Dead Man Walking

by LadyWallace

Bucciarati wakes up in a hotel room after a Passione meeting only to find that he's been poisoned and has 24 hours to find who did it before he takes him out. Once again a dead man walking, will his team be able to find the culprit and save their Capo before it's too late?

Dead Man Walking

A JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Fanfic

The room spun sickeningly. He collapsed backwards, landing on something that thankfully gave, but that was little consolation because there was now a dark shadow bearing down on him, holding him in place.

He fought, movements sluggish. He heard a laugh and the dark figure loomed closer.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you, Bucciarati? It's time you finally find out what it's like to be just like the rest of us. You're the first, but you won't be the last…twenty-four hours starts now."

There was a sharp prick in his neck, and fire lit through his body. He tried to call Sticky Fingers one last time before darkness started to close in, the last thing he saw, was an amorphous, wicked grin.

---

Bruno Bucciarati woke, disoriented, in a strange place. He blinked sluggishly, looking around, head lolling to either side.

He was in a hotel room, that much he could tell, but he wasn't sure how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered was being at a meeting, and then having dinner…

He tried to sit up but his head swam so much he instantly sank back down onto the bed. Memories of a dark figure standing over him brought a new fear surging through him. If this was an attack, then whoever it had been might have gone after his team next.

He had to warn them.

With monumental effort, he rolled onto his side and reached for the phone on the side table. He fumbled with the numbers but finally heard the dial tone, and after what seemed like forever, someone picked it up.

"Hello?" the familiar voice greeted.

"Gio-Giorno," Bucciarati slurred; the task of speaking seemed far too difficult right now.

"Bucciarati?" Giorno asked. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"No," Bucciarati sighed.

"Where are you?"

"I…I don't…"

"Are you still at the hotel?"

Bucciarati dragged his eyes open again, fumbling for the hotel card on the side table, blinking hard as the words swam. "Hotel…yes…La Stanza d'Argento. Five—five thirteen…"

"We're coming, stay put," Bucciarati heard Giorno say before the phone slipped away from his ear, thumping on the floor, as he fell unconscious again.

---

Giorno's heart was in his throat as they raced through the luxurious hotel lobby, ignoring the concierge as they all headed straight toward the elevators that were just opening.

"Move!" Abbacchio commanded the people getting out and they hurried to obey as Giorno and the others piled into the elevator.

"He said 513, right?" Mista asked, as his hand hovered over the buttons.

"Yes," Giorno said as Mista punched the button for the fifth floor.

The doors closed and Giorno tensely pressed himself into a corner of the elevator.

He should have gone to the meeting with Bucciarati. If only he hadn't been so busy, or hadn't allowed the capo to convince him that he wasn't really needed…At least Mista or Abbacchio could have accompanied him as a guard—a capo should have a guard after all. This had been so stupid. They knew how many enemies they had made, and now…

The elevator bell rang and they forced their way out the opening doors, startling several people.

"This way," Abbacchio called and they hurried down the hall, counting room numbers until they came to 513.

They halted briefly outside, Mista pulling his gun free and holding it at the ready. Giorno used Gold Experience to change the lock into some plants and stepped back to let Abbacchio kick the door in.

They raced into the room, eyes darting from side to side, looking for any sign of danger. But there was just Bucciarati lying on the bed, head and one arm dangling off the side.

"Bucciarati!" Giorno cried, rushing forward, the others on his heels. His hands shook as he reached out and rolled the man onto his back, fingers groping for a pulse at his neck. But Bucciarati was already stirring, eyes opening sluggishly.

"Giorno," he murmured.

"Are you hurt?" Giorno asked, searching the man for injuries but not even finding any blood.

"No…I…don't think so." His voice slurred slightly.

"What the hell happened?" Abbacchio demanded as he reached out to grab Bucciarati's arm, helping him sit up. He and Giorno both grabbed a shoulder as he swayed.

"Not sure," Bucciarati huffed.

"There's no sign of anything weird here," Mista said. "The Pistols searched the room completely."

Abbacchio leaned in and sniffed Bucciarati whose head lolled to look at him balefully.

"I'm not drunk," he muttered. "Barely had a glass of wine at dinner…"

"Dinner," Giorno mused. "Were you drugged?"

Bucciarati blinked. "Maybe…I don't know how I got up here…"

"Yeah, you were supposed to come home tonight," Giorno said. "Do you remember anything?"

Bucciarati raised a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes. "I know there was a man here, he…I thought he was going to attack me, but I'm not dead, so…" His brow furrowed slightly and he reached up to press his fingers against his neck with a wince. He fumbled with the zipper on his collar and folded it down, revealing a small red spot.

"Is there something there?" he asked the others.

"Yeah," Abbacchio said grimly, leaning in. "It looks like a needle mark."

Giorno's stomach twisted. He did not like this situation at all.

"And you don't remember what happened at all?" Giorno demanded. "Did your attacker say anything?"

Bucciarati rubbed the spot, eyes half closed as he shook his head slowly. "It's all very blurry, but…his voice was taunting, I'm sure he said something about…me being the first, but not the last…?"

"Which means we could all have targets on our backs," Mista said grimly.

"Which means we need to figure this out," Giorno added. "And we need to know exactly what he did to you."

Bucciarati nodded numbly and allowed Giorno and Abbacchio to help him to his feet, pretty much supporting his whole weight as Mista kept an eye out for any possible enemies.

Giorno didn't think they would find any, though. He had the terrible feeling that this unknown attacker had already done everything he needed to.

---

As soon as they got back to the house, Fugo called for Passione's private physician. They didn't want to take risks letting an outsider in on this, and it was possible they might need a Stand user in case it turned out they were dealing with a Stand attack.

Bucciarati wasn't entirely convinced his attacker had been a Stand user though. He had been wracking his fuzzy brain the whole drive back, but still couldn't remember any details. The last thing he remembered clearly was having dinner after the meeting and then there was a missing space of time…

Whatever drug that had been used on him was thankfully wearing off however, especially after Fugo plied him with dark coffee, and he was able to sit up on the side of his bed when the physician arrived.

Doctor Antonio was a rather fatherly figure who had been with Passione for a long time, and had patched Bruno up on multiple occasions before Giorno had become the team's personal healer.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, ragazzo?" he asked as he performed a quick examination of Bruno's vitals before motioning for him to take his coat off so he could listen to his heart and lungs, brow furrowed in concentration.

Giorno and Abbacchio had refused to leave, so they stood off to one side, tense. Bruno wanted to tell them it was all going to be all right, but he didn't even know that for certain.

"And this is the only injury?" Dr. Antonio asked, bending close to examine the needle mark.

"Yes," Bruno replied with a shrug.

"Hmm. Let me do a blood test then."

His Stand aura glowed around him and his Stand appeared, one finger shifting into a needle that pricked the crook of Bruno's arm.

The Stand manipulated the drop of blood so that it was floating it the air, breaking it down by molecule as Dr. Antonio stood by and his frown deepened. When the Stand had completed its examination. He let out a long breath, and reached up to take off his glasses.

"Well, Bucciarati, you're right, you were drugged, but I'm assuming that would have been put into your food, considering it's already wearing off. What was administered by the needle…" he glanced over to where Giorno and Abbacchio still stood, tensely waiting.

