Living on a Prayer (8 of 8)

by onekindmorning

In the earliest of Part 5 days, Bucciarati and Abbacchio are trying to make it in an unpromising world. When Bucciarati reveals the darker side of an adolescence spent in the mafia, Abbacchio vows to right some wrongs within Passione - but how will they navigate the fall-out? Contains 35% bizarre adventure. This is the lead-in for some planned Abbacchio detective stories.

Author Note: Second-person narration is from one character to another, as if they are retelling their stories. Changes in narrator are marked. Trigger warning for discussion of sexual violence, nothing is graphic.

It's the latest (probably last?) chapter in a larger part 5 backstory collection. Each "chapter" is posted separately since they are episodic and quite long. Heads up, everyone is gay (including canon gay couples). If you are looking for more, you can find all seven chapters and a preview of a Giorno-era retelling - soon to be expanded - under my author name.

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Living on a Prayer

(Bucciarati)

Early days, when we were still working for my patron Nicolas. Remember the night you found out I was still taking clients to meet those damn quotas? You were so mad at me. Not mad, I suppose, but aggressively worried.

Oh, remember? You canceled with my new client that night while I was getting ready. I hadn't realized a password wouldn't keep you and Blues out of my phone. Stupid of me. I turned off the shower and just overheard you giving him detailed directions for how to go fuck himself. In retrospect, hilarious, but at the time, I was quite angry. Not angry, maybe, but frantic. Nicolas' quotas were no joke, especially since we were on our own for how to bring in the income he demanded.

"Stop. Bruno, stop! You don't have to do this."

I was rushing to put together an outfit, hoping to win back that client or possibly pick up a new one at Ciro's club.

"Yes, apparently, I do! Because we're not even getting close to these quotas any other way! We've tried everything. Everything! What do you want me to do, rig the fucking lottery?"

"We'll find another way. Not sex work. It's not safe, it's not fair – I won't let you go on with this."

"It's not really your choice, is it?"

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed like a guard. If you were anyone else, your eyes on me while I dressed would have been lascivious, but not you. You were always more than a lover.

"Look at you," you murmured, shaking your head.

"What! What about me!"

"You're too beautiful, Bruno. And too young. You're going to get hurt. Someday one of them's going to ruin you and I can't stand that."

"You don't know a damn thing about me!"

I couldn't help it. Your words were fuel on my fire.

"I know that I love you, Bruno. I know that I don't want you to get hurt. Is that okay with you?"

"No! It's not okay!" I was in your face before I realized it, screaming under the crushing years of Nicolas' system. "It's not okay with me that you sabotaged my new client! It's not okay that you think I can't take care of myself when I've been in this work for years! Years!"

"Bruno–"

"How else do you want me to earn our way out of Nicolas' debts? Do you not understand the consequences if we fail?"

"Bruno."

"He'll send you back to Zo, Leone! He'll take you away from me. And he'll place me on some crazy abusive team, anywhere in Italy – anywhere in the world! We won't see each other again. We won't survive. Don't you understand that?

"I understand, Bruno. That's not what I–"

"No, you don't! It's going to be like my father all over again. If you're dying – and I'm stuck somewhere far away – what if I don't even know when it happens?"

"Oh, Bruno." You held me tight and all my misery bubbled to the surface. "That's not how it's gonna be. I promise, that's not how it's gonna go this time."

I was a perfect mess. The icy E that had gotten me through so many years of hardship melted away in your arms.

"I want us to survive," I gulped. "I don't like selling myself. I don't do it because I want to."

"I never thought you did."

"It's my last resort. I've been at my last resort for years."

"I heard you." You held my face so you could look me in the eyes. "Tell me. How long has this been going on?"

I shook my head. "You already know."

"How long? When did Nicolas put you in this situation?"

"When I joined," I whispered.

"When you were twelve? How did you even find clients at that age?"

"Nicolas found them for me." I saw the lightning in your eyes. Misinterpreted it badly. "Please, it's not because I wanted to. I know you think I'm like that–"

"I don't."

"It's only because I had to survive. He kept sending me to new teams. New cities. All over Italy. I never had food, I never had a place to sleep. Usually Nicolas told me someone on the team who would keep me – keep me safe, and feed me – if I did what they wanted. And if there wasn't someone, or if they were too cruel with me, then I'd ask strangers. That's all. It wasn't even for money back then. I did the assignments – I fought and stole for them – but Nicolas never paid me, so I had to do something else to get my basic needs."

You were looking at me with some kind of strange wonder by this point.

"You never thought to run away?"

I laughed, sharp and hair-raising. "Thought to? It's all I thought about. It's all I can think about! You don't know, Leone? We can't quit Passione. Deserters are traitors and traitors can't be saved."

"I know. Mafia life's like that. Italy's mafias won't let you leave – they assume you're going to inform on them – and they don't typically tolerate being openly gay, either. We're in a precarious situation, you and I. But Bruno, back then? You were a child, you didn't even have a stand. You didn't know any secrets. They couldn't let one child slip away?"

"Nicolas has more enforcers than anyone. I tried a few times. That's how I got this." I rolled my shoulder, the one that dislocates easily. "Every time, they made things worse."

"I see." The look in your eyes was one I didn't like, hard and menacing, but your hands were trying to tell me it wasn't meant for me. "Well. Bruno, I have a plan that I turn to as a last resort, too. I'd like Nicolas to compare and see which one is more efficient. Let's go visit him tomorrow. It's time we talked with him about this whole quota system anyway."

Something about your voice put me entirely at ease with your plan. It was the voice of an adult taking charge, and the lost child I had been was too near the surface for me to argue with you – or even ask for specifics.

"Stay home tonight. No more clients, no more 'dancing for tips.'"

I nodded and you kissed my face. Relying on you was such simple bliss.

You slipped off the silks I'd chosen and replaced them with one of your sweaters, draping off my narrow shoulders and down past my fingertips. Then you led me back to the kitchen and pulled everything out of the fridge: restaurant takeout boxes, bread and butter, boiled eggs, a cheese I'd stolen on a whim. You didn't know yet about the caches of food in the walls. I'll admit I was a little strange in the early days. Fugo says it's all down to my history, but Fugo's full of shit. You sat me at the table and piled everything in front of me.

"Eat. Eat anything you want until you're full. I don't understand why you eat like a manic pigeon–"

"What?"

"You're frantic for food and then you fly off somewhere, and the meal is still on the plate! It's bizarre. I swear every inch of height you're gaining is coming straight off your ribs. You finally hit a damn a growth spurt, you need to feed yourself better or you're going to look like a wraith forever."

"That's not fair. I ate tonight!"

"Half a panini."

"It wasn't good. There were slimy peppers in it."

Yes, the timeless challenges of swiping other people's take-out orders.

"We have other food," you argued. "You steal plenty."

"There's never time to eat."

"We're unemployed!"

I sighed. "They won't look at me the same way if I put on weight."

"You are seriously underweight. You're nineteen and you look sixteen. If you eat, you won't gain weight, you'll just grow."

"Yeah. Exactly. My clients aren't looking for grown men."

You sat down opposite me and dropped your chin on your hand. I was losing the battle against my existential hunger, though. I cracked a boiled egg and started peeling the shell away.

"Anyone who wishes you were sixteen is a fucked-up individual," you informed me, tapping the table for emphasis. "You can't tell me those have been your best experiences."

"No," I admitted quietly.

Moody Blues brought you a knife and you cut some slices off the cheese. After watching me eat for a long moment, you asked, "They hurt you? Clients?"

"That's not the goal."

"But it still happens?"

I nodded.

You looked sick, so I hurried to explain as I started on a second egg.

"I have Sticky Fingers these days. I can get away if it's too much. And I won't come back to anyone who leaves a mark. I tell them that up front."

You shook your head. "Those are still some shitty standards, Bruno."

I shrugged. "It doesn't always bother me. I don't expect you to understand. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're very vanilla in your tastes."

"Wasn't always. Zo took everything too far. You don't find it difficult?"

"Find what difficult?"

"Placing yourself in a position to get hurt again. Reliving old nightmares. It doesn't set your teeth on edge?"

"I don't have feelings about it anymore. And anyway, I don't remember the worst of it. And if I can't stand it, I just tune out."

"What? How the hell do you tune out? Or forget? How the fuck does that work?"

"Leone, not everyone has a photographic memory. Or a stand that gives them flashbacks. People don't remember everything. It's normal."

"What you're telling me is not normal. You just forget your trauma?"

"Sure. If you don't think about it, then it's not yours. It's just a thing that happened and now it's not happening anymore."

"Except that it is. You keep putting yourself in the same damn situations."

"Ehn."

"No! You're upset about this. Look, you were supposed to stop peeling that egg when the shell was off. Now you're just wasting food. You're definitely upset, I can tell. Nights that you head back out, you're not eating, you drink too much. You come back giddy and totally spaced out. I thought you were just that drunk, until we ran out of wine and nothing changed. Bruno, it scares me. It's awful, seeing you live this way."

"It's fine. I'm totally fine. Besides the fucking quotas, I'm happier than I've ever been."

"One of your clients started mailing us his payments. Because you forget to take the cash, because you're so out of it. It's not fine. It was never fine."

"I'm done with that one. Too many strange bruises and I never remember what happens with him. Bad news. I'm out."

"Jesus Christ, Bruno! What kind of hell have you been putting yourself through?"

"I don't know. No, listen. I don't know and I don't want to know. It doesn't matter."

"You scare me, child. Damn right, you're out. As of tomorrow, you're officially out of the entire business. Now come to bed. You hardly sleep, either."

---

(Abbacchio)

That was the first time you ever seemed fragile to me. Flighty, flaky, more bizarre with every new facet of your life that came to light – but in that moment, suddenly you were as light and brittle as a shell. I was a little afraid to touch you. I tucked you in bed with three blankets, nonsensically worried about the October chill.

"Where are you going?"

"Just down to the water." I held up your cell phone. I hadn't invested in one for myself yet. "Borrowing this. I have two calls to make. For tomorrow."

