Zero

(Narancia)

My chips and drinks were floating away on the waves, and the boombox was gone. Sank. Songs for sharks, nothing left for me. That wasn't why I was curled up behind the bulkhead where no one would notice.

I wiped my eye, the bad one. It still stings now and then, you know?

They were arguing anyway. Capri this, Polpo that. Enemies and stands and plans, plans, plans. I folded myself up and plugged my fingers in my ears so that all I could hear was Abbacchio doesn't trust Giorno and Bucciarati and Abbacchio don't love each other anymore and Fugo –

I hiccupped.

Footsteps. I stuffed my head under my arms around my knees so I'd look like a pile of tanktop, miniskirt, and Italian tan and maybe they wouldn't see me. When nothing else is working, I still think I'd make a pretty badass stowaway. No one would ever find me.

"There you are!"

Except Fugo. Not ready to talk to him. Giorno's funny piss-drinking trick hadn't cheered me up, and making up lies about Abbacchio's new stand Mellow Yellow hadn't made it better, and chugging soda and dancing with my favorite band didn't fix it, and getting stabbed and dragged into a boat inside a boat had finally spoiled my fake mood entirely. No fucking way was I going to talk to my boyfriend about this now.

I used my toes like a dainty crab to turn on the spot so I was facing the wall.

No dice. Fugo dug his hands into my armpits and lifted. "Up! Come on, you're not fooling anyone – just stand the fuck up, Narancia!"

"Okay!" I yelled, slapping his hands away. "Okayokayokayokaaay."

I pulled myself into angry toddler formation. In case you're not a black-belt in childish body language, that's standing chin down with your arms crossed.

"Fucking hell, you're such a child sometimes!"

"I'm seventeen! I am a child!"

Fugo did that big, loud sigh. I wasn't looking but I knew he'd rolled his eyes, too. And I knew he wasn't saying some trash about how it's shit when I make him feel like a pervert for dating a teenager. I mean, he's five years older than me. He keeps expecting me to grow up to be a man and I'm just not gonna. I always told him I'd grow into it somehow, but this time I just bit my lip instead. Hoping he'd hold my face between his hands again and tell me he likes the way I am.

"Listen," he said, talking softer. "I didn't see you slip away and then I noticed you were gone and – after we already got attacked once on this boat ride, Narancia, don't do that to me!"

Okay, I was looking at him. He looked as ragged as his clothes. Fugo gets frantic over me. It's sometimes the only way I know for sure he loves me.

"Were you scared?" I asked.

He nodded.

I put myself in his arms, huddled into his chest even though I'd gotten too tall for that this year. He held me so tight I almost couldn't breathe.

"Don't be scared, Pannacotta," I whispered into his shirt. "Bucciarati and Abbacchio would never let anything happen to me. You know they love me like a son. Daughter. Whatever."

He nodded, bumping his chin on the back of my head.

That wasn't really a top shelf answer. I pulled away. Practiced standing on my own, just in case I was gonna end up alone after all. I mean, Bucciarati would never let that happen and Abbacchio would set him straight even if he did and Mista would stay bros with me no matter what, but Fugo reminds me so much of my first crush sometimes – a blond genius mastermind who totally screwed me over and made the whole gang abandon me when I needed them most.

But that's not what's gonna happen this time, right? Yeah.

I rubbed my bad eye. Today it had four tiny puncture wounds below it. I mean, it didn't still hurt, but he almost put my eye out and normal people apologize, you know? Thing is, Bro wouldn't have apologized either.

Fugo didn't notice. He was already turning away. "Come on, they're deciding how to approach Capri."

"I know."

"Narancia! Esca, come on, we need to know the plan! Don't you give a fuck?"

I shrugged.

He came back and untucked my hands from my folded arms, held them like at a high school dance, swinging me side to side. I couldn't help it. I had to smile just a little. Sometimes Fugo is exactly like Fugo and no one else.

"For a billion lira?" he asked me, teasing.

"One billion? I heard it was ten billions!"

"I mean, the lira's depreciated significantly since the fortune was last valued–"

God damn it. I dropped his hands.

He noticed. He fucking noticed me. He stopped running his goddamn overeducated mouth and planted a kiss on my forehead. I let my eyes flutter shut all butterfly-like, but he just leaned in to whisper, "Bet it's a sextillion now, mio peccadillo."

"Okay, that's more like it."

Just enough flirt to keep me pretending. I let him lead me back to the plot. Back to the plans, plans, plans.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, are we seriously letting the freshman make our plans?" Abbacchio was all thunder after seeing everyone get kidnapped earlier, of course.

Giorno was giving him side-eye. Bad move. "So what do you propose?"

"We all go to the island, choose an advantageous location – like a wide open plaza with some cover for Narancia and Mista to work from the edges – and pretend we're recovering Polpo's fortune at that place. Fight whoever comes at us. Check for anyone else trailing us. Then go get the real fortune when we know we're clear."

I nodded along. Abbacchio's plans usually work out.

"Has its advantages," Mista said, tugging his ear like he wanted it gone. "But that's assuming we can get off the boat safely."

Abbacchio swiped his hair out of his face. "Goddamn devil's advocate."

