Foreword
Chapters 9 and 10 were originally a single chapter, but have been split in two to make their length manageable. Please be sure you have already read chapter 9, as it's events lead directly into the ones here. Enjoy!
Judging by what had just happened, Ghiaccio was sure that the rest of his team had left the hotel. If they'd been around, Trish wouldn't have been able to slip away. They could be anywhere. Maybe they were responding to Formaggio's call after all?
The boy's eyes scanned his surroundings. The most glaring path was just beyond them - a bridge spanning the grand canal. Ghiaccio grit his teeth slightly. The prospect of crossing water still made him uneasy. But this would be the fastest way back toward a more central location in the city. He let out a heavy breath that fogged slightly against white album's visor before signalling to his detainees where they'd be going.
"It's not ideal, but we should cross the canal again." It seemed a little silly to address his hostages, but the act of announcing his decision helped Ghiaccio to steel himself. They moved air of apprehension surrounding the boys for the first few meters. Their eyes scanned the water's surface for any breaks or shadows.
Trish could see the strange behavior, but found no obvious reasoning for it. Could they both just be scared of heights? It seemed unlikely for gangsters to have such childish fears. Her own eyes swept over the ocean's surface. It's pristine blue danced to a silent rhythm. She hardly found it frightening - It reminded her of home. The salty smell relaxed her, taking her from the current situation to a nostalgic dream of peace. A smile slipped on her lips. She looked back to the boy in front of her.
"Oh, Narancia, you've-" Something had caught her eye. A bead of water had formed at the end of one of his unruly locks of hair. At first it had simply looked discolored. Now she swore there was a gray bug trapped within the droplet. "Something must have crawled into your hair."
"Hm?" Narancia's gaze turned to her as she reached toward his head. She could swipe it away, no harm done.
Her hand stopped. The bug had disappeared.
"Oh." Trish blinked, perplexed by the occurrence. It must have been a trick of the light. The droplet fell from Narancia's hair.
The ground just behind the group exploded into chunks of rubble and clouds of dust. Through the gray haze they could see a monstrous caudal fin breaking through the bridge. Violent tremors surged through the ground, throwing each of them off balance and onto the ground.
Ghiaccio formed a strip of ice along the wall he'd found himself pressed against. He froze a hand to the support and assessed the others. Trish and Narancia had both managed to avoid falling into the water. Before any of them could find their bearings, the structure they stood on began to groan. With a vital point destroyed, the bridge wouldn't be able to sustain it's own weight. The structure lurched and groaned, inching toward its imminent peril.
Narancia grabbed Trish's wrist, pulling her to her feet alongside him. She stumbled, the ground around her feet was beginning to warp and crack.
"Both of you move! Now!" It was the assassin who shouted out them. He had already gotten to his feet. His gaze was trained on the water. The beast would resurface soon and he knew that. "Get across the bridge and to solid ground before this whole thing falls!"
His command was futile. Even if they had ran, they would never have made it to the other side. Clash swung its tail again. A section of bridge ahead of them was purged of its remaining structural integrity. There was a moment of horrid weightlessness as the stone that supported them plunged downward, sinking them into a bath of salty blue. The sheer mass of the bridge that descended into the depths below them sucked them downward, entrenching them in a pummeling flurry of waves. Trish's arm slipped from Narancia's grasp. She opened her eyes, but the dizzying motion around her made it hard impossible for her to get her bearings enough to search for him.
The torrents around her began to subdue and a lurking shadow filled the space before her. She'd seen glimpses of Clash's size before, but they hardly prepared her to come face to face with the reality of the creature. What seemed to be a monster out of a horror movie was jetting toward her, mouth agape and teeth set to maim. Bubbles blurred past her eyes and her heart raced. She could swim away, she could try to escape it. Her outstretching arms and kicking limbs clung to that idea. Yet the beast grew closer, the space within its mouth a deep void from which nothing would escape.
Before it could reach her, the water in its mouth solidified into a wedge of solid ice. The beast crashed into Trish. It couldn't swallow her with the block in its jaw, but the impact left her body feeling shattered as she rolled across the side of the shark. Air pushed from her lungs, water sucked into it's place. Burning pain filled her chest. Panicked, the light skipping on the canal's surface called her.
Her movements were frantic as she clawed at the surface. She felt fatigue seep into her muscles. Trish burst from the water, gulping in more air than she thought her lungs could hold. The sweet feeling of breath didn't last long. A fit of coughs seized her as she bobbed on the surface. She could feel her chest struggling to push fluid out.
Hands seized Trish from behind, pulling her onto a solid surface. The shock of the encounter still pulsed through her. She struggled against the grip, flailing as she found herself on a freshly formed plate of ice. As frost stung against her skin, logic took over. She calmed her muscles and examined the situation. Ghiaccio stood behind her. One of his arms was still hooked around her, the other was raised to defend himself from her strikes.
"Look, stay here. I'm going to take care of this." The assassin seemed a bit more focused now that she wasn't trying to beat him. He looked back out towards the water. Whose advantage was it? Usually Ghiaccio felt comfortable fighting near water - it was easy for White Album to use it in his favor. But this battle was different, his enemy's stand existed in the water. Worse yet, it had drawn them all into it's home field.
His eyes fell to Trish. She'd pulled herself further onto his platform, and now she too was searching for Clash. His mind raced back to just moments ago, when they'd both been submerged. The shark had made a pointed attack at Trish. It hadn't been pulling a punch - it fully intended to swallow her whole and grind her to pieces. Ghiaccio's brow furrowed. It didn't make any sense. This was Trish Una - the boss's daughter. The liability he'd been feverishly trying to salvage.
The assassin's face paled as he was hit with sudden realization. Liability. Trish was a liability - they themselves had proven that. The boss's concern wasn't with saving his daughter, it was with saving himself - even if that meant committing prolicide. Ghiaccio gnawed on his lip. The thought was disturbing, even to an assassin.
"Are you just gonna stand around or what? We need to blast this thing!" Narancia had bobbed out of the canal and was beginning to pull himself onto the patch of ice. "It's gonna be back any minute, so why the hell are we sitting around?!" Ghiaccio's attention was pulled to the boy.
"I hate to admit it, but you're right. We need to eliminate this thing." He clenched his fist. Sheer cold emitted off of him. Pieces of a plan fell together in his head, shifting and turning until they fit into place like a game of tetris. "Listen," he addressed Narancia, who was quick to dial in. "Attacking this thing recklessly isn't going to work, but I think I know something that will. I can push my White Album further and freeze parts of it's body - if I focus on one spot at a time, I should be able to almost crystallize it." The assassin looked out towards the water. He could see a dark shadow hurtling towards them in the distance. "If you fire volleys at the places I freeze, we can chip away at it."
