16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 03:29
MILANO, ITALIA
Abbacchio groaned. "Again?"
"How many are there this time?" De Luca asked sharply.
"Three. All on mopeds. I saw them coming from the other side of the street."
"Great," Abbacchio muttered. "Anything else we should know?"
"They're armed with guns and Molotov cocktails."
"WHAT?!" Abbacchio screeched.
"Yep," Cerebral Man confirmed, sounding surprisingly cheerful about the matter.
Abbacchio frowned. "Why are you so excited about this?"
A maniacal expression appeared on the Stand's face. "Destruction!"
De Luca facepalmed. "Sorry about him. Seems like he decided to emulate Bender's violent side a little bit too much when it comes to these types of situations."
"Come on, I love that robot," the Stand said defensively. "And he's your favourite character, too. Don't try to deny it."
Huh? Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "What the hell are you two even talking about?"
De Luca picked up an abandoned pistol from where the woman's corpse was. "You haven't seen Futurama, have you?"
"Nope," Abbacchio said, readying his own pistols.
"It's an adult sci-fi comedy about-"
"How about we survive, then you can fill me in on the premise," Abbacchio butted in. I don't know about you but I'd rather not die right now.
De Luca nodded, acquiescing. "Staying alive sounds good to me."
"I thought it might."
Abbacchio glanced at De Luca's newly-acquired weapon. "You ever use one of those?"
De Luca blinked. "A shotgun? Yes. A pistol? No."
"Similar principle, except it's a bit smaller with more ammo."
Cerebral Man looted two more pistols from another corpse within his range. "Good enough for me."
"Oi!"
Cerebral Man turned. De Luca gave his Stand a stern look. "Don't get shot. Because if you get shot, that means I get shot, and I'm not going to be very happy with you if that happens."
"Then I won't get shot," Cerebral Man retorted. "Plain and simple."
"Don't make any promises you can't keep," Abbacchio warned.
"It's not a promise; it's a goal." The Stand disengaged the safeties on both of his weapons. "What is it you guys say? Kick ass and take names?"
Abbacchio gave him an annoyed look. "We don't say that."
"Whatever. I'm still gonna go kick some ass."
De Luca nodded. "Don't get me killed."
"Would I do that?"
The civilian gave his Stand a fulminating look. "Do you really want me to answer that question?"
Cerebral Man backed up. "Nope."
Glass shattered. Fire erupted not far from where the sound originated. I guess that would be a Molotov cocktail, Abbacchio assumed.
What came next was a full-blown firefight.
Bullets were exchanged from all sides. Abbacchio made it a priority to protect Bucciarati at all costs, shielding the unconscious squad leader from any incoming fire as the goth fought back. De Luca assisted him in that regard, shooting at the enemy as well. Cerebral Man ran out of ammo early in one of the pistols, resorting to him chucking the empty weapon into a bush and climbing on top of De Luca's sedan to return fire with the other pistol.
"Mangia merde e morte, stronzi!" one of the assassins taunted.
"Oh, prendilo in culo da un ciuccio imbizzarrito," Cerebral Man complained, catching a second Molotov cocktail with his free hand and hurling it back at the assassins. The resulting explosion started a chain reaction that additionally blew up their mopeds and caused De Luca's car alarm to go off. Abbacchio glanced up, seeing that all of the enemies had survived and avoided the damage.
"Oh, no you don't," the goth muttered.
Bang.
One assassin down, courtesy of a bullet to the head from Abbacchio's gun.
Two to go.
The firefight continued.
Bang.
Another assassin screamed, wounded by a bullet from De Luca's weapon. Abbacchio watched the civilian as he unloaded more of his clip into the enemy, a stone-cold look in his eyes that was so vastly different from the more familiar affable, kind, even empathetic neuroscientist whose Stand was able to tame Purple Haze; an achievement that Abbacchio normally wouldn't have thought possible. The assassin fell, killed by the civilian's bullets. The goth glanced at De Luca and Cerebral Man, and an unsettling conclusion came to his mind.
Domenico De Luca and his Stand both had the eyes of killers. Ones that had killed before, and would not hesitate to kill if the situation asked for it.
Click.