"Elaborate," Bucciarati told Mista.

"Well, you know, if it was me, I'd strike while the hammer is hot, so to speak. If we make it onto the island, there's a chance any one of us might get the fortune and tally-ho on out of there."

Fugo pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "Are you suggesting we need to watch each other?"

"He's saying, strategically, from the enemy's point of view–" Giorno began.

Abbacchio spoke over him. "He's saying they'll attack before we're off the boat. And I'm saying that's no reason to split up. We can defend each other best as a group – while leaving the boat, while moving around the island. Anywhere, in fact."

"Though it's a fair point," Giorno said, "that we might increase the chance of our team acquiring the fortune if every one of us knew the location."

"You sure you're not working with the enemy, upstart?"

"Leone, it's a moot point," Bucciarati cut in. "There's no reason for any of you to know the location, since I'll be the one to retrieve it."

"With respect–" Giorno began.

Bucciarati raised one hand, stopping him. "I understand your point, Giorno. Ordinarily, I would agree. Trust me that there are other considerations here. For one thing, I've been careless enough already today; if an enemy is still listening to our conversations on this yacht, I have no intention of informing them where to place an ambush. For now, let's send a small delegation ahead to clear the marina before we land. It's the safest way."

"Why, though?" Abbacchio demanded. "We're safer together."

Bucciarati leaned in and whispered something into the privacy of Abbacchio's hair. No telling what it was.

"Ah. That makes sense."

"I thought you'd agree." Bucciarati glanced over the team, clearly doing the math. "For the landing party: Giorno, and…"

"I'm going," I declared.

I let go of Fugo's hand and walked straight over to Giorno.

"No," Abbacchio said. "It's too dangerous."

"If I go with them?" Fugo offered.

"No, I need you for step two," Bucciarati told him. He frowned at me. "Narancia, I don't want to risk your life either. The trouble is, Aerosmith is perfect for this."

I beamed. "What are you thinking?"

"First, you need to clear everyone out of the marina quickly," he said. "A few rounds from Aerosmith's guns will get the message across, then pause to give the tourists and workers a chance to evacuate – then use Aerosmith again to scout for people who stayed behind–"

"Enemies!"

Bucciarati shrugged. "Or civilians too scared to run. Give them a warning shot and then engage them."

"Sorry, and what should I be doing?" Giorno asked.

"You're watching Narancia's back while he's focused on his stand, and then you're supporting Aerosmith – clearing away cover. Does that make sense?"

I thought the sun came out from behind a cloud, but it was actually Giorno's smile. "I love it. Narancia, are you ready to try hard and do our best?"

"No," Fugo said. "I can't accept this. Abbacchio is right, Bruno, it's too dangerous. One of us should go with them."

"I take that back," Abbacchio said. "This is actually a well-formed plan that plays to Narancia's strengths. We can follow close behind, in case they need back-up."

I could just about see the steam rising from Fugo's ears.

"Bruno, please," he said. "Either let me go with Narancia or send Mista instead of him. Either stand can handle this mission–"

"I can handle this mission!" I yelled.

"I'm sorry, Fugo," Bucciarati said. "Aerosmith's attacks and scouting are much more efficient than Sex Pistols', in this scenario."

"Then let me go with him!"

"Why!" I shouted. "What are you gonna do that I can't do for myself? Stab me in the face again? I'm safer without you!"

I shuddered into tears and threw myself at Bucciarati. He never runs out of hugs for me. Just like when I was fourteen and always coming to pieces, he wrapped his arms around me now and held me together.

Over my head, he said, "I'm sorry, what?"

Silence and my choking sobs answered him.

"Leone, you know I cannot read lips. Tell me again."

But it was Fugo who spoke. "I lost my temper. This morning. I did stab him a little bit. With a fork. It was in poor judgment."

"You almost put my eye out," I mumbled into Bucciarati's sleeves.

A pause. "Yeah. I scared myself, too. I'm trying to keep it together and I just lost it for a second, okay? I'm really sorry. I thought we already made up, though."

I buried my face in ocean-scented cloth. "You don't love me!"

"I do! Narancia, you're my world! You're my life!"

I shook my head so hard, Bucciarati had to let go of me. He gripped my shoulders instead and kneeled down in front of me so he could see my face even with my chin tucked down like I was doing.

"Narancia, I know Fugo still loves you," he said. "To a concerning degree, in fact. Sometimes we hurt people because we care too much, not too little."

"Like you and Abbacchio," I whispered.

He winced. "Yeah. Exactly."

"So it's not gonna work out."

My eyes went all swimmy with tears. Bucciarati brushed them away.

"It could definitely still work out," he said. "Nothing happens by fate. You're going to make better choices than we did. We'll talk with Fugo and figure out how he's going to keep you safe. Does that sound alright?"

I looked up – in time to catch a silent conversation between Abbacchio and Fugo happening above us. I'm not the best lip reader but I can for sure catch long words with big vowels like mood stabilizer and borrow. Everything clicked.

I wiped my eyes and rushed past Bucciarati to throw my arms around Fugo.