"Oh, so we are gonna be partners in crime now?" An impish grin slid across Narancia's face. As much as Ghiaccio detested it, he'd forgive the look for now. Narancia gazed toward his target as determination weaved its way into his expression. "Let's save the day then!"
"I can make you a bit more ground, but I'm guessing our enemy is going to try to shatter it as soon as it can." The canal stretched wider than what White Albums range would be able to reach in the limited time they had. "Take Trish with you and move towards land. You probably won't make it all the way, but it will give you some distance." With his instruction laid out, blades formed on his feet and Ghiaccio pushed off from the platform. He shot sideways at first, moving towards the edge of the canal as a path of ice stemmed out in front of him.
Gently Weeps flared to life. He turned on a dime, switching his momentum toward Clash. Fractals continued to grow out of the path he'd left behind. Trish and Narancia took the cue, rushing onto the bridge of ice.
Clash had taken note of the target skating towards it. It angled itself toward him and continued forward. The assassin would need to time this correctly - he could clearly make out the monster's rows of sharp teeth now. It was moving towards the surface and it would be upon him soon. He held his breath and traced its body with it's eyes. Empty red orbs seemed to stare back at him.
Water rose into a bubbling layer around the monster's head as Clash rose to the surface beneath the assassin. This was Ghiaccio's chance - before that wave broke, he froze the piece of it in front of him and shot forward. By the time it's jaws had left the brine, Ghiaccio was already half way down it's back. It's jagged teeth only caught his ghost. He was dead set on his goal. The force with which Clash had propelled itself out him would throw it out of the water.
As the beast's tail rose to the surface, Ghiaccio focused his stand on it. He watched as a glistening shell grew around the fin, stiffening it as ice further pierced into the creature's cells. He skidded past the stand as it's entire mass burst out of the water. The now-familiar sound of gunfire exploded into the air. Narancia's Aerosmith hovered above the canal. It's bullets cracked into the crystallized tail, blowing away chunks of the stand before it dove back into the water.
The beast shook beneath the waves. The loss of part of its tail was already impeding its movement greatly. Its first target had been too swift. It would need to change its plan of attack. Clash set its sights on the two stand users fighting to keep their balance on the thin floating bridge of ice Ghiaccio had created. Swishing its tail in a hasty attempt to shake off its injuries, it barreled towards them.
Ghiaccio turned to follow the beast. He'd target part of its head next. With its speed significantly hindered, he caught up with time to spare. Gently Weeps lowered a patch of the shark's skull to sub-zero temperatures. It was as if part of the creature had turned to glass.
Narancia gripped Trish's forearm tightly as he recognized the Clash's new path. They needed to move, quickly. Aerosmith swooped down in front of them, ready to chip away the next frozen patch. The boy pushed his heel into the ground and sprinted forward - only to find a weight behind him refusing to budge.
Trish stayed in place, her focus centered on the creature rushing her. The momentum Narancia had launched himself with wasn't absorbed by the ice. As he slipped forward onto his intended path, his hand was pulled from Trish. Only dull paths his fingernails had dug into her skin remained. Fear filled his veins with an immense pressure. Clash would be upon her any second now, and yet she stuck in place.
"Trish! If you don't move you'll-!" His words were drowned out by the volley of fire released from his stand. Pieces of their enemy shattered away, but it wasn't nearly enough to stop the creature from hurtling towards the girl.
As endless rows of teeth came to obscure her view, Trish heard nothing but the sweet whisper of Spice Girl. The reflection of her soul gave her words of encouragement. She knew her ability, and this was her trial by fire. As Clash leapt for her, she did the same, hurtling herself into the mouth of the beast.
Ghiaccio and Narancia watched in horror as she disappeared. The assassin propelled himself forward. If he got close enough, maybe he could freeze its jaw before it bit down. He could stop it somehow, he had to. He couldn't let Trish die. Frost streaked across the beast's side as he passed it by. The head was the most important part now. The stand's mouth began to clamp down. The space where Trish would be grew smaller with every nanosecond that passed. He reached out, willing his stand to reduce the world to an absolute zero.
But there were things beyond Ghiaccio's power. He couldn't bend space to bring himself closer to the beast's head, nor could he stop time. There was no way for the assassin to save her. He'd failed, and she was gone.
As the creature splashed back into the canal, it seemed to stall. It's jaw slacked partially. Ghiaccio's pulse stopped. Bumps, almost like bubbles jutted up between Clash's eyes. It's fins thrashed in the water and it's body curled into a stressed angle. The deformity on it's head pulsed upwards as a pink fist burst through the near-metallic shell of the beast. Clash writhed in pain. Spice Girl's onslaught didn't end. It continued tearing a hole in it's enemy until it had reduced the once mighty threat into a twitching mess. As Clash began sinking into the depths, Trish pulled herself from the hole she had rend in its body. With ease, she kicked her way to the surface and began towards the side of the canal.
Narancia and Ghiaccio stared on in shock. Forgetting to push himself forward, the blue haired assassin wobbled on the unsupported path of ice he'd weaved into the water. The motion brought him back to reality.
"What? What the hell!" The only words he could manage did little to convey the sheer disbelief and relief that were intertwined in his throat. He pushed himself forward as Trish reached the wall of the canal and began treading water.
"Could you help me up?" Her voice was just above a murmur, easy to miss even in the eerie silence that laid itself over the area like a silken sheet.. There was a splash behind them as Narancia dove into the water and paddled towards Trish. Ghiaccio climbed from the chunk of ice he stood on to the cobbled ledge before swinging a hand down for the girl to grab onto.
"What did you do? I thought I had watched you die." The stillness that surrounded the girl squeezed the energy from Ghiaccio's voice as he lifted her onto solid ground. She sat down immediately without offering an answer. The assassin turned to Narancia, who still bobbed in the water while looking up expectantly.
The assassin helped to lift the boy up as well. Trish took in a breath as if to speak before suddenly dropping it. She stared forward at the chunks of ice that still sat on the calming surface of the canal. Small waves broke against them, but they barely moved from their spots.
"That thing was sent by Passione's boss, right?" Her eyes stuck to the canal. They weren't focused on anything in particular, just the soft lull of the waves.
"Yeah." It was perhaps the quietest word she had ever heard Ghiaccio utter. A part of him had hoped that she wouldn't realize what the attack had meant.
But she was far too keen to be ignorant of the implications. She'd never tried to imagine what a life with her father would be like. The thought had surfaced in her mind many times, but at her core it was always something she'd yearned to deny. Everyday she spent without a mother or a home soured her view of her surviving parent further. But this spurred something far deeper than uninformed disdain. This was hatred that writhed and coiled like a snake. At its core, past sheer black knots, it held something else. A small drop that grew ever larger the longer she lingered on it.
