Addicted to Love

(Abbacchio)

"Bruno says you take personal offense to child trafficking. Care to comment?"

"Personal offense? Did he say that?" Pannacotta Fugo was a peevish fifteen-year-old. His upper-crust manners did nothing to soften the effect.

I shrugged. "More or less. What's it to you?"

"I don't like people who spill my personal business around, that's all."

"So you don't like Bruno? I can tell him to back off, if you want."

Fugo narrowed his light eyes at me. "Who are you? Bruno said he's starting a team and you're his right hand. Are you telling me it's the other way around?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Bruno and I are partners. As in, we're close. We'll have a team if we agree on a first recruit. Make sense?"

Narrowed eyes became an outright glare. "Listen. Bruno said I'm in. I already rented an apartment with a cash advance he lent me after the nice man stabbed me with an arrow. If you're telling me I'm out, then I'm going to need you to persuade the landlady to break my lease. And I'm going to need a tetanus shot, because fucking hell!"

I settled my chin onto my fist and regarded this young man. It was tempting to laugh at his antics, but Bruno had warned me about his stand and his fragile ego. No need to cause trouble in Bruno's favorite neighborhood restaurant. Besides, anyone who could let Bruno down gently was already in my good books.

"You're not out, kid. I'm just giving you the lay of the land here."

He regarded me back, then dipped his fork into the plate of spaghetti before him. Like he might actually take one bite. "I appreciate that. I do. I apologize if I've been abrupt. I'm a bit on edge, that's all."

"Yeah. Tapering off heroin will do that to a person."

His fork clattered to the floor, spattering him with marinara on the way down.

"Fucking hell!" he hissed. "How the fuck do you know that?"

I handed him a cloth napkin. His hand was shaking badly, but he took it and blotted down his artistically tattered shirt. The texture and cut suggested it had been a women's shirt before he'd taken scissors to it. Throw in the ruffled neckerchief and his fashion sense was seriously growing on me.

"You can't tell Bruno," he said, fixing me with desperate eyes. "I heard how he talks about drugs. He won't accept knowing this about me. And I'm already quitting, I swear. This is my chance – my one chance to get clean and make something of myself. Please, please don't fuck this up for me."

I crossed my arms. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Really?"

"Provided you don't fuck it up for yourself."

"Okay. Okay." He flattened his hands on the table to stop them shaking. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just two simple things. Finish quitting. And, you know, never turn back."

"That's it? I don't believe you."

"No. That's one of the two things. Quit and don't go back is one thing. Okay? And the second thing is, don't betray us. Not now. Not ever."

I could practically see him reading fine print where there was none. His brow knitted, his eyes darted side to side as if pulling text from the air.

"Let's lay out some definitions here," he said, gesturing over his untouched pasta. "By 'betray,' you intend to qualify actions including but not limited to–"

"No," I said.

"No?"

"Don't do that."

"But in order to abide by your terms, I need to–"

"No, you don't. Three words: Don't. Betray. Us. It's really not complicated."

Fugo let out a long, shaky breath. "Okay. Yes, that's simple. I can do that. You realize I wasn't ever planning to betray Bruno or, or his team, or you, or Passione, right? He pulled me out of the gutter and gave me this chance to remake myself. I owe him my life, quite literally."

"I'm glad you can see that." I sipped my wine. "Your secret is safe with me. You come to me if you start slipping up. And in exchange, welcome to the team."

"That's it? Ohhh… You're blackmailing me."

"Yes. But only until you give me some reason to trust you. Now, Bruno said you seemed personally invested in this project we have. Why is that?"

Fugo gave me a long look, then shook his head slowly.

"Come on," I said. "This isn't a team for secrets. My ex before Bruno made me vomit razor blades. Bruno was a victim in Passione's child prostitution system. Everyone we'll be working with has seen serious shit. You think your story's worse than ours?"

"Not worse. But it's mine. I'm not feeling inclined to share, thanks."

It was my turn to give him the long look. Of course, I could spend a few nights chasing his past across the city with Moody Blues, but that wasn't very respectful. I'd already pulled one secret and that had caused him enough pain. Kid was fifteen, for fuck's sake.

"Alright," I said. "Let's try a different question: How are you with a knife?"

