Chapter Text
June 20th, 2004
Trish loves working. Well, she doesn't like the paperwork, or the really boring meetings, but she likes the other parts of her job. She likes somehow being able to help people despite what it is that she does. Nobody would expect a mafioso to help anyone other than themselves, but Passione is… different now. Their own needs and wants will always come first, but some people are lucky enough to fall within the lines of their values.
Right this moment, Trish was at a meeting with Bucciarati. Well, she wasn't exactly with him, considering nobody but Bucciarati knew she was here. She was the backup for this situation; Bucciarati was negotiating for territory in Umbria, and by negotiating she meant they would take it over from the gang in front of them. Meanwhile, Trish looked on, brushing off the warehouse dust from her black fur coat. (Faux fur, of course. And yes, in the middle of June.)
The leader was sitting across from Bucciarati, some of his men surrounding him. Trish had been zipped into the room discreetly, where she was currently hovering back behind any eyes that would notice her; she didn't need to be seen, not yet.
“...Now I don't want to sound patronizing, but joining Passione is your best option. We aren't kicking you out of your position, just bringing some of our own guys in.”
“And taking a cut of the money.” The opposing gang leader said with a sneer.
Bucciarati shook his head. “Not enough to bleed you dry. We understand the concept of having mouths to feed; we don't intend on ruining a good thing for you, just assimilation.”
The man laughed. “Ruining anything?” He pointed at Bucciarati. “Everyone knows that Passione stops drugs wherever they go. It doesn’t matter even if we don’t sell to kids, that shit’s our livelihood.”
“But we replace it with different… avenues of revenue, if you will. One door closes and another door opens, and I highly suggest walking through this one.”
“Are you threatening me, Bucciarati?”
“I am just reminding you that Presidente Lorenzetti is planning on cracking down on gangs in Umbria, much more than she had in the past. You know, considering she'll be up for reelection next summer. We have plenty of above the table work opportunities for people of your caliber, as well as things more along these lines. Just agree, sign the contract, and we'll be on our way.” Bucciarati looked at his watch. “It is quite late now, and our Don likes having things on paper, even if they have no legal standing.”
Trish couldn't see the opposing leader's face, but could tell by his body language that he was getting annoyed. “You think we can't handle some extra cops?”
“That is not what I-”
“Maybe it's because your Passione was never really on the streets that you don't get it, but we can take care of our own shit.” He pulled a gun, Trish had to refrain from scoffing and settled on a silent eye roll. Bucciarati looked less than impressed as the leader continued to speak. “We worked our entire lives for this position, only for some prick in an expensive suit to come and talk like he owns us. You ain't shit, Bucciarati. You ain't hard and you aren't going to take my city.”
Trish watched as Bucciarati slowly rolled his neck. “How old were you?”
“What?”
“When you first wasted someone. How old were you?”
“The fuck that gotta do with-”
“Humour me.”
The man went silent before replying. “Eighteen.”
“I was twelve. Double murder.” Trish watched some of the guards look back at each other. “And that was almost eleven years ago now. In those eleven-ish years, I've done damn near everything except for move drugs, and do you want to know what I learned? That I hate getting innocent people involved in our type of work.” Bucciarati gestured towards the warehouse window. “And your style of work wraps plenty of innocent people into it. I happen to be quite good at keeping civilians away, such people shouldn't be tangled up in our world. Wouldn't you agree, Trish?”
Trish let out a low whistle, getting the attention of everyone else in the room. “Don't worry about how I got in here,” Trish said, “you have much more pressing matters to deal with. For example, you there, Lucio hm?” Trish looked at one of the guards. “You got married last year, I hope you and Saera are doing well. Or Gianmarco, who spends his money on his son - wish him happy birthday from me, it's tomorrow isn't it?” Trish smiled. “Or how about your fearless leader Zittire? You don't know much about him, or his six siblings that he works so hard to keep afloat, even though none of them know that he exists?”
Zittire looked at her, eyes wide. “How the hell do you know all of that?”
“It doesn't matter how I know that information, but what we can do with it. So I suggest you all lower your weapons, sit down, and think about the people that you don't want wrapped up with us.” Trish moved her coat, revealing the pistol attached to her hip. That was the good thing about Passione: they could be even scarier than the government.