Trish blinked, trying to clear the clouds from her eyes. She felt something trace softly down her gently flushed cheek. She could hardly belief the tear's presence. It seemed alien to harbor such an emotion now. Bitterness rested on her tongue. It's overwhelming citric flavor harkened her back to ancient memories. She tasted it first when other girls in grade school had made it clear that her style and attitude would never be accepted by them. Again when a boy who she'd fancied had crushed her hopes of any future together.
It stung and refused to abate. The taste of rejection was one that always lingered far too long. Why did it hurt her? She'd already chosen to refuse the idea of her father. He was illegitimate in her eyes. Even so, his decision to kill her rather than care for her felt like a stake in her heart.
Had this been his plan from the beginning? Was Buccellati's group to neatly deliver Trish to her grave? She wanted to believe in their innocence, in the warmth that the dark haired Capo had shown her, in the light that always burned in Giorno's eyes, and in the smile that Narancia wore whenever she was around.
"There!" A voice echoed from across the canal. All three sets of eyes snapped to investigate.
On the other side of the water, they saw a second Narancia walking toward where the ruins of the bridge. It was followed by two gangsters - one with long silver hair, the other clad in a hat that stretched to his chin. The copy in front of them stopped and morphed into a blue figure.
"Shit!" Ghiaccio ground his teeth. Why couldn't he catch a goddamn break today?
Narancia leapt to his feet, whooping at the arrival of his friends. Aerosmith materialized above him as he turned to face Ghiaccio.
"You're screwed now!" With his back-up on the scene, the runty gangster was ready to make his move against the assassin. His eyes moved to Trish. "Now that the others are here, we can escape! Let's go!"
Ghiaccio barely knew where to look. Threats surrounded him. He had little idea what the two men across the canal were capable of. Narancia's stand couldn't pierce his armor, but Trish could. He took a step back from them, sinking into a defensive pose. He was still exhausted from using Gently Weeps.
Trish sat frozen on the ground, barely able to believe the scene unfolding around her.
"Come on, we gotta get moving before this freak tries to pull anything!" Narancia's eyes flitted between the assassin and the girl. She stood up. Trish still didn't face him. Each movement was oddly subdued considering the tension that filled the air. Slowly she turned so that both boys were in her view. Her gaze was on Narancia. She took a step forward and swung her gaze to Ghiaccio. He inched back.
Suddenly Trish's legs tensed and she bursted forward. Electricity shot through Ghiaccio's body as he readied himself to block. Where would she strike? He watched her movements, only to find an open hand stretching toward his arm.
She ran past the assassin, pulling him with her. He stumbled as he turned and his mind raced to comprehend the actions taking place.
"We have to go. We have to go right now." Her words were sharp and commanding as she clutched the assassins arm, willing him to move faster. "You need to get us out of here." Ghiaccio would have time to figure out what was happening later - In the meantime he needed to act. Blades formed again on White Album. Swiftly he ducked down and swept an arm under Trish's knees. The other came to support her back as he lifted her up and pushed them forward.
Behind them, Narancia's expression dropped to a frown. Had he seen what happened incorrectly? Trish wanted to escape the assassin, right? And yet…
"Trish.." The boy sounded utterly defeated. He's arms slackened to his sides and Aerosmith's form wavered.
The girl didn't dare look back. She couldn't concern herself with what she might see if she or the fact that a murderer was carrying her. There were things that needed to be done, and the gangsters behind her wouldn't stop her. They wouldn't be passing her back and forth again.
This time, she would make her own choice.
"God damn it." Illuso muttered to himself as he worked. He hadn't expected to find Formaggio in this kind of condition. "Why do you always get yourself into these messes.." At first he'd been paralyzed. Sure, the initial do-or-die burst of adrenaline had kept him in the zone long enough to rescue his friend. But when he'd finally set him down and really looked at his wounds, dread crept into him. It felt like the coldest pair of eyes glaring at his back.
A good half of the assassin's lower torso just looked like a red mess. His first instinct was to put pressure on it. His second was to be sure to avoid hitting and organs that might have been lacerated. His third was dear lord, Formaggio is about to bleed out, please put some pressure on it.
So Illuso had shrugged off his vest and tied it around the redhead's midsection. The pressure would be spread evenly. Hopefully that was the right thing to do. He specialized in killing, not first aid. Illuso looked at his friend's face. His eyelids were fluttering. Formaggio hadn't said anything since Illuso had found him, but at least he was still semi-conscious. Back to work. The legs. God, what had happened to him? He could make out bullet holes, but his right leg was host to something else too. Something that had partially stripped flesh and muscle from bone.
Illuso grabbed the knife from his belt and got to work. He cut the legs of Formaggio's pants at the knee and shredded the fabric into strips. Illuso gently slid parts of hanging flesh back into place. Could he really do this? Just slap it back on and throw a bandage over it like tape? He'd have to; It was all he could do.
"The others are here." BabyFace observed. Illuso looked up at the creature. It's grin was starting to creep him out. The stand was sitting to the side of them. Observing and waiting. Melone had sent it along as a watchdog - and it had done it's job. Had the stand not been with him, he would have had to fight those gangsters for his friend. Illuso tied off another strip of fabric and wiped his hands on his pants. Crimson stains were nothing new.
Illuso's stand appeared next to the wide bathroom mirror as he stepped onto the countertop. Sure enough, he could see Prosciutto and Pesci outside. His hand pressed against the gleaming surface and it became a malleable. He slid his torso through.
"Took you long enough, I've got no idea what I'm doing." Illuso offered a hand to the blond first.
Prosciutto shrugged as he grabbed on and let the other guide him into the mirror world. As soon as his head made it to the other side, his eyes landed on the bloody mess on the floor. Illuso could read the discomfort in his face. He ducked out again and Began pulling Pesci to the other side. The bulkier assassin had a bit more trouble maneuvering his way through the mirror.
"Sorry if my first responder skills were lacking." Illuso offered.
"At this rate he's gonna die." Illuso's whole body tensed at those words. Prosciutto smacked a hand to his forehead and bit his tongue. He should have known not to say anything by now. He turned to Pesci and gestured for an explanation.
"Oh, um," The assassin looked between the two men. "Fratello is having some trouble talking right now.. Don't worry about what he just said." Pesci's words did little to relax Illuso. Death was too real a possibility, and having it vocalized just made the situation worse. Prosciutto crouched down next to Formaggio. His hand slid gently over one of the shot wounds and lingered there for a moment before the assassin cocked an eyebrow. No bullets. These wounds were inflicted by a stand.
"So what does he think?" Illuso turned to Pesci for an answer. The taller assassin looked down at Prosciutto and frowned.
"I think he thinks that the wounds are bad?" Pesci didn't know what to say. The blond usually did all the talking. He was better as back up muscle, really. Illuso didn't seem impressed with his translation.
