Trish Una had been staring forward vacantly for the last hour. Occasionally her gaze would drop down from the endless highway, landing on the dashboard's clock. She charted the minutes that ticked by, praying for time to speed up and let her leave this situation. With the new number recorded in her head, her eyes would land again on the road.

The girl did not dare allow herself to look left or right. It was her wish to be able to sit quietly for the entirety of the trip. All the seats in the car besides her own were filled with ruthless mafioso. To her left, a bulky man with a single sprout of green hair and a pushed in face. To her right, a man in... pigtails? It certainly wasn't the most traditional hairstyle for someone like him.

Truthfully, she didn't like either of their tastes. The bulky man was wearing a yellow coat over a black heart-dotted bodysuit. Pigtails wore a bubbly vest. It was alright at best - she'd seen high fashion pieces that were similar, but the rest of his clothes matched it's texture and ruined any appeal it could have. Her eyes moved to the front of the vehicle, briefly passing over the clock before continuing to the passenger seat. She couldn't see much more than a red jacket. Maybe a few studs on the shoulders. Moving on. She had already gotten a good look at the man who was currently driving. His name was Prosciutto. He was well dressed by her standards. The suit was tasteful, if a little, well, open. He'd tried to talk to her many times in the two days she'd been with them.

Always about her father.

Couldn't they just accept that she didn't know anything? They could try a thousand times and she'd still have nothing to tell them. Her mother didn't talk about him. How could you expect her to open up about such a bitter topic to the child he had abandoned? Left her all alone to raise and take care of? Any love she felt for Trish's father has been carried away with him. Trish felt the same way. Her feelings for even the idea of him were an icy cavity in her heart. It wasn't just numbness - there was a sting, a prickling anger.

Deep down, she felt that the goals these men sought to accomplish were justified.

Suddenly she felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. In the rear view mirror's reflection, she could see Prosciutto's eyes glaring back at her. She slapped herself mentally. She had gotten distracted, forgotten her place and let her eyes and thoughts wander. Back to the clock. Only a couple of minutes had passed.


"I don't care, I prefer it that way!" The curly haired boy was nearly shouting, half slouched against his bright red car.

"Well that is a lot better than taking offense." Melone was grinning slyly. Sure, his best friend was known for getting loud and violent, but that didn't stop him from teasing him now and then. No one had more talent for it than the blond. It took a gentle touch and quite a bit of finesse to rattle the other without causing a full blown tantrum.

"If they hate riding with me, then fine! At least there's no one to bitch about the music or whine about the speed limit!" Ghiaccio huffed. He dug his hands into his pockets and stormed off toward a small outlet containing informational packets.

"Hey now, don't wreck anything! This is historical Pompeii after all." He snickered to himself while giving his motorcycle a once over, just to be sure it would be safe while he was away. It practically shone in comparison to the car it was parked next to. Ghiaccio's driving habits had left the vehicle with more than a few scratches and dings. Satisfied, Melone sauntered after his friend.

They'd arrived before the rest of their team - and it was no mystery why. Ghiaccio always sped, and Melone didn't want to let him go anywhere alone with the kind of situation they were in. It would probably a short wait before the rest of their friends caught up, but the blond man was still on guard. He wasn't even sure why they were here. Surely their capo had a plan, but he had chosen not to share the details with anyone. Still, Melone trusted him. He had never led them astray before. The sun was setting, and any tourists still around were headed out.

"You know, Pompeii was known for fish sauce before all the death and destruction." Ghiaccio's voice sounded like a restrained hiss as he leafed through one of the brochures. Melone smiled. He was trying hard to calm himself down, wasn't he? The curly haired boy threw the pamphlet onto the ground as he moved on to the next one. "This is all bullshit tourist stuff. It's not in there. I just heard that somewhere."

"Anything you'll find in a brochure is going to be old news to a local. They'll obviously have heard it a million times." He picked up the brochure and dusted away the dirt that had stuck to the page. It was in English, and told the most basic story of the ancient city. Ghiaccio was right to throw it away. Melone repeated the other's action.