"You can tell them too, they'll have to know eventually, regardless," Bruno said tiredly.

Dr. Antonio sighed. "Well, someone has decided to poison you, Bruno," he said.

"What?" Abbacchio demanded; Giorno's face paled slightly.

Bruno looked down at his hand, flexing it, pushing aside the fear that began to crawl up his throat. "How bad?" he asked.

Dr. Antonio gave him a pained look. "The mixture is synthetic, it's a cocktail. I can't tell exactly what's in it or in what doses, but…from what little I can see, I think it's safe to say…" he paused again.

"What?" Bruno demanded, starting to get impatient.

"You probably have about twenty-four hours," the doctor said firmly.

The room was deathly silent for about two seconds while that sank in, before Giorno opened his mouth. "Twenty-four hours for the poison to…?"

"No," Abbacchio cut in sharply, stepping forward and glowering at the doctor. "You can't do anything? Your Stand can't make an antidote or something?"

"Without knowing the exactly measurement of what went into the cocktail, I'm afraid I cannot," the doctor said grimly. "The wrong mixture could do more harm than good."

"Dammit! What good are you then?" Abbacchio snarled, fists clenching.

"Abbacchio, please," Bruno said, standing a little more steadily than before and pulling his coat back on. "Arguing about something that can't be changed isn't going to do any good. The point is we have twenty-four hours to figure out who did this and I'm not going to waste that time. Let's go inform the others about the situation."

But Dr. Antonio stopped him before he could leave the room. "Bruno, you have to understand; there's a twenty-four-hour window—approximately, mind—before the poison takes full effect on you, but long before that, it's going to start attacking your body. Lack of motor function, organ failure—I can't imagine you won't be bedridden by at least the twelve-hour mark. Perhaps sooner, depending on how this poison decides to function."

Giorno paled further, Abbacchio cursed under his breath and Bruno clenched his jaw.

"Then we don't have any time to lose," he said firmly. "Go get the others."

"Bucciarati, I can't stop you," Dr. Antonio said. "But I don't suggest this. "You're going to be feeling it within just a few hours."

Bucciarati turned to look at him, lifting his chin. "I've been a dead man walking before. Whoever this man is, I'm not going to let him defeat me that easily."

He pushed past Giorno and Abbacchio and opened the door, finding the rest of the team waiting anxiously outside in the hallway.

"Good, you're all here," he said.

"Bucciarati?" Narancia asked, taking a cautious step forward. "What happened? Are you okay or…or what?"

Bruno pressed his lips together. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. We don't have time. A currently unknown assailant has decided to poison me and I have twenty-four hours to live."

The audible gasps from the others were followed by outrage and protests, which Bucciarati put a stop to instantly.

"Enough! I need all of you to keep your heads right now!" he commanded, and they quieted down. "I have reason to believe this man will not stop with me, so we need to find him, not only for the antidote but to put a halt to whatever plans he has."

"But…" Narancia asked, eyes wide. "What if we can't find him in twenty-four hours?"

"We will!" Fugo snapped, hands clenching. He wasn't looking at Bucciarati, but Bruno could tell he was not taking this well. "We've found people in less time than that. We just have to think."

"Fugo's right," Giorno said, stepping forward, looking a little steadier now that they had a clear direction. "First we need to look into everyone who was at the meeting. It may not have been one of them, but they might know something. Bucciarati's food or wine was drugged, so it's possible our culprit could also have been working as kitchen staff at the hotel and their position was used as an opportunity for someone to get to Bucciarati."

"But hold on!" Narancia demanded. "If you need an antidote, can't Giorno just make one like he did with Purple Haze?"

"It doesn't work like that, Narancia," Giorno said quietly. "I was able to make an antidote for Purple Haze's disease because of the snake I created within the toxic atmosphere. This isn't the same thing."

"There's no point in talking about stuff we can't do," Fugo snapped. "We need to start looking through all of the capos at the meeting and the hotel staff."

"Good," Bucciarati said. "Giorno, Trish, Fugo…you start checking into the capos. The rest of us will head to the hotel and begin questioning the staff."

"But…Bucciarati, you need to stay here and rest!" Trish said, grabbing his arm.

He gently extricated it and patted her cheek. "I'm fine for now, Trish. And it's possible that I might recognize the man if I see him. I need to go." He turned to Dr. Antonio who had his lips pressed together into a disapproving line. "Thank you, doctor, you can go for now."

"I won't be far. Call me if you need anything. And, despite everything…take it easy, Bruno."

Bucciarati didn't reply, simply turned to his team. "Come on, Let's go."

---

Abbacchio clutched the steering wheel too tightly, his knuckles white. How the hell had he allowed this to happen? He knew he should have gone with Bucciarati to begin with. He glanced into the rearview mirror, seeing Mista and Narancia, sitting silently in the backseat, Narancia watching the back of Bucciarati's head intently.

"When we get there, we'll split up to cover more ground," Bruno was saying. "I'd say start with the kitchen staff and work our way out from there. Abbacchio, you can try to do a replay with Moody Blues and after that, we can check the employee records of anyone not on duty tonight. And if we don't have any luck there—"

"Can you just stop for a second?" Abbacchio snapped, causing everyone to look at him as he glanced toward Bucciarati, teeth bared. "Can you not just realize for one minute that you're dying? Again?"

Bucciarati pressed his lips into a thin line, looking straight forward. "And what good would that do, Leone?" he asked quietly. "Because it's not going to help us find the antidote any quicker. I would prefer we leave it out of the equation all together. It will help us think more clearly. Please, let's just think of this as another case."

And it was then that Abbacchio realized that Bucciarati was scared. It would have been imperceptible to anyone who didn't really know him, but Abbacchio could tell from the set of his shoulders and jaw, the way he placed his hands too carefully in his lap, the non-reactions…Bruno was scared and of course he was, because he was fucking dying again.

Abbacchio sighed and loosened his grip on the wheel. "Well, at least you graced everyone with the knowledge of your position this time," he couldn't help but mutter.

Bucciarati sighed and turned to look out the window as Abbacchio wished he had bitten his tongue.

"Let's just keep on mission, please."

Thankfully, they were pulling in at the hotel again and they hurried back inside. The concierge gave them a foul look, especially when they demanded to see all of the employees instantly.

"All right, Mista, Narancia, question the kitchen staff," Bucciarati told the two. "We'll reconvene later."

He headed straight over to the elevator, Abbacchio having no choice but to follow. The ride up was silent, but Abbacchio broke the silence as soon as they stepped out.

"I'm guessing what we're looking for is somewhere between when we found you and the last thing you remember?" he asked.

Bruno glanced over at him. "Yes. Dinner was at 8:30—the meeting ran late, and…when did I call you?"

Abbacchio checked his watch. "It was about 11."

"I assume I was unconscious for at least an hour," Bucciarati mused as they found the room and he stopped in front of the door. And then just stood there awkwardly for a moment.

"What's wrong?" Abbacchio asked.

Bruno's face was pale, and he swallowed. "I can't seem to summon Sticky Fingers."

Abbacchio blinked, dread settling in. "What?"

"Perhaps it's lingering effects of the drug or…the poison," Bruno replied, his voice pitched to be emotionless, but he was failing.