"Merda!" De Luca swore. "I'm out of bullets!"
Abbacchio checked both his guns, not at all thrilled with what he found afterwards. "Same here!"
The final assassin grinned, aiming twin pistols at his opponents. "Lights out, gentlemen."
Abbacchio glared, preparing to call forth Moody Blues.
Without warning, a jet-black arm punched its way straight through the assassin's chest, ripping out his heart, with sickening sounds of bones breaking and blood squelching and splattering onto the ground and onto the two men previously at the victim's mercy. The arm pulled backwards, retracting itself, and the donutted corpse crumpled unceremoniously onto the ground.
Abbacchio looked up, seeing Cerebral Man, the sentient Stand holding the assassin's heart in his left hand.
"You couldn't have cut it any closer?" De Luca asked exasperatedly.
"Meh." Cerebral Man shrugged, chucking the organ backwards over his shoulder. "You idiots are alive, right? So, by that criterion, my timing was perfect!"
Abbacchio and De Luca both groaned, the former adding a facepalm on top of it.
Remind me never to pair Aerosmith and this jackass Stand together in a fight.
Then again, it wouldn't be my problem: it would be Narancia's.
To be fair, I doubt that kid would call it a "problem."
But, I digress.
"So," De Luca said, getting to his feet. "What do we do about this?" he asked, gesturing to the area. "I'm honestly surprised we haven't gotten the cops called on us."
"Consider it a blessing," Abbacchio said darkly. "Most of the time they're so corrupt that they just take bribes from criminals or do other things that just allow them to walk free. Mafiosi, pimps, petty thieves, it doesn't fucking matter. Point is, no one called for them. Or, if people did, they're not even going to bother coming because it's more than likely going to be viewed as mafia business. Which it is, technically speaking."
"Cynical, are we?" Cerebral Man quipped.
"I'm speaking from experience," Abbacchio snapped, a bite in his tone.
"Oh."
De Luca stepped between them. "It doesn't matter at the moment," he said sternly. "Let's just be grateful that neither of us are gonna be getting arrested. So quit it."
Cerebral Man sighed. "Yes, Domenico."
Abbacchio folded his arms. "Hmmph."
The Stand flipped him off before vanishing entirely on his own accord.
De Luca exhaled, pulling out a key fob from his pocket and pressing a button.
The car alarm went silent.
The neuroscientist glanced at the goth. "Come on. Let's hide the bodies and clear out before we get any more nasty surprises."
Abbacchio nodded, glancing at him. "You know, for a civilian, you certainly had the eyes of a killer back there. Both you and your Stand did."
De Luca pulled a face. "What happened in Cape York...it fundamentally changed all of us who were there. And not necessarily for the better."
Abbacchio left it at that, and they got to work.
A few minutes in, De Luca somehow must have thought it would be a good idea to initiate some small talk, since this was totally the best time and place for it (Guess what: It really wasn't). "If you want to get your van fixed, there's an auto shop on Via Jacopo Peri. It's called, 'Autofficina Cipolla.' Ask for Diego Lombardi. He's the guy I told you about, the one in Passione who I let service my car. He's a pretty damn good mechanic there."
Well… "I don't know if you know this, but your favourite mechanic kicked the bucket a couple of weeks back, courtesy of Helena," Abbacchio informed him.
De Luca looked at him, stunned. "I did not know that," he said after a moment. "But, still, it's a good shop."
"I'll definitely keep it in mind." Abbacchio glanced at him. "How well did you and Diego know each other, anyway?"
De Luca shrugged. "Kinda well," he responded. "I mean, we became friends because I helped keep his sister alive while we were in Cape York."
"Viviana Lombardi?"
"Yeah." De Luca moved some hair out of his face. "She left the country rather suddenly back in '97. Neither she nor Diego would say why. But, from what I heard, she's doing pretty well. Apparently she's been working as a high school biology teacher in New Zealand the past few years." He blinked. "Maybe that's a good thing. Viviana said she had been wanting to leave Italy for years."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Why? Is it because of Diego being in the mafia?"
De Luca shook his head. "No. Not directly. She got a lot of shit in high school and in college because of it, though. But, she said it was mainly because she was sick and tired of being ostracized due to her mental health."