"It's gonna be okay," I told him. "You can just tell me these things. I don't hate you for losing your shit sometimes! Just tell me what's going on so I know you didn't hurt me on purpose!"

Surprised, he hugged me back slowly. "Of course not. I'd never hurt you on purpose. I just lost it for a sec. I've been trying to tell you–"

I put my finger on his lips. "You didn't tell me, Pannacotta, but now I know. And it's gonna be okay. Abbacchio's gonna help you and I'll act grown until you're feeling right again. And we're gonna get the treasure, Bucciarati's gonna be a capo and we're gonna be mafia royalty together! Everything's gonna work out great."

I broke out of Fugo's arms like an oversized little bird. I gave Abbacchio a big hug – even though he low-key hates hugs, but not my hugs – and then I pulled Bucciarati to his feet even though I made him almost fall and I hugged him, too. Then I ran back over to Giorno and bounced back and forth on my feet like a boxing champion. I did toe rises like a ballerina dude. All that strength–

"Okay, I'm ready! Let's get going!"

Giorno looked to Bucciarati. The little worry-V between Bucciarati's eyebrows smoothed out and he gave Giorno a thumbs-up.

"But–!" Fugo started forward.

"No." Abbacchio grabbed his shoulder. "Just let him go. We'll be right behind them."

Abbacchio's eyes were on Giorno as he said that. It sounded more like a threat than a reassurance, but that's just how Abbacchio cares about me.

Giorno chucked a deck chair off the boat. Before it even hit the water, it was a big muscular dolphin, flexing and chirping. It made a huge splash.

"Cool!"

"Stay safe, little dude." Mista did me a fist-bump before I swung overboard.

Salt water up my nose! I spat and laughed. Shit, another pair of leather shoes ruined. Whatever, they were too tight and stolen anyway. Giorno dove into the water next to me, sliding in like they do for the Olympics, no splash. So cool. I wrestled hold of the dolphin and waved to the team.

"Be careful!" Bucciarati yelled at us. "Watch each other and don't take risks!"

I did two thumbs-up, then sputtered salt water out of my mouth and grabbed onto the dolphin again.

"Boats are really high, actually," I commented to Giorno.

"Hold on tight," he said, then he smacked the dolphin and we took off, fast like Mista's bullets. Fast like Aerosmith.

(Fugo)

"What the hell! I mean, Bruno, what the literal hell?"

Bruno was already skipping back and forth across the boat – changing the sail, turning the steering wheel, untying knots and tying new ones. Ignoring me. Snapping at Mista to stop trying to help and take a goddamn seat.

"What the hell, yourself," Abbacchio said, pushing me to a seat in the shade and pressing an orange plastic prescription bottle into my hands. "You need to tell me when you're off your meds, best friend. I thought we had a deal."

"You keep these on you? Weirdo."

"No. I worked all last night, tracking down Golden Boy's past. Knew I wouldn't get home so I brought it with me. So. Happy birthday."

"Wow, just what I wanted. More Tegretol."

"Fluoxetine, but whatever."

I handed it back. "Best friend. That's off-brand Prozac. It's a fucking SSRI."

"So? It works."

"For you. It won't do shit for my mania. Besides which, it takes two weeks to kick in."

"So you better get on that shit." Abbacchio twisted open the bottle and pressed two weightless little capsules into my hand. "You can't be stabbing my daughter-son in the face unless you plan to wake up dead."

"Point taken." I swallowed the medicine to keep my friend happy, even though I knew it was useless to me and he'd be even more useless in a few days when we ran out. "Whatever. When'd you switch away from Tegretol?"

"As soon as I did my research. Tegretol plus alcohol's a big deal, apparently. Thanks for the black market prescription but you could have killed me, asshole."

"I told you that!"

"You told me to cut back."

"I told you to stop drinking."

"You know I can't just stop, right? You can get seizures and shit. Besides." Abbacchio pushed his hand back through his hair roughly, compounding the tangles. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"Tegretol prevents seizures."

He slapped the prescription bottle into my hand. "Well, at least this will get you through your med school finals, right, genius?"

Anger was right there, boiling just below my skin, a scalding balm for my guilt – my nerves – my eternal sense of failure. It took every ounce of my RESOLVE not to dip into it like a secret stash. Not to buy into my self-aggrandizing narratives. The trouble with manic phases is how good they feel, especially after weeks of trudging through reality.

"Listen, friend," I muttered, burying that bottle in my pocket, "if your world caught fire every two months and burned away the endless depression, you'd be 'forgetting' to refill your meds, too."

"Not judging. I'm not supposed to be hungover, either, and yet here we are at whiskey o'clock in the morning." He pulled out a flask from the inside jacket pocket that held half his throwing knives and tossed back a measured swallow. Just enough to hold off the shakes, I knew. Rolling his eyes at himself, he twisted the cap back on firmly and stowed it. "Oh, hell, Bruno, are we sailing past Capri?"

Bruno tied off the last knot and hopped down to lean against the railing across from us. Indeed, the isle of our destiny was sliding past behind him.

"About that," he began.

I fucking lost it. "WHAT? What about Narancia? You said we'd be right behind him! I would never have agreed to this! How could you!"

"Fugo. Listen."