Instead of lingering on his communication dilemma, Prosciutto got to work on the wounds. Illuso had been correct in beginning to bandage them. Formaggio's jeans didn't make for the most optimal material, but they would work. The motions came naturally to him, he barely needed to think about the amount of pressure he was using or how he was wrapping the wounds. His mind wandered slightly to the past.
Usually the men of La Squadra came back from their hits in fine enough condition. Generally, if something went wrong enough for an assassin to be badly injured during a job, they wouldn't make it back. It was small injuries that the assassins brought back to headquarters. A bullet wound, or perhaps a long red thread traveling down their arm from where they'd been struck with a knife. These were all dangers of the jobs. They knew how to treat themselves, but if it was too much trouble Prosciutto might tend to a wound for them.
Formaggio had always been troublesome. He'd leave for half a day and come back torn up by God knows what. The blond cracked a grin. Once the redhead had claimed that he'd gotten into a fist fight with a rat. Really Prosciutto had no reason to doubt that claim. He looked up from his work. Illuso had sat down across from him and was beginning to bandage Formaggio's other leg.
Every so often the dark haired assassin would look up at Prosciutto, searching him for something. His eyes seemed intent, almost calculating. The blond kept his attention of his work. Still, Illuso's gaze shook him a bit.
"Why can't you talk, Prosciutto?" Illuso's eyes were trained on him. Prosciutto scowled back. If he knew what was wrong he would have fixed it already. Frankly, he barely had enough time for his current task, let alone trying to figure out why the hell he couldn't communicate with his team.
The blond focused on his work. Formaggio's wounds had almost all been wrapped now. His eyes slid towards his team mate's torso. Illuso had tied his vest around the wound, but it needed more pressure. A part of him wanted to cling to that misstep that the dark haired man had made. Prosciutto brushed off the desire. He knew it was only an excuse for his own incompetence. He'd let himself fall under what was most likely the effects of an enemy stand, and Formaggio had been left to die as a result.
"I know something's wrong, so why won't you just work with me?" Illuso's words were more demanding this time. It was rare to see him raising his voice. Prosciutto wanted to respond. He had thousands of things to say. Words to defend himself, phrases to shut the other up. Apologies to issue. Pleas to utter to whatever kind of god was watching them.
Pesci watched the two from where he stood. The air inside the mirror was uncomfortable and thick with Illuso's discontent. The bulky assassin was clearly uneasy. He didn't know what to do or who to side with. Really he didn't want to take a side at all. Prosciutto was acting so strange.
"The mirror world is my domain, Prosciutto." Illuso lifted himself to his feet. From here he could tower over the blond. Was he trying to be threatening? That's certainly what it seemed like. "I know everything that goes on here. Stand up." He ordered. Prosciutto sat frozen. Baffled. Illuso was always so distant. Sometimes it seemed like he preferred the fringes. Had he finally been pushed over the edge?
Prosciutto was weary. He felt that he knew Illuso the least. The dark haired assassin always kept to himself. Despite the blonds prompting and prodding, he never really opened up. He just existed there. Still, he raised to his feet.
Why now of all times was he choosing to grow suspicious of his team?
If Prosciutto took up such a frame of thought, he would tear the group apart. His job was to communicate and keep everyone together. It made him feel like a nagging mother sometimes, but it was important. Illuso was someone who had been working with him for years. No, it wasn't fair to consider this man - or any of the others - mere colleagues. These were his brothers in arms.
Man in the Mirror appeared inches from Prosciutto. It's hands were on him suddenly. One held the side of his head, the other his left arm. The blond immediately tensed under its grip. He struggled against its strength, trying to break free from the hold. It's user strode to him calmly. Prosciutto let out a hiss. This wasn't normal. His eyes rolled to Pesci. He could see fear on his brother, plain as day.
"Relax, Prosciutto." Illuso whispered. "This is for your own good." The assassin raised his hands to Prosciutto's face. The left pried open his jaw, Man in the Mirror helping to force his head back. With the blond's teeth parted, Illuso could peer inside. His expression hardened. "There. I knew I felt something when I dragged you in."
The smallest edge of a Tentacle could be seen latched to Prosciutto's inner gums. Illuso raised his hand, ready to pluck the creature away. Suddenly Talking Heads writhed to life, squishing itself to the side of Prosciutto's mouth and slipping back behind his tongue.
"Shit, it's-!" Illuso hissed and turned frantically to Pesci. Prosciutto coughed as the creature slid into his throat, wedging itself into a ball and blocking any air from reaching his lungs. "Pesci, you need to use your Beach Boy, it's more precise than me!" Pesci's eyes widened as he inhaled a huge gulp of air. This situation had escalated so quickly, he barely knew how to respond.
"But- What if I-" He stuttered, looking between the two other assassins. Prosciutto was clearly in pain. The blond's gaze had tumbled to the ceiling as his free hand clawed at his throat.
"There's no time for this! If you don't act, Prosciutto is going to die!" Illuso's tone was increasingly severe. It only served to lock Pesci's muscles further. What if he ended up slicing Prosciutto's throat open? He'd choke on blood rather than a stand. What if he pulled Prosciutto's tongue out by accident? Then they'd just be in a worse situation.
Through the blocked gasps and writhing in his neck, Prosciutto gathered his will and centered his gaze on Pesci. Illuso was right, Pesci could make quick work of this situation. He just had to try. The bulky assassin caught his brother's eyes. There was a serene composure to them despite the situation.
Pesci wanted to reach that composure, to learn it for himself. He wanted to let Prosciutto know he was correct to believe in him for all these years. Beach Boy materialized in his hands. He drew back and flicked the rod forward. His expert aim landed the hook directly on the blond's tongue. It melded into his skin and slid forward, reaching down into Prosciutto's esophagus until it found Talking Heads.
Before the enemy could retreat further, Beach Boy's hook sprang from the lining of the blond's throat and sunk into its tentacled body. Pesci pulled back - carefully. Despite the stand's struggles, he drew it from Prosciutto's mouth and reeled it in until it hung helpless from his line.
"What the fuck!" Prosciutto blurted out with his first breath. He was panting slightly and rubbing his throat. The two others looked to him.
"We got that stand out of you." Illuso answered calmly.
"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing? I thought you were about to -" He cut off his sentence and groaned. Why bother. Illuso had helped him in the end. His attention shifted to his brother, who was still amazed by the writhing creature at the end of his line. "Pesci." Prosciutto's voice immediately caught the other's attention. "You just saved my life. Thank you. It was really amazing."
A small smile cracked onto Pesci's face.
"Alright, let's get back to work." Barely paying mind to the struggle that had just transpired, Prosciutto crouched next to Formaggio again. Pesci found the actions to be a true testament of his brother's character. So sharp, so composed. The bulky man gleamed with pride and reverence as he shrugged off his coat and offered it as scrap material for bandaging.