Abbacchio frowned. "I can understand that one a bit," he admitted.
Romano's death because of my corruption...and what happened afterwards.
"Yeah, but she probably had it way worse than you," De Luca responded, a serious look on his face. "Viviana's schizophrenic. Granted, it's high-functioning schizophrenia, but still. A bunch of people hated her because her brother was mafia, and the rest feared her because of her neurodiversity. She developed a rather...jaded view of the world because of this."
Damn. "I was told she was also a Stand user," Abbacchio recalled.
De Luca blanched. "Yeah, she is," he said uneasily. "She, Helena, and I all ended up with Stands while we were in Cape York. So did our professor and several of our classmates. You already know about mine and Helena's. Viviana's isn't particularly destructive, but it really fucks you up if you get too close to it."
"Yikes." Abbacchio changed the subject. "Do you know what Diego was doing just before he died?"
De Luca shrugged. "Not much," he responded. "He didn't talk about Passione business a whole hell of a lot in front of me. The last time I saw him, I had brought Painted Desert-my car-in for an oil change. He was venting about how some guy called Carbone was screwing around with his squad's finances, and he said he wanted to find out why." De Luca glanced at him. "I knew better than to ask about mafia stuff, so I don't know much about it, but Diego mentioned something about looking for a way to corner him. He asked if I had any suggestions, and all I said was that he should try following him, and hopefully catch him red-handed."
"Interesting," Abbacchio said, making a mental note to tell Bucciarati about this conversation when he woke up. "When did you bring your car in for that oil change?"
"Last month: 24 August." De Luca blinked. "Is that important?"
"Very."
De Luca nodded. "Noted."
They finished cleaning up the rest of the corpses a couple of minutes later. Abbacchio scooped Bucciarati up bridal-style, giving the civilian a grateful look. "Thanks for everything," he said sincerely.
"Of course," De Luca responded. "If you or your squad need anything, say, like an emergency medic, I'm only a call or text away."
"I appreciate it."
They parted ways. De Luca returned to his vehicle, driving off several seconds later. Abbacchio buckled Bucciarati in the van's shotgun seat before he himself got into the driver's seat and started the engine.
Time to get the fuck out of here.
The drive back was silent, save for outside traffic and Italian prog rock playing over the radio. A few curious drivers glanced at the damage while stopped at red lights, but the glares Abbacchio sent their way quickly caused them to return their gazes to the road.
Yeah, that's right. Stay the fuck out of it.
Several minutes later, Abbacchio pulled into the safe house's driveway, sighing in relief as he parked the SUV.
Finally. We're back.
The goth shut down the engines, glancing over at Bucciarati. The squad leader looked as though he was sleeping peacefully, but the environment he was in was far from peaceful. The van was still decorated in the carnage from earlier. Not one speck of blood marred Bucciarati's appearance.
Abbacchio was an entirely different matter, as he was covered in dried blood in various places.
He tried not to think about how his blood covered the driver's side door, or how close the assassins actually came to succeeding in their mission.
Bucciarati was right. I was being reckless.
And thanks to that recklessness, a bunch of people died tonight. Well, technically this morning. But you get the idea. Bucciarati, De Luca, and I nearly joined them.
This is one hell of a clusterfuck.
And I need. Actual. Sleep.
He got out of the van, going around the front to unbuckle Bucciarati and hoist him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.
You know, for a couple of mafiosi, one might expect that you two would have the common sense to at least turn your goddamn car alarm on.
Abbacchio sighed, pressing the "alarm" button on the car key fob. The car alarm armed itself, and the goth put the keys in his pocket.
Wise words, Domenico De Luca.
Abbacchio walked up the steps, fumbling around the trench coat pockets for his house key. This task wasn't easy, given the extra weight he was carrying with him.
"Ah," he said after a moment. "Here we go."
He opened the door-
-and found himself face-to-helmet with Purple Haze.
Abbacchio screamed, backpedalling out the door, back down the stairs, and onto the driveway. "SI BRUTT' PEGG' 'RA MORT', FUGO!"
Purple Haze disappeared. A teenager with white hair emerged from the doorway, clad in pyjamas and a bathrobe, dark circles under his eyes.