Abbacchio pushed him aside and channeled his anger into kicking the door in for the second time that night.

He summoned Moody Blues as soon as they got inside.

"All right, I'm rewinding it back to 9:30 to start off."

Bruno nodded and watched as Moody's clock started to count backwards before he began to take shape and move toward the door. They followed and finally saw the form Moody Blues took.

"Pause it," Bruno said instantly and Abbacchio did, both of them getting closer to the man.

He had his face covered, most of his features indistinguishable except his eyes. Even then, Abbacchio wasn't sure he knew the man, though there was perhaps something a bit familiar…

"Do you recognize him?" he asked Bruno.

The other man stared intently at the figure before shaking his head. "I don't know. Nothing's coming to mind."

"Yeah," Abbacchio said grimly.

"Play it."

Abbacchio let Moody Blues start the replay again and they watched as the figure went toward the room, dragging an invisible person—Bucciarati—along with him. There was a brief struggle before he leaned over the bed, pulling something from his pocket. Abbacchio paused the playback again, and went to look at the object. It was nothing but a simple glass bottle, no indication as to what was in it.

A syringe was filled and there was a chuckle from the figure. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, Bucciarati? It's time you finally find out what it's like to be just like the rest of us. You're the first, but you won't be the last… twenty-four hours starts now."

Abbacchio felt a shiver go down his spine at that, and watched as the man did his evil deed and walked toward the door.

Abbacchio and Bucciarati followed him down the hall and to the back stairwell where he got out onto the street and inevitably into a waiting car. Moody Blues stopped the replay there, and changed back.

"Let's check the cameras, see if we can get a license plate," Abbacchio said.

Bucciarati pointed up. "No cameras on this corner. He likely knew that."

"Dammit," Abbacchio groaned. "All right, let's see if we can figure out what this guy was doing before he got you in that room."

They returned upstairs and Abbacchio had Moody Blues rewind the man's movements, following him back down to the hallway right outside the dining room where he stopped and stared at a wall.

"Here," Bruno said suddenly.

Abbacchio let the playback go at normal speed and they saw their mystery man stop, looking like he was taking someone by the shoulders. "Oops, careful there, signore. How about I take you somewhere to sit down?"

Bruno shook his head slightly. "I…vaguely remember leaving the dining room, not feeling well. I was trying to go find the bathroom. After that, I really don't remember much until that man got me to the room, but…I do remember someone offering help, it's just a bit fuzzy…"

"Well, it's not much to go on, but we have a vague description. I feel like I might know this guy, but I'm not sure from where."

"He might be part of Passione, or possibly one of the drug dealers in the city. What are your thoughts?" Bruno asked him. "Do you think he was working alone or for someone else?"

"Did it look personal?" Abbacchio asked, mulling it over. "What he said sounded personal, but…I think if it was someone who really wanted to get at you personally, they would attack more overtly. This was underhanded, as if the person got more joy from the thought of you being a dead man walking than they did from the thought of putting a bullet in your head themselves."

"So, you think this was just a hit?"

"I think that we can't rule either possibility out—it's sadistic, regardless, but it's not like some hitmen don't enjoy their work." Abbacchio sighed. Frankly, he had no clue what the hell was going on here, but they were already running out of time. It was what the guy said that was bothering him the most.

"Let's go reconvene with the others, see what they've found out."

After questioning the kitchen staff and most of the other hotel staff, Mista and Narancia had come up with nothing particularly useful. Abbacchio was starting to get more and more pissed.

"I think we need to move on to another avenue of investigation," he said. "This guy obviously didn't want to be seen. He came in the back and left the same way."

"If you want my opinion, I think we need to focus on the other Passione members who were at the meeting," Mista said. "Not everyone is happy with Bucciarati rising past some of the older members. Not to mention our take down of drug rings has made some enemies."

"Mista has a point," Bucciarati replied. "We should go back home and see what the others might have found."

They headed out to the street when Abbacchio caught sight of someone walking down the sidewalk. When the man saw them, he hunched his shoulders and started to sidle away, but Abbacchio stopped him.

"Hey! Franco!" he snapped.

The man turned around with a sheepish grin. "H-hey, Signore Abbacchio."

Abbacchio glowered at the informant as Mista and Narancia hemmed him in so that he was trapped against the side of the building.

"What's going on?" the man asked, eyes darting between them.

"Since you're hanging around here," Abbacchio said slowly. "I was wondering if you had heard anything about a hit going down?"

"Hm?" the man asked, eyes widening. "N-no—who's the hit supposed to be on?"

They were all silent, Abbacchio and the boys sharing looks as Franco watched nervously. Finally, Bucciarati stepped forward.

"Me," he said darkly.

Franco glanced over at him, eyes widening. "Oh, no, I swear I didn't hear anything about a hit, signori. I would have let you know if I had… You're alive though, Signore Bucciarati, so I guess that's a good thing—"

Abbacchio grabbed him by the front of his coat and shoved him back against the wall. "Are you sure you didn't hear anything? Anyone with a grudge against Bucciarati?"

"Well…there's…a lot of people with grudges, signore…"

"Think!" Abbacchio snapped.

"Look, I swear I heard nothing!" Franco cried, raising his hands.

Abbacchio released his coat, jabbing a finger into his chest instead. "Then do me a favor and look into it. Ask around. If you hear anything, you let me know."

"Y-yes, Signore! I promise you'll be the first to know!"

Abbacchio sneered and shoved him away. The man ran off down the street.

"Hopefully he can find something," Mista grunted skeptically. "If he grows a pair anyway."

They were heading back to the car, when Narancia spoke up. "Hey, Bucciarati…you're sweating pretty bad."

Abbacchio glanced over at the other man, seeing glistening drops beading on Bruno's face.

"Do you…have a fever or something now?" Narancia asked hesitantly.

Bucciarati reached up, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I'm all right. It's undoubtedly a side-effect."

"Should we call the doc back?" Mista asked.

"There's no need, it's barely an inconvenience," Bucciarati said tersely, heading the rest of the way to the car.

Everyone saw him fumble with the car door before he got it open but they all decided not to comment on it. Abbacchio tried not to think about the ticking down of minutes as he drove them back home, hopefully to more answers.

---

"We have nothing to go on."

Giorno glanced over at Fugo who looked like he was about ready to tear his hair out.

"We must be missing something," Trish said as she stood up with a sigh. "I'm going to go get more coffee. Who wants some?"

Everyone nodded in affirmative and Giorno set the file he'd been looking through into a growing pile of people they were pretty sure were not involved. He glanced over to where Bucciarati sat at his desk, clicking through files on his laptop. Giorno's brow furrowed worriedly, as he watched Bucciarati wipe his face on his sleeve again. His sweating hadn't stopped since he got back home, his movements had been less coordinated too, and Giorno could tell he was trying to hide the fact that his breathing was uneven.

He surreptitiously called out Gold and his Stand moved to stand behind Bucciarati, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Bucciarati started and glanced up at the Stand before turning to Giorno, a tired, yet kind look on his face.

"Giorno, I'm fine," he said, glancing up at Trish as she came over with a cup of tea for him and a towel he could wipe his face on. She gave his shoulder a squeeze before heading back to her pile of files, shooting Giorno a look.