Zittire looked like he wanted to rip Trish's head off, to which Trish simply smiled. After a few moments, he nodded at his men, who lowered their weapons and he sat back down. He looked back at Bucciarati, “I sign this…”
“And none of your information will be leaked. We do take care of our own.” Bucciarati procured a pen from his pocket and was about to hand it to the man when his phone vibrated. Trish smirked, right on time.
Bucciarati answered the call, putting it on speaker. “Go ahead.”
“So, that club you wanted us to check out? We checked it out.” That was Narancia's voice over the phone, where Trish could hear other voices.
“And what did you two find?”
“Yeah, um, the girls at that club? Some of them were actual girls. Kids.” Both Bucciarati and Trish expected that to be the result, but she grimaced when she heard Narancia nonetheless.
Bucciarati spoke into the phone. “And did you take care of it?”
“Fugo’s getting the last of them out, everything’s taken care of. All that’s left is meeting up with you.”
“Meet us here.” Bucciarati said before hanging up the phone. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and sighed. “Well, it sucks to be all of you.” He opened his eyes, and Trish didn’t see the glint in his eyes that is usually there. If she didn’t know that shit was going to go down based on the black suit, she knew now. Just give her the word and she’ll be ready, too. “Trish, if you don’t mind.”
“My pleasure.” Trish pulled out her own glock and shot the nearest two guys in the head, summoning Spice Girl to knock out the other guy. She had her Stand block the bullets that came from the fourth guard before catching a few in her palm. She launched them back at him as rubber, returning to their original state before impact, riddling the man with holes. In less than a second after that, Bucciarati had stabbed his pen into Zittire’s left hand, eliciting a scream from the other gang leader.
“You know, members of Passione are by no means saints, but we have standards.” Bucciarati looked up at the man, clearly disgusted. “We don’t work with pigs.” Bucciarati slammed Zittire’s head into the desk before throwing the man to the ground. “Trish, call your brother and tell him we’re done here. I'm going to throw our new friend here out a window.”
Zittire turned pale. “What?!”
Trish tuned out as Zittire tried to escape from her father, flipping her new phone open. “You guys speeding?”
“When doesn't he?” Fugo answered, Narancia must be driving. “At this rate, we'll be there in the next five minutes. How's Bucciarati? I'm sure he went evil mode when he heard about the girls.”
Trish looked over at Bucciarati, who was slowly inching Zittire closer to the window, definitely scaring him more than he needed to. “Oh yeah,” Trish responded, “but it's not like it's a bad thing this time. No such thing as overkill for people like this.” There was the sound of glass breaking, and a loud scream. Trish turned back to see Bucciarati looking out the window before unzipping his arm. He placed it on the windowsill and jumped down.
Trish made sure that all of Zittire’s men were dead before speaking again. “See you in a bit, Fugo.” She flipped her phone shut before sliding down Bucciarati’s unzipped arm. She saw him bent down, looking at Zittire’s mangled body, still alive and gurgling on his own blood. “Ugh, Bucciarati!” Trish said at the disgusting sight. “Just kill him, he looks gross.”
“He doesn't deserve that luxury.”
“True,” Trish agreed, “but it's nasty to me, and I don't deserve to keep looking at it. So do it for me, Bruno?” She called him by his first name in order to get him to properly listen (thanks for the tip, Abbacchio) to her and not do… weird Bucciarati things
Bucciarati looked up at her, the glint back in his eyes once more. “That is gross.” He agreed, before standing up and shooting Zittire with his own gun, ending the man's life. He looked to Trish, “Make sure that their families get compensation.”
“I'll send someone.” Trish confirmed as they began walking towards the road. Narancia and Fugo should be here soon. “It'll be a while before we're back in Napoli,” Trish started, “do you want to grab something to eat here or when we get back home?” There was no response, and Trish realized that Bucciarati wasn't right next to her. She turned around. “Bucciarati?”
He wasn't moving. He was just standing there. “Bruno?” His hands started shaking. Trish took a hesitant step forward, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. It was the feeling that she got whenever a Stand User was in range. Before she could take another, Bucciarati stopped shaking, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed.
“Bruno!”