"No!" I was on my feet, in his face, blood seething, fists up. My moral compass swung a full 180 and the world shone in a sharper, crueler light. As Bruno pushed me away, the frayed tethers of my will snapped and Purple Haze staggered out of me, shoving forward as I fell back.

"No–" I gasped again, helpless to restrain my toxic stand.

Bruno sidestepped as my stand took a drunken swing at him. A second later, Sticky Fingers had zipped open the side of the boat and tripped my stand overboard. I struggled free of Abbacchio's grip and leapt to the railing, caught up in my stand's desperation to stay afloat.

I might have jumped overboard, but Bruno's arms closed around me. "Recall your stand."

"You sent him to his death!" I screamed. "I'll never forgive you!"

"No. Call back your stand and I'll explain."

Abbacchio was at my side now, against my shoulder, offering his cool gaze. "I want to hear that explanation. Fugo, can you put a lid on it, friend?"

My two friends. The only two people who would brave my rages and my toxic stand – Bruno because he's got that immunity thing, Abbacchio because he's got a death wish. If I lost them, or lost their trust, I'd lose everything.

My stand sputtered and splashed in the gentle, foamy waves below us. I took a deep breath and looked at everything that wasn't changing – the sky, the slow clouds, the white glare of the boat's paint. Abbacchio's pained nonchalance, Bruno's heated RESOLVE. Everything I could count on. My loyalty in every beat of my heart.

I swallowed back venomous words, renamed my rage as fear, allowed myself to think of Narancia's adorable face and realistically question what would help him most: fighting my friend or listening to my friend's plan?

"I'm listening." I slumped against the railing. With a snap of my fingers, Purple Haze vanished. My adrenaline high curdled to cold, paralyzing self-doubt – but my two friends held me up, better than any emotional crutch.

"Hey guys, we're sailing right past Capri," Mista called, pushing up on one elbow to look down from the sun deck.

"About that," Bruno said, waiting for my reaction. I nodded and he continued. "Capri has two marinas. We've dropped off our youngest team members at the large marina, where Polpo's fortune isn't. That keeps Narancia out of harm's way, and Giorno out of our way in case he really is working against us. Does that satisfy the two of you?"

"But they'll attack him anyway!" I sputtered. "If an enemy is waiting to ambush us–!"

"They'll see the boat going on past," Abbacchio said. "If they're a real threat at all, they'll see Narancia and Giorno as an obvious diversion and follow us instead."

"Exactly," Bruno said. "We'll lay in at the small marina on the other side of the island, fight through anyone who meets us there, and claim that fortune."

"You didn't make a plan to rendezvous with Narancia! How are we retrieving him? What if he runs into trouble?"

"We have these now," Bruno said pointedly, pulling one of the team cellphones from his pocket.

"And how's that supposed to help us if Narancia's in trouble?" I ran on. "He calls for help and, what, we race across the whole damn island to find him?"

"First, it's not a very large island," Bruno said, dropping a restraining hand on my shoulder. "Second, we have help with transportation if we really need it."

"We do?" Abbacchio looked quizzical.

"You brought your mirror, right?" Bruno asked him. "You've still got Illuso on speed dial?"

Abbacchio gave a sigh like the loneliest night wind. "Bruno, Illuso cannot help us. Not anymore, not even for an emergency. I thought you knew that."

"What? He's your only other friend. I thought you were still counting on him! Back at New Year's, when we got cornered by Logos thugs in Tripoli–"

"Yeah, remember I said it was a big risk even asking him? He got us out of there and Risotto was furious. I'll spare you the details, but he is not helping us anymore. Not for anything. And I won't ask him to; I'm not putting him in that position again."

"Not for Narancia?" Bruno asked quietly.

"It's our problem, not his, Bruno. Illuso can't suffer for our mistakes."

"Okay. That's fair." Bruno bit his lip; I recognized his sincere concern. "Then if Narancia calls for help, we'll have a real problem on our hands. I'm sorry, Fugo. I thought I'd thought of everything, but obviously I should have consulted my second-in-command."

My heart was racing and my fingers were tingly, cold. But my friends weren't betraying me. I reminded myself that anxiety is unavoidable in this line of work.

"He can look after himself," I mumbled. "He and Giorno will have to take care of each other."

"Think so?" Abbacchio said suspiciously.

"Hope so," Bruno said. He squinted across the sun-capped waves at the cliffs marking the furthest point of Capri. "Hang tight, I'll bring her around. Watch the boom!"

"What does that even – fucking hell!"

Abbacchio ducked as a sail on a long beam swung directly at his head; Bruno had loosed the knot holding it. The wind caught in the sail as Bruno heaved on the wheel. The boat pitched and jumped against the choppy waves near the cliffs. The deck tilted. Abbacchio yelped and collided with me, knocking us both against the railing. I pinwheeled; we were about to overbalance and tumble overboard.

"Hell, Bruno!" Abbacchio snapped. "Do you even know how to sail this thing?"

"Yeah, I do." Bruno spared his stand to grab us each by an arm and haul us to safety. Before he turned resolutely back to the waves, I saw that he was grinning.