Risotto stood his ground as the two figures approached. He would stay on defense for now. Prosciutto and Pesci had been given enough time to escape. If either of his foes made a move to follow them, Risotto would skewer them before they could pass him.
His eyes came to rest on the blond. Once again he was disturbed by the boy's age - He was still a child. This war zone was no place for him. Still, Risotto steeled himself. These gangsters likely intended to kill him. Their ages didn't change that, and he wouldn't let it happen.
Buccellati and Giorno stopped. They were about 15 meters away now - safely out of Metallica's range. They waited, eyes locked on their target. With a small nod from Buccellati, they began forward again. Slowly. Their actions radiated caution. The blond said something under his breath.
Risotto knew exactly what they were doing - They were testing the range of his stand. It was a potentially risky move, but they had numbers on their side. The Capo watched them. He could pick up information here too. As soon as they activated their stands and went on the offensive, he'd know their ranges. It was going to be an important factor - it always was. Metallica could only affect bodies within a couple of meters of him. If one of them had superior reach, it could spell disaster.
"You're not with the boss's guards, are you?" Risotto spoke up, interrupting the tension that had formed between them. He let the question hang, eyes grilling them for a response. The move the blond had pulled in Pompeii clearly wasn't an assassination attempt. Risotto had expected there to be some follow up - a stand induced side effect. But as time passed, he realized that this boy hadn't been trying to kill him before. There was something more to his actions. Risotto's eyes slid to the older of the two. He looked to be around Risotto's age, maybe younger. He must have been the one in charge.
"That doesn't matter. We're only here to take back what you stole." Buccellati's response was cool and precise. Ten meters. No sign of their stands yet. Risotto's ears prickled to a faint sound behind him.
"You mean who?" He spoke bluntly. Even if they were going to engage in some polite conversation, he wouldn't put on a friendly facade. "You shouldn't talk as if people are objects."
"I got my point across." Buccellati seemed to share his philosophy. Giorno had fallen back slightly, trailing just behind his Capo. Risotto took note of this. Six Meters. Someone would have to draw soon. Risotto's eyes slid to his right.
With a flick of his wrist, Metallica activated. The sound he's heard earlier had grown louder and louder. Now he could identify it as a reptilian hiss. The snake approached him from behind - But that didn't matter. A nail burst from it's body, pinning it in place like an eel about to be flayed. A moment of pride washed over Risotto. Whatever trick his foes had planned, he'd caught on. They were underestimating him.
Pain exploded in his shoulder. His eyes widened, searching for an answer. He felt as if a hot iron rod was being twisted through his muscles. Risotto brought a hand to the wound. Blood was already oozing through his jacket. His attention was split. They were five meters from him. They hadn't activated their stands. How had they landed a hit on him? Metallica rushed to the wound. Their tiny metal bodies flushed the affected area, scoping the damage and capping off his severed veins with metal. He couldn't let the first blow throw him off. This pain was nothing to him. A surprise, yes, but nowhere near what it would take to defeat him.
"I'll give you some credit for that one." What was the connection? Pesci flashed into his mind. Beach Boy. Damage done to Beach Boy's line was reflected back at the offender - could a similar rule be at play here?
He wouldn't have time to ponder it. With their first trick a success, his foes jumped into action. Giorno retreated backward as Buccellati's Sticky Fingers appeared behind him. Risotto took note of their movements and dug his heels into the ground. Risotto guessed that the blond must have some type of support stand. An easy enough technique to break. The dark haired man was going to rush in for a close attack. All he needed to do was make quick work of Buccellati, then he could hunt down the other with relative ease.
Buccellati had broken into a sprint; He wanted the first blow. Risotto readied himself, envisioning every vein in his enemy's body. The usual weapons came to mind. He'd start with the feet, Then he'd put pins in his joints to keep him from moving.
Buccellati ducked down suddenly. Just as he was about to move into Risotto's range, a zipper apperated beneath him. He yanked down the handle and toppled in, inertia throwing him almost too quickly for Risotto's eyes to follow. The Capo drew in a breath. His enemy had disappeared. He didn't panic. There would be a second phase to this, he knew it. But what could he assume about this stand? For now, all he knew was that his enemy had the ability to create zippers.
Zippers.
Risotto broke the situation into pieces. He'd lived through hundreds of attacks, surviving was only a matter of outwitting and overpowering your opponent. The assassin kept his eyes on the patch of ground where Buccellati had disappeared. It would only make sense for him to emerge in a similar spot.
The ground gave beneath Risotto's feet.
He tumbled downward into a pit that Sticky Fingers had planted beneath him. Before he had fallen completely into the hole, metal teeth gouged into his torso. They left tears in their wake as his body slid past their initial catch point. The assassin winced. The zipper drew itself tighter around him. It crushed into his chest and arms, threatening to sever them completely as the blunted latches pressed further into him.
"If only I could take credit for this idea." Buccellati's cool voice rang from behind Risotto. He had emerged from a zipper placed on a nearby wall. He strode closer to the Capo, hand trailing against the building's bricks. "But Giorno is really the strategist here." A zipper appeared where his hand lay. The dark haired man grabbed it's handle and slowly opened a pathway into the building. From the darkness within the portal, small creatures scuttled out. Straining his eyes, Risotto could see five of them. Five scorpions on a war path toward him.
He couldn't play a waiting game any longer. He couldn't attack the scorpions without hurting himself, and he couldn't let them reach him. If he didn't act now he'd be a fish in a barrel. Metallica rushed through his veins. Giorno. That must have been the blond's name. Despite the chaos of the current situation, it stuck in his mind.
Before the bugs could reach him, Metallica ripped open the teeth of the zipper. He may have been clueless to the natures of his enemies' stands in the beginning, but they didn't know much of his either. Buccellati was ignorant to the factor that would be his downfall: A zipper like this was within Risotto's domain of control.
That night in Pompeii, Giorno had only seen Metallica's ability to interact with blood. In truth, all metals were Risotto's to manipulate.
Buccellati's eyes widened in surprise. He wouldn't be allowed time to run - Risotto had already pulled himself from the pit. Sticky Fingers formed a new zipper on the wall - An escape route. Risotto lifted his hand as he cut the distance between himself and Buccellati. There would be no running. The zipper refused to budge.
Buccellati wheeled around, his face hardening as he resolved to follow a new plan. Sticky Fingers threw a punch as the assassin reached him. Risotto didn't care. He let the fist connect with his chest. The impact reverberated through him, but he wasn't deterred. This was just fine. He stood like a wall, the sheer difference in size between the two fiercely accentuated as the assassin looked down at his prey.
A dot of red dripped from Sticky Fingers' wrist. Another followed it. Buccellati's fingers twitched. The pain was instant and fierce. The gangster's eyes dropped to his own wrists.