"Leone."

You were reaching after me. I leaned down and kissed you.

"Go to sleep. Don't worry. I'll be right back."

"Leave the lamp on."

"I know."

You never could sleep with the light off. Even if I woke after midnight and turned it off, you'd get restless and fretful in your sleep. I was getting used to sleeping with my head under a pillow. It helped muffle my nightmares, too, so that sometimes we both slept through the night.

The rain had turned to cold mist when I stepped out the door. The wind blustered and sighed. Clouds raced overhead. It was my favorite kind of night for long walks, but this was hardly the time to leave you alone for hours.

My first call was to your patron. The number you had was for his day job, partner at an overpriced law office where surely clerks did all the real work. I left him a voicemail. It was essential to get on his calendar for the wrong date. I hesitated a long minute before placing my second call. The blood rushing in my ears whispered no, but I didn't have another way to get the help we needed. In the end, I dialed the number that was scarred into my mind and clenched my eyes shut against memories while the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Zo?"

"Leone? Babe, is that you?"

"Yeah. How are you doing, love?"

"Oh, babe, it's good to hear your voice again. I miss you like crazy."

Oh, God, his voice. My heart was trained to beat for him; my ears were ringing with fear, and still my instinct was to wrap him in my arms at the first sign of his unhappiness.

"I'm sorry, love." There it was, the instant apology. I cringed. When had this become who I was? "You okay otherwise?"

"Yeah. Things are… things are great. The squad's better than ever."

"You were feeling high-strung when I left, love. Sounds like you're doing better on that front, too."

"Yeah. Definitely. Leone, what I said – you know that didn't mean anything, right?"

"When you said you'd kill me before you'd let me leave?"

It hurt to say it aloud. You don't believe me, but we were good once, Zo and I.

"No, I meant that," Zo told me with that casual cruelty he has. "You know I meant that, babe. I used to tell you all the time. I mean when I said about the others – that I'd kept you alive–"

"Yeah. I remember that, Zo."

"There were never… others. That's just something I say when I'm upset. It was just the nerves talking."

"Okay, love."

"I don't want you worrying about it."

I took a deep breath and committed myself to a very serious lie.

"Love, I already knew. It never worried me."

"You knew?"

"Of course I knew, love."

"And that didn't… you didn't let that come between us?"

"Hey, I always told you I accepted you for who you are, didn't I? You think a little thing like that would bother me?"

"Leone, I always knew you were something special. If you would have stayed…"

A year ago, it would have meant something to me when his voice went feather-soft like that. Today I answered him with steel-cold truth.

"You were going to kill me sooner or later, Zo."

"That's true, babe."

If he was alone, he would have argued that point. He would have begged me to come back, guilt trip after filthy, self-indulgent guilt trip. So I knew my next line would work.

"Zo, can you put Illuso on the line?"

"What? How do you know he's here?"

"Saw it coming a mile away. You're too gorgeous to stay lonely for long. Could you put him on the phone, sweetheart?"

"So you guys can talk about me? Not a fucking chance, babe."

"Nothing to do with you, Zo. Just business."

"You only called to talk to him? Is that it?"

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't think of it that way! No. I gritted my teeth.

"What? I called you last week! Because I was worried about you! I can't call my ex and also loop in some business with his new lover? Honestly, Zo, I expected better from this breakup."

"Aw, I remember when you used to have a spine. Kinda miss those days."

"Before you broke everything good about me?"

How did that slip out?

"Yeah. Every second was worth it, though. The way you whimpered… Hey, you weren't faking for me, were you, babe?"

"Can't fake broken bones, Zo. You saw the x-rays."

"Yeah. Yeah, babe. I'm sorry for doubting you. It's so hard, looking back. I'm still trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't, you know?"

"Oh, I know." I rolled my eyes, pushed a hand through my hair. He was doing that on purpose, I told myself. Wasn't he? Didn't he know how he'd sabotaged my sense of reality? Or did he?

"Of course you do," Zo purred. "Okay, you want to talk to Illuso?"

"Yeah, love. Thanks."

A moment later, Illuso's warm, genial voice came over the line and I realized how much tension I'd been holding, just dealing with Zo's self-centered logic again. Believing him. Questioning myself.

"Hey, Abbacchio, is that really you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Who else does Zo dice up like that?"

"You want me to answer that?"

"Nah, tell me later."

"Hey, you're really still alive! The squad's gonna get a kick out of that."

"Laugh it up. While it lasts."

"What did you want to ask me about, man?"

"You do transportation, right? Some kind of instant teleport?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"Think you could pick up me and a friend from Naples sometime around ten tomorrow morning? We need to get to Sicily and back in a heartbeat."

"Not a problem. Bring a hand mirror. Give me a wink when you're ready. Or a thumbs up. Whatever suits you, guy-o."

"Just a hand mirror? You can find us?"

"I'll be watching out for you. It's that Buccelati kid with you, right? I could find that one anywhere. Not a problem."

He was almost laughing, teasing me – but who doesn't crush on you, after all?

"So you don't want an address or anything?"

"Negative. The less I know, am I right?"

"Got it. Thanks. I'll owe you one."

"I'm counting on it. Hey, Zo-honey wants to get back on the line."

Before I could say anything, Illuso had passed the phone back to Zo.

"Leone, babe, before you go, I just have to know. Do you still keep my dreams in your heart?"

"Twin steel dreams, lover. Barbed." I rubbed my chest where Zo's fishhooks produced a monotonous ache. I hadn't told you about them yet; the idea of trusting you with open heart surgery still made me queasy. "You never planned on letting me go, did you, Zo?"

"Never. Not in a million years."

A thought came to me – a cold, cold thought.

"And that's what you told the others?"

"I didn't let them go."

I noticed my hand was shaking.

"Goodnight, love."

"You don't love him like you loved me, do you?"

"No one's like you, Zo. Goodnight."

"Can I call you at this number sometimes?"

"It's not my phone. Goodnight, Zo."

If he was speaking, I didn't hear it over the buzzing in my head. I missed a couple times before successfully pressing the button to hang up.

I stared into the night, wondering if I'd just earned you a persistent phone stalker, until I remembered that I'd called Zo's landline and he didn't even pay for caller ID. He didn't have the number. That last comment was just to needle me. Classic Zo.

---

You weren't asleep, even though I knew you were dead tired. You were squinting at the ceiling, running your fingers back and forth along a zipper you'd opened on one of the pillows. I hoped you hadn't stashed any food in there, but it didn't open onto the pillow's real interior – it's impossible to see into your voids. I made another mental note to address the food hoarding with you sometime when you weren't so frayed.

"All set," I told you, taking my pajamas.

"Hey."

I stopped in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"You don't have to leave the room to change clothes. I mean, why?"

Doubts flitted across your face like the shadows of seabirds. I came back to sit on the edge of the bed next to you, leaned down to kiss your forehead.

"I love you," I told you.

You twisted your fingers into mine. "Then why? We sleep together, your hands have been all over me, your mouth, even – why not you? Why can't you undress with me?"

"I'm just not there yet."

"It's been a month!"

"Thirty-six days." I traced your fingers lightly with mine and got exactly the gasp I wanted to hear.

"I've never stayed with anyone for a month," you whispered.

"Just wait till you see the second year." I lifted your hand to run my tongue between your fingers. "That's when you get to do the weird stuff."

"You fucking tease." You tried to pull your hand away. I turned it over and mouthed your palm, drawing a moan from you. "Leone, I want you. I want to know what you're like, I want you to take me. When–?"

"Soon." I kissed each of your hands and gave them back to you. "When the nightmares ease up. Maybe then."

You bit your lip, looking up at me like you'd just noticed. "I'm sorry. I forget. I mean, how can I forget? I know exactly what you've been through. I guess I put it out of my mind, I don't like to think about it. It doesn't go with who you are, so it's easiest to put it in the past."

I kissed you again, stood up. "More of your forgetting? I wish I found it so easy."

When I came back in pajamas, your eyes were only for me.

"Are you okay?" you asked me as I arranged myself around you on the narrow bed.

I was done with lies. I shook my head.

"I'm sorry. That was a dumb question. Of course–"

"Shut up," I whispered and pulled you closer. The world was safer, warmer, more worth living in with you filling my arms and your lips locked onto mine. Sweet, tone-deaf thing that you were.

"Leone, do you want to–?"

"No."

"Then why–?"

You tried to sit up and I tightened my arms around you.

"No. Stay."

Frustration flitted across your face, then that little frown. Then clarity. "Oh. Okay."

You settled in and returned my affections, and I was grateful. Grateful for the guileless sweetness of you. You let me bore you with my dull needs for once; let me press my cheek against yours and breathe you in and feel your fine bones and ropey muscles under my hands. Only your hands were restless. Only your thoughts were restless birds, circling and eying and pecking and taking wing again.

"Leone, how did you end up with Zo?"

I pushed up on one elbow to examine your face. "You already know everything I'm sharing about that."

"But why did it happen? How did you get there?"

I kissed your cheek. "I was worthless. He picked me up. There's nothing more to tell."

"That's a lie. You never tell me about yourself. I told you about working for Nicolas and I don't tell people that. It's your turn."

"But we're even, aren't we? Since you already know about Zo."

"No. Tell me how you got there."

You have the most beautiful eyes. Blue eyes should not be that blue. I always think of the sea when I look at you; relentless waves, sharp clean breezes, and white birds circling high overhead. You are like the sea, really: mercurial and implacable, generous and heartless at once. I knew you wouldn't try to offer absolution if I told you, and maybe that's what set me at ease.

"Alright. I'll tell you if you tell me one more in return."

"What's that?"

"No, make me a deal. One confidence for another. What do you say?"

You never could resist those small intimacies. "You've got it."

"I grew up in Florence," I told you, as you settled your head under my chin to listen. I stroked your hair; it made it easier. "I was always like this – never happy, I mean. I joined the police force straight out of high school. I thought at least my life could be worth something to other people, if I could right some wrongs. Then my partner – the first partner they assigned me to work with, you know, as a cop – well, he fell for me. I took too long to accept it."