Giorno pressed his lips together and dismissed Gold. About the only comfort he had was that Bucciarati still had a pulse.

They worked continually, discussing different possibilities, none of which seemed right. Without knowing the true identity of the man who had attacked Bucciarati at the hotel, they really had no real leads. All the time, they were watching the clock, seeing the hours tick down closer and closer to dawn. How long has it been now? Seven hours? Eight? Twenty-four hours seemed like nothing.

"There has to be something we're missing," Fugo growled as he threw another file into the growing pile.

"Well, say this is personal," Mista commented. "Who has Bucciarati pissed off recently?"

"No one we haven't taken out," Narancia commented.

"That's not necessarily true," Giorno said. "Any of the outliers we took out recently still had lackeys, possibly even family members who might consider trying for revenge."

"Kid's got a point," Abbacchio said, setting down his phone after calling more informants in their search for information.

"Agreed," Bucciarati said, leaning back with a barely hidden wince and reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "But that doesn't narrow it down a lot. All we've been doing the last few months is taking down drug dealers."

Fugo suddenly glanced up from a file he was scanning. "Giorno, what was it Doctor Antonio said about the poison used on Bucciarati?"

Giorno pressed his lips together. "Well, it was a cocktail he couldn't even really figure out with his Stand. He left a list of everything he could identify…"

"So, it was something specifically made for this purpose by someone who obviously knew what they were doing if they could pin down the time it would take to attack a body to the hour."

"I would assume so," Giorno said.

Fugo flipped through the file again, turning it around for the others to see. "Do you remember a couple months ago when we looked into Fanucci who runs that club? He pays protection, but we suspected him of selling drugs as a side business."

"Yeah, I remember him," Mista commented. "People were talking about the drugs being designer stuff, weren't they?"

"Exactly," Fugo said. "My thought is someone who could make designer drugs like that would be able to make a poison like the one used on Bucciarati. And he might also be aware that we're onto him so he decided to take Bucciarati out before we could take him down."

"The only question is if he's actually the one, or just another piece to the puzzle," Abbacchio grunted.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Giorno said, standing up. "Let's go. It's nearly six am now. He's probably already in the office."

Bucciarati stood too, pushing himself up with a little too much effort. Reminding them all that it had already been eight hours.

"Bruno, you really should stay here," Abbacchio told him.

"Yes, you should," Giorno agreed firmly. "Exerting yourself could cause the poison to accelerate."

But Bucciarati shook his head. "As long as I can walk, I'm going with you. Arguing is just going to waste time we don't have."

"Why are you so damn stubborn?" Abbacchio growled. "Someone needs to stay and answer phones in case any of the informants call back with info."

"I can do that," Trish volunteered. "Just go."

Giorno cast one more worried look at Bucciarati before he followed the others out to the van. He really hoped this was an actual lead, and not just another dead end.

---

Bruno could feel the poison working inside of him. He could no longer stop sweating and shaking, simply trying to keep his breathing even so that he could form some semblance of normality, but he figured he wasn't doing well, as everyone was taking turns casting worried glances his way. He swallowed hard and looked out the window toward the rising sun.

A grim thought caught in his throat. Would this be the last sunrise he saw? Part of him wanted to just drive to the beach, lay out in the sand under the sun and forget everything else.

But he had a duty to his team as well. His attacker's words had led him to believe that he was only the first target in whatever scheme this was. And if that was the case, he couldn't afford to die until he found the culprit so he could save his precious famiglia as well.

That always came first to Bucciarati. That was always his priority. Even dying came second to keeping his loved ones safe and sound as he had proven before quite literally.

"This is it," Fugo said, pulling into the parking lot of the club that was empty that time of day. He glanced over to see one other car. "Let's hope he's in."

They got out, and after fumbling with his seatbelt for a second, Bruno swung his legs around with effort and slid out of the van.

Only to find his legs decided they didn't want to support him, forcing him to grab for the door, fingers shaking.

Mista caught him under the arms, pulling him upright as he slid out of the van behind him.

"Are you good?" he asked quietly as the others all stared worriedly.

Bucciarati bit back the frustration at his own weakness, somehow finding the energy to push himself upright and away from Mista. "Yes, I'm fine."

Five sets of skeptical eyes stared back at him but Bruno did his best to ignore them, straightening himself and his suit with a sharp tug.

"Let's go," he commanded, starting toward the building.

And then a horrible pain suddenly ripped through his insides and he staggered to a halt with a cut-off gasp, unable to keep himself from dropping to his knees at the shock of it.

"Bucciarati!" Giorno shouted, rushing to his side as Abbacchio also grabbed his arm, keeping Bruno from faceplanting entirely.

"What's wrong?" Fugo demanded.

"I…" Bruno tried before another agonizing cramp tore through his stomach and he doubled over again, instinctively clawing at Giorno and Abbacchio as they kept a tight hold on him.

"Bruno," he heard Abbacchio snap, as the pain subsided and he could breathe again.

"I'm fine," Bruno managed to gasp.

"No, you're fucking not!" Abbacchio snapped, his grip on Bucciarati's arm painfully tight, bruising.

"He's right, your body…the poison is starting to attack your major organs," Giorno said, his face pale and sick looking. Bruno could vaguely see a golden glow behind him, and felt Gold Experience's hands ghosting over him.

Bucciarati knew he was right. Could feel how… off… his body was right now. It was like he had a physical clock ticking inside of him, reminding him just how little time he had left. He'd been there before; that was the ironic thing. Except last time he had counted down by the lack of feeling, and this time, it just seemed to hurt more and more.

"You can wait in the car, Bucciarati, we've got this," Narancia said quietly, wringing his hands.

"No," Bucciarati gritted out, using Giorno and Abbacchio to push himself shakily to his feet, trying to keep as steady as possible.

"Are you sure, because you're looking pretty bad, man," Mista commented before Narancia shot him a look.

"I'm already here, I'm going to help," Bruno said firmly, shoving away from Giorno and Abbacchio, the latter cursing at him under his breath. "Let's go."

The others followed him silently into the club. As soon as he got to the door, Bruno took the arm from around his stomach, swallowing sickly at the nausea that ensued from the violent cramping. He knew Giorno was right, he knew they didn't have a lot of time left. It had been eight hours now. They were quickly reaching the halfway point and it was becoming painfully obvious that he was running out of time.

---

Ten minutes later, found them in the back office, with the owner of the club, Fanucci, sitting in a chair as Narancia threatened him with his blade and the rest of them started tearing the place apart, looking for any useful information. Abbacchio yanked open the drawers on the desk, dumping the contents, checking underneath the desk for any hidden documents.

"I don't even know what you're looking for!" the man tried to protest.

"You buy and sell designer drugs," Giorno snapped. "Who do you get them from?"

"I have several suppliers!"

"I'll need all of their names."

"Then look in the books! All of my business is recorded there!"

Fugo snatched a ledger from one of the drawers Abbacchio held, and started flipping through it. "And how do you record these sales so we know what to look for?" he demanded.

The man hesitated a moment too long for Narancia who sliced open his arm with a deep cut.

"Shit, kid! Look, the interactions are marked in blue ink, okay? But I only buy from the runners, I don't even know who makes them!"