Abbacchio tilted his head to the side curiously. That face...it looked like Fugo, but the hair was just...unfamiliar. The colour pattern looked too natural to have been dyed, and the weird thing was that it had only been ginger about 12 some-odd hours ago.
"Fugo?" he asked tentatively.
"If you're going to get your ass in here, then do it already!" the teenager snapped. He raised an eyebrow, his temper going away as quick as a storm. "Also...what happened to the van?"
Yes, that was most definitely Fugo.
"Long story," Abbacchio responded. "I'll have to clean it up sometime today." He looked up, giving the not-ginger an annoyed look. "Did you seriously have to bring Purple Haze out?!"
"Well excuse me for thinking you were a burglar or something," Fugo retorted. He raised an eyebrow, evidently noticing Bucciarati's limp form. "Did he get drunk again?"
"Nope. Poisoned."
"Poisoned?!"
"Yeah," Abbacchio said, walking back up the steps. "Night out went south, and things got ugly. He's going to be okay, though. I got things sorted out in that area."
"The bastard who did it?"
"Dead."
Fugo nodded, satisfied. "Good."
Abbacchio and Fugo walked back into the safe house, the latter closing the door behind them. The goth set Bucciarati down on the sofa, checking the clock. He raised an eyebrow. "It's 04:20. Why the hell are you up at this hour?"
"Couldn't sleep," Fugo admitted, grabbing a half-litre container of milk out of the refrigerator before closing the appliance's door. "Kept having nightmares about Terminal Frost. And other things."
Abbacchio walked over to the kitchen area, leaning against the counter. "What brought this on?"
Fugo muttered something, but it was too quiet for Abbacchio to hear. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."
The teenager glared at him. "I'm stressed out, okay?"
"Keep your voice down," Abbacchio hissed. "Bucciarati's sleeping, and it's not a good idea to disturb him at the moment."
Fugo nodded, looking away. "Sorry."
Abbacchio stretched. "Look, kid. I've had a shitty few hours, so I'm kinda on edge right now." He glanced over at him. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"There's not much really to talk about," Fugo said, putting a now milk-filled mug in the microwave. He hit "start", and the beverage began to warm up. "Are those bullet holes?"
"Yeah," Abbacchio admitted. "I hadn't exactly planned on taking a few shots for Bucciarati this morning."
"Do you want me to get the first-aid kit?"
Abbacchio shook his head. "Don't bother; I already got treated earlier. I contacted De Luca for help after the van got wrecked. We got it fixed to the point where I was able to drive Bucciarati and I back here, but we barely made it back with our lives."
"Stand users?"
"Ironically, no. None of them were. But we were heavily outgunned."
Fugo folded his arms. "Just how many assassins were there this time?"
"Ten."
Fugo let out a low whistle. "Damn."
Abbacchio nodded. "Yeah. We killed all of them, but it wasn't a fun time." He changed the subject. "On another note, I think all the pent-up stress might be getting to you."
Fugo gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"
"Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?"
Fugo rolled his eyes. "Ha ha. Very funny."
Abbacchio wasn't amused. "I'm serious, kid."
Fugo shrugged. "Whatever. If you want me to look so badly, fine. I'll look."
"If you're going to scream, do it outside."
Fugo ignored him, heading straight for the downstairs bathroom. Abbacchio took off his trench coat, inwardly grimacing at the three bullet holes in the thick fabric.
"I'm gonna have to get that fixed," he whispered.
Fugo came back into the kitchen, looking seriously pissed off. "I. Am going. To kill. Mista," he fumed. "He probably thinks it's funny, dyeing my hair white in my sleep after he botched the first hair prank."
Abbacchio shook his head. "I'd hate to break it to you, Fugo, but it's not dyed. And it doesn't look to be a prank."
"Bull. Shit."
For fuck's sake. "Fine. You know what?" Abbacchio asked. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll use Moody Blues to see if there's a culprit. Okay?"
Fugo nodded, the enraged look replaced by a somewhat calmer expression. "Sounds good to me."
The microwave beeped, but the teenager ignored it, instead choosing to proceed upstairs. Abbacchio followed, soon finding himself in Fugo's room.
