh? Where’s the fire?” Formaggio asked, sounding put-out.
“It’s not…” Risotto sighed and Formaggio got the feeling he’d spoken to the others prior to calling him, “It’s not an emergency, it’s just important. Please come back as soon as you can.”
“Alright, alright,” Formaggio said, “Just lemme finish up this-.”
“Formaggio, today is not the day to be playing with your food.”
“Aw, but boss-!”
“I mean it,” Risotto hung up the phone.
Wow, boy did Risotto know how to kill a mood. Formaggio groaned in disappointment, grabbed the jar and dismissively dumped the remaining target into the bubbling pot of water.
“Sorry guys, gonna have to call in a raincheck on this one,” he said apologetically to the cats perched on the kitchen island behind him. Man what a waste of food...
He could at least finish making sure the meat was well cooked, the guy in the pot would be long dead before that anyway.
Location: Portici (private beach condo)
The summer home was beautiful, overlooking the crisp blue sea and positioned in the most perfect way to allow the best of the cool breezes through the large windows. Expensive too, no doubt, if the cars in the driveway were any indicator, and there seemed to be more than usual on this day.
The owner loved to throw extravagant parties at all hours of the day, taking advantage of the seaside pool, lounge chairs, and bright sun umbrellas. They were far enough away from the other neighbors that no one would complain about the noise, and by extension, there was also no one around to notice the deafening silence that had engulfed the estate.
The air inside the house was filled with a dense smog that smelled of dust, ash, and rotten flowers, more so the former two than the latter. Not that the partygoers would notice now, since they were slumped on the couch, in chairs, around the tables, on the floor and they were all virtually as dry and wizened as mummies at this point.
Saliva and the occasional tooth dribbled out of the mouths of the ones still sitting upright, following by the odd groan. A weak twitching hand would try to grasp at something, anything, regardless of how small to give them back the hope that had all but been completely sapped out of their bodies.
Besides the rapidly aging and dying occupants, there was one other, who was currently in the kitchen taking advantage of one of those little machines used to make snow cones.
Usually Pesci was reduced to munching on ice cubes to keep himself from being turned into a geriatric, but why waste a chance at a little variety for once. It wasn’t like the owner was ever going to use it again.
“You sure you don’t want some, bro?” Pesci called, “I found some more flavored syrups!”
Prosciutto, who wasn’t far away on the patio, took his cigarette out of his mouth and blew out a thin stream of smoke.
“You know I don’t need it, Pesci.”
“I-I know, but…” Pesci dug his spoon into his cup, now dyed red with some artificial strawberry flavor, “Just thought I’d ask.”
There wasn’t any point in continuing, if Prosciutto said no, he meant no, and Pesci had half expected to get a lecture about being ‘immature’ for his enthusiastic discovery of the device. Oddly, Prosciutto hadn’t said anything, he hadn’t said much if anything actually which Pesci found somewhat worrisome.
He hesitated before munching down on a spoonful of ground ice, noticing Grateful Dead out of the corner of his eye shambling past one of the couches, no doubt ensuring the entire house was smothered in its miasma.
It joined its user outside, where Prosciutto was standing over their target with one hand in his pocket and the other holding up a golf club resting on his shoulder.
Pesci could see said target wasn’t quite dead yet, twitching and occasionally trying to crawl away, but Prosciutto would strike him with the club if he was a little too successful on his escape attempt, futile as it was.
Bro must be in a bad mood...Pesci thought, crunching a larger piece of ice.
The sound of a phone going off made him jump and nearly drop his bowl as he fumbled around grabbing at his jacket, but he stopped when he saw Prosciutto pull his phone out of his pants pocket. He looked at the little green screen and immediately went rigid.
He smashed the answer button in a manner Pesci would almost describe as angry.
“What?” he snapped.
Pesci watched him warily, slowly taking a bite of another spoonful of ice.
“Yes, of course things are fine, we’re almost done h-,” Prosciutto was cut off by whoever it was on the other end.
“What for?” he demanded, voice raising as he dropped the arm with the golf club to his side, “We’ve barely had a break between-.”
Again he was cut off and was silent for another minute.
“Don’t give me that cloak and dagger shit, Risotto. You know as well as I-.”
Silence again, and Prosciutto tightened his grip on the club so much Pesci could hear the leather on the handle groaning under the pressure.
He let out a harsh hiss through clenched teeth, “Fine. We’ll get on the road shortly.”
“Bro? What was that about?” Pesci asked curiously, tilting his head.
Prosciutto didn’t answer. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and took one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it away, the tip still smoldering.
He scrubbed his free hand over his face and paced in a small circle, the club bobbing as it twiddled it in his hand. After stopping abruptly, his shoulders rose up and then dropped, but Pesci couldn’t tell what exactly he was trying to do? Maybe calm himself down?
“Bro?”
With the speed of an enraged serpent, Prosciutto spun around, whipping the club over his head clutched in both hands before swinging it down with enough force that when it collided with the man’s brittle skull, the bone caved in and one of his eyes pop out of its socket.
“B-bro?!” Pesci cried, dropping his bowl out of shock at the sight of the very uncharacteristic burst of violence from his elder.
Prosciutto tightened his grip on the handle even more, cleaving it down, completely ignoring Pesci’s pleas and cries for him to stop as he reduced the victim’s head to a smashed mess of red and bone.