"Narancia, are you seriously insinuating that two plus two equals five?"

"What the fuck are you talking about; I wrote the Roman numeral for four! Huh; it looks like somebody erased the 'I' that goes before the 'V'."

"Mista, I swear to God…"

"What? I don't want that accursed number in my sight, Fugo!"

"Would you rather I shoved it up your ass?"

Bucciarati opened his eyes, finding that he was laying on his side on the common room sofa, covered in a blanket. He sat up, stretching, but was admittedly confused.

How did I get here?

He got up, getting ready to head straight for the downstairs bathroom. "Buongiorno," he yawned.

"Uh, Bucciarati...it's five in the afternoon," Narancia responded after a moment.

Bucciarati raised an eyebrow, checking the digital clock on the microwave.

17:19.

"Huh," he mused. "You're right, it is."

I really must've been exhausted to have been out for, what? Fifteen hours?

He resumed his trek to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Bucciarati saw that he was still in his "Aida" disguise from earlier that day, and that the lipstick had stayed on surprisingly well. After relieving himself, he headed over to the kitchen, making a beeline for the Moka pot to brew a cup of coffee.

While waiting for the machine to finish, Bucciarati managed to sneak a glance over at the teenagers.

Mista, Narancia, and Fugo seemed to be in a dispute over math with Roman numerals. Bucciarati normally wouldn't have found it strange, except for the fact that the squad's youngest member was no longer ginger-haired.

Fugo's hair was now white.

Bucciarati blinked. No, he was not hallucinating. Fugo's hair really had switched colours.

"What's up with your hair?" the squad leader asked curiously, directing the question to his second-in-command.

Fugo shrugged. "No idea. It just changed colour overnight on its own accord."

"Interesting." Bucciarati blinked. "It doesn't look bad on you. The colour, I mean."

"Does this mean he and Abbacchio can be goth buddies now?" Narancia asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

Fugo pulled a face. Bucciarati shrugged. "That'll be up for those two to decide. But in all fairness, I think Abbacchio would throw a fit if anyone went after his cosmetics."

"I don't even wear makeup," the white-haired teenager complained.

"Then I don't think there will be much of a problem."

"Oi, Bucciarati," Mista said. "Speaking of Abbacchio: He said he wanted to have a word with you in private when you woke up. Not sure what that was all about, though."

"Maybe it's about the car getting trashed last night," Narancia smirked. Fugo facepalmed.

Bucciarati raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Abbacchio can explain it to you better than I can," Fugo responded. "I'm planning on ordering pizza in a few minutes; do you want any?"

"Yeah," Bucciarati responded, pouring his coffee into a mug. "I'm famished. You might as well get some for everyone."

"I was planning to."

"Okay." He stretched. "Do you know where I can find Abbacchio?"

"He said he'd be out back or something like that," Narancia responded.

"Grazie."

Bucciarati took his beverage with him, soon finding Abbacchio on the patio, long hair tied into a ponytail. No makeup was present on his face, and the goth was wearing black sandals, and was additionally clad in black pants and a black t-shirt.

"Mista said you wanted to talk to me?" Bucciarati asked.

Abbacchio got to his feet, nodding. "Yeah. I do."

The two adult gangsters sat down, facing each other.

"What is the last thing you remember from this morning?" Abbacchio asked, a serious expression on his face.

"You let me have some of your water, since I was getting a bit dehydrated," Bucciarati responded, not certain as to what he was getting at.

"Is that it? Nothing after that?"

"I drank the water, and, the next thing I know, I wake up on the sofa and it's five-something in the afternoon." Bucciarati shrugged, placing the coffee down next to him. "It was kind of late; I guess I just fell asleep on the way back."

Abbacchio grimaced. "Not exactly."

Bucciarati's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

Abbacchio sighed. "You were poisoned, Bucciarati."

"I was WHAT?!"

"The enemy broke into the vehicle while we were out at that alley," Abbacchio explained, voice heavy. "They laced my water with a lethal dose of roofies. That poison was intended for me, but neither of us knew until it was too late, and…" He faltered. "It was bad, Bucciarati. I mean, you were going to be fine, since you didn't drink a lot of it, but they sent eleven of them after us. One was apparently disposed of by his own squad before he even got around to fighting us. Seven followed, then three more came as reinforcements afterwards."

"Did we win?" Bucciarati asked, still trying to process this.

"Seeing as we're still alive, I'd say so," Abbacchio responded. "I called De Luca for help after you collapsed. It's a good thing he and his Stand know their way around neurobiology, otherwise I really would have been freaking out even more than I was."