"You didn't know yet that you were gay?"

"No, I always knew. I didn't know what to do about it. My parents – well, that's another story. Anyway. We only had a couple months together, and I loved him, you have no idea, and then – Bruno, I made a terrible mistake. It was my fault, I betrayed my principles, and the consequence – he took a bullet meant for me."

I was choking up, but you just held onto me.

"Damn."

"He died and it's my fault."

"And that's why–?"

"Yeah. That's why. The drinking came first. Then Zo. And then you stole me, and now I'm your problem."

You nodded and denied nothing. My facts sank like an anchor; you just let me be who I said I was. I breathed a little easier.

"So," I said. "Tell me why you don't smuggle anymore."

"What? Why that?"

"Because it must be important to you. It's your best skill, isn't it? The most obvious use of your stand – the safest, the most profitable. You could solve our quota problems in a heartbeat if you got back in touch with your old smuggling team, and they're right here in Naples! Pericolo's team."

"Tagliatelle's. Pericolo is his second-in-command."

"Close enough. But anytime I suggest it, you won't consider it. It's even lower on your list than sex work. Why is that? What makes the smuggling business so unbearable?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You promised." I stopped your objections with kisses. "You promised."

"Okay," you breathed reluctantly. "It's because of my father. And Nicolas."

"Yeah?"

"And just… some terrible coincidences. You know? Coincidences that make me wonder about my life here in Passione."

Your muscles tensed up as quickly as I could loosen them. This story made you miserable, but I needed to know.

"You told me some of this before," I said, "but tell me about the coincidences."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. My father was attacked by drug smugglers and ended up in the hospital. They came to finish him off and I killed them instead. I told you that, right? Terrible, but this is Italy, we live under mob rule. These things happen. But the next day – it was the next morning, Nicolas's recruiters met me at my door. This door, this house. And they convinced me I had to join Passione for protection against whoever the smugglers had been working for."

I thought that over for a second. "So how did they know where you lived?"

"How did they know any of it? All of it! They knew my father had been attacked, they knew it was me who defended him at the hospital, they knew the smugglers had been killed – they even knew the story that the men were posing as tourists."

"And none of that had hit the newspapers yet?"

"It never did. The only version of the story that printed was that a local fisherman was shot dead by drug dealers. Nothing about the hospital, nothing about their cover story, nothing about my fighting back. My father's not even on the hospital's records. All that, it's like it never happened."

"So the enemy gang that the smugglers were working for…?"

"I don't know, Leone. Was there another gang actively smuggling at this port in the year 1987?"

"I have no idea."

"And it's impossible to find out." You dropped your head back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Nothing in the newspapers. I've broken in and searched police records, I've tried court documents – nothing! Anything having to do with mafia activity in Naples is redacted or simply missing. There's nothing. Nothing."

"You've really been searching for this. That's dangerous. It's not like you to take those kinds of risks."

I puzzled over you, smoothing your hair back from your face. You shook your head, undoing my work.

"Leone, ever since – listen, the last time I met with Nicolas in person, he kicked me in the teeth and laughed at me, and then he told me about my father's will that he had kept from me. For years. I assumed the house had been repossessed! I could have had somewhere to sleep when I got back from Rome – no Tagliatelle, no strangers, none of it. Four years – can you imagine? And he told me he'd been intercepting all the money I'd tried to send home over the years."

"Shit, he even took your damn underage hooker money?"

"Yeah, along with every last cent of my share from every team I ever worked on. Seven goddamn years. Plus he takes bribes for placing me with a team. That's why he moved me every six months. God knows how much Tagliatelle paid to keep me for two years."

"Christ, Bruno, Nicolas must have made a killing off you! And he cut away every safety net you had in order to do it. If you could have even stayed in one place and gotten established… And the lies. God damn!"

"Yeah… That's why it makes me wonder."

"Wonder what, exactly?"

"Do you think–" You propped up on one elbow to look down at me. "It's hard to think about this, when my life is so hopelessly invested in Passione, but do you think Nicolas is the one who targeted my father? To get to me?"

"Oh. I see what you mean."

"What if it wasn't a random encounter with smugglers?" you mused. "What if they were Nicolas's own men, posing as someone else's smugglers?"

"And Nicolas sent them to put you in a position where his recruiters could pressure you to join Passione?"

Your face showed the strain of holding these suspicions while devoting your life to this organization. Talking about it only seemed to add to your misery, but you pushed onward.

"Leone… In Rome, I saw one of them – Nicolas sent me there, when I was fourteen, because my father was dying – he didn't want me to know – and my lieutenant there, I think he was one of them, only I can't be certain – I didn't see his face properly. It was almost dawn–"

"Bruno, slow down. You're not making sense."

You spread your hands helplessly. I saw it; you were reaching for the truth, but it shredded under your touch as if by so many zippers.

"Tell me from the beginning," I said, wrapping your hands in mine.

"Oh, you don't want to know about this part. Trust me, you don't. It's just that, the man who had me in Rome, I think he was – only, I never saw his face properly, because of the dark–"

"Bruno. Just tell me, or it won't make sense at all."

"Okay, but Rome is when my memories started getting slippery. I think it's from the concussions, but maybe the darkness. Or being dehydrated all the time. I–"

"What the hell happened to you in Rome?"

"It's the lieutenant who had me there. He didn't want me to see his face, I think. At the time, I thought it was just how he wanted things, but now I think it was secrecy. He locked me in a closet most of the time, and there was no light, not even through a crack under the door. Just total darkness. I lost track of time a lot, he'd leave me there for days. I think. I was just in a daze so much of the time. Because he only gave me food and water when he took me out to use me."

"'Use?'"

"Oh, for burglary mostly. I didn't have Sticky Fingers yet, but I was small – none of them did a good job feeding me, until Tagliatelle – so I could climb and sneak in lots of places. I don't know if he didn't have a team to help with these jobs, or he was keeping secrets from Passione, but he always sent me in alone. He had me break into a museum once, he wanted a couple of the artifacts. I've never seen anything so amazing. And there were lights in the display cases. It was so beautiful. I wandered around for hours until he sent his stand in after me. I… I cried about drinking fountains for days after that. I guess that sounds stupid. You don't even know. You wanna know what's even stupider? I never found the café. Museums are supposed to have cafés, right? I was just a starving child walking around a museum at night, dodging the alarms, until this horrible bird-headed stand came after me and made me do my job."

"Bruno…"

"Don't look so worried. I turned out fine, didn't I?"

"Yeah? And he was only using you for burglary?"

"Oh, sex, too, obviously. But he never hurt me. He was very gentle with me. Honestly, that made it worse. I wanted to hate him like the others – more than anyone before – but he made that impossible. He'd give me food – good food, he'd let me sit down with a meal and have as much as I wanted, if I didn't resist. More, if I… if I played along. He wanted me to enjoy him." You shook your head, looking lost. "That stuff messes with your head, you know? Of course you know, you had Zo. So yeah… I was supposed to hate him, but I couldn't shake the associations. I still can't. I can't tell the difference between being safe, being wanted, and having enough to eat. That's why I still turn to sex when I'm completely losing my shit. You'd think I'd be scared, but I'm too fucked-up to be scared. I keep coming back for more of the same."

"Okay, that solves that particular mystery. Scary. Now tell me who he was. You kept trying to tell me and I still don't know what you meant."

"Yeah, when I actually got to see his face… Okay, so one time, he had me out for a job in a strange warehouse type place – I still don't know what that was – and I managed to escape into the sewers through a loose grate. I got lost all night. It was – I didn't have any light with me. It was surreal. I found a grate under a streetlamp and I thought about staying there until morning, but I knew his stand would find me if I didn't keep moving. I never found out what it did, besides pecking with that horrible dagger beak, but it could track me down somehow. Anyway. I finally saw some light down the end of one tunnel – blue, not orange like street light – and it let me out into this drainage ditch area with trees and sky. It was almost dawn, the sky was aquamarine blue – I was so excited that I was going to see sunlight again for the first time in a year, but he was right there waiting. He was right there, like he hadn't even had to search for me. And his face, Leone – I swear, it was before dawn and I can't be sure of anything because those memories are so swimmy, but I swear it was one of them."

"One of who?"

You gaped at me like I was stupid. It was so obvious to you.

"The two men – the men who came back after my father! In the hospital!"

"The men you killed?"

"Exactly! The whole damn reason I joined Passione in the first place!"

"So they're alive."

"And he's someone who knows Nicolas…"

"Oh, God, you mean it was a scam all along?"

"I don't know," you said, wretched. "I can't know, because I was lost in the sewers all night. I was beyond hypothermia, he didn't give me food or water before we went out – and everything was so dark! I could have imagined it – I could have imagined the entire year, I was never in my right mind. I don't trust a single memory from Rome. But Leone, it was so real at the same time. I'm so certain."

"Didn't you ever see his face again?"

"No, I never did. He dragged me home behind him and threw me back in the closet, still in my filthy clothes. He never came back. Or I guess he would have eventually, but – that's when Sticky Fingers manifested."

"Wait, you could already see stands, though."

"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe Sticky Fingers was… latent. Waiting and I couldn't call it out, or something. I didn't know yet that seeing stands means you have one, so I hadn't tried. I was just trapped in my awful closet again, with the smell from the sewers filling up all the space, and a ton of splinters in my hands from trying to break down the door again, and I knew I had a fever. I was afraid I'd caught it from the sewage, but I thought it was more likely just heat stroke. It was a miserably hot day, unless that was just my fever. I knew I needed to get water and cool my body temperature, but you know I spent a year trying to escape from that closet and there was just no way out.

"And then, I kept seeing his face in my mind's eye. When there's nothing to see, you can imagine things much more vividly. I latched onto the idea that the men who attacked my father had kidnapped me, actually, and that explained my life ever since. The abuse, the hunger, the constant fear. It was so reasonable. I couldn't fight that conviction. I still can't."