Fugo glanced at him. "Well, if you're going to do it…"
Abbacchio gave him a short nod, summoning Moody Blues. He glanced at his Stand. All right. Transform into whoever was in here besides Fugo this morning.
Moody Blues responded with a calming dial tone. Abbacchio searched for the replay. He saw Fugo sleeping in bed, but he was alone.
That's when he saw it: the exact moment Fugo's hair changed from ginger to white.
16 September 2000, 03:17.
He searched further to a moment earlier, at 03:16, but there was no one else in the room.
This timeframe should be good enough. Abbacchio glanced at Moody Blues. "Start the replay."
Moody Blues obliged with an acknowledging dial tone, transforming into Fugo from 03:16 that morning. The replay began, and it was evident that Fugo was in the middle of some very fitful nightmares. The teenager clutched his blankets, cold sweat running down his body as he let out some noises of distress.
Then, at 03:17, his hair changed.
Over the course of eleven seconds, his hair turned white, starting from the scalp and slowly spreading to the ends just above his shoulder. Not one ginger hair remained.
Okay, stop the replay.
Moody Blues reverted back to his normal form, and Abbacchio dismissed him a few seconds later.
Abbacchio turned around, glancing at him. "Satisfied?"
"Yeah. Thanks," Fugo said, expression somewhat sheepish. "I'm sorry if I was being childish earlier. Also, for now as well. Just...seeing that happening, it was kind of disturbing. You know, watching myself having bad dreams and then waking up with white hair."
"Don't apologise," Abbacchio said. "But, in all seriousness, next time you think someone is trying to break in, grab a weapon instead of bringing out that hellraiser you call a Stand. Seriously, there's loads of them stashed around here in various places. You could easily grab one." He had to think for a second before adding, "And don't go using that as an excuse to go after Mista and Narancia whenever they get on your nerves."
"What are you, my mother?" Fugo retorted, folding his arms.
"Uh, no."
"Good, because she was a bitch." Fugo glanced at him tiredly. "Don't ever mention this to anybody, but I personally think you and Bucciarati are a lot better, quote-unquote, 'parents' than mine ever were. Just saying."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Uhhh...thanks?" He honestly wasn't quite sure how to react. Yeah, he and Bucciarati were the only adults in the squad (until Mista turned 18 in a few months, God help him) but Abbacchio didn't think he was great with kids. He, personally, thought snotty brats were annoying as hell.
Though, he had to admit, the three hellions on his squad weren't so bad.
Most of the time.
But, then again, that's teenagers for you.
"I'm not calling you 'dad' if that's what you're worried about," Fugo muttered, folding his arms. "Because that would be weird."
Abbacchio blinked. "That wasn't even remotely what I was thinking about. And, you're right, that would be weird."
"I'm glad we're in agreement, then."
The two were silent for a moment. "This is awkward," Fugo finally said.
"Yeah," Abbacchio agreed.
The white-haired teenager yawned. "Well, I'm going back to bed."
"You do know you left your milk in the microwave, right?"
Fugo groaned. "Fine. I'll get it, and then I'll go to bed."
The two walked back downstairs. Abbacchio went into the common area, grabbing a blanket from one of the chairs.
"Abbacchio?"
He turned around. "Yeah?"
Fugo held the mug of steaming milk in his hands, a worried expression on his face. "What was it that Bucciarati got hit with? Do you know? I'm just wondering."
He's really not going to like this. "Roofies," he admitted. The goth gave Fugo a firm look. "He got lucky, though. We were able to take care of the assassins before they could do anything...bad...to him. Apart from the poison, I mean."
Fugo nodded, expression dark.
Abbacchio sighed. "Look, kid. He's going to be okay. He just needs to sleep it off, that's all."
"That's good to hear." Fugo relaxed. "Well, I'm gonna go."
"All right."
Fugo made his way back up the stairs, mug in hand. Abbacchio covered Bucciarati's sleeping form with the blanket afterwards, expression softening.
"I know you're worried about me," Abbacchio whispered. "And I'm glad to see that you care, I really am. Grazie mille, amico mio." A soft smile graced his face. "I couldn't have asked for anyone better by my side."