Roofies. Bucciarati brought his legs up to his chest self-consciously, suddenly dreading what had happened to him during that battle. "Was I…"

Abbacchio's expression was firm. "No," he said, voice hard. "You weren't. De Luca and I checked. We also saw Moody Blues' replay; it looks like you put up a serious fight. Sticky Fingers castrated one of them before unzipping him and another guy to death." His expression clouded. "I'm going to be brutally honest with you, though. They said they were going to rape you, since you were under the influence. They…" Abbacchio took a deep breath to control himself before talking again. "They said they'd make me watch, and then kill us both. But, thankfully, that didn't happen. We killed them all. You. Me. Sticky Fingers. Moody Blues. De Luca. And his Stand, Cerebral Man. All of us had kills during that battle. De Luca and I protected you when the reinforcements arrived."

Bucciarati nodded, but he just pulled his legs closer to his chest, anxiety coursing through him. What if they hadn't stopped those assassins in time? What if I hadn't come along? What if-

"Oi."

The squad leader looked up, seeing that Abbacchio had put a hand on his shoulder, a gentle but firm expression on his face. "You're okay, Bruno. That's what matters. Got it?"

"Yeah," Bucciarati said dully. He gave Abbacchio a small, mirthless smile. "I just didn't expect-"

"Neither did I," Abbacchio cut in. He frowned, releasing the hand from Bucciarati's shoulder. "My recklessness got a bunch of people killed. Hell, the two of us almost died last night! You were right; I was being a reckless dumbass."

"It's better than being a dead dumbass."

Abbacchio smiled sardonically. "Touché."

Bucciarati changed the subject. "By the way, the kids mentioned that the van got wrecked."

Abbacchio grimaced. "Yeah, that happened in the middle of the fighting. I spent most of the afternoon cleaning up blood and glass from the vehicle, but, hey, at least it's drivable."

"Why doesn't that make me feel any better?"

Abbacchio laughed. Bucciarati found himself smiling. Mirthfully, this time. "Leone!"

Abbacchio kept laughing. Bucciarati broke down into a fit of giggles. "Out of all of the things that you could have said about the van," he said, snickering, "'at least it's drivable'?"

"What? It's the truth."

"I know it is, but just the way you said it…"

Abbacchio pulled a face. "Yeah, well." He looked as though he had just started ruminating about something.

I hope everything's okay.

Well, more okay than it was earlier.

"What's on your mind?" Bucciarati asked.

"Just…" Abbacchio sighed, cheeks flushing slightly. "I want you to be honest with me, Bruno. How do you want to go about this?"

Go about what? "I don't follow. What are you talking about?"

"Us," Abbacchio said. "You and me. How can we expect to be able to play our parts as a false boyfriend and girlfriend couple when our feelings are very real? This isn't like any of those one night stands I had when I turned hooker-slash-alcoholic after I got my partner killed. What if things do get serious between us? What if shit happens again and-"

Bucciarati's heart clenched. "Leone. Breathe, okay?"

The goth nodded.

"Like it or not, we're a couple in the eyes of Milanese society now," Bucciarati said gently. "You and I both know that our feelings could get everyone killed. But this mission is different. Besides," He looked Abbacchio directly in the eye. "There's this saying that Polpo wanted me to reflect on during this mission. He said you'd understand it pretty well."

"Oh?"

Bucciarati felt butterflies in his stomach. "Se fai qualcosa per dovere, ti esaurirà. Ma se fai qualcosa per amore, ti motiverà."

Abbacchio smiled. "Yes, I think I do understand it well."

Bucciarati blinked. "But how can I honestly expect to balance love and duty? I've been thinking about it for days-when we're not being attacked by assassins and vampires, that is-and it still doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"That's something for you to figure out," Abbacchio said seriously. "But I can tell you one thing: You've been looking at it wrong."

The squad leader sipped some of his coffee. "Is that the only hint you're going to give me?"

"Yep."

Bucciarati went back to his beverage. "Fair enough."

"De Luca is proving to be a bit more of a lead than I thought, on another note."

Bucciarati raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Turns out he was buddies with Diego Lombardi, Team D'Agostino's sole Stand user," Abbacchio explained. "Lombardi was his mechanic."

"Huh."

"This gets better: De Luca said that, the last time he saw Lombardi, he'd brought his car in for an oil change, and that Lombardi had been ranting to him about how Carbone had been fucking with his squad's finances."