(Giorno)

In my head, Gold was laughing at me for my romantic notion that a dolphin would make a good ride. The water smacked at my face and shoulders as we leapt and plunged through the waves. I was coughing and spluttering, feeling half-drowned, even though Gold told me I was fine and refused to change the chair into any other animal.

You just like to see me suffer, I mentally muttered to Gold as I kicked the dolphin into turning around. We had to go back; Narancia had fallen off for the fifth time.

I don't understand. You like when sharks indulge their natural urges.

Gold, you're not a shark in any sense. You're me.

That's one theory.

Narancia waved me away. He launched Aerosmith and gripped its wings, dangling precariously, giggling when the choppy waves splashed his toes. Worse, he was going to outpace me.

You're supposed to be on my side, stand! I thought, gripping the damn dolphin with all my strength and spurring it forward for another stint of seafoam hell. You're an aspect of me! You're, like, my intuition or something. Right?

Gold cackled maniacally. His glee filled my mind like a hundred thousand hornets taking wing. Oh, little human vessel, you have so much to discover.

That stung.

Vessel? I inquired, flexing my will.

Gold shrank back into his apportioned place in my mind. A little boat. I called you a little boat! But alas, it seems you are taking on water. Allow me to bail you out, oh my master.

The water filling my nose and threatening my lungs became jellyfish – horrid, stinging jellyfish that I snorted out in great gobs of tentacles.

GOLD!

Do you hate jellyfish? All those folio plates of them, I thought they were your favorite. Didn't you like the tiny jellyfish tooth I made you earlier? How can you resent me now, when I'm the one saving you from a lifetime of piss-drinking?

Closing my mind to such thoughts, I clung to the dolphin and weathered the journey to shore. Narancia spiraled overhead, riding the thermals, calling out encouragement.

From the way Gold handed me up onto the breakwater, you'd think my stand adored me. Narancia dropped down more roughly, as if Aerosmith's momentum could scarcely be restrained. He brushed dust from his tights, straightened his skirt, and pulled a dripping cellphone from, well, not exactly a pocket. When it didn't turn on, he shrugged and tossed it away among the boulders. "We'll get in touch with the guys some other way. You ready for action?"

"Let's aim for a cautious and measured approach," I suggested, wringing saltwater from my sleeves and flicking away a specimen of Fucus serratus.

"Okay, it's about three hundred meters," Narancia said, gazing skyward to where his stand was circling, a tiny speck against the azure zenith.

"Yes, but by measured, I meant subtle," I offered.

"Oh, yeah, totally!" Narancia glanced around the rocks that sheltered us from view of the marina. "Hey, can you turn some of these rocks into bushes? We can carry them with us. Like a walking decoy!"

I hushed Gold in my mind. "I could, but I think that might attract attention, don't you?"

"Huh. Probably." He scuffed the toe of his salt-ruined leather shoe in the dust, then shrugged. "Whatever! Let's just go and we'll do subtle when we get there!"

"Wait–!"

Narancia vaulted over the boulders and charged the marina. Aerosmith swung in low and buzzed the tourists' heads. Invisible and inaudible to non-stand-users, it still created a roaring wind that could not be ignored. Hats and paper plates went flying.

"Watching Narancia's back," I muttered sourly to Gold, scuttling forward low to the ground. "As if I could get ahead of him!"

Gold nudged my attention toward a small outbuilding flanking the patios and cafés of the marina. A tall figure shifted in the shadow just inside the open door, moving to keep line-of-sight as Narancia sprinted into the center of the piazza.

"Good idea," I whispered, taking cover behind the last scrubby Olea before the packed earth gave way to pavement.

As Narancia leapt onto the sculpted fountain presiding over the plaza and struck a pose, with Aerosmith swooping low again, Gold touched a pebble at my feet. A honeybee took wing: tiny, innocent, dedicated, and heart-set on scouting for enemies that might threaten its notional hive.

The first salvo of Aerosmith's guns thundered overhead. Damn, that stand had a talent for mayhem! As bullets pocked the cheap concrete paving tiles, tourists screamed and dove under tables. Others, stupider, shielded their heads with colorful plastic trays and fled. Aerosmith dove, harrying them, but without shooting. Loudspeakers at the corners of the plaza crackled, delivering some worthless message about taking cover until security arrived. Security! Little men in tight uniforms with handguns?

I had to agree with Gold.

Single-minded determination powered our honeybee across the buffeting gusts that Aerosmith kicked up. Crouched behind silver-green lanceolate foliage, Gold and I tracked its progress.

The stranger had stepped forward, shielding his eyes to squint up at Aerosmith. The mid-morning sun blazed on his hand and forehead, but cast his eyes and face into deepest shadow. Gold ached to see his face – the better to hate him.

Our little bee hovered and pestered, sampling his scent, seeking out enmity.

Thoughtless, the man swatted at the insect. The bee dodged and buzzed frantically, releasing its fighting pheromone.

Wait. Are we certain that's not a civilian?

Yes! Gold raked his fingers through the gravel at our feet. A thousand more bees rose from the earth and hurtled toward the scent of enemy.