The blond sighed and looked around. He felt even more on edge now that they'd arrived. He felt as if they were in a fishbowl. Somewhere outside, there were spectators. The thought of someone watching every move they made had him anxious. He knew the feelings would dissipate once the others arrived, but for now they were alone.

Ghiaccio started to wander off again, this time towards a bench. Melone took a deep breath and followed. At the very least, he could lose himself in the ruins cast long shadows in the dipping sun. These dark projections overtook rubble and smaller structures, making those that could still bathe in the light even more beautiful. The aged stone took on the colors of the sky it was set against.

Despite the serenity, there was still a quiet despair to it. Walk far enough into the ruins and you'd catch sight of the preserved corpses, their stony limbs curled in agony. As if they could hide from death.

Melone recalled a figure he'd seen in his childhood. A mother shielding it's child. It lacked the full details to truly confirm it as such, but the body language captured was enough to tell the story. It struck him deeply. It didn't make him happy, nor sad. Nothing so simple could describe it. The closest he'd ever gotten to describing the feeling was "resentment."

The tell tale sound of tires on gravel caught the men's attention. A black car filled with the familiar faces of their team pulled into the lot.


"I can see them!" The boy's hushed tone was almost betrayed by his excitement and anticipation. "I'm grinding them into the dirt the first chance I get, I swear it!" His attention was completely consumed by the small screen the hovered in front of his eye.

"Settle down! If you mess this up I'm gonna kill you! We're not supposed to attack them unless we get the okay, you know that!" The second male smacked the first on the shoulder, prompting a slight exclamation.

"OW! Hey!" The first boy turned to a third, blond male. "Tell him he can't do that!" The blond sighed weakly in response, eyes still straining to get a good look at their target's from so far away.

"If you mess this up, I'm also going to kill you."


Prosciutto fought the urge to light up a cigarette. He tapped his foot impatiently. His arms were crossed, eyes alert. Everyone was here except for their boss. Risotto had opted to travel separate from the others. This wasn't a new phenomenon - he was a private man, and prefered his own quiet methods over sharing a car with his often rambunctious teammates.

But to stick to that kind of thing in this situation was ludicrous, at least in Prosciutto's mind. He knew he wasn't the only one feeling on edge. Every single member of La Squadra knew what a dire situation they were in. Risotto could of course take care of himself, but what if trouble had found him? What if there had been an ambush? Without their Capo, everything would fall apart. They'd have no option but to surrender and let themselves be killed.

No sooner had the blonde reached into his pocket than the tall and sturdy form of their leader appeared in the ruins. He could feel the others stir with excitement as they saw him. Even the boss's daughter straightened up at his presence. The man approached them at his own pace. His expression was serious yet calm.

"We all made it here. Good. Stay on guard." His eyes drifted across each of his men before landing on the girl. They'd decided to go light on the restraint, only binding her hands in front of her. Pesci had a hand on her shoulder. He'd been tasked with keeping an eye on her for now. If she tried to escape, his Beach Boy would easily be able to thwart her plans. "We'll be meeting up with an ally at the amphitheater. This place will be deserted shortly, that's when we start moving." He paused to look out across the ruined city. "We can't be followed."

As the group began to move forward, their boss's words sunk in. They scanned the debris for anything out of the ordinary. The setting sun left tall shadows that would occasionally catch a weary assassin's eye. As it dipped further below the horizon, the air of anticipation thickened.

Prosciutto let out a long kept breath. Despite his apprehension, it was very unlikely that they'd be attacked here. If someone had been sent to attack them, it would have likely been at their former base, or while they were on the road and spread apart. It would take a complete idiot to try attacking the entire group at once. After all, they were a pack of highly skilled mercenaries. They could more than handle any threat that was thrown at them. The blond relaxed slightly, his eyes landing on his teammates. Any adversary would be flung into an immediate deathtrap.

Risotto stopped and lifted his hand.

All movement stopped as seven sets of eyes snapped to attention. Prosciutto looked past their leader. Despite his frantic searching, he found nothing. There was no one crouched behind the rocks, or leaning against the walls. There was only the empty pathway that they had been following. The last fleeting rays of sunlight stretched down the ancient streets, as if they were reaching out and digging their nails into the soil. Holding on for dear life. The dark of night began to swallow the city as Risotto crouched down.