"I don't believe that for a second," Bucciarati said firmly. "You're too much of a shrewd businessman to be that stupid."

"That's what I'm thinking," Abbacchio growled. "I think you have one dealer who makes the best stuff you can get locally, and you're good buddies with him."

Fanucci whimpered as Narancia pressed the knife to the corner of his eye.

Abbacchio riffled through the rest of the drawer he was holding, and, finding nothing of use, he tossed it aside. "Tear this place up. If there's drugs on the premise right now, we might be able to find a makers' mark on them."

Everyone branched out, ripping the office apart. Mista sent the Pistols out to make searching even easier.

"I'm not seeing anything useful here," Giorno said tightly as he tore through the papers in the desk for the third time.

"Yeah, maybe this bastard could use a little persuasion," Narancia said, waggling the knife in the sweating man's face again.

"Keep looking," Bruno said tightly, rubbing more sweat from his own face.

Abbacchio watched worriedly as Bruno moved to prop himself against the wall with one hand, the other traveling down shakily to press against his stomach, a vague cringe pulling at his face. Abbacchio pressed his lips together worriedly. The way he had dropped earlier…that wasn't like Bruno. He was hurting and he was fading fast and they couldn't find a damn thing.

"Look! How hard is it to just give us names?" Mista demanded, pulling his gun out of his boot and joining Narancia to threaten Fanucci.

"I know my dealers, but not the man who makes the drugs!" the man protested. "He keeps himself to himself! You think anyone in the business wants to be well-known when the new Boss is purposefully tearing the city apart, looking for anyone who wants to make a little money on drugs?"

Narancia grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pressing the knife into his cheek hard enough to draw blood. "Give us names, or I'll take your eye!" he snapped.

Abbacchio was about ready to yank the guy out of the chair and start beating the info out of him when he saw Bucciarati start to sway before he shakily pushed himself against the wall.

"See if he changes his mind," Bruno said quickly, swallowing hard. "I'm… going to get some air for a few minutes."

He started staggering out of the club and Fugo and Giorno glanced over worriedly.

"He shouldn't be alone," Fugo said.

"I can go," Giorno told him, starting forward before Abbacchio put a hand out to stop him.

"No, I got him, keep the pressure on this bastard until he talks."

What Abbacchio wasn't going to say out loud was that he knew Bruno needed a moment to show weakness right now and he wouldn't do that in front of the kids.

However, despite the fact that it had taken Bruno a while to show him his vulnerable side, Abbacchio was no stranger to being there when his capo needed to break down. While Bucciarati respected every member of his team despite their age, he was a caregiver at heart and their youth brought that out in him, sometimes to his own detriment. Abbacchio's position as the oldest in the team, as well as Bucciarati's bodyguard—a position he had given himself as soon as he had figured out just how reckless this man was—left him as the sole person to pick up whatever pieces Bruno let fall. It wasn't like the roles hadn't been reversed on more than one occasion. The important part was that Bruno knew he didn't have to hide anything from Abbacchio.

At least, Abbacchio hoped he knew that.

The door was swinging shut behind Bucciarati as Abbacchio hurried toward it, pushing through to spot the man in question.

The instant Bruno was out of sight of the others, he slumped against the wall, sinking down with shaking legs to sit on one of several crates that were stacked against the wall, his eyes squeezed closed.

"Bruno," Abbacchio called softly as he hurried over to the other man.

Bruno's eyes opened for a second before seeing it was just Abbacchio, and proceeding to slump further. His jaw was tight and his arms were wrapped tightly around his middle as he swallowed hard. "You should be inside helping the others."

Abbacchio ignored him, and sat on the crate next to him. "How bad, Bruno?" he asked quietly. "And no bullshit."

The dark-haired man slumped impossibly further. "It hurts," he said, voice nearly a whisper, surprising Abbacchio with his honestly. "Last time…last time it didn't hurt. This is…god…" His voice cut off in a whimper as he curled into himself.

Not knowing what else to do, Abbacchio reached out and pulled him close, squeezing him tightly as if that would do anything, rubbing his back soothingly in an attempt to offer some paltry amount of comfort. Bruno was heavy against his chest, clammy cheek pressed against his shoulder, twitching or tensing every once in a while in pain. Abbacchio reached up with one arm and silently wiped the sweat off of Bruno's face with his sleeve.

"You should have stayed in bed," he grunted.

Bucciarati shook his head. "I can't just sit and do nothing when the rest of you might be in danger too."

Abbacchio huffed. "We'll find the bastard who did this to you. I promise."

There was muffled screaming inside. The interrogation must have finally started in earnest. Abbacchio ignored it. The kids could handle that.

Bruno made a hitching sound in the back of his throat, wrapping his arms tighter around himself, eyes fluttering closed again. "God, I'm scared, Leone," he breathed. "I hate feeling like this, but I can't pretend I'm not. I don't…"

Abbacchio held him tighter, squeezing his own eyes shut as he tried to force the painful lump in his throat to go away. "You're gonna be fine," he croaked. "Dammit, Bruno, you're gonna be fine."

He lost track of how long they sat like that, Bruno slumped against him and Abbacchio feeling like he was holding him together at the seams.

And then the door was ripped open and Bruno instantly straightened, somehow having the wherewithal to pretend he wasn't actually dying.

"We got a name!" Narancia gasped, still waving his bloody knife as the others piled out after him and Bruno pushed himself back to his feet, surreptitiously using Abbacchio's shoulder. "A little persuasion and he gave up not only his dealer but the actual supplier! The guy who makes the stuff!"

"Let's go then," Bruno said as they all hurried toward the van again. He staggered slightly, feet seeming to be heavy, and Mista caught him. Abbacchio pressed his lips together and went to get in the passenger seat as Fugo got behind the wheel, address written on a torn scrap of paper with a pretty obvious bloodstain.

Bruno shivered, leaning heavily against the door, and Giorno, sitting next to him, glanced over worriedly.

"You're really not doing well," the boy commented.

"I've been better," Bucciarati said, voice thin even to his own ears. "And worse."

Giorno didn't seem to find any amusement in that, simply swallowing hard and looking down at his hands where they were clenched in his lap. "If worse comes to worst, I can at least systematically replace your organs with Gold Experience. It wouldn't be a pleasant procedure, but it could buy you a little more time."

Bucciarati sighed wearily. "It's okay, Giorno. Let's just hope that this is the man we're looking for."

Giorno pressed his lips together firmly, looking like he wanted to say something else, but instead, just glanced back down at his lap, twisting his hands together so tight his knuckles whitened.

Bruno didn't know what hurt more—the actual pain, or the agony of watching what his condition was doing to everyone he cared about.

---

"You're staying in the van."

Giorno looked up to see Abbacchio blocking Bucciarati from getting out of the van.

"But I…"

"It will take you more time than we can afford to get up those stairs," Abbacchio said matter-of-factly. "Please, just wait here. You've done enough."

Bucciarati slumped back into his seat, and the swift acquiescence was more telling than anything to Giorno.

"Let's go. It's still early enough that he might be home," Giorno said, leading the others into the apartment building where Fanucci had told them the man they were looking for lived.

The apartment building was pretty quiet this time of morning and they found his room quickly.

"Just break it down," Giorno said as they got there.