***
Bucciarati woke up with a painful throb in his skull. He cracked his eyes open and saw bright lights shining down on him. Something about this felt dreadfully wrong. His chest, his skin, he felt off in his own body; as if he didn’t belong here. Is he…
“You're in the hospital.” That was Narancia's voice. Bucciarati sat up properly and saw Fugo and Trish with him. All three of them were eerily calm, but Bucciarati knew that it was because they were trying to keep it together. They were probably worried sick.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?” Fugo questioned. “Trish said… said your heart kept stopping and starting before we got there.” He shook his head. “There’s no way you didn’t notice anything beforehand. This was nothing like a heart attack. The doctors don’t even know what the hell happened to you, they kept almost calling you dead.”
“It was a Stand attack.” Trish answered. “I could feel it. I couldn’t see anybody, but I know there was someone there. It had to be a member of the gang or-”
“I checked, Trish.” Narancia responded. “There weren’t any people there other than us. Alive, anyway.”
“Then it was a long range Stand!”
“What long range Stand has the power to keep killing him? And why wouldn’t they take you out too?”
“It wasn’t a Stand attack.” Bucciarati stopped the both of them before they got worse. He didn’t want to bring this up, he was hoping that this would never happen in front of other people, and especially not them. “It normally happens at night.”
Fugo widened his eyes. “This has happened before?”
“Many times.” Bucciarati sighed. He would have to explain this now, which was what he had been trying to avoid for the longest. “I'll be in bed reading or something and just… knock out without warning. I might not even be tired yet, but it would happen and I would wake up feeling as if I had just slept for a thousand years; my body would feel stiff. It was like when I woke up in the hospital after Giorno saved me, Abbacchio, and you, Narancia.” He looked at the boy. “It felt like I was coming back to life every time.”
There was dead silence in the hospital room, the other three staring at Bucciarati in utter disbelief at the reveal. Even Bucciarati wanted to say something in order to kill this stale atmosphere.
“So you mean to tell me,” Fugo started, “that you've been dying, you knew that you have been dying, and didn't think to mention that to anyone?!” Bucciarati winced at Fugo's voice, his hearing was sensitive from his moment of death. “Did Giorno know, at least?”
“Nobody knows.” Bucciarati admitted.
Trish and Narancia spoke this time. “What?!”
Narancia stood up and paced. “When you were dying the first time, it made sense that you didn't wanna tell anyone cause we had a mission, but this? Nothing we've done since is as risky as that, so why not tell us? Tell Gio?”
Bucciarati was silent, not really wanting to answer that question. “Bruno,” Trish looked at him, “you owe us at least an explanation for this.”
“Because I don't want to put Giorno through that again.” He said finally. “It was hard enough for him to properly save me with Gold Experience Requiem, so what could be done to help me without it?” He shook his head. “I am not putting the weight of my life on his shoulders again.”
“So you'd rather die than try?” Trish questioned. “Gio wouldn’t want to just… just let you go! Not when he worked so hard to keep you here, to keep all of us together!” The freshly turned nineteen-year-old looked at him, and clearly disagreed with Bucciarati.
But Bucciarati simply shook his head again, he doesn't have the time to think about this right now mainly because his head was beginning to pound again. “Just… can this be kept between everyone in this room? Don't tell Giorno or-”
“-Abbacchio?” The deep voice that Bucciarati normally loves to hear was right outside the door, and Abbacchio walked into the room, an unreadable expression on his face (which is in its own way, a readable expression). His arms were folded and he stared at his boyfriend and stood by Trish.
Bucciarati looked at the girl, who shrugged. “You might be someone who thinks that hiding everything is cool, but you know I'm a professional snitch. I called him in the car.”
Their leader tried to change the subject. “I’m fine. How was your mission-”
“Not a chance.” Abbacchio shut him down swiftly, “Poggio Moiano is only an hour away, Narancia picked me up after you were admitted into here. I don’t know if they’ve told you the time yet, but it’s been two hours since you got here. There is no way we aren't telling Giorno, he's the only one who has a chance at actually making you better.” They fell silent before Abbacchio asked. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since ‘02.”
“Christ.” Abbacchio ran a hand through his hair. “Bruno, I know I never talk to you like this but what the fuck? Two goddamn years and you never thought to mention this to anyone? To me? Stand attack or not there is something wrong with your body!”
Bucciarati supposes that he deserved that reaction. He knew that everyone would go into panic mode the moment he let them know that this was going on. It was a miracle that Fugo wasn't the one to explode first. The man ignored everyone's worry by repeating, “Just don't tell Giorno.”