Fugo shrugged. "I can just about cut a steak, if it's holding still."

I smiled, and I don't do that for many people. "Okay. I can work with that. Let's get started."

(Fugo)

"He's going to find out."

It was a weak excuse and we both knew it. Bruno had insisted on walking me home after my first knife fighting lesson with Abbacchio. Bruno had a certain detour in mind for us; I just wanted to lose him and take my experience of withdrawal to the safety of a locked room.

"I won't tell if you don't." Bruno sidestepped to intercept me again. In another timeline, another me might have liked the way he looked at me.

"He's one-hundred percent going to find out and I'm not taking that risk." I pushed past him, ignoring the brush of his clothing against my shoulder. Just a couple blocks now. I just had to keep my cool a few more minutes.

"Hey!" Bruno kept pace with me easily on longer legs, even as I sped up. "You let me worry about my partner. He won't mind anyway. We're just playing around, right?"

Bruno tried to loop an arm around my shoulders and I stopped short, almost tripping him. I realized my hands were in fists. I realized my chest felt full and my face felt hot. It was happening again. I couldn't ruin my one chance by letting that happen again.

So I talked, fast and brutally precise.

"Is my employment contingent on my assent?"

Bruno took a step back. "You don't have to say yes."

"But is the consequence of my refusal an opportunity cost? May I expect indirect retaliation, such as increased exposure to bodily harm over the coming months?"

"God, no! I would never do that! Pannacotta, I'm not–"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

Fanged and slavering, my stand filled the space between us. I stumbled against the alley wall, smearing grime from the bricks across my one good shirt. I tried to wipe it away, but my hands shook so hard, I only ground it in further.

"Damn, Fugo, I'm sorry!" Bruno spread his empty hands wide, backing away. "I didn't mean – I don't mean any of it if you don't want it, too! I'm sorry, Fugo. I didn't mean it like that!"

Purple Haze gave a horror-film screech, somewhere between rusted hinges and dissonant violins, and lurched toward him. It fully intended to claim this sacrifice. Would that quench my thirst for justice? Purple Haze wanted to find out. But for the first time in my life, rage was cold to me. It filled me like thick smoke and I was blind and choking in it, but I wasn't blazing. I wasn't the rage.

I stepped to the side and studied my furious stand. It rounded on me, further incensed by my indecision.

"This isn't my best self," I murmured aloud. "I can still be free of this."

Just like the moment when you name a nightmare and take control of the dream, my monster froze and fell totally under my control. I made it wipe its mouth. I lowered its arms to its sides and straightened its posture. Finally, I took a deep breath and stepped into it. My stand swirled away like smoke on the wind.

"It's alright," I told Bruno. "It's safe. You're safe from me."

"I'm safe? Fuck that! What about you?"

"I'm…" Fine, I meant to say. But I had my arms wrapped tight around my stomach and my voice was thin, so I didn't think the lie would stick.

"You're not fine," Bruno said. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I never wanted to make anyone feel that way. If you knew me – damn, that doesn't matter right now. Let's get you to a better place, okay?"

"What are your intentions?" What's the plan? I meant to ask, but the words corrected themselves as I spoke them.

Stricken is the word. Bruno looked stricken, but he only said, "You won't feel better standing in a dirty alley. We're going someplace beautiful. And public. Okay?"

Home was closer, but I wasn't sure I wanted Bruno to know that. He probably thought locks were decorative. Besides, we'd be working together for some time; I wanted to give him a chance to fix this before my funhouse mirror mind blew it all out of proportion.

"Okay," I told him. "Okay, let's go."

The park looked out over the whole western slope of Naples. Tile roofs glowed in the sun, pale brick facades shone like gold and beyond, the Mediterranean glittered like so many diamonds.

"My inheritance," Bruno joked, waving an empty hand over the vista. "My father died penniless, you know. Passione took everything from him – even me. My patron Nicolas recruited me on false premises and shipped me all over Italy, while my father's health was failing. I tried to send money home, but Nicolas intercepted it. He made sure I was away when my father died. He enjoyed cruelty for its own sake, Nicolas."

My skin was clammy from withdrawal. Dark thoughts oozed through my mind. I was desperate to crawl into someone else's story; however grim, it wasn't mine.