I nodded. That was my assessment of your situation as well, in fact.

"So I just hit this wave of despair. I didn't want to die, specifically, but it was the only way out. It turns out you can't kill yourself by hitting your head on a wall because you lose consciousness before you do enough damage every time. At least when you're fifteen and weak as shit. I don't know how long I tried that, or if that's why my memory is complete shit now, or if that's because of everything else, like fearing for my life one-hundred percent of the time for a year straight–"

"My money's on that one."

"Yeah. But eventually I became convinced there was a, a presence in the closet with me and I was terrified. I felt like I was outside myself – and I didn't know that's just how it feels when you raise your stand – so I started hammering the door with my busted-up fists again. And the door just peeled away. It was like – it was a perfect miracle, Leone. I was so far beyond understanding what was happening, but the light was just everywhere. I felt like my head was going to shatter – I don't mean poetically, I literally had a blinding headache at that point. Sticky Fingers carried me out of there. He dumped me in the bath and ran the shower over me until I kind of came to. That's when I realized I had a stand.

"And then we got the hell out of there and back to Naples. And I found out my father had died while I was trapped in Rome. But I got on Tagliatelle's team at that point, and that was so much easier. I mean, he still – Look, he took me in to live in his house and fed me and trained me and treated me like a real person. Besides the most boring sex of my life, I have no complaints about that one. Until someone blackmailed his wife about me – or he says they did, who knows – and Nicolas moved me to Merengue's team until they got hit-listed, and that's how I met you. So I never saw that lieutenant's face again, and I never found out what his name was."

I just stared at you and kept petting your face until I figured out words to say.

"That was a terrible story, Bruno."

"You look so worried. You don't have to worry about me. It was a bad time, but I'm fine now. It's kind of a miracle, isn't it? You'd think I'd at least get panic attacks–"

"Or crying spells."

"Yeah, so I get those, but–"

"Claustrophobia. Can't sleep in the dark."

"Okay, but no nightmares–"

"You definitely have nightmares, but you don't wake up or remember them. And then there's the weird food hoarding thing you do?"

"Oh, you noticed. Sorry."

"Massive trust issues, constant fear of abandonment, unable to sustain a relationship longer than a few weeks–"

"But maybe I was always like that."

"With a history like that, how did you not catch all the STDs?"

"Weird thing about that. I, um, thought I had. When I got back to Napoli and finally saw a doctor. They gave me all these medications. But actually. I ate at this one restaurant and got horrible food poisoning and everything went away. Don't look at me like that, I'm serious. I took about fifteen blood tests because I didn't believe it either. I've never gotten anything since. Not even a cold."

"Are you delusional?"

"I'm so serious."

"What restaurant?"

"They closed."

"That's awfully convenient."

"No, it's not! Do you know how many times I've thought, what if I could just go there and maybe it would work on injuries, too? Limbs I just zipped back on and they still hurt like hell? Daily muscle strain? This damn shoulder? The owner moved to Japan. He left a note. Maybe someday we'll get ahead of the quotas enough to take a vacation and I can show you."

"So we're both getting tested tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Monday, then."

"Fine, but I'm not kidding and I'm not delusional. I have an inexplicable immunity. It's like fate piled up all this horror on one side of the scale, and this one little feather of miracle on the other side. And Sticky Fingers, and you. I don't know how I got through seven years of hell to get to you, but I'm here and I'm fine. Basically fine."

"Are you, darling? Is this what 'fine' looks like?" I cradled your face, seeing grief in every line. "So what part of that explains why you refuse to do smuggling?"

"It's the – the conviction that my father's attackers kidnapped me, and the one who kept me trapped in Rome, while my father was dying, and I feel like – I feel like I'm still working for them. The same people who took my father from me. And usually I can set those thoughts aside – I have no proof, and what would I do about it, even if I did? – but smuggling reminds me. Of everything."

I blew out a long breath that ruffled your hair. You were right, obviously right – Passione had lured you away from home and used you in what appeared to be a child prostitution ring. What had you done about it? Lived in denial. Thrived in spite of it. I mean, what could you do, in the face of Passione's inescapable violence? Deserters are traitors, and traitors can't be saved. But what would I do? It was obvious enough how to handle Nicolas, but after that? How many others?

"Leone?"

How long had I been staring at the ceiling?

"Leone, do you hate me now that you know everything?"

"No. I love you exactly the same as when I was kissing you twenty minutes ago. You remember that, right?"

You pulled away, looking hurt. "I'm not that forgetful!"

"Okay, but in case you forgot just a little–"

I caught you and kissed you again. Until you relaxed, until you twined around me again.

"Orphan child," I whispered in your ear, "I know you doubt my love about every five minutes. I don't blame you for it. You've lost so much already. But I'm not going anywhere. And nothing they do can make me love you any less."

"But I'm so used," you whispered back, pressing your face into my chest. "I'm so damaged. How could you possibly want this?"

"Doesn't change a thing." I held you tighter. "I love you more than anyone ever has. More than you love yourself."

That earned me a look of surprise. What, you thought I hadn't noticed that about you?

"Let me take back what they've done to you. Okay? That's my gift to you."

You nodded. You probably thought I meant the ways I'd touch you that night, all the ways we took each other back from past hurts. I didn't. Later, you'd think I meant my plan for Nicolas. Not that, either – or, not only that. It was a promise years in the keeping. Years, beloved, but finally, today, it's finished.

---

(Bucciarati)

When you woke me, the night before was a muddle of love and doubt. I stretched and found my body riddled with muscle aches from the day before, a stress headache already setting in.

"Oh, what the hell did we do last night?"

It was my go-to question for any lover – paying or otherwise – who woke me up with new pains and no memories. You frowned, confused, and I was embarrassed for doubting you, my safest love yet. But when your back was turned, I made a quick inspection for new cuts or bruises. Nothing. So why the fog? Emboldened, I pressed my mind for memories, but it was like trying to remember a dream. I knew we'd talked. Cold misery from the past threatened to curl its way in like fog. I shut that door tight.

I took my hands away from rubbing my eyes and realized you were watching me struggle. You sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand.

"Nothing new," you reassured me gently. "We talked, mostly. You explained to me about the gaps in memory, for one thing. How much do you remember?"

"You canceled my new client. Quite rudely." I smiled. "We argued. You wish I wasn't taking clients at all. I don't remember how you convinced me to stay home, but I do remember you insistently feeding me dinner. You called me a manic pigeon. You put me to bed and you left to make a phone call. Then… I told you more about Nicolas, didn't I?"

You nodded expectantly.

"And how I started taking clients," I said more quietly. "That's probably when I started to space out. Sorry."

"Really? I didn't notice a change at any point. You didn't stop talking. You got more talkative, in fact."

"I know. I'm very sociable when I'm blacking out. With or without drinking. I've had a few people tell me before. One lover said I made less emotional sense, whatever that means. I don't make sense emotionally all the time, so I don't know how you'd notice that."

You considered that for a moment, sipping coffee.

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't apologize. We talked about Nicolas, and you told me a lot about Rome, too."

The word fell like a stone into deep water – ripples, the memory of darkness, and then all my feelings were gone. The memories I have of Rome loomed large in my mind and I felt nothing about them. It's disorienting, trying to navigate a conversation when your feelings have gone numb.

I shook my head. "I don't talk about that."

It's all I could think to say.

You frowned. "Well. You did."

"Obviously."

"You said some about how it affects you. Why you don't want to settle for smuggling, for example."

"Okay."

"And I told you about my partner, too. Before Zo. Because you asked."

You waited and I didn't know why.

"You don't remember that, either?"

I shook my head. "It'll come back to me."

I'm sorry. I realized later how that hurt – that you looked away so I wouldn't see it, not because you were done with the conversation. But Leone, if you're going to name-drop the horror that drowned all my feelings in the first place, I don't know what other result you expect.

"Okay," I said with false brightness, swinging out of bed and heading for coffee. "New day, same problems. You want to hit some ATMs with Blues today, and I'll try to make the airport protections scam happen again?"

"Actually, love, we're paying a visit to Nicolas today. That's why you stayed home last night."

"No. That's not a good plan."

I accepted a mug of café latte from Blues. Perfect stand if you want the same thing every day and never move your coffee supplies. I liked it better without my face, but my replays make my coffee exactly the way I like it.

"We're renegotiating our debts," you told me mildly, setting Blues into a replay of yourself to start on toast with jam.

"That's not what's going to happen if we visit him," I told you. "If you don't like my taking clients, you're really not going to like Nicolas' attitude toward me."

"I expect not. Incidentally, can you use Sticky Fingers to do an engraving? I have a gift for your patron."

You were already dressed for the day, apparently including your complement of throwing knives. I'd honestly forgotten you carried those, considering I never saw you use them. You drew one now and dropped it in my hand.

"It needs to say, 'There never were any others.' Can you do it?"

I was baffled. "What?"

You crossed your arms. "Are you with me here? You can leave a seam with your zippers when you choose to, correct? So theoretically, you can engrave a metal blade?"

"Oh. Probably." The coffee was helping, but I was still chasing wisps of numbness from my soul. So I held the knife against the table – more like a long flat dart than a knife, dark iron metal with cruel edges – and I carefully guided Sticky Fingers to cut the letters, one straight stroke at a time.

I managed a slanting gothic effect, in fact. I was rather proud of my first attempt, but when I showed it to you, you only shook your head and gave me another knife.

"It needs to look fancy, like something you paid to have done," you told me. "Do it again."

"How many identical knives do you even carry?" I groused, starting over.

"Six."

"Why don't you just keep one? Or two? Why aren't they on a chain? How do you expect to retrieve your damn knives after you throw them?"

"Blues is pretty handy at catching them when I miss."

Behind us, Blues cleared the dishes and began washing up. It doesn't just do replays; it's a clever, dexterous stand in its own right, though not particularly strong. Hearing its name, the stand glanced our way and I winked at it. It tilted its head toward me, somehow managing to convey affection. Blues doesn't speak, but it's as expressive as a dancer.