Prosciutto stepped forward to leer over his shoulder. He was holding something between his index finger and thumb. It's stem had yet to be severed from the loose bricks it miraculously grew out of. A swarm of yellow petals gazed toward the sky, longing for a sun that had now disappeared.

"Why've we stopped?" Formaggio shuffled towards the front of the group, joining Prosciutto to look over their Capo's shoulder. "What? An achillea? Just leave it alone, let's go!" The ginger stepped forward past their leader, gesturing for him to move on as well.

"This shouldn't be here." The words stopped Formaggio.

"Alright, it's messing up the scenery, whatever. We've got places to be, don't we? We're almost there already, let's just get this trip done!" He wasn't the only one that wanted to move on - all the others seemed to favor the idea of getting to the amphitheater over extending their hours spent out in the open.

"No. This isn't normal." The silver haired man stood up. He took a slow step forward, as if to test the ground. "Be ready for anything. Ghiaccio, Pesci. Have your stands ready in case anything happens." The two men nodded. Beach Boy materialized as flakes of ice began to stick onto the curly haired boy's jacket. They moved forward, turning the corner of a well preserved building.

Beyond them was a field of rubble. All the structures in the area had been almost completely destroyed some time in the distant past. Within the broken walls of an ancient home, a boy stood in the moonlight. His back was to them, face raised slightly towards the sky. The soft glow of the rising celestial bodies lit up the checkered tail of his navy jacket and his golden braid.

Prosciutto was first struck with a wave of surprise - they hadn't expected to see anyone here at this hour, unless it was an enemy. But this was a child, he could be no older than the boss's daughter. With that logic fresh in his mind, he pushed past the surprise onto a calm.

And yet he still sensed there was something wrong.

"Why are you out here this late?" Risotto's level voice rang out before Prosciutto could react. "Children should be at home. The night isn't safe." The boy turned towards them in response. Despite the distance, they could make out a light smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, I got lost on a tour. I've been trying to find my way out of here for awhile now. Do you all have a map?" The boy's request seemed reasonable enough. It was certainly an unexpected sight for them, but this wouldn't have been the first time someone got lost in Pompeii. Risotto began to move toward him, lifting a pamphlet from his pocket.

"I can give you directions." As the Capo spoke, he opened it to a full map of the area. "Which exit are you looking for?" He towered over the boy, over a full foot taller. The other had to stretch slightly to see the map Risotto held. He pointed to a location on the other side of the city.

"This one. I think there was a weird statue of an animal around there?" He continued scanning the map. Prosciutto wasn't even sure what to do. Right now he could only watch as his boss offered directions to the child. Further back in the group, Trish was frozen in shock.

She knew him. That boy had been part of the group that was supposed to protect her. His name was Giorno. Why was he here? Where were the other? Were they trying to save her?

"It's almost a straight walk there. We're right here," he pointed to the corresponding location. "Keep the map."

"Thank you for your help, but I might get lo-" Giorno started speaking again, only to be cut off.

"Didn't you come with your family or something? Are you telling me they just left you here? At night?" Risotto's face had retained its seriousness throughout the conversation. Now his night stained eyes had landed on the boy.

"No, I actually came here on my own. I thought it might be pretty, and I wanted to see it for myself." The golden haired boy's voice didn't falter. He seemed completely sure of himself and his answer.

"So you're not a tourist? You're a local who has never visited Pompeii before?" Risotto's suspicion had begun to bleed through his voice. The boy's blue eyes dared to look back into his. Trish strained to hear their conversation, fearing any detail she might miss. She'd already looked to see if any of the others were around. Had he really come alone?

"Yes. I just moved here recently. I'm not much a fan of family outings. Anyway, I think I'll be able to handle getting back on my own now." Giorno finished his sentence, only to find Risotto laying a hand on his shoulder.

"My men told me everything they saw at the vineyard." His cold eyes bore into the boy. Giorno's expression changed suddenly. He sucked in a breath, eyes suddenly dropping to look down at his feet. "Did you think we wouldn't know who you were?"