Abbacchio didn't need any more urging, he simply stepped forward and kicked the door in.

They rushed inside, expecting a mad scramble, but there was nothing.

"Is he not here?" Narancia demanded, ready with his knife, Aerosmith hovering above his head as he checked for life in the room.

"Well?" Abbacchio asked him.

Narancia shook his head. "He's not here. No one in the room but us."

"Dammit," Mista muttered.

"Let's at least look and see if we can find the antidote here," Fugo replied. "Even if we find the poison, we should be able to at least get the exact measurements of what was used in it so the doctor can make an antidote."

They started on another search before Mista's voice came from the back room. "Guys…you should see this."

They all hurried toward his voice, and Giorno's eyes widened as he saw what Mista had found.

One of the bedrooms was completely covered in chemistry supplies, beakers and tubes, set out on tables around the room. None of them were currently in use, but the window was cracked open like they had been not too long ago.

Fugo unearthed a box that held small bags of pills. "How does he make this stuff in here without asphyxiating himself?" he mused.

"Who cares?" Abbacchio grunted. "What the hell are we looking for?"

His phone rang a second later and he growled, yanking it out of his pocket. "What?"

Giorno glanced over at him, seeing his eyes narrow. "You think it's something worth my time?" Abbacchio demanded, then pursed his lips as he listened. "Okay, but listen, Franco, I'm on another tip right now—no I can't get there in five minutes! I'll be there as soon as I'm done with this. And you better still be there!" He rolled his eyes then ended the call.

"Did Franco actually find something?" Giorno asked.

"Don't know," Abbacchio said. "That man's babbling is sometimes hard to decipher. If we don't find what we need here, then I figure we can—"

"Hey! What the hell?"

They all spun around to see the man they had come looking for standing in the doorway to the apartment. As soon as Giorno stepped forward, the man's eyes widened and he bolted.

"Shit! After him!" Abbacchio snapped.

Mista was closest and launched himself after the man who had gone straight for the stairs.

"Go!" Giorno shouted as the rest of them followed the pursuit, slamming through the door to the stairwell.

They heard Mista shout before the sound of a ricocheting gunshot echoed deafeningly around the stairwell.

"Mista!" Giorno shouted as he hurried up the stairs, finding their gunman slumped in one of the stairwells.

"Go! I got him," Giorno said to the others who raced up the rest of the stairs after the man. Giorno didn't know where he thought he was going to escape up there, but he wouldn't put it past a man like that to have some sort of miraculous escape plan.

He crouched by Mista, having Gold check his vitals, and when he was reassured that Mista had only suffered a bump to the head, he positioned him more comfortably and hurried after the others.

He burst out onto the roof into chaos.

"Giorno don't!" Abbacchio snapped, grabbing him by the shoulder before he could do anything.

Abbacchio and Fugo seethed as they stood, watching as the drug dealer stood near the edge of the roof, one arm around Narancia's neck as he grasped the boy's chin, pulling his head up. In his other hand, he held a syringe, the tip just pricking the skin of Narancia's throat.

"Don't get any closer," the man snarled. "Or he gets a little of what I gave to Bucciarati."

"That's the guy," Abbacchio said quietly. "The same one from the replay. I recognize his eyes."

Giorno pressed his lips together, fighting down the panic as he took a small step closer, holding his hands up. "I want to know why you did it," he called to the man.

"Because all of you have ruined my business!" the man snapped, his grip on Narancia tightening. "I was happy to do it!"

Something clicked in Giorno's head. "Wait…happy to? Did someone hire you?"

Narancia's eyes were wide as the man shifted in agitation. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he snarled.

"I would, actually," Giorno said, taking another step forward.

The man stepped back, closer to the edge of the roof, the needle pressing more dangerously against Narancia's neck. "I said not to come any closer!"

"Giorno…" Narancia warned, shaking slightly, trying to stay as still as possible.

Giorno acquiesced and planted his feet. "I won't come any closer, but we're going to strike a deal, you and I. I can offer you the chance to get out of the city, no one will stop you, but only if you tell me who hired you for the hit on Bucciarati."

The man let out a sharp laugh. "You think I believe that? The second I turn my back, you'll put a bullet in me! No, I think I'll take my chances and try to at least take as many of you out as I can, and I'm starting with the scrawny kid!"

---

Bruno would be lying if he said that being left in the van wasn't slightly demoralizing. He would have to remember that the next time he asked it of one of the others—if he ever got the chance to do that again.

On the other hand, he felt horrible. His insides were cramping far too frequently, breathing was more effort than he would like it to be, and he just felt overall dizzy and nauseous.

The van started to feel too close and hot. He unzipped the collar of his coat, but it did little good. He needed fresh air.

Bruno yanked the door to the van open, the dizziness nearly overwhelming him as he gasped in the mild midmorning air, grateful for the feel of it washing over his face, even if it was slightly overcast today and there was no sun. He staggered outside to lean against the side of the vehicle, still feeling like he might throw up any second.

The sound of shouting trickled through the breeze and he looked up, blinking as his vision blurred. There were figures on the roof, two standing close to the edge. He instantly recognized Narancia, but the other…

Bruno blanched in horror as he recognized the situation for what it was. Narancia caught in the man—likely their culprit's—grasp!

Bruno turned back toward the van, groping around inside as he struggled to find his gun. He shakily grabbed it and slammed a clip into it, pinching the inside of his thumb to bleeding as he did so, but he paid that no mind and hurried off in a lurching run toward the back door of the building where the others had disappeared.

There was no elevator, but thankfully the apartment had only five floors. Though it might as well have been five hundred for how much effort it took Bruno to make it up even the first one. He gasped for breath, heart pounding sickeningly in his chest, lungs aching, legs giving out every other step, but he continued, crawling up the stairs, thinking only of his team and his need to protect them.

On the fourth flight, he found Mista, lying at the bottom of the stairs, a small trickle of blood coming from his forehead.

Bruno gasped for breath as he collapsed, pressing his shaking fingers to Mista's throat and feeling a pulse. He was only unconscious, thank god.

He forced himself the rest of the way up, and fumbled as he pushed the door to the roof open, gun shaking in his hand as he staggered out onto the rooftop.

The man was laughing manically, as he held Narancia tightly against him. Something glinted in his hand and Bucciarati blinked his sight into focus, seeing a syringe pressed against Narancia's neck.

"You think I believe that?" he sneered "The second I turn my back, you'll put a bullet in me! No, I think I'll take my chances and try to at least take as many of you out as I can, and I'm starting with the scrawny kid!"

Bucciarati brought the gun up, his hand shaking. His breathing was so heavy he could barely keep his hand still enough, his vision blurring.

"Wait!" Giorno cried as Narancia struggled, eyes wide with horror.

Bucciarati didn't give him the chance. He took a breath and let it out slowly, blinking away the sight of two enemies before he squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot rang out and the man's head snapped back with a spray of blood.

Narancia yelped as he leapt to the side, scrambling away from the body.

Bucciarati slumped in the doorway, using it to prop himself up, breathing heavily, the gun slipping from slack fingers.

"Holy Shit! Just in time, Mista!" Narancia gasped.

"Not me," said a voice from behind Bruno as a hand descended on his shoulder, squeezing slightly in support.