He turned as he heard the thrum of their approach. I saw him spot the glint of Gold Experience's carapace and raise a stand of his own. Gold was right, as always. Scrawny, armored, more stupid spikes – bad hair, the user was equally scrawny and sloppily dressed. All this registered in an instant before the swarm arrived.

"Narancia!" I yelled, standing and pointing. "There!"

Narancia ducked behind the fountain's centerpiece. Aerosmith wheeled and came around over my head, guarding me on its way to take the offensive.

The enemy stand stepped in front of its user and struck with devastating speed: the first bee hung motionless in the air. And… the damage to my creation reflected onto the user and his stand. A fist-shaped bruise appeared on the enemy's cheek, but he was not knocked aside by the blow because, like that bee, he was frozen in space by his own stand effect.

Before he could release his stand effect, my swarm of bees arrived. They stung and fell – tiny heralds for the maelstrom of Aerosmith's bullets. Blood spurted. The man shuddered as his stand flickered out like a candle; he fell forward on his face and lay still. Aerosmith looped overhead and came in for another strafing pass. The body didn't even jerk as a dozen more bullets thudded into the man's back.

That wasn't very interesting, Gold complained as we surveyed the plaza.

I shrugged. Tourists cowered. Aerosmith hummed past overhead. Narancia hopped down from the fountain, flipping a periscope away from his face.

"No one's coming to help him," Narancia called, loping toward the body.

A screech of brakes, slamming vehicle doors, pounding feet.

"That's security!" I yelled.

"I'll hold them back! You check that building!" Narancia spun on his toes and dragged a bald man in a Hawaiian shirt from under a table. "Shut up, hostage, I don't wanna hurt you. Just stay in front of me and look scared, okay?" The man whimpered as Narancia pressed a knife to his throat. "Great job, you're a natural! Giorno, go now!"

Aerosmith laid down another hail of bullets right in front of the uniformed guards, halting their charge into the plaza. They fell out and took cover along the sides of buildings.

"This is la polizia di Capri! Lay down your weapon!"

As Gold pulled me to my feet and we sprinted to the outbuilding, I heard Aerosmith thunder out its reply, accompanied by the tourists' terrified shrieks.

Gold crouched to check the enemy's body for life on our way in. It was inert. With a touch, Gold dissipated the man's bloodied clothing into orange butterflies that blew away on the wind. Colias aurorina. A wallet and keychain jangled to the ground. I scooped them up and pocketed them as I stepped over the naked corpse.

The building turned out to be the marina office. Notices and schedules were pinned up all over the walls. On the desk below the window, a radio board was humming faintly. Gold covered the doorway while I pulled on the headset. I punched a couple buttons until sound crackled into my ears.

"Hello?" I tried, feeling foolish. "Capri marina to all craft?"

To my surprise, Mista's voice came in over the line. "Ten-four, Roger Wilco! How's it hanging?"

"It's, uh – it's Giorno," I managed. Somehow I never knew what to expect from Mista. "We've secured the marina. I think."

Another thunder of Aerosmith's guns shook the walls, putting the lie to my words. I winced. Dumb newbie.

"Cool, cool, cool," Mista said, blithe as ever. "See you on the other side!"

"Okay. See you when you get here."

"No, I'll see you when you get there."

"Wait, what?"

"Oh, yeah, Bucciarati didn't tell you guys. You're the decoys, okay? You gotta hitch a ride to the opposite side of the island now. We're gonna secure the marina. See you there. Hang ten, good buddy, over and out!"

"What? Did I just kill a man for nothing?"

The line was silent. I jammed my fingers into a few more buttons and the static died. The lights on the board went out. In the doorway, Gold was using his toe to lift and drop the dead man's hand, enjoying how the limp fingers flopped in the dust.

Narancia rushed through the door, almost tripping on the corpse. "Giorno! We've gotta go or I'm gonna have to kill some dudes!"

"We already did–"

Boots thumped across the plaza outside. Gold deposited the dead body in the middle of the room – turning it to a mound of nettle plants as easily as any inanimate object. I pulled the door shut. The lock clicked home. Aerosmith roared over the roof. Fists pounded on the door.

"Come out, you damn delinquent pixie!"

Narancia burst into a fit of giggles and clung to my arm. "I really fucked with their heads. But seriously, you can't let them catch me. I'm gonna fucking knife them if they fucking touch me. Guards give me the fucking creeps!"

I noticed he was shaking. Nerves? Adrenaline? Something in his eyes made me suddenly worry about his stand's propensity for collateral damage.

"Okay," I said. "We've got to cross the island and rendezvous with the guys at the other marina. Apparently we were a decoy. Got it?"

Narancia flashed a grin. "Oh, I'll show them decoy!"

Get us out of here, I told Gold. Its fists changed the back wall to beautiful Passiflora vines. We stepped through and the wall reverted to corrugated steel, just as the door clattered off its hinges and loud voices filled the tiny room behind us. The screams of newly crippled men. Nettles are fragile beauties and their coarse boots had broken so many stems; damage to my creations reflects onto the attacker.

We were in an alley. A delivery truck was parked just ahead. I bolted for it, pulling Narancia with me by the hand.