Pins and nails stuck out at disorganized angles. They shone with an eerie glow as Buccellati's veins drained onto them and dripped to the ground below. The elbows were next. Risotto's face stayed stony. This time the shapes that erupted from his enemy's skin were twisted into corkscrews. He may have been an assassin, but he still took pride in his handywork.
Sticky Fingers' arms slackened with Buccellati's. Risotto moved in, grabbing him by the collar and forcing him back into the brick wall where his zipper still lay. The man coughed as the impact knocked air from his lungs. Buccellati fought to will his arms into motion. Tendons were severed, joints interrupted. He felt nothing but the dull pulse in his wounds.
"Before I kill you, I'd like to air a complaint." As Risotto hissed his words, a nail wedged itself behind Buccellati's kneecap. "I've never claimed to be a Saint. I am a killer and a criminal. But I'd like to know how the hell you sleep at night knowing you've dragged a child into the mafia." He drew Buccellati forward before slamming him into the wall again. "We're both going to hell. But you, you deserve a place beyond the seventh layer."
The silver haired man felt unbridled fury rising in his chest. He found little catharsis in beating his foe. Each word he spoke only served to further his rage. Was there a more cardinal sin? Inducting a child into organized crime. Putting them in life or death situations, forcing them to commit acts of violence. Were there more young lives at stake among this man's squad? The Capo prayed that Giorno was an outlier, that the rest were adults. As Risotto's hands curled tighter around Buccellati's jacket, he felt a fear that sunk in his stomach like lead. This man was responsible for what Risotto would have to do next.
Metallica slid the zipper behind Buccellati open. At least he could get some revenge here. Risotto shoved his foe's body halfway inside before forcing the teeth of the zipper together. They impaled the man in a line that divided his torso into distinct halves. They could only shallowly impale him, but that would be enough to keep him at bay. Buccellati's head hung out to the side. He'd been smart enough to focus his energy on moving his skull out of the teeth's path. His eyes bore into Risotto. They still carried a defiant shine.
"Don't," Buccellati began. The blood welling in his throat impeded his words. "Don't assume." Risotto found the sentence he'd struggled out pathetic. But Buccellati wasn't his focus now.
The accomplice had made an appearance.
Risotto turned to face the golden-haired boy. The scorpions that had been sicked on him had long since dissolved into crumbling bricks.
"I don't want to have to hurt you again. Once was enough." Risotto's voice was unwavering despite the wounds that dotted his midsection. "Back down now. Go home. Someone your age shouldn't have to be exposed to these types of things." His name rung again in Risotto's head. Giorno. The blond shook his head in response.
"You're a betrayer to Passione." Giorno took a step forward. "That's not my concern right now. What matters is that your actions are interrupting my dream and endangering my friends." Gold Experience apparated beside him. "I will fight you to the death to defend both." The stand's fingers touched down onto the bricked street. Gnarled woods roots sprung forth, bursting through the ground and reducing all in their path to rubble.
Risotto reacted without hesitation. The circumstances of this fight weighed on his heart, but he would do what he must. The life of an assassin was one devoid of emotion and remorse. Drawing Giorno's blood would haunt him, but he was fighting to protect people just as the blond was.
The Capo raced to circumvent the roots. As expected, their horizontal mobility was flawed. As the roots changed course, Risotto took his chance. Lifting his hand, the street below the two shook. Metal pipes burst from the ground, their wiry bodies contorting as they sprang towards the blond.
Gold Experience lifted its hands from the ground. Giorno watched the the street split open before him. His stand flew in front of him, readying their counterstrike. The blond pressed his ankle into the ground. He would have barely a splinter of a second to pull off his response. The tangled monster drug from below Venice would bear down upon him soon.
As it's shadow struck him, Giorno extended his hand to meet it. Like jaws of a demon, the pipes collapsed down upon him. The horde of metal twisted inward, condensing its endless limbs onto a single point. When the mass finally came to rest, it looked like the black scribbles of an angry child.
Risotto stared at the tangle of pipes where the boy had stood. Many times in his life he had had to suppress guilt. He'd learned this response so well that it now came naturally to him. The lives that writhed and flickered out before him left little impression on his memories. They blurred together. He didn't remember names or faces, nor the sounds of their voices.
Risotto tried to unearth one such memory. His last hit. The scenery was the most distinct aspect. Faces were blurry, and there was no noise. He felt deafened within his own mind. Each target had been so easy to forget, so inconsequential.
Yet in this moment he felt utter misery. The slightest shift of muscles brought his stoic expression to a frown. Mourning had always been foreign. Each death that dotted his life like a road map only left him feeling numb. The anesthesia of loss never cleared from his veins. A bright golden star extinguished by his hands. The Earth had moved him - or had he moved himself? Risotto would never know the path the blond had forged across the night sky.
A single yellow petal hit the Capo's cheek.
It was barely a soft kiss against his skin, but it was enough to interrupt his thoughts. A soft breeze brought another toward him. It's twins joined it, fluttering weightlessly through the air past Risotto. Sun danced on the world's breath as the sky filled with petals. His momentary entrancement was broken by the sheer nature of the occurrence. His gaze broke through to the epicenter of the blossom storm.
What once had been a twisted conglomerate of steel piping had turned to vines. Green slowly faded to yellow. The breeze behind it slowly blew the structure apart. Risotto's eyes widened. Giorno was sprinting toward him, almost upon him by now. The flood of golden petals had hidden the boy.
Risotto readied himself, despite the shock reflected in his eyes. Mere meters away, Giorno veered sideways, changing his approach toward the assassin to a curve. It didn't matter much to the man where he was - As long as he was close enough, Metallica would affect him.
Giorno knew exactly what he was aiming for. There was a gap between his target and the wall behind him. He could feel fatigue creeping up his body. His next move would put his life on the line.
The blond shot through the gap. Metallica flared to life, honing in on Giorno's body. Gold Experience's hand skimmed the wall.
As strength drained from his every fiber, Giorno threw himself out of the assassins range. Risotto's dark eyes shifted to where the blond lay collapsed on the ground. Pain was cemented within his expression.
This wasn't right. Risotto searched the figure frantically.
No blood. No needles. No Razors. His skin seemed paler than before, but outside of exhaustion he looked unharmed.
A sudden sharp pain split through Risotto's stomach.
The Capo's eyes dropped. A branch had grown from the wall behind him and twisted through his abdomen.
"There's a dream I need to achieve." The weak voice rang out from Risotto's left. Giorno pushed himself to his elbows. "I figured it out. Your stand. It's not just limited to controlling the metal around you." Giorno managed to kneel, turning to face the assassin. "The human body has trace amounts of iron in it. You're using that, that's what you did to me in Pompeii and to Buccellati here." His body still shook lightly. Giorno paused, giving himself a moment to recover. "I got rid of it - Just for a moment. I turned every bit of metal inside me into nanoplankton."