"And?"

"And," Abbacchio continued, "he asked De Luca for any suggestions on how to expose Carbone. De Luca said he got that oil change on 24 August-just over a week before D'Agostino's squad was wiped out."

"Interesting."

Shoot. I've still got those phones zipped up in there, don't I?

Bucciarati put his coffee back on the patio, lowering his legs.

This is really going to be awkward.

"Hey, can you do me a favour?" the squad leader asked.

Abbacchio shrugged. "Of course. Name it."

Here goes. Bucciarati summoned Sticky Fingers, and a couple of zippers appeared on his thighs. He looked Abbacchio straight in the eye. "I need you to unzip me," he said, gesturing to his thighs.

Abbacchio's eyes went wide.

Bucciarati felt his face go red. "Yeah. I know that sounded sexual, but that wasn't-"

"I know what you're getting at," Abbacchio said quickly, flustered. A tinge of pink appeared on his cheeks. "I really hope the kids aren't watching this."

"Last I saw, they were engrossed in one of Fugo's math lessons, so we should be fine."

"That's a relief." Abbacchio took a deep breath. "Here goes."

Abbacchio gently unzipped both zippers at the same time. Bucciarati felt a warm, pleasant feeling in his body in response to the goth's touch, and he found himself grinning stupidly.

Come on, Bruno. He's just unzipping the phone compartments. That's all.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Abbacchio teased, a rare playful glint in his eyes.

Bucciarati burst out laughing. "Yeah. A bit."

Abbacchio snickered. Bucciarati reached down into the unzippered thighs, slowly pulling out all six mobiles. He handed them over to Abbacchio when he was finished. "For you."

The goth accepted them, a lopsided smile on his face as he put them in his pants pockets. "Grazie."

16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 17:48

MILANO, ITALIA

"Here's a question for you," Mista began.

Fugo groaned.

"Oi!" the gunslinger protested. "Hear me out on this one!"

Narancia leaned forwards. "All right, shoot."

It had better not be too weird this time around.

Mista beamed. "Okay. How do you think Fugo's hair switched from ginger to white overnight?"

"Huh," Fugo responded, considering this. "That's actually a very good question."

"Well, thank you, Fugo."

Narancia frowned, considering a possibility. "Maybe it was an enemy Stand?"

"Nice thought, except Abbacchio said that Moody Blues couldn't pick anything up on the replay," Fugo pointed out. "I was the only one in the room when it happened. And, according to the dial on Moody Blues' forehead, the change took place over the course of eleven seconds."

Mista shrugged. "Well, there goes my theory."

Narancia tilted his head to the side, curious. "What was it that you were thinking?"

The gunslinger laughed nervously. "Faeries."

Narancia looked at him, flummoxed. "What?"

Fugo, having suddenly been irked, responded by stabbing the gunslinger in the thigh with a pencil.

"OWWWWWW!" Mista shrieked, jumping in his chair. "What the fuck, Fugo?!"

"Faeries?!" The white-haired teenager seethed. "Are you huffing gun polish or something?"

A loud knock on the door saved everyone from having to answer that question.

"That's probably the pizza," Mista remarked.

Fugo raised an eyebrow, temper disappearing. "That was fast."

"I'll get it," Narancia volunteered.

"If you give the delivery guy too much, just tell him to keep the change," Fugo advised. "It'll be less of a hassle that way."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." Narancia made his way to the door, opening it to find not the pizza delivery person, but a slim, cyan-haired woman whose scantily appearance practically screamed "stripper."

"Buonasera," the woman said, a warm smile on her face. "Is your mom home?"

Uhhhhhhh...

It's okay, Narancia. Play it cool. "I'll get her," he told the woman. "I'll be right back."

He walked back inside, glancing at Mista. "Those two are out back, right?"

"As far as I know, yeah," the gunslinger responded.

"Cool. Thanks."

Narancia ran for the back door before either Mista or Fugo could respond.

16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 17:51

MILANO, ITALIA

The sliding door to the patio slammed open. Bucciarati turned sharply, seeing Narancia at the entryway, looking somewhat flustered. The squad leader raised an eyebrow. "Is everything okay?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'okay'," the teenager responded. "There's this weird stripper lady at the door who says she wants to talk to you, Bucciarati."

The adults exchanged perplexed glances before the squad leader stood. "Well, let's not keep our guest waiting."

He followed Narancia inside, placing the now-empty coffee mug on the kitchen counter before heading for the door.