"Wait! Let me check it–" He pulled that periscope out of thin air.

"No time!"

Gold smacked a hand against the truck's door and it collapsed in a wave of glittering little fish. I didn't immediately recognize the species – Clupeonella cultriventris, came Gold's answer. Helpless little sprats. Gold pulled me up over the spill of fish and I pulled Narancia up in turn.

Great, I thought to Gold. Now how do we hotwire a truck?

Brilliantly haloed in my mind, Gold smirked and let my gaze slide onto the outraged driver, rising to his feet in the cramped cab. I leaned away, almost tumbling myself and Narancia right back out the door. I caught Narancia by the waist and fumbled for a hold on the passenger headrest.

"I don't do joyrides for tourist kids!" the man yelled. He narrowed his eyes at us, taking in our edgy style. "Especially not faggotty tourist kids. Get your gay asses out of this van before you turn the upholstery floral. Get out!"

I swayed between Gold's rage and my own caution; Narancia surged past me with a shriek of hysterical laughter and a knife the length of my whole hand.

"You can't call me gay until you figure out what the hell gender I am!" There was blood on Narancia's knife and the man was reeling backward – "And I'm not gonna let up for even one second, so good luck with that, fucker!"

Gold drew my attention to the sound of pounding feet rounding corners. "Narancia, we've gotta go!"

Narancia had grappled the driver back into his seat, straddling him, fists bunched in his collar, bloodied knife chaffing his throat.

"I like men," Narancia snarled in his face."So fuckingwhat? Now DRIVE!"

Gulping, skinning his Adam's apple against that knife, the driver turned the key in the ignition and yanked the shift into gear. Gold buckled my seatbelt as the small delivery truck lurched out of the alley in a spray of tiny silver fish. The first man of the police squad bounced off the hood; the second bounced off Gold's fist in place of the missing door and then we left them in our dust. The truck roared and fumed, tailgating a little car up the narrow lane lined with shops. Sirens started up behind us. I saw Narancia knee the driver in the stomach; he mounted the curb to shoulder past the smaller vehicle, then lunged up the road with a thrum of the engine and a cough of diesel exhaust.

"Where are we going?" the terrified man whispered.

"Over the mountain," Narancia said, finally unwinding himself from the driver's lap – without lowering the knife even a fraction. He perched on the edge of my seat. Adrenaline kept him shaking but that knife was perfectly still, like the Earth's own axis.

"Jesus, kid," the driver muttered as we left the town behind. He down-shifted to heave the truck up a hill road amid xeric grasses. "Learn to take a joke, okay? I'm not so straight myself. Just thought I was taunting some overdressed tourists, not the goddamn gay mafia!"

"Gangstars," I murmured, reaching my hand out to ride the summer breeze like a bird's wing. "We're gang-stars."

A smile broke over Narancia's face and he finally eased up on the knife. "Just don't slow down, okay?"

The driver nodded and hauled us through a hair-pin turn without losing an ounce of momentum.

In my head, Gold radiated contempt. Gang-stars. Something far more lethal flitted at the edge of his intentions, gone the moment I tried to focus on it. In the mirror, I noticed we'd sped past a hitchhiker; he stood on the roadside, just gazing resentfully after us. My worthless stepfather would have called it back luck, cursed and gone back for him in high-speed reverse, glowered at him in silence through the rest of the ride.

I tried to let it go but Gold didn't like the man's posture. I leaned out the gaping door-hole to look back and see the hitchhiker more clearly, but the truck was barreling ahead and he was already out of sight. Or maybe the angle had tricked me as the road curved away; the mirror still showed his receding figure, until the road hair-pinned again and we crested the tall hill – tiny mountain? – and roared down the other side toward destiny.

"There! Turn right, turn right!" Narancia yelled in delight. As the truck swerved into a pedestrian plaza, Narancia sprang over me and took off out the door, hitting the bricks at a run. "Abbacchio! Bucciarati! Fugo!"

"Your boyfriend is a maniac," the driver told me, finally lifting his shaking hands from the wheel as he parked. "You wanna watch out, okay?"

"Oh, we're not together," I said. "Not in the least."

Through the windshield, we watched Narancia collide with a shirtless Fugo and engage him in a fervent kiss, weaving his fingers into blood-soaked blond hair.

"I see that now," said the driver.

I dug out the dead man's wallet from my pocket and gave the driver the damp bills it contained. Not much else in there; a photo of the guy who attacked us back on the boat, a driver's license, a credit card, and – conveniently – a crumpled café receipt complete with signature. Perfect.

The driver was still counting. He whistled through his teeth. "That's a lot of cash. You never heard of a bank account, kid?"

"They don't let fifteen-year-old's open accounts."

"Huh. Fifteen? Stay safe, kiddo. You sure you want me to take all this?"

"Keep it. It's not mine anyway. You'll need something to bribe the police, right? And I did destroy your door, to be fair."

The man nodded philosophically. He stuffed the cash in his pocket and shifted the truck into reverse. Wisely getting the hell out of there.

I hopped out, fending off Gold's commentary in my head. The ground was sticky; Gold came alive at the smell of blood and I was instantly alert for enemies.