"He's the one who sold you into prostitution?" I asked, thoughtlessly precise.

Bruno was unphased. "So Leone told you. Then you know I'd never want to treat you the way they treated me?"

I turned this over in my mind and filed it away. "How did you stand it? I would have killed someone. Everyone." Myself, I didn't say.

"It wasn't so simple. If I'd realized the abuse was all according to plan, I would have been much angrier. I had all kinds of other duties to distract me. To wear me out, to keep me from thinking clearly." Bruno fidgeted with a zipper spiraling the length of his finger. "I fought and stole and spied for them, but Nicolas made sure I had nothing so I would always make the trade he needed me to make – my consent for basic necessities. Food, shelter, protection. Every team he sent me to, there was someone waiting to offer me that deal. Nicolas ignored all my complaints; he even punished me for it, to make it seem like that wasn't the whole fucking point. It took me years to see the pattern. Even longer to shed all that shame and place the guilt on Nicolas. I still don't know what's worse – thinking all those choices were mine, or realizing I never had a choice at all."

"But you were right in the first place," I said. "Even if the scenario was contrived, your choices were life or death. So why did you keep choosing life?"
"I had to prove Nicolas wrong. He wanted me to suffer, so I found ways to thrive." Bruno sealed the zipper and looked me in the eye. "I was small, pretty, and gay, so he wanted me to be weak, afraid, and ashamed. I was so busy proving him wrong, I forgot to despair."

I thought of the years I'd spent meeting my parents' impossible expectations. Vaulting ahead of my classmates in school by cutting out all those things that would have made my life whole. The same pressure that fractured my sanity also held me together. I hadn't known despair until I fell out of university. Endless free time took me to pieces. Bruno was an elementary school drop-out, but I recognized the same drive glinting in his eye as he talked about his impossible years.

"That's why – I'm sorry about earlier, Fugo, but maybe you can see why I don't expect anyone to feel threatened by my flirting." Bruno's eyes shone with concern. He never did ask me to forgive him and I was glad of that. I've forgiven him now, of course; I know his flirtations are as persistent and weightless as mosquitoes, and neither more nor less harmless.

"I told you what happened to me," I said. Shame coiled through my veins. I rubbed my arm, yearning for the glide of a needle and the swift dissipation of rational thought. Three more hours, but I was down to a quarter dose. And Bruno could never know. I gritted my teeth.

Bruno nodded, mistaking withdrawal for simple misery. "Listen. We're going to take them down. I promise you. Nicolas is dead and we're going to overtake his network like a righteous flood. We'll drown every one of them like sewer rats – sweep them out of hiding and show the world their dead, bloated bodies, so that this can never happen again."

"Yeah." It was good, what Bruno and Abbacchio were planning. It was good, but never happen again was beyond their jurisdiction. "Yeah, I'm with you. One-hundred percent."

"You look like death," Bruno said. "No offense, I'm just being honest with you. Did you eat today?"

Always with the food, that one. I shook my head and he walked off to find street cart sausages and limonata. I took advantage of the moment to pull out some sage leaves to chew on. The experience was nothing at all like being high and exactly like chewing on some limp hairy herbs. I cursed my dealer who took good money for this scam, but I chewed them anyway because I really needed a fucking crutch. I glanced around, then also pulled out an alcohol swab and a pin – just a sewing pin – which I slid under my skin just for the feeling of it. Really goddamn sad, I know, but three hours was going to be a fucking eternity and I really fucking needed it.

I rolled down my sleeve and prayed to the god of the placebo effect, just as Bruno returned with an armful of provisions. The hot sausages smelled fantastic, but my stomach threatened to vomit up the twenty-four hours of nothing it contained.

"I just had the strangest encounter," Bruno said, handing me a plastic cup that frothed with lemon pulp and mint over crushed ice. "Risotto Nero appeared out of nowhere and told me to keep my dog on a leash, which, I don't even know what that means, and he gave me a cryptic note. Twenty-five paella? Then he disappeared."

I pretended to sip; slipped a piece of ice under my tongue and let the sting of it bind me to the present. "Who the hell is Risotto Nero?"

"Oh, let me tell you a story."