“Jesus fuck, Bucciarati!” That was from Narancia. “Do you not trust us at all? We get it, we're your kids, but we're kids who have gone through hell and back!”
“And I don't want you to have to do that again.” Again, more beats of silence. Bucciarati didn't want to be here, having this discussion. He wanted to be home, asleep, and not worrying about the feelings of rigor mortis that invaded his joints. He didn't want them to be worrying about this. He didn't need Giorno to try and grasp at straws for his sake, at least Abbacchio and Narancia will still be here if death comes for him permanently.
“If it happens again,” Abbacchio said lowly, “so help me God, you'll wake up with Giorno standing over you.”
Bucciarati exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “That’s fair.” All he could do now was hope and pray that it never happened while either of them were awake. He rolled his neck, his bones were starting to feel normal again. “We can leave now.”
Fugo raised an eyebrow, “You sure?”
Bucciarati nodded, standing out of the bed. “I feel fine. Text Giorno that we’re heading back, and that I’m alright.”
But Abbacchio was still looking dead at him. “The three of you go to the car.” He said to the kids. The three of them shared glances, but didn’t ask anything else, just nodding and exiting the hospital room.
The third period of silence came, and Bucciarati felt compelled to speak. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do. I trust all of you and-”
Bucciarati was cut off, strong arms wrapped around him. “You looked dead.” Abbacchio's voice was tight. “Baby you weren't- you were gone. ”
“I'm sorry.” Bucciarati whispered, hugging him back.
“I don't need an apology, I know the type of person you are. I know what I signed up for, but I can't lose you.”
“You won't.” Bucciarati insisted.
“This is losing you,” Abbacchio retorted, “bit by bit, I'm losing you and what happens if this… becomes permanent? If you don't wake up?”
Bucciarati didn't say anything for a few moments, because how could he say that it wouldn't happen again? He's just praying that it doesn't. “We should probably head to the car.” He chose to say, separating the two of them. They didn't break away fully, though, with their fingers still connected.
**
They made it back to the house with a painfully silent car ride behind them, where Giorno was still wide awake, walking up to them quickly and scanning all of their faces. “Are you alright? Abbacchio… wouldn’t explain over the phone.”
“Long fight.” Bucciarati lied. “It took a lot out of me, but I’m alright.” Bucciarati didn’t miss how Narancia and Fugo looked at him, which means Giorno didn’t either. But as everyone went to their respective rooms, Giorno didn’t leave right away.
“I’m glad you’re alright.” The nineteen year old said. “If you need anything, or if you start to feel any pain, let me know.”
Bucciarati could only nod. “Thank you. Goodnight, Giorno.”
***
The three days later, the incident had been mostly forgotten about. Abbacchio had just finished getting dressed when he heard a crash, and Narancia screamed louder than he ever had before. The older man dashed out of his room to see Bucciarati crumpled on the ground, a plate shattered next to him. “He- he-” Narancia couldn’t get it out. “Collapsed.”
The others from upstairs ran down. Fugo closed his eyes. “Fuck…”
Giorno’s eyes were wide. “What-”
“I’m moving him to the bed.” Abbacchio made his voice louder than everyone else’s, not giving them a chance to freak out. “Giorno, with me. You have to heal him.” Abbacchio placed Bucciarati on the bed, he already felt cold- as if he had been dead for days not moments.
Giorno had his hands on Bucciarati before Abbacchio had even fully laid him down. He wasn't asking any questions the way he usually would, he didn't ask what happened or why everyone else looked like they had seen this before? He just sent out Gold Experience and got to work, closing his eyes and concentrating. At least he tried to, because his eyebrows furrowed. “I feel his soul. It's still in his body, it's still trying to keep him alive.”
“Then what happened?” Maybe this is a Stand attack, maybe that's why this is an unexplainable event. “Why can't- why is he dying?”
“Something is trying to grab his soul.” Giorno answered. “I don't know if it's death itself or something else, but it's not letting him live.” Both of them shared a look before Giorno spoke again. “I won't stop until I save him, I promise.”
Abbacchio understood why Bucciarati didn't want Giorno to try and fight for him like this again: that boy never wanted to be helpless, and he would protect the six of them like they were the most important people in the world. If something has latched onto his soul, and there is nothing Giorno can do, then the only person who can save Bucciarati is Bucciarati.