Everyone turned to look at Bucciarati then, faces pale.

"You damned idiot," Abbacchio said, voice strangled. "Why'd you do that?"

"I saved Narancia's life," Bucciarati said, sagging further, Mista's arm sliding under his to keep him upright.

"And he was our only chance of figuring out what was in that shit," Abbacchio told him grimly.

"Hold on, if he still has the syringe…" Fugo said, rushing over to the body.

But Narancia was already shaking his head, pointing to a small pile of glass on the rooftop. "No. It broke."

"Dammit!" Fugo shouted, fists clenching.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get caught," Narancia said, close to tears.

"It's not your fault," Giorno told him simply. "He may not have talked anyway. At worst, he knew he would only have to endure about twelve hours of torture before the point was moot."

Bucciarati's legs finally gave out and he slumped to the ground, head resting against the door frame. Abbacchio cursed and strode over to him, crouching down and pressing a hand to his damp forehead before checking his pulse.

"Self-destructive bastard," he ground out and simply heaved Bruno over his shoulder before the younger man could protest. Bruno didn't have the energy to do more than mumble a quiet sigh before he allowed his body to go limp, closing his eyes against the movement of Abbacchio's gait down the stairs, fighting back the continuous nausea. At this point, he was honestly too tired to care about how humiliating this was. His legs were too weak to carry him back down the stairs anyway.

They got back to the van, silent. The sky threatened rain, as if it knew about their hopelessness. Fugo and Abbacchio helped Bucciarati back into the car as Giorno healed Mista's head wound.

"So that's it?" Narancia asked quietly, standing off to one side, looking lost, one hand clutched around his opposite arm.

"Not quite," Abbacchio said. "We still have Franco's tip." He checked his watch and cursed. "If he's still there."

"Let's go," Giorno said, climbing into the van as Abbacchio got behind the wheel this time, driving them to the location Franco had apparently told him to meet.

Bruno slumped against the window, trying to steady his heartrate, but at this point, he didn't think he was going to. Every beat was labored and he still couldn't catch his breath. Aches assaulted his insides and entire body alike. He had really overdone it rushing up five flights of stairs, but if the same thing had happened to Narancia…he would never have forgiven himself.

He felt eyes on him and glanced up to see Fugo staring at him solemnly before he passed him a bottle of water.

"Here. With how much you're sweating, you really need to stay hydrated," he said quietly.

Bruno reached out to take it but his hands shook too much to open the bottle. Narancia swiftly slid across the seat, opening it and holding it for him to drink from. Bruno should feel embarrassed at just how weak he was, but he was so tired. His eyes just slid closed again.

Narancia took the bottle away and Bruno felt the boy settle against his side, head resting on his shoulder.

"Thanks for the save," he said quietly.

Bruno wrapped an arm loosely around Narancia's shoulders and pressed his lips against the mop of hair. "Of course, caro raggazo."

"I know we'll find a way to save you," Narancia told him.

Bruno squeezed the boy a little tighter but didn't say anything.

---

They reached the spot Franco had said to meet him and Abbacchio parked the van on the side of the road, glancing down the side street to see if the informant was still standing on the corner like he said he would be.

Abbacchio felt fury built of desperation surge through him when he realized the man wasn't there.

"That bastard," he snarled, yanking the door open and hurrying down the street with the others at his heels, even Bruno tagging along, leaning on Narancia.

"He's not here?" Mista demanded, looking around.

"I'm not surprised, he isn't exactly our most reliable informant," Fugo said darkly as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Abbacchio pulled his phone out and dialed Franco's number, maybe he would be willing to part with information over the phone just this once…

The dial tone rang in his ear at the same time a phone rang somewhere nearby. Abbacchio frowned and glanced around, the others doing the same.

"Um…" Narancia said, pointing to a dumpster nearby. "I think it's coming from there."

With a grim expression, Mista strode forward, jumping up to open the dumpster flap, before he pulled back with a muffled grunt, pressing his arm over his mouth and nose.

"Holy crap," he said. "I think I found Franco."

Abbacchio pushed him aside and glanced inside and, yeah, it was Franco all right.

Terrified eyes stared unseeingly upward, a bloody hole in his throat that looked like a bullet wound, and in addition to that…

"The hell?" Abbacchio muttered as he saw the knife sticking from the informant's chest, a bloody scrap of paper attached to it.

Fugo reached in and yanked the knife out, sliding the paper from it, his face was pale as he looked at it. "It just says, 'for Don Giovanna'."

Giorno hurriedly took the paper from Fugo, turning it over and inspecting the paper as if there was some other clue.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Narancia demanded.

"It means that I'm the real target," Giorno said tightly, his face pale.

"But Bucciarati's the one—"

"Yeah, and he went alone to a meeting of Passione capos," Abbacchio said. "He was accessible. He might have just been the easiest target to reach."

"It did seem like he had a vendetta against all of us," Bruno said, leaning even more heavily on Narancia, face tightening as he pressed a hand to his stomach.

"And now we still don't know who the hell called the hit in the first place!" Fugo snapped, kicking the side of the dumpster, making a dent in it. "And we lost the last clue we had!"

He kicked the dumpster again and Abbacchio was about to tell him to stop, when Bruno collapsed suddenly, startling Narancia too much to be able to hold on to him.

"Bucciarati!" Giorno cried, rushing over with Gold Experience appearing behind him. Narancia was crouching, Bruno's head propped on his knee, clutching handfuls of his suit, looking horrified.

"Is he breathing?" Abbacchio demanded, holding Fugo and Mista back from crowding.

"Yes, but…it's a lot more labored than before," Giorno said as Gold pressed a hand to Bucciarati's chest. "His pulse is thready and way too fast."

Abbacchio pressed his lips together tightly. "Where are we at now?"

Fugo glanced at his watch. "Thirteen and a half hours now," he said grimly.

Bucciarati's head lolled to one side and his eyes blinked open. "'M sorry," he murmured, trying to push himself up.

"Get him back in the van," Abbacchio said with a sigh. "Mista, call in an anonymous tip for Franco."

Mista pulled his phone out as Abbacchio glanced at the body one more time, feeling a pit open in his stomach. Franco must have been onto something after all. And now they had nothing else to go on. They were past the halfway point already and Bucciarati was fading fast.

The ride back was silent. Fugo was tense beside Abbacchio in the passenger seat, Giorno was biting his nails, Mista looked unnaturally solemn and Bucciarati was lying in the back with his head in Narancia's lap, shaking and tensing every once in a while as the pain ripped through him.

When they got back, Trish met them, eyes eager. "Did you find anything? What's wrong?"

"Everything was a dead end," Mista told her with a sigh.

Trish's expression fell, as she glanced toward Narancia who still had Bucciarati leaning against him. She went to help move the man to the couch before promising to go make some tea for everyone.

Abbacchio glanced over at Bucciarati on the couch before turning to Fugo who was also watching. "Can we give him anything?" he asked quietly.

The teen's jaw tightened. "Nothing that will really do anything for him. Most pain medication is harsh on the liver and with his current condition…"

"Does it really matter at his point?" Abbacchio snapped, then quickly amended as he saw Fugo's expression shut down, running a hand tiredly over his face. "Sorry, kid."