"That should have killed you." Risotto's eyes widened. The sheer outlandishness of the boy's plan was enough to temporarily take his attention off of the current situation. This was a hallmark of perfect synchronization with one's stand. Even with the pain that tore through his body, he couldn't help but respect Giorno.
He would only linger on that respect momentarily. The damage inflicted upon him was severe, but he wouldn't let it stop him. Metallica swarmed in his veins. Cities were built of metal and brick. There would always be an ample supply for Risotto to manipulate. His gaze hardened, trained on the blond. He could feel his resonance with every fleck of steel and iron in Venice.
"Whatever you throw at me, I will overcome it." The boy had pulled himself to his feet. He looked unstable, but the crystallized determination that shown in his eyes told another story. "My name is Giorno Giovanna and there is a dream that I am going to achieve."
There was a moment of stillness as the blond's words struck Risotto like an arrow.
"Giorno Giovanna." In an instant the fierce look in the man's eyes had disappeared. His gaze was no longer sharply focused on his enemy. An air of hazy disbelief and serenity seemed to descend upon him. His attention had drifted to the sky and he paid little mind to the gnarled branch impaling him. "I could never forget. Let me tell you a story, Giorno."
The blond refused to drop his guard, but he sensed that something in the world had shifted. It was as if the duel between them had been forced to a draw. Risotto's words had begun to ring against his ears like the notes to a long bygone song. The tune held an eerie nostalgia, and yet he could never place it. He glanced toward Buccellati. He was still caught in his own stand's attack. Eyes closed. Giorno silently prayed that he was only unconscious.
"I joined Passione ten years ago. The underworld was a fitting place for me - I'm not sure if I ever possessed the same humanity as the rest of the world." Risotto closed his eyes, resurrecting the faded memory. "Then it must have been five years ago, wasn't it? I was already a Capo. I had most of my men. I was known as a demon and a bringer of death. But I wasn't perfect, was I?" His eyes opened once more. Dark Sclera sank into Giorno, but they didn't carry the bloodlust that had become their norm. Deep inside them the blond could recognize a sort of abstract sentimentality that focused on him.
"Were you? I wouldn't know." Giorno spoke slowly. His enemy had completely dropped his guard. To seize the moment and take advantage of the opportunity now would be simple. He was within Gold Experience's range. But some phantom force willed him to remain at peace. The Capo's story was drawing him in for a reason that he could not comprehend. A part of the blond's soul knew that he needed to hear what Risotto was trying to tell him. It was a thirst that would become unquenchable if he were to silence his foe now.
"You of all people would know. I was going to be killed, Giorno. I'd made too dire of an error." Risotto searched the boy's face. "You've grown so much. You even changed your hair. I'm sorry that I failed to recognize you."
Giorno could feel his pulse racing. The adrenaline of the battle was one thing, but this feeling in the pit of his being was different. There was an answer somewhere within him, but he couldn't grasp it. He felt as if he was peering into a murky pond. Something shone beneath the waves, but the clouds of green and blue obscured it from him.
"You found me when moments before I was to be killed. You were still young then, perhaps you don't remember.. I was being pursued. I tried to hide in a patch of tall grass. I surely would have been uncovered, but then you arrived. The grass around me stretched taller as you saw my desperation. When the mafioso who would have slaughtered me addressed you, you lied to them. You saved my life."
Giorno was still. The revelation sank into him. Memories from his childhood engulfed him. Visions of his mother and the man who had often beat him. Children that harassed him. These terrors that had stalked his youth had been dispelled by the intervention of a stranger. He remembered this man as little more than a shadow. His naive mind had even once hypothesized that he was an angel, faceless and beyond comprehension.
And yet suddenly he could remember the features of that stranger in vivid detail. Silver hair, piercing red eyes, and a face that masked itself with stoicism yet clearly held galaxies more.
Giorno stepped forward. He knew that drawing any closer would put him within Metallica's range, but his fear of the other's stand had been cast aside. Risotto's eyes followed him as he moved. Pain still ran through the Capo's body, but his face only showed the softest shadow of a smile. The branch that Gold Experience had created burst into a storm of petals, leaving its victim to teeter and slump against the wall behind him.
Risotto drew a hand to cover the hole in his torso. Without the presence of the branch, he'd begun to bleed profusely. Metallica scrambled to cap each blood vessel. It could do little but prolong the eventual effects of the wound.
"Buccellati." Giorno addressed a man who could not hear his words. "I apologize, but I can not finish this fight and I will not allow you to finish it either." His voice was calm, barely above a whisper. The blond stepped closer. Steady and sure. Awes till enveloped him. He pushed Risotto's hand aside, revealing the wound he'd caused. The Capo submitted to the action, harboring no apprehension or distrust. Giorno laid a hand over the puncture in Risotto's torso. For a moment there was a struggle between Metallica and the new cells beginning to form, but on their user's command the stand dispersed.
Giorno had never been face to face with someone who had protected him. He knew not the things to say to a person one would consider a caregiver. There was certainly a haze of incompetence hanging in the back of his mind. It had been ages since he'd felt so unsure and juvenile, unable to muster a confident response. He let his head slack forward slightly, forehead coming to rest on Risotto's chest. All he knew was that he would work desperately to mend the wound his stand had inflicted.
"You can't be.. Giorno, after all this time you'd betray us?" The words echoed from behind them. Buccellati struggled to speak. His words were as soaked with a sheer disbelief as his suit was with blood. He fought against his wounds, trying once more to tear away from the zipper that latched onto him. Giorno closed his eyes.
There was a sense of relief that washed over him. Buccellati was alive. That in itself was wonderful news. But there was also a pittance of panic that bit at his toes. He had been caught helping their enemy. Surely Buccellati trusted him enough to know that there was something more going on, right?
Risotto's eyes rolled to look at the dark haired man. What Metallica had done to him certainly wasn't a pretty sight. Truly, it must have been horrific. But he wouldn't know, seeing as he'd been completely desensitized to even Metallica's most sadistic abilities. He released his control over the zipper. At this range he couldn't affect his enemy's blood, but he could still use his stand's magnetism. Without the support of the teeth clamping onto him, Buccellati slid down until his body was crumpled on the ground. He winced noticeably, drawing in short, sharp breaths. Everytime he moved he could feel his muscles tearing against the iron barbs that splintered his joints.
"Buccellati.." His gaze was fixed on his friend. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. Two of the most important figures in his life lay mortally wounded before him.
Golden Experience could only work so fast.
Giorno looked back towards the hole in Risotto's stomach. He'd only just begun to make real progress. The boy's eyes moved to the assassin's face. The man's gaze had followed his own to Buccellati. He looked weaker. Paler. A sizable chunk of his torso was gone - of course he was fading. Giorno brought his attention back to the wound, returning his hand to it as if it would will his stand into overdrive. He could feel his own pulse rising. Would he really be able to save one of these men, let alone both?