No enemies, only bloody smears all converging on – not far beyond where Fugo and Narancia stood heatedly exchanging stories, Bucciarati, where he straightened up and released a zipper at his feet, leaving a clean patch of brick. He wiped his hands on a white handkerchief and quickly stowed it before I could see what color it had become. At his side, Abbacchio was winding up a thick reel of what looked like ropes of flesh.

Mista – to my left, perched on the back of a park bench – spotted me and snapped his gun back together, loped over to me. "Giorno! Hey, Giorno!"

"Mista! What the hell happened here? It looks like a bloodbath!"

"Oh, that – you know, Logos thugs, trying us again." Mista was on me and then his arms were around me and I didn't know why – to Gold's amusement. "Thank God you're back, sexy. It was just the four of us, and you know, that's the unluckiest number."

"It is?"

"It was terrible," he said, fawning against me. "Comfort me?"

I patted his back awkwardly, realizing a second late that this was not what he meant. Gold Experience materialized between us, forcing Mista away – and flicking his forehead with one metallic finger. A look of wonder spread over Mista's face as his arms went slack. I was free. Gold ushered me away quickly–

Only to find Abbacchio barring my path. He had stowed… whatever that mess of fleshy ribbons was, and his hands were now occupied by a complement of metal darts. Throwing knives.

Maybe it was his age and demeanor, reminding me of my stepfather, or maybe it was the fact that I'd overheard him advocating for my execution, but I always felt particularly ill-at-ease with Abbacchio. Nonetheless, it was best to avoid conflict with Bucciarati's second-in-command.

I backed away and swallowed back Gold's hostility, forcing my stand to dematerialize.

"Abbacchio. I just got back – myself and Narancia." I gestured vaguely, weakly hoping the sight of his favorite team-member would pacify him. No such luck. "What's wrong?"

That really set his teeth on edge. "What's wrong? You want to just walk up and knock out our guard while the others are distracted, and then ask me what's fucking wrong? I see your game, newbie. I won't let you win."

"What? Knock out your–"

"You think I don't fucking know about your little punch trick?"

"My – okay, let's not call it that, please. It's just one of Gold's abilities." I stopped backing up and just let him stand in my personal space, all offended loyalty and knife fists. "Listen, I didn't knock out Mista as part of some plan. He came onto me and that surprised me and Gold just did what Gold does, okay? He defends me."

"Oh. So a guy coming onto you is, what, a mortal offense?" Abbacchio snarled. "You're not like that?"

"I'm not like what?" Gold chittered in my head. "Ohhh, gay? I don't know! Why would I know that about myself? I don't care! Mista will be fine in a minute. Just under thirty seconds now. I swear."

Abbacchio blinked at me, as if surprised by the young man he saw. But I hadn't changed. "Fine," he said, pushing past me. "Next time, just tell him you're not interested."

I hurried after him. He had stowed the throwing knives to check Mista's pulse, which was apparently satisfactory.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to help when Logos attacked," I offered.

He rounded on me again. "And how would you know about that?"

"There's fucking blood stains everywhere and Mista told me! I'm just – I followed orders and I wasn't here! I'm telling you I'm sorry."

This time, the scowl cracked to reveal, only briefly, a grin behind it. "Much better. Mista got something right for once, I see. That's exactly what he was supposed to tell you. It wasn't Logos, in fact. If you can help us out with who it was, I'll cut you in on that fortune."

"There's no possible way I would know that! There aren't even–" I pushed back certain images "–any bodies."

"Right again. But two-sixths of couple million USD is worth thinking it over, isn't it?"

"You mean a third. But – there's nothing to think about. I have absolutely no way of knowing. Why are you asking me?" In my head, I could feel Gold Experience laughing at me, but he wouldn't say why. Only what a perfect idiot I was.

"Giorno. You're a lot of things I don't like, but you're not stupid. You know why I'm asking."

I tore into Gold's half of our mind and the ideas came together quickly. It was so obvious, I almost laughed at myself, too. "You need to know if I was coordinating with them. And you want to know if I'd take the money. You're testing me."

"That's the one, yeah. But that light dawned very convincingly." Abbacchio was frowning at me. "You had to consult your stand for that, didn't you?"

I shrugged, uncomfortable under his gaze. "Gold's smarter about people than I am. He's my intuition. That's all."

"I can see that."

Mista came to at that exact moment. He stumbled toward me and grasped my hand, even as I stepped away. "Giorno! That was incredible! I mean, what a trip! You have the cosmos at your fingertips, pretty dude! Hit me again!"

Gold stepped out of me as I pulled away. Fortunately, Abbacchio intervened. "Mista, fuck off. He's not into you. Go do your fucking job."

Mista reluctantly dropped my hand and turned away, back to guard duty apparently. "Later, hot stuff."

His stand, multiple and tiny, flitting around his head, whistled and waved at me.

"Come on," Abbacchio told me. "It's time you met Trish."

Abbacchio steered me in the opposite direction and Bucciarati waved us over. There, flanked by wild-haired Narancia and shirtless Fugo, stood a petite pink-haired girl wearing the most extraordinary dress – with Fugo's shirt draped around her neck like a gym towel.