You didn't notice our brief flirtation. You were holding the first, botched knife over a stove burner to smooth away the lettering. Alright, admittedly, it had looked a bit like a child's handwriting.

"You don't even use these," I commented. "I assumed they were some kind of keepsake from police academy or something."

I handed you the second attempt. You handed it back.

"Cross the 't.'"

You examined the finished product, turning it so the sunlight caught the slightly indented letters. Blues came to hover at your shoulder, dripping soapy water. You glanced up at it – it's weird how you gain insights from your stand, as if you weren't entirely the same person.

"You're right," you murmured, and buffed the entire knife with a dish towel before pocketing it. How bizarre. "Bruno, does Nicolas use security cameras in his office?"

"No," I said.

The question caught me off guard. I still hadn't absorbed that you earnestly planned to meet with Nicolas today. In my mind, it was a fool's errand and I had already discarded it.

"Okay. Then this should work. I'm feeling confident about this meeting. Are you ready to go?"

Was I? I was nodding before I considered the reality of another face-to-face encounter with Nicolas, and you outpaced my ability to worry.

Even looking back, that whole day feels like a fairy tale – like it never could have gone any other way, despite the insane risks you ran for me.

---

(Abbacchio)

"Why are we at a sauna? I thought we were going to Sicily."

"Mm," I answered, stripping. "Go on, get naked. The more eyebrows we raise, the better."

It was lucky we'd both gotten into the hot tub when the breakfast tray arrived. The young girl who opened the door was clearly used to guests like us. She kept her eyes determinedly on the floor as she set down the tray, but her flushed cheeks and hurried retreat spoke volumes.

"Perfect," I said, releasing you. I climbed out and immediately started toweling dry. "Come on, we've got about an hour."

"Leone?"

"Come on!" I threw a towel at you and pulled on my clothes.

While you caught up, I put the tray in the sauna room and closed the door, setting the light and the timer to make it look occupied. After the poor girl with the breakfast tray, no one would be knocking on that door. Then I pulled the hand mirror from my pocket and flipped it open. To my surprise, Illuso was already there with us. I glanced over my shoulder to where he seemed to stand, but of course he wasn't there. In the mirror, he grinned and gave me two thumbs-up.

I turned so you fit in the mirror's frame, too. Nothing happened, but it felt like I'd somehow turned around while standing still. Then the tiles of the room around us began flipping to reveal mirrored backs, and we were standing in a room composed entirely of mirrors and reflecting surfaces.

The floor was a thousand puddles, a million confetti stars and glass fragments, each winking with a reflected image – sun, sky, ceiling, neon lights. The walls were layered with mirrors and windows, some framed and some bare. I even recognized the sideview mirrors of cars, the curved hood mirrors of buses and trucks. Some were even smashed, but each one looked onto a different scene. Like huge and tiny television screens, they showed city streets, children playing in parks, men and women preening in private and public bathrooms, and here and there the sea. I thought every scene was in Naples, but I could have been wrong. Flat and curved mirrors tilting overhead crowded the space above us, reflecting a dizzying array of bird's eye views: convenience stores interiors, airport causeways, street corners, hotel rooms.

I turned and he was right there, where he'd appeared to be standing in the mirror.

"Welcome back," Illuso said, clapping each of us on the shoulder. The mirrors all blinked at once and suddenly there were four simple walls, one simple ceiling, one floor. We were standing in a comfortable Italian parlor room. "Good to see you both alive and well. Where can I take you to?"

You reached out to touch one of the velvet chairs, but your hand touched the surface of a mirror wall first. The chair was beyond. We were in a space within the space we saw, a mime box approximately the size of an elevator. "Where is this?"

"This is home." Outside, a dog barked, followed by a child's laughter. "We're not really there, of course. It's just where my mind goes first, by nature."

"Sicily," I reminded him. "Law offices of Brasato, Carbonara y Carbonara."

"So it works like this," Illuso said patiently. "Either you have a vivid memory of the place, or I do, or you have a connection of ownership. Which of those things is true today?"

"I've been there," you said, lounging against the invisible wall. "With indelible memories."

"Alright, then. You focus on that, Buccelati, and Man In The Mirror will work the magic."

You closed your eyes, a frown touching your brow. I don't think you realized that you'd wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you stood in your own personal storm. The walls separated into individual mirrors again, and they began to flicker, catching shades of sepia and cool browns until it became obvious that they let onto a wood-paneled office. A bookcase with pristine legal volumes stood guard over an old-fashioned desk. Mullioned windows opened onto tile roofs and the sea beyond. The last mirrors joined the scene and the illusion was complete. You hiccuped once and opened your eyes.

"This is the place," you said quietly, looking a bit sick.

"Then I'll leave you here," Illuso said. "You want me, you open that mirror. I'm keeping an eye out for you. Just turn it so I don't see anything you wouldn't want seen, if that's clear."

"Crystal," I said.

I shook his hand, until suddenly his hand wasn't there anymore. We were standing alone in the office of Nicolas Brasato, avvocati y notevole capo mafioso. A shiver went through you.

"Touch nothing," I said. "We were never here."

"What?"

I walked to the desk and, raising Blues, lifted the gilt-edged page of the daily planner. "We have an appointment with him for tomorrow at 10:30am. Clearly there's been some kind of misunderstanding, but it's my informed opinion that we're not currently here at all."

You frowned at me, then nodded slowly. "Noted."

Just then, the door handle rattled and you jumped. I squeezed your hand for reassurance, then went to stand looking out the window as coolly as I could. I still had a perfect view of the room in the reflection on the glass.

"Why, Bruno!" Nicolas's voice was surprisingly deep and warm. To listen to, he sounded like a favorite uncle. I thought of Zo's house in Caesarea and shuddered. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow. Oh, and I see you've brought your latest boyfriend. What a pleasant surprise."

"Leone Abbacchio," you said through gritted teeth. "My partner."

I did my best to look useless. In the window glass, I saw Nicolas's eyes evaluate me and slide off me again.

"Of course, of course. I'm well aware of his name, you know, after the fuss Risotto Nero made about the transfer. Abbacchio this, Bucciarati that. It was Passione gossip for a solid week. Quite the splashy beginning, you two, but you haven't made out so well in the month since, now, have you?"

Nicolas settled onto the edge of his desk, his slacks sliding up just slightly to reveal gleaming leather loafers. The man was walking proof that a skillful enough tailor can make even a balding sack of lard look stylish.

You looked to me for help – how had I intended to renegotiate anything with this monster in a suit? – but I gave you no sign. I knew you were staring at your jailer through a thick haze of debasement, but there is a difference between pity and compassion. In this moment, you had to stand alone.

"You know my talents," you began.

"I'm intimately familiar with them, yes."

"You know I can steal and smuggle and assassinate and intimidate like no other in this hell-bound organization," you spat. "And you're giving me no orders. No missions. No assets."

"Poor Bruno. Your father's inheritance wasn't enough to start the life you dreamed of?"

A flicker in your face betrayed your rage, but terrible experience forced you to contain it. For seven years, this man had held your fate in his hands. You knew your position all too well.

"It would be reasonable–" you said, in a voice so clipped, "It would be mutually beneficial, if you would assign me to profitable tasks within Passione's regular operations. I will turn a profit, whatever you set me to. I can make you a rich man. I can earn influence for you. But right now, you're wasting my abilities, and for what? A petty grudge? Control? You already control me! You own my life! Changing my terms from team assignments to solo has no impact on your hold over me! What exactly are you trying to accomplish with these ridiculous, impossible quotas? No, I can't meet them with no basis for my income! Obviously! What are you even trying to prove?"

"Bruno, Bruno," Nicolas purred, stalking up to you and rolling your bad shoulder in his hand. "Always so hotheaded. I like that about you, you know? You never know when to stop struggling and take it lying down, or so I'm told. Exquisite."

You had stiffened. Sticky Fingers hovered just behind your back, but there were reasons why you couldn't strike this man, no matter how compelling his taunts. Every one of those reasons had a name and stand, a talent for extorting pain and a rank that protected them from retaliation; two of them were probably waiting in the office just beyond the door. And beyond them… refusing a new team assignment would be considered treachery, and we all know traitors can't be saved.

"Good," Nicolas breathed. "You've learned from your mistakes, I see. Now, my young protégé, these quotas aren't meant to intimidate you. It's simply the price of freedom. The amount of your weekly quota is based on precise numbers from what you've earned for Passione in your recent team placements. My superiors don't care where the money comes from, you see, but if you can't maintain the same level of profit in solitary work – well, then they will want me to consider placing you with a team again. Putting you back on a successful path, one might say."

"So you mean to say, I've earned you more money than any other foot-soldier, and that's why you can't reward my efforts?"

"Such a negative outlook. Of course you'll be rewarded! Didn't I sustain your request to place Leone Abbacchio with you? Do you know the opposition that I faced from Nero and his capo? Haven't I been sensitive to your team requests these past years, ever since that awful incident in Rome? Didn't I safeguard your father's assets for you until you came of age?"

"No more than you should have done, and years late at that!"

"Oh, Bruno, now, that's an unreasonable attitude." His hand behind your head caused a brief struggle as you tried to step away and found your back against the wall. He smiled. "You came here to plead for lenience, did you not? Because you and your precious new boyfriend have not met a single quota. Not one. If you don't wish to find yourself with a team assignment tomorrow morning, I suggest you make amends. You know my temper is easily assuaged."

"No." You glanced my way, pure misery in your eyes. "No!"

My heart ached for you, but we would never win if it came to a fight. Oh, we might take down Nicolas and his nearest guards; but what about the torrent of enforcers who would follow us to the ends of the earth if even one opponent managed to convey our names – with a dying breath, with a name written in blood, with some kind of afterimage stand? No, I needed the perfect opportunity. I had to wait. You had to endure.

Nicolas smiled at me, then leaned forward to whisper in your ear. I don't know what he told you, but I have some guesses. All the pride went out of your stance. You knelt.