"Giorno," He felt Risotto's muscles tense. Steeling himself, the assassin slowly lifted himself onto his feet. The movement exacerbated the wound, causing more blood to rush toward it. Giorno stood with him, keeping his stand trained on it's work. "Bring me over there. I can't work from this far away." The blond's gaze snapped to Buccellati. What work did he have in mind? The boy's brow furrled. Nonetheless, he turned himself to face the same direction as the assassin and slung one of Risotto's arms over his shoulder.
Step by shaky step, the two made their way closer to Buccellati. Giorno could only help so much - The man towered above him. Risotto seemed like a giant to the boy. It made him feel small, childlike almost.
Once again, Risotto measured the distance between himself and his enemy. Five meters. Three, two. That would be enough. He collapsed to his knees. One hand over his wound, the other raised toward Buccellati. Giorno felt as if his pulse had deadened.
The pins and screws within Buccellati's limbs melted away. Beyond the sight of the others, they left tiny pieces of metal in their wake. Not shrapnel, but microscopic, intricately crafted canals. It certainly took focus to hammer out such precise details. As he worked to connect the bit of frayed blood vessels within Buccellati's body, he payed no attention to his own pain. It was as good a distraction as he'd be able to get.
Giorno watched in awe as Buccellati's tense posture slackened gently. It was nothing permanent, but it was a quick-fix that very well may have been saving his life. The man's blue eyes opened. Pain and fatigue still swirled within them, but there was a calmness to them now - an understanding.
Sticky Fingers appeared beside the Capo. It looked beaten and worn, just barely able to move toward Risotto. It was met by a subdued look of feral suspicion from the assassin. But the stand's movements weren't threatening. It was slow, careful. When it reached Risotto, it waited for a moment before raising a hand to the hole in his torso.
With a single upward swish, the remaining damage was pulled together by a zipper. Risotto grunted - skin and innards being suddenly forced together was understandably painful.
"Don't think anything of it." Buccellati warned. "Now that you're taken care of, Giorno can focus on his allies." The man stressed the last word, as his eyes met Giorno's. There was tension between them; an invisible stress and a need for communication. The blond simply gave a compliant nod and turned his focus to his comrade.
Risotto let out a breath. Slowly he lifted himself to his full height. Pain still splintered throughout his abdomen, but his condition had become much more manageable. His gaze lingered on the pair of gangsters. The impact and fate of five years burned through him. Silently he contemplated the path a single life had taken, how it had intersected with others and come to it's current point. There was a subdued chaos in his chest. A pang of sadness rung at the thought of Giorno's position within Passione. Despite the undeclared truce the men shared, shards of fury still endured when the image of Buccellati met him.
And yet, strung through it all like roots twining into infinite dark soil, he felt the cooling presence of pride. So long ago, Risotto had met a boy who was small and scared. The world around him loomed like fractals of glass, ready to slice him apart at every misstep. Yet that boy had persisted, and with the slightest aid of a faceless assassin he had been allowed to forge a shimmering path for himself. The capo saw the actions of the past reflected in the kindness Giorno had shown him today. The boy's heart was immortal.
But he needn't stay any longer. The moment in which their paths had crossed was wearing thin. Both had others matters to attend to. The present would usurp their yearning to uncover the past. With a final sigh Risotto turned from the two and departed. Silent, like a shadow cast in the night, slipping past the walls of an unfamiliar city and disappearing.
Giorno cast his eyes downward as Risotto left. If he looked upon the assassin now, he may have been compelled to follow. But his loyalties to his friends bond him to his task.
"We have things to discuss." Buccellati's voice was softer than the boy had expected. "Things have gone awry and we need to rethink our procedure."
"You mean in regards to those assassins?" Giorno questioned.
"No, everything." Buccellati clarified. "The boss, Trish, Passione, all of it. We won't survive if we keep this up - And we can't keep the truth from the others forever." Giorno was silent. The stress of the situation shone clearly on his face. As Golden Experience continued its work on his friend, he considered his next words. The faces of his comrades ran through his mind like a slideshow. Narancia. Mista. Fugo. Abbachio. None of them knew of the hidden task the two had undertaken. For too long now they had let the others sit in wretched ambiguity. The truth would be paralyzing, but no worse than their current situation.
"So we tell them then." The blond whispered. He knew very well the risks such an action harbored.
"We could end up alone. Are you willing to face that reality?" Buccellati asked. Giorno paused to contemplate.
"Yes. I'll walk this path alone if I have to." His eyes gleamed with determination. "But I trust them. They're our brothers, aren't they?"
Before Buccellati could answer him, the sound of shoes hitting brick rushed towards them.
"Christ, what the hell happened to you?" Abbachio's voice betrayed his sharp words. It was soaked with concern. Mista stood next to him, gun drawn and eyes vigilant. Behind them, Fugo stood with one of Narancia's arms draped across his shoulder for support. Both looked as if they'd seen better days.
"Thank god you're all here." Their Capo released a sigh of relief. His eyes scanned each of them, taking in their battle damage. A slight pang of failure stabbed his gut. Trish wasn't with them. Fugo recognized his disappointment instantly.
"Buccellati, I'm sorry.." He began. He didn't know the details - only the things Narancia had sputtered at a mile a minute as they'd regrouped and made their way over.
"She - Trish, she's not coming back." Mista picked up where the blond had left off. "I don't know what they did but, but they changed her. They must have! She had the chance to come with us but.." Mista paused. Frustration was knit on his face. He was still trying to make sense of the story he was recounting. "She didn't want to. I don't understand why, but she didn't want to." His volume had begun to increase. Buccellati digested the information he'd been given. It didn't seem to shock him in the way his men had expected. Fugo and Narancia exchanged a worried glance.
"I see." He began. "I think I may be beginning to understand why." He cleared his throat and strengthened his gaze. "And Sheila?"
"She won't be working with us anymore." Fugo's eyes moved to the ground as he spoke. Guilt swirled in his stomach, evoking a dry nausea.
"That's alright. She was a bit of a wild card from the start." Buccellati wanted to ease the boy's fears. Having had Fugo as his right-hand man for so long had given the Capo deep insight into his mind. He knew what the blond was thinking. He knew how these things weighed on him. Giorno helped Buccellati to his feet. Golden Experience had healed him to a point of stability. "I'm sure you all have a lot to tell me. We all have many things to discuss, and right now there's no clear point at which we should start. So if you'd allow me, I'd like to address you not as your boss, but as a man who is offering you his sincerest apologies."
Unease spread across his group's faces like a plague. Giorno remained composed at his side. He would support Buccellati no matter how they responded.
"In truth, those assassins," Buccellati began. "Are after the same goal we are."