Abbacchio gently moved Bucciarati's bangs, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead, before going up to his own room to get a hot shower and some very much needed sleep.
16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 05:17
MILANO, ITALIA
IL DUOMO DI MILANO
Amen.
A man performed the Sign of the Cross, standing from where he was kneeling in the pew upon the completion of his prayer. Even though it was only five-something in the morning, it was still dark enough for sunrise not to have arrived yet. He was 185cm tall and looked to be in his early thirties, with light skin, an angular face with high cheekbones, short dark brown hair, and brown eyes, but looks in his case merely served as a façade. He was so much older.
His Stand acted as bodyguards for him as he visited the chapel. One could never be too careful.
Especially when the universe held its own bizarre mysteries.
"Signore Nico."
The Stand user, surname Nico, turned, seeing a young man in the aisle, wearing a dark suit. He was 180cm tall, 28 years old, and had long, jet-black hair, pale skin, freckles, green eyes, and a round-shaped face.
The younger man's name was Dante Russo, and he also possessed a Stand.
But he was human.
Nico was not.
"I hope I didn't interrupt your prayer, Boss," Russo said, tone erring on the side of caution.
Nico gave him a small, warm smile. "Nonsense, my boy," he reassured him. "I had only just finished."
"That's good," Russo responded. "I merely came to report that-"
"Scusa, Signore!"
Both men turned, seeing a uniformed man at the door. "You can't be in here; this church doesn't open to the public until eight o'clock!"
Nico waved a hand. One of the twelve units of his colony Stand proceeded to rip the intruder's heart out before he could say another word. The donutted corpse collapsed face-first onto the ground.
The unit brought Nico the intruder's heart. The vampire gladly accepted it, and the Stand returned to its sentry duties.
Nico sighed, annoyed. "Who let that moron in here?"
Russo swallowed. "Uh...nobody, Boss," he said awkwardly. "He was the night guard; he worked here."
"Ah, of course," Nico said, honestly not giving a shit. "How foolish of me to forget about the...sentries? What is it that civilian security personnel are called these days? The word seems to have escaped me."
"Security guards," Russo supplied.
"Yes, those." Nico straightened. "I remember when this basilica was first being constructed, 614 years ago. It took them over five centuries to complete it. This isn't even the first church on this particular site; no, a fire destroyed the Basilica of Sant'Ambrogio and the building next to it in 1075. The same year I was born, incidentally enough. But, I digress." He turned to face Russo. "What do you have to report?"
Russo paled. "We sent twelve of our assassins after the target within the past twelve hours, Boss."
Nico did not like where this was going. "And?"
The subordinate swallowed. "They're dead, signore. All of them. Paganini reportedly disposed of Florentino after he and his Stand were able to confirm that the correct target was in sight. Campagna and Bianchi had been chopped into pieces. Cafaro had his heart ripped out. Fiore's neck was snapped. Lastra was found in a dark alley with his throat slit. The rest were shot."
"I see." Nico placed the guard's heart on the floor, stroking his beard afterwards. "And what of the target?"
"From what I can tell, he's still alive."
Nico raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-stroke. "He didn't take the poison?"
"Not according to the late Paganini's text, no," Russo confirmed. "Apparently there was a girl with him. Another Stand user. She apparently took it instead, likely by mistake, but the amount she consumed was too small to do any major damage. She still lives."
"There is no need to restate the obvious, Russo," Nico said sternly.
"Of course not," the human said hastily. "What do you want us to do about these new developments?"
"What the fuck do you think?" Nico muttered, annoyed. "Send more people after him. Make sure they are all competent people this time. I want no more fuck-ups."
"Understood, signore," Russo acknowledged.
"Good," the vampire said. "Take our...friend out back and hide him somewhere discreet. Leave no sign that we were ever here."
"Of course, Boss." Russo carried out his orders. Nico picked up the night guard's heart, eyes narrowing.
Either this man who can replay the past is a good fighter, or he's not alone, the leader of Il Vuoto mused. Or both. But we also have some major problems. We still don't know who this stronzo is or what he even looks like, since everyone I've sent after him has ended up dead. That female Stand user with him also complicates things.
No matter. Both of them will be dealt with soon enough.