With his hands on your shoulders and his head leaned forward against the wall, your patron had no more attention for me. Using a handkerchief, I tossed the knife in a lazy arc and Blues melted into position behind Nicolas – form 1, caught the spinning knife and jabbed it into the man's lower back. Form 2, covered the man's mouth to muffle his gargling cries. You looked up in wonder – and profound relief, on seeing Blues' placid figure. You scrambled to your feet. Form 3, Blues felt for a pulse and then eased the corpse to the floor face-down. Pulled out the knife and left it on his back like a calling card.

Moody Blues faded like a ghost. The knife gleamed in the weak sunlight, blood tracing the lettering: There never were any others. On the handle, Blues' utter lack of fingerprints.

I left you standing over your patron in shock as I turned Blues' skills to a more important matter. There was a telephone, but no address book, no Rolodex. A sharper man might have kept all his contacts in memory, but that was not Nicolas Brasato. This fat cat had rested easy for years. Today he'd noticed two stand users in his office and kept his eye on only one. That told me all I needed to know. His contacts were written somewhere.

Blues found his most recent use of the telephone and reversed from there to show him accessing a safe hidden behind the bookcase. Simply playing forward, Blues hit the catch that allowed the bookcase to slide sideways on silent rails and dialed the code for the safe.

As Blues melted out of Nicolas's unflattering form and stepped aside, I found a small black address book, gilt-edged, tucked along the side of a pile of gold bars and heirloom jewels. I speed-read each page under my breath, simultaneously capturing my action with Blues. Obviously I need to be on location to capture a memory, but you remember that I get free replays anywhere – that's how Blues' ability to record and sample fighting moves works, for example. Sampling also allows Blues to make your coffee every morning, even though you never leave the supplies in the same place twice.

With my read-through complete, I tucked the discreet little book in my jacket pocket and set Blues onto Nicolas's action sequence again to close up the safe. It was a risk, taking the book, but it would make an excellent gift. My intended suspect for this murder would require a perfectly selected gift; everyone knew the gold and jewelry in the safe would be meaningless to him, so those remained untouched.

"Ready to go, love?"

You looked up at me, all shock and wonder.

"You killed a man in cold blood!"

"Shh. We don't talk about that."

"But Leone!"

I smiled and wrapped an arm around you, taking the mirror from my pocket. "You thought my place on the execution squad was purely at Risotto's pleasure? I was an assassin first and a lover later. You really believed Blues was harmless?"

I turned to put the window in the background and flipped open the mirror.

Illuso did "gun fingers" to welcome us. Nicolas's office shattered like so many broken mirrors and the tension finally went out of you – after seven years of bad luck, finally a chance at freedom. I held you tighter. Only if the alibi held water. I was an atheist by then, but my heart still offered up a prayer to the Almighty.

"All's well?" Illuso asked.

"If it ends well," I said. "How's your daughter, by the way?"

The way his eyes cut to me told me I was right.

"Take this," I said, passing him the tiny address book; incriminating us both. "A gift for Zo, if you'd be so kind. He may find several uses for it. It's probably safest if it stays in your realm, though."

"Ah. Thank you."

No humor, no bold front in that moment. I shook his hand and pulled him in to whisper, "Same mirror, watch out for me tonight. For a common cause."

Another man might have registered hostility at such treatment, but I'd judged Illuso rightly. Curiosity vied with caution in his eyes.

We both noticed your puzzlement in the same moment. A whisper to you would risk Illuso's trust. A true word from him would implicate you in the quicksand I was intending to cross alone. Should I bring you in on it? I was at ease with risking my life for this crusade, but not yours.

"It's okay," I joked, "Bruno's not the jealous type. In fact, I'm not sure he knows the meaning of the word."

"Ah. Aha," Illuso managed, jumping after my implication. "Well, neither am I, as luck would have it. I'm sure Zo will appreciate your little… gift. He misses you, you know."

"Oh, I'm well aware," I said.

You narrowed your eyes at me and I gave you a sharp little hug.

"Drop you off the same place I found you?" Illuso asked.

"Yes, please," I said with relief. "Do you need help with the location?"

"Oh, I've got it. I have some vivid memories of the place, myself."

---

(Bucciarati)

"What the hell was that?"

"What the hell was what?"

You had changed into nothing but a towel to place the half-eaten brunch tray outside the door, while I slipped back into the hot tub. My muscles felt as taut and weak as jelly after our excursion, and I was authentically glad of your choice of alibi venue.

"Tell me you're not getting back together with Risotto!" I exclaimed as you joined me, with as much self-control as I had left.

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Why would I–? You all but spelled it out, giving–"

You pressed a hand over my mouth, stifling Illuso's name. I flashed into fury for a second, but then I saw the humor in your eyes. When leaned in for a kiss, my last reserves of anger melted away.

"I don't know who you saw in the mirror," you said carefully, "but we don't know any such person. And you know all you need to know about my relationship with one Risotto Nero. There is no possibility of reconciliation. He owes me a couple specific favors; restitution for wrongs done, you might say. That's all that's left between us."

"Okay."

Everything was easier to accept with your skin finally bared to my eager hands. I saw you realize this and it did not bother me one bit when you put my desires to use, pulling me onto your lap. Our hands met and I gasped with delight. I pressed my cheek against yours and just enjoyed you – us – for a few stolen minutes. I hadn't realized what a perfectionist you were – the lengths you'd go to for a flawless alibi, beyond what all my charms and persuasions had coaxed from you in fully a month! I made the most of this unique opportunity.

Even so, fragments of horrors, new and old, kept asserting themselves in my mind.

"You didn't let him–"

You stopped my whisper with a kiss.

"I never knew you could–"

Another kiss. I smiled.

"Was that the first time you ever–?"

Kissed. "No, obviously not. You think I was born good at this?"

I was enjoying playing with you now. "So everything you learned with Risotto?"

"Hm. I taught him a few tricks, too."

"Show me."

We were firmly entangled when the knock came at the door. Clearly you'd been expecting this, but I held you back.

"You've done so much already, today, Leone. Let me take care of this one."

"No. What if–?"

But I was already out of the water, padding wet-footed to the door. I opened it to find a well-dressed young man, a sheet of silky blond hair suggesting his membership in our fine organization. No gun, no immediate assault. So I arranged myself along the doorframe.

"May I help you?"

His eyes flickered down my bare, dripping body, then riveted to my face. I smiled. I call it the "eyes up here" challenge; just a cheap trick to fluster a potential opponent. Occasionally it earns me a split-second advantage if hand-to-hand combat is in order. Some opponents even pull their punches.

"Bruno Bucciarati?" the stranger inquired, unphased.

"The one and only. And who might you be?"

"A colleague." He flashed a Passione emblem, fashioned onto a ring. As it drew my eyes, he leaned forward and stole a kiss – a deep and unpleasantly tongue-filled one, no less.

I shoved him away. "What the hell? I'm with someone! Ask me first!"

"Hey, it's not personal. You know liars taste sweeter, don't you?"

"Is that a fact?"

"Sure. The truth is bitter. Is that your associate, Leone Abbacchio?"

He gestured over my shoulder, but I refused to look away. At his hip, a flicker of motion – there was an empty glass globe clipped to his belt. Not empty; water-filled. And less empty still just an instant before. You cried out in alarm and I had to look – and his arm slammed my head back against the door, pinning my throat.

Stupid, I cursed myself. Stupid!

"Don't get out of the water," my assailant instructed you. "In fact, don't move at all."

From the corner of my eye, I could see you leaning away from something ominous that moved in the water of the hot tub. A long metallic fin appeared and then slid below the surface.

"Hey! Back off!" you shouted.

Sticky Fingers could release me in an instant. I could rush to your defense–

The stranger only laughed. "Take it easy. Clash is very friendly, as long you don't make any sudden moves. He likes rubs around the gills, if you're feeling daring. Just don't cut yourself on the armor – no bleeding, got it?"

"It's… a shark?"

The man returned his attention to me. "So you're the brains of the operation, I take it?"

Let him think so. Why not? "More or less."

Bam! His fist hit my jaw and sent my world spinning.

"No lying. One lie, one punch. Make sense?"

"Watch it! That's a million lira smile you're busting up." I rubbed my face, past his restraining arm. "Passione doesn't offer dental insurance. Can you aim lower, please?"

That earned a laugh, but his grip was unrelenting. "Lower. Got it. Now listen, something's happened and they sent me to investigate. If you stick to the truth, maybe I won't damage the, ah… merchandise?"

I nodded. I might have retaliated for that comment, from someone else, but he flashed me a sad, sardonic smile. I felt a spark of kinship. His arm on my throat was a warning, not a threat. I decided to cooperate.

"So tell me, where have you two been all day?"

"Here. We've only been here."

Bam! Pain exploded up and down my shin.

"Better?"

"Yeah," I bit through clenched teeth. "Thanks."

"Try that one again. Where have you two been all day?"

"Fuck, that hurt."

"Not an answer. Try again."

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, trying to clear my head. The brains of the operation… He had no way of knowing. No one realized how sharp you were, maybe not even Risotto. He was judging truths he had no way of knowing. That's why they sent him. I had to choose a truth.

"All day. Right. We woke up at my place–"

"Your place?"

"Napoli. South side. On the shore. I live in a house. Okay?"

"Sounds charming. Go on."

So he was confident he could read past broken syntax. He wasn't limited to testing my sentences literally…

"We took a cab to get here." In my mind, I pictured taking the bus as intensely as I knew how. The crusty seats, the rumble of a diesel engine, the yelp of pneumatic brakes, the faint smell of urine. Reflections rolling across the windows, this rainy morning. "I have a receipt with the cab number, if you want to question the driver. He'll definitely remember us."

Oh, you'd made sure of that. Unforgettable. But–

"Why bother? You're telling the truth. What time did you arrive?"

Damn, not a mind reader, either.

"Ten fifteen."

Bam! Kneecap. He knew. He just knew. How the hell was that fair?