"All right," Narancia said to the stranger, a woman (who looked to be in her late 20s or early 30s) with cyan hair who was indeed wearing flashy bikinis, fishnet tights, and strappy platform stilettos underneath an unbuttoned trench coat. "My mom's here."

Bucciarati kept a neutral expression on his face, even though he felt something in his chest flutter at that statement.

Narancia, I'm flattered.

He was suddenly glad that he'd dressed somewhat androgynously this time around.

"Ah, buonasera, Signora…?" the cyan-haired woman asked, trailing off.

"Rossi," Bucciarati answered, going straight into his alias, adding a feminine lilt to his voice once again. "Aida Rossi."

The woman nodded. "Filippa Carlaco," she introduced herself. Her expression darkened, and she suddenly seemed ready to draw blood. "Has your dog been shitting on my lawn?" she snapped.

What?

Bucciarati looked at her, bewildered. "Signora...I don't own a dog."

Carlaco huffed in annoyance. "Well, somebody's pooch has been crapping on my lawn for the past month, and I want to know whose it is so I can beat the ever-loving shit out of them!"

Bucciarati heard somebody approach from behind him. "Is there a problem?"

Leone.

Bucciarati felt Abbacchio's hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed slightly.

Carlaco eyed the goth warily. "Well, Signore," she began, "I was just informing your wife that one of the neighbours' dogs has been shitting on my lawn."

Wife?!

Bucciarati suddenly felt a bit self-conscious, but schooled his expression to that of a neutral one. She thinks Leone and I are married...with kids. Oh, boy.

Abbacchio sighed. "Look, Signora. We have three teenagers, but no dog. It's probably one of the other neighbours'."

Carlaco nodded, though she didn't look very thrilled. "Very well. My apologies." Her expression brightened. "I'll be in touch with you later, Aida! Ciao!" She climbed down the steps, departing from the safe house.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Bucciarati turned to face the goth. He and Abbacchio stared at each other like deer in the headlights, both gangsters looking seriously confused about what happened.

"Is she gone?" Bucciarati whispered.

Abbacchio craned his neck forwards, looking around for a few seconds before returning to a somewhat more normal posture. "Yeah, she's gone."

"Want to head back inside?"

"Definitely."

They closed the door behind them. Bucciarati blinked. "That was weird."

Abbacchio shrugged. "To be fair, I'd take weird neighbours over getting attacked by yet another group of assassins any day."

"Oh, yeah, definitely."

"But, seriously. 'Wife'?!" Abbacchio spluttered.

Bucciarati shrugged. "Hell if I know! Like you said, it's the middle of fucking suburbia!"

Fugo raised an eyebrow. "So, when's the wedding?"

"Shut the fuck up," Abbacchio growled, face reddening.

"He's just giving you a hard time," Bucciarati said gently, learning over to narrow his eyes at Fugo.

"I know he is," the goth responded, leaning against the wall. "I'm sorry; I need a minute."

"Me too."

Three sets of snickers directed themselves the adults' way. Both of them turned, seeing that the teenagers were evidently indulging themselves in a joke at Bucciarati and Abbacchio's expense.

"Oh, you think this is funny?" Abbacchio asked, annoyed.

"Very funny," Mista responded, smirking.

Abbacchio rolled his eyes. "You three just wait until you get a crush on someone. Then we'll see who's laughing."

"Don't be such a killjoy, Abbacchio," Narancia complained. A sly smile crossed his face. "After all, you two are perfect for each other."

Fugo shrugged. "I don't care, so long as I don't hear them getting it on next door in Abbacchio's room."

Bucciarati felt heat rise to his ears. He could tell his face was red.

So was Abbacchio's.

"WE'RE NOT FUCKING!" both adults snapped at the same time.

"Just saying," Fugo responded, seemingly indifferent to the matter.

Bucciarati barely resisted the urge to facepalm. "Fugo, I swear to God…" He sighed. "You know what? Nevermind."

Something pounded on the door. "BUONASERA! I'VE GOT A PIZZA DELIVERY FOR A PANNACOTTA FUGO!"

"I'll get it," Fugo said.

"You said I could get it earlier," Narancia complained.

"Then hurry it up and come with."

Narancia beamed. The two teenagers went to answer the door, the squad's adults moving aside to grant them access.

I'm making an executive decision here.

"The five of us will be taking the rest of the weekend off," Bucciarati said firmly once Fugo and Narancia returned with the food. "No ifs, ands, or buts. Just take a break. We all need it."

No objections were made to that order.