"Giorno, run! Just give it up now!" Trish yelled out, prompting all eyes to turn toward her. Pesci grabbed her arm. Formaggio wore a smug grin as he turned to her.

"The kid should have known better than to try playing games with our boss. I don't think he's going anywhere." He gestured towards the boy's feet. Trish stared in shock. Hints of red had begun to pool on the ground where he stood.

"I know you're a stand user. I know you and your team probably have some sort of retaliation ready." Risotto paused. Metallica writhed around his hand as another nail formed inside of Giorno's foot and forced itself into the ground. The boy winced, teeth clamped tightly together. Beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. "I'll only say this once. Leave us alone. You can go free. I would hate to have to hurt a child more than I already am. You're certainly not weak, I can feel that. But you are outnumbered. I'm giving you a chance to leave with your life. Take it." He removed his hand from Giorno's shoulder. Risotto slipped the map into the boy's hand before rejoining his group and rushing them onward.

Trish turned as far back as she could manage. Her eyes caught Giorno's. She wanted to call out to him once more, tell him she was sorry. That she wished that this didn't have to happen. But she could only muster silence as she saw his face.

He looked tranquil. He was fighting back excruciating pain, and yet he seemed almost happy. Trish watched as he lowered himself to his knees and slowly began to pry his left foot from the ground.

And then he was gone. Her vision blocked by the city.


The meeting in the amphitheater was quick, and nearly silent. A man had hidden there to wait for them. He gave them some information before parting with the group. At the time, Trish didn't really understand it.

After another drive (this one much shorter than the last), they arrived at an inconspicuous house on the edge of a town. She expected someone to greet them at the door - the lights were on inside, after all. But it was unlocked and vacant. The group let themself in, and after thoroughly checking the place, found not another soul.

For the first time that day, there was a sense of peace. Even Trish felt at ease. Well, being given a room to stay in instead of a chair in the basement certainly helped. She had privacy and comfort. Two things she had missed dearly. Sure, there would still be people around guarding her, and the window was firmly bolted shut. But this was a step up from what she'd be given before.

It almost reminded her of the room she'd stayed in while still with Buccellati's team. She hugged her knees to her chest, having decided that she'd been stretching out on the bed long enough. They'd told her to keep the curtains shut. If the lights were off in her room, no one could see in. Following that, she allowed herself to inch the shades open just slightly.

The same moon that had illuminated Giorno in Pompeii had risen high into the sky. The tall trees that acted as a barrier between this house and the rest of the world seemed to reach toward that moon, gently cradling it.

How would things have been different if she was still with Buccellati, Giorno, and the others? Would she really have had to meet her father? And what then? Was she supposed to adjust to a life like this? Being carted from place to place like luggage by criminals she didn't know? She pushed those thoughts from her mind.

She wanted her mother.


Giorno leaned back against one of the crumbling steps of the amphitheater. His shoes sat to the side of him. His bloodied socks had been discarded. The boy gingerly pressed a hand to where his wound had been. He could replace the damaged membrane with his stand, but it still hurt like hell. Mista observed his actions from the next stair up.

"Yikes." Giorno nodded knowingly in response. "I get the whole idea of using the new kid as the distraction thing, but we should have known they saw you at the vineyard house. Sorry about that."

"I volunteered. You don't have to be sorry. What's important is that Buccellati's plan worked." Giorno sighed, slipping the torn up shoes back onto his now-sockless feet. Truly, he had helped hatch the scheme, but the others couldn't know that. Not yet.

Just beyond the skene, they could see Moody Blues finish it's recital and return to its normal form. Narancia plopped down next to Mista.

"How long do you think we'll have to follow them around like this? It's kind of a drag. I still think we should just hit them all quick and hard!" He pounded his hand against the ground, as if to demonstrate.

"No, getting kicked out of the mafia is a drag. People don't survive this kind thing!" Mista grunted. Giorno continued to look forward while listening to the two bicker. As far as they knew, this was just the action they had to take to fix this mess before they were found out. Buccellati had elected not to tell them the truth for the time being.

But truthfully, information flies fast in the underworld.

They were already as good as dead in the eyes of Passione.