"How the fuck do you know?" I yelped.

He broke into a grin. "Okay, for that one it's because I already checked the register in the lobby. Nine forty-three. But don't think that's the only way I know. I can tell you're squirming around, trying to figure out how to lie to me. It's not worth it. I can tell whether you mean what you're about to say – and I don't mind you knowing that, because I can tell even if you're trying to psyche me out. Don't lie to me. It's never worked yet."

I mulled it over, chewing my lip.

"You're about to lie," he said. "I can feel it coming. Give up. You have to tell the truth and you have to mean what you say."

"That's so much to ask!"

"But is it, really?"

I slumped. I wanted him to think I felt defeated. No, I saw that glitter in his eye – there was no fooling this one. I located my actual feeling of defeat, never far below the surface in those days, and let it well up until I was just treading water. Then I picked my truths very, very carefully – and I meant each and every one.

"Yeah, we arrived 9:43. You can see it on the cameras and everything, can't you? Came into this room, Leone ordered the breakfast, settled into the hot tub until the tray arrived and then took it into the sauna closet. When we finished eating, he put the tray in the hallway, so I guess technically he stepped out of the room at that point. You can find it on the cameras, I imagine – a bit before eleven."

"And neither of you left the room otherwise?"

"There's only the one door. You'd find it on the security cameras if we had."

"Don't play with me. I know how your stand works. One zipper and you can walk right out of here, through any wall."

"I didn't, though. I haven't used my stand since we got here. Since leaving home this morning, actually. And before you ask, no, I didn't leave any zippers here ahead of time. It's the first time I've ever been to this place."

"So you want me to believe that yourself and Abbacchio have been in this room since nine forty-five this morning, with no excursions, no exceptions?"
"I do want you to believe that, yes."

He gave me this sharp, gleeful look that put the fear into me just for a moment. "Oh, you're good. You're very good."

"He's taken," you called out.

"So am I," he said, still smiling. "Listen. Nicolas Brasato was killed between ten fifteen and ten thirty this morning. He was expecting you two at ten thirty… tomorrow. You know him, don't you?"

I snorted. "Obviously. That's my patron. He's dead?"

"He was killed today, so he's dead. Yes."

"Damn, I have such mixed feelings about that," I said.

His eyes narrowed. "Do you, though?"

"Yeah. On the one hand, elation that that walking atrocity will never breathe again. I don't have to deal with him tomorrow. On the other, bitter resentment that I never got the chance to shred him to ribbons and string him across the city until he died of sunburned lungs."

Did I imagine the happy malice that flashed across my investigator's face? Was that at me or with me? He was so quickly composed, I hardly managed to wonder.

"Okay," he said "So I should explain that I'm investigating his death and if you're not interested in incriminating yourself, you should probably be careful with statements like that."

He fidgeted with his sleeve while making aggressive eye contact – is that Passione sign language for I'm wearing a bug, you idiot? Point taken.

"Put another way," I said, speaking very clearly, "I didn't do it. Wish I did, fantasized about it for years – every capo in this blessed organization knows why, and they didn't do a damn thing to stop him – but I didn't kill Nicolas. Does that hold up to your truth detector?"

"It does."

"Do you need more from me?"

"Yeah, I do. Did your associate do it?" The man gestured at you.

"No."

Were you and your stand separate people? Close enough. I wrapped my mind around that conviction and my statement held.

"Okay. Tell me about this knife."

The blood was still crimson on the handkerchief, still glistening in the letters: There never were any others. Nothing in the world could be as beautiful as the symmetrical black blade that had released me from Nicolas's keeping.

"It's perfect," I breathed.

"Not the type of answer I'm looking for."

"Okay." I looked up into his eyes, close enough to notice their gold was a shade lighter than his bronze skin. So striking. The challenge in his eyes reminded me there was still a game to be played. "It looks like Leone's throwing knives."

"Does it, now?"

"Identical, but his knives have no inscription. He owns six, and I believe he has all of them with him today. The right inside jacket pocket. You're welcome to check."

"Thank you. I think I will."

Our investigator finally released his hold on me to go and check your coat, piled on the bench by the sauna door. It seemed like a safe assumption that you'd lied to me that morning – that he'd find six remaining knives in your jacket pocket. The six that still belonged to you. I kept a warm confidence about my statement in mind, just in case.

I took the opportunity to rub my bruised throat, stretched my back, and steal a glance at you. You had embraced your fate; the tiny splashes punctuating the conversation turned out to be the gill rubs you were bestowing on the metallic shark that kept you cornered. It rolled sideways in the water, leaning into your hands like a cat. I mean, who wouldn't? You have good hands.

"These are identical," the stranger said, holding up one of your black iron blades next to the bloodied one.

"It's not mine," you said with a shrug.

"I don't want to hear it from you," the man said. "I want him to say it."

One at a time. That was the first useful clue about his bizarre truth-testing ability. I was his subject at the moment and he could not accept another simultaneously.

"The bloodied knife does not belong to Leone," I stated, loud and clear.

It didn't. You'd said it was a gift to Nicolas, and you had delivered that gift in style. My heart rang with certainty. The knife was no longer yours.

The investigator seemed stunned. "Say that again."

"No problem. The bloodied knife that you're holding does not belong to Leone Abbacchio, and neither of us killed Nicolas Brasato."

He blinked those golden eyes twice, then stalked up to me and leaned in very, very close. Muffling the microphone in his shirt sleeve with one hand, he hissed, "How the hell are you doing that? I love you so much right now, you splendid, naked liar. Whatever you're doing, don't stop doing it."

I looked over his shoulder, but you were fully absorbed in training the metal shark stand to leap from the water on command like a fucking dolphin. No. Moody Blues was keeping an eye on me, barely visible at your side. You must have heard. Or lip-read it. Of course.

"Back. Off," I intoned.

The investigator raised his eyebrows, then threw me against the door, slamming it shut. He landed a couple blows on the door itself, producing some sounds of struggle for the benefit of his microphone, then winded me with a measured gut-punch. I didn't hold back on the gurgling or wheezing as I struggled to draw breath again.

I thought we were cooperating, and then his fingers were in my mouth.

"What are you–?" I sputtered, as he grabbed my tongue and pulled.

"What would you say," he murmured, releasing me, "if I threatened your associate's life to get the truth from you?"

Reeling, I spat a defiance at him – but the words that came out: "Go ahead. I wouldn't care."

I clutched my throat, astonished.

"Alright, try again now. What would you say?"

"I'll fucking kill you if you lay a finger on him!"

The man smiled and paced away from me. "That's more like it. So my stand is functioning. You mean what you say, but what you say doesn't make sense."

"The hell are you talking about?"

He turned dramatically. "If you two didn't do it, who did? If the knife's not yours, whose is it? And why do you own a matching set?"

"They were a gift," you said, not even turning to face him. "A gift from Risotto Nero when I joined the execution squad. If someone else has an identical knife, it's probably another made by Risotto. Once he has a design he likes, he mass produces things. If you're an investigator in Passione, I'm sure you've seen his razor blades – by the hundreds, identical except for the serial numbers."

"I'd like that stated by your associate."

"Partner," I corrected, and complied.

"Right, now we have a problem," our investigator said. "Or rather, you two do. Because Risotto Nero is our first call when we find a dead body, and he's denied it entirely. He says he had tabs on all his team members and it's not their doing. And he says you're the only one who would have one of his knives, Leone Abbacchio. He was quite emphatic about it."

"He said all of that? Only because he usually reserves some plausible deniability."

"Oh, I know it. He was more forthcoming than I've ever known him to be. It was almost like he holds a grudge against you two or something. I can't imagine why."

You snorted. "I don't suppose you used that 'kiss of truth' on him?"

"Considering I've never met the man in person? No. My superiors don't consider that level of scrutiny necessary where the invisible assassin is concerned. My understanding is that I'd be unlikely to survive that encounter."

"True, but speaking frankly, I think our statements hold more water than his, in that case. Maybe if you showed him the inscription on the knife – or read it to him – it would jog his memory."

"Oh? And how do you know this knife has an inscription?"

"Only because Bruno said so when you showed it to him," you said innocently, looking deeply into the shark stand's metallic eyes. "I really like this stand. Whose is it?"

"Friend of mine. I think we're done here."

"Mmph!"

The stranger had casually pushed his fingers into my mouth again – retrieving his stand, it turned out. A sneaky little octopus thing, it came away in his fingers and vanished. I hadn't noticed the bulk under my tongue until it was removed, and then I wondered how I'd ever ignored it. The sight of those flesh-pink tentacles and cockroach eyes made me gag.

"Clash, come." The man tapped the glass globe at his belt, making a soft chiming sound. "Here, boy!"

The shark stand twitched a metal-rimmed eye his way, but it only nuzzled its way further into your arms.

"Clash, come on! Time to go!" He pulled a small bag of something from his pocket and unscrewed the water globe to drop one in. Shrimp. "Goddamn remote stand. Clash, come!"

A flicker and the shark appeared in the globe, miniaturized. It snapped up the shrimp and flickered back to the hot tub.

"Damn it, Clash."

"It's okay, we know you're bugged," you said drily. "You can tell your friend to control his stand."

"Yeah, good assumption, but it's not him on the line. Mind handing me that shark, considering how well you've befriended it?"

The shark had returned to you for more attention, but as soon as you lifted it, it thrashed madly and dropped back in the water with a huge splash. The stranger was drenched.

"You wanna borrow a phone?"

"No need."

He was grinning – just as planned? He pulled the mic and transmitter from under his shirt and drowned them in the hot tub. Crouching, he swirled his fingers in the water and the shark stand was immediately under his hand. He tapped out a quick message on its scales, then tapped the water globe – three taps, not two – and the shark appeared there.

"Okay, we've got about five minutes off the record before my partner arrives," he said. His tone was completely different, like an actor who's walked off the set. "Thanks for keeping Clash entertained. He's nippy when he gets bored. And I need you to put some clothes on! My partner is an unpredictable individual and he's definitely the jealous type. What the hell are you thinking, answering the door naked? I can't even punch you properly–"

"Yes, that's the goal," I said, making use of a couple towels.

"It's unsporting. Now tell me, what do I say to Risotto to get you guys out of this mess?"

"Wait, what?"

"You want to implicate his knives in the murder of a capo? You'd better have more than a patchy alibi, an incorrect appointment, and some nonsense about engraved blades on your side. Fuck, the murder weapon's serial number is in the middle of the series you carry! So why did you remind my superiors about Risotto's serial numbers? Are you actually stupid?"

Oops. You winced, I blustered.

"But I told you exactly where we've been all morning. There's security cameras–"

"Sure you did. Sure there are. That might hold water with the council, but Polpo and Tagliatelle manage stand users. They'll ask questions about transportation and send me to interrogate everyone who can teleport. You're just implicating your accomplice, whoever that may be."

"Tagliatelle would vouch for me."

"And Risotto is Polpo's favorite. Polpo controls most of the weapons in this organization and he'll say exactly what Risotto asks him to where murder is concerned. Even the truth wouldn't save you if those two have it in for you. So how are you getting Risotto to change his tune?"

"Show him the knife," you said. "Read him the inscription. Tell him – from me – that a murder like this is likely to spark off a witch hunt, and owning this kill will protect his good name. In the long run."

Our investigator whistled. "You want me to say those words? You don't mind that going around with your name on it?"

"Oh, it will be known soon enough. I'm just pointing out the obvious. Besides, everyone knows I have some useless crutch of a stand – at least, nothing that justifies the risks Bucciarati took to acquire me, if you listen to Passione gossip. It's hardly a threat, coming from me."

"You're serious. You're taking them on?"

"You know something you want to share with me?"

One breath, then he took the plunge. "Hell yeah. Nicolas Brasato belongs in hell. Whoever sent him there – Listen. When Squalo and I got our stands, we fought our way out of one of his brothels. That earned us a place of honor in Passione, but we never got what we were fighting for. Nicolas told me that my cooperation was buying my sister's safety. That he'd sent her to a boarding school in Switzerland. But she wasn't there. She'd never arrived. I don't know where she is. But I do know that when he recruited children, he sent the girls out of the country. He only kept the boys. Something about profit and competition, he said."

I was aghast. "There were others?"

There never were any others. Oh. My world spun.

"You never knew? Dozens," he spat. "Dozens of duped teens. Most of us running from something or protecting someone. Or so we thought. I only know a handful of survivors. Between sickness, stand fever, rough treatment, and those shipped out to teams to fight for Passione's supremacy in Italy–"

"Oh," I said softly. "I was shipped around the teams. I never met anyone else."

"They were like cousins to me. And they're dead." His gold eyes were burning. "I hate Nicolas more than anyone on this Earth. But cutting off the head of the snake won't stop it. Like you said, Bucciarati – Nicolas's business is no secret among our superiors. Why should it be? They buy his services, most of them."

"Tagliatelle–"

"Yes. So you already know. And so do a number of politicians, so the secret service never makes any effort – even the police, with all those missing person cases, going cold. A few underage guests at a few adult parties is all it takes to puncture the political will to pursue those cases, apparently." He turned that furious gaze toward you. "So if there's going to be a witch hunt. You know. I'll bring the matches."

"I have some names and addresses," you said.

"I know who's guarding them," he said with a smile. "And I can wring some true and false confessions from them. But we'll never get away with it. Are you prepared for that?"

I reeled. You shrugged.

"It would be worth the price. But I believe Risotto Nero can get away with anything. And if Polpo will stand by him – we may find ourselves on the side of justice, better known as the side with more weapons."

"Oh, that's why–"

"Tiz? Are you consorting again?"

Our investigator's face lit up and he rushed to embrace the tousle-headed man who had arrived at the door.

"Consorting? Never! Fraternizing, conspiring – certainly. But you know I would never consort without you, Squalo."

The two of them stuck together like magnets and I understood instantly why Tiziano was unaffected by my nudity. He obviously had eyes for nothing but his lover. It was my first hint at the kind of decades-long faith that you would ask from me – my first hint that I would prove wildly undeserving of your trust.

"Conspiring, you say? With these two walking dead men?"

"Don't insult our allies. Come, Squalo, let me introduce you to a brother we never met."

---

(Abbacchio)

Tiziano told me later how it played out with Risotto. Following my directions, he managed to meet the mad assassin in person – a bravery that surely earned points with Zo.

"A witch hunt? Bold words from a man with such a docile stand."

It made me smile to hear that Zo was still keeping my secrets, even then.

"Oh, I don't think he means it as a threat. More of an observation about the general climate in Passione, I believe. Nicolas was not well-loved among the younger generation. I can speak personally to the brutality of his recruitment system, as can so many others."

"Show me that knife again."

Risotto turned the knife over in his hands, smearing the blood.

"No fingerprints on it?"

"None."

"It was a clean kill?"

"Straight into the kidney. Deadly."

"Yes… And Leone's alibi is sound?"

"He was here in Naples when the murder occurred in Sicily. We've got him on camera twenty minutes before and after the time of death. So unless Polpo wants to introduce a supernatural explanation – and rumor has it that your team can provide that type of instant transportation–"

"I told you, I had tabs on all my team members," Risotto snapped. He would never let Illuso fall under suspicion, as I well knew. "No, Leone was a flawless assassin when he worked on my team. When he joined the squad – just like anyone else – I gave him a set of weapons, throwing knives, exactly like this one, and I told him, as I tell each of them, that I would accommodate exactly one error on his behalf. One missed target. One case of mistaken identity. One botched alibi. One. He never used it. He never needed to. Leone doesn't make mistakes. Sometimes his judgment is in error; his decision to leave my team is a case in point. But no, never a mistake.

"So it must be I who was mistaken," he said, speaking clearly for the mic and relishing his freedom to decline Tiziano's truth-monitoring stand. "I kill half a dozen men every day. Passione targets, paid political targets. It's easy to forget who's who."

"Are you saying Nicolas Brasato was one of your targets?"

"Was he? I can't recall if he was on this week's list. Polpo would have a copy. I shredded mine. But yes. Yes, I killed him. I remember the knife, now that I see it. When you called earlier and described it – I stopped working in black iron two years ago, you see. I'm in a stainless steel phase. I thought all those knives were out of circulation by now, aside from Leone's set. But this is one I made specially for Nicolas. You saw the engraving. I must have used my older design without thinking. It was the heat of the moment, you see."

Heat of the moment – but that was Zo all over, metal-user, hot and cold by the instant.

"Why did you do it? My superiors will want to know."

"'There never were any others,'" he read slowly. "What do you think that means?"

"I wouldn't presume to know."

"Wouldn't you? I think you've presumed already." His smile was toothy and cold as steel. "What do you say when a lover accuses you of unfaithfulness?"

"'There never were any others?'"

"Precisely."

"Are you saying… Sir, I'm wearing a mic. I'm not in a position to keep confidences."

"I'm well aware of our audience and their inclinations." With that steely smile, Risotto Nero shattered the mafia's unspoken rule against homosexuality – and with a lie, no less. "Nicolas and I were lovers. He falsely accused me. I didn't take it very well, so I killed him."

"You killed him over a false accusation? And then left him a message on the murder weapon that you placed on his back, afterwards?"

"Italians kill their jealous lovers all the time! It's a national past-time! Have you never been to the opera, you uncultured swine?" Calculating Risotto; serial numbers were on no one's mind amid statements like that. "I'm a patriot with artistic sensibilities! What does it matter if he never read the knife? You think I killed him to ease his mind?"

"And… you forgot all about this when I called earlier? I apologize, sir, but my superiors will ask."

Risotto waved away the objection, as immune to reason as ever. "I didn't want to think about it, earlier. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth, discussing a private matter like this one. But if my denials would cast aspersions on my other lovers, then better to face the facts."

"So," Tiziano fumbled, chasing Zo's bizarre logic, "there were others?"

"What does it matter? They were ofage," Risotto said, biting the words off cleanly for the mic. "If the council have a problem with the killing I do behind closed doors, they are welcome to find me and we will have a civil discussion about matters of decorum in Passione. Very civil. This interview is over."

Tiz swears Risotto disappeared on the spot, but I know it was a cheap trick done with mirrors – by one stand or another.

The real power was in Zo's words. He may as well have planted landmines to cover my trail. I would have paid money to see the gaping faces of the capos and councilmen listening by radio to Zo's testimony. They knew by now that Nicolas's little black book was out there somewhere, containing each of their names with a set of names, dates, and prices below it, the old blackmailer. They didn't know who held it, but Risotto had as good as fanned the pages at them. They couldn't prosecute him now – not for homosexuality, not for murder, not for the witch hunt that followed. Hell, I bet they couldn't even meet each other's eyes. All I wanted to know was which one of them would be the first to turn on the others.

Three names were glaringly missing from that little gilt-edged hitlist. One was Pericolo, who would be promoted to capo for the drug trade operations after Tagliatelle's untimely death. Your trust in Pericolo was not misplaced; his support helped us weather several more storms.

Another was Polpo, surprisingly. His absence from Nicolas's book was the main reason we accepted his offer of a team charter within his security sector operations. Of course, we would later discover that his private appetite was for psychological horror, and that despite his imprisonment, he had endless ways of sating it without accepting Nicolas's terms of service. I also later heard that it was Risotto who recommended us to Polpo, though I have no way of knowing whether it was a gesture of mercy or vengeance. Zo may not know that himself; he often doesn't.

The third missing name was Risotto himself, despite the diminutive skeletons shackled in his basement. My dark curiosity about Risotto's "others" eventually drove me back to that country house of his in Caesarea, where he was keeping me the week that you stole me. His late uncle's house. What I discovered there with Blues' replay more than exonerated Zo. It was nothing to do with Nicolas's lost boys, and it was true what he'd said – he'd been trying to keep them alive. But that is another story entirely.