"It's okay, we're all worried, I know," Fugo said quietly, clenching his hands in his coat. "We can try giving him some ibuprofen at least. It might help a little."

Abbacchio nodded and went to get the pills. He returned to Bruno who had slumped against the side of the couch, eyes closed.

"Hey, think you can take some medicine?" he asked.

"Mm," Bruno's eyes opened, blinking up at him as he pushed himself wearily into a sitting position.

Abbacchio held out the pills, taking up the bottle of water one of the kids had left. Bruno tried to pick up the pills but couldn't seem to make his fingers work, so Abbacchio grabbed his hand to steady it and dumped them into his palm.

"Thank you," Bruno murmured tiredly as he finally got the pills into his mouth and Abbacchio helped him drink.

The others assembled in the room, distributing cups of tea. Abbacchio helped Bruno drink some, but he seemed to be having a hard time keeping his head up at the moment.

"I was thinking," Giorno said after a long moment of silence. "If this is a personal attack against me, then…maybe we should be looking into what I did recently."

"What do you mean?" Narancia asked.

"Who I went after, anyone who might hold a grudge," Giorno said.

"Well, again, that could be anyone we took down in the past few months," Fugo said.

"No," Bucciarati said, sitting up straighter, turning to the others. "It's got to be something specific, something that might even seem insignificant to us. We threw away the idea it might be personal before because it didn't quite make sense when considering it as an attack directed against me, but putting Giorno into the equation…"

"If it's an attack against me then they would take out everyone else in the famiglia first, starting with my co-leader," Giorno said grimly. "Likely an attempt to fluster me, and to demoralize our group. I suspect that whoever this is could be planning on taking one of you out every twenty-four hours if we fail to find him."

"But who the hell would have that much reason to hate Giorno that we haven't already taken out?" Narancia demanded.

"There has to be something we're missing," Abbacchio said, already standing up again and heading toward the office, nodding to the others. "Let's look through everything. Mail, emails, anything that might constitute a threat. I don't think we're dealing with a Stand user so we can count that out, but obviously it's someone with connections to Passione, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to find the drug dealer or know where Bucciarati would be last night."

They all headed into the office again, even Bruno staggering in to slump at his desk against everyone's protests. Mail was shoved into piles for everyone to go through, Fugo and Abbacchio clicked furiously through a multitude of emails. Mista even listened to back messages on the phone.

And through it all, the clock was ticking down and they were running out of time.

---

Giorno rubbed his eyes after going through another stack of letters. There was just so much and nothing was helping at all.

"This is pointless!" Fugo finally snapped, slamming his fists into his desk. "We've been at it for hours and this isn't getting us anywhere! Maybe we should just go out on the streets and call for a parley!"

"No," Bucciarati snapped, pushing himself to his feet as he shakily went over to the file cabinet, holding onto it tightly as he clumsily yanked open a drawer. "I don't want any of you making targets of yourselves unless we know who we're dealing with. There's no point in anyone else getting into this position too."

"We don't have anything else to go on and you have five hours left!" Fugo reminded him.

Bucciarati's face was a sheen of sweat as he leaned against the file cabinets heavily, swallowing convulsively. "I know. Believe me, but I can't allow myself to rest if I know you're putting yourselves into danger unduly."

"Maybe we'd be able to concentrate better if you would just go lay down!" Fugo snapped back.

Bucciarati pressed a hand to his chest before slumping against the file cabinets, his breathing becoming more erratic, almost gasping for breath now.

"Bucciarati?" Giorno asked cautiously as he stood and almost made it to him before Bucciarati collapsed on the floor with a strangled sound, curling around his stomach with a cut-off whimper.

"Bucciarati," Giorno breathed, crouching beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"That's enough," Abbacchio said tiredly. "Fugo, call the doctor." He strode over and crouched beside Giorno, unceremoniously slipping his arms underneath Bucciarati and heaving him up. "You're getting in bed and you're staying there."

There was no protest from Bucciarati this time; he didn't exactly seem to have the breath to protest.

Giorno followed Abbacchio upstairs to Bucciarati's room where they got him into bed, helping him into his pajamas so he would be comfortable. Giorno sat beside him, checking his vitals again as Abbacchio pulled blankets over Bucciarati's shivering form.

Giorno's stomach was sick as Gold gave him a somewhat mournful look. Bucciarati's body was systematically giving up on him.

He carefully reached out to undo the older man's dark hair so he could rest more comfortably.

"We need to find who did this fast," he told Abbacchio quietly. "We…" he took a deep breath and fought to swallow down the lump in his throat. "We don't have a lot of time left."

The older man reached out and set a hand on Giorno's shoulder, squeezing firmly. He didn't say anything, but Giorno could tell he felt the same.

"Sit with him until the doctor comes," Abbacchio finally said as his hand slipped from Giorno's shoulder. "I'll go help the others."

Giorno nodded and pulled Bucciarati's desk chair over to the side of the bed. Abbacchio left the room reluctantly and Giorno finally allowed his shoulders to slump, hunching over in the seat as he took in every labored breath Bucciarati let out.

He would be lying if he said this wasn't hard. That it wasn't tearing him apart inside as surely as the poison was eating away at Bucciarati.

He hadn't had the time to truly process everything when Bucciarati had been essentially a walking corpse before. By the time they had gotten to that point, he had been able to use Gold Experience's Requiem powers to bring Bruno and the others back to life. And while he was pretty sure he could replace Bucciarati's organs until the poison weakened inside of him, he wasn't entirely sure that would work either, or even if his capo would survive the surgery.

Giorno slouched further, pressing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes closed. The only sound in the room was Bucciarati's painful gasping breaths. Perhaps it was his inherent stubbornness, but he seemed destined to only suffer slow deaths.

Giorno finally reached out and took the older man's hand, feeling the clammy temperature of his skin. Giorno wasn't good at emotions, but he had learned what family was, mostly thanks to this man. Bucciarati had, in some ways, been both a father and a mother to him. A parental figure who was both caring and willing to teach him. He didn't know where he would be right now if he hadn't met Bruno Bucciarati and the others. He would be forever grateful to them for showing him what a family was actually supposed to be like.

And now he was losing the only father figure he had ever had and it was his fault. He just didn't know what he had done. He only knew that if nothing else, he would get revenge for Bucciarati and whoever did this would…

Something snapped into place in Giorno's mind.

He sat up straight, mouth falling open in understanding.

He didn't want to leave Bucciarati's side, but he had to let the others know about his sudden revelation.

He sprinted down to the office, bursting in the door as everyone looked up, startled.

"What's wrong?" Abbacchio demanded, rising from his chair.

"Is he all right?" Fugo asked.

Giorno shook his head. "I know who did this," he told them. "And I know why."

"Who?" Narancia demanded.

"Last month, we took out Strinati and his drug dealers. He had a son, but he wasn't in Passione so we left him out of it."

"He's the one who showed up at Libecchio that day demanding to see you!" Mista said.

"Yeah, like he wanted to duel you to the death or something," Narancia added.

Giorno felt sick with the thought. "I didn't think he would be a threat, but now I'm positive he's the one who is behind this. Several of the other men have said he's been seen hanging around Passione locations the past few weeks. I originally dismissed him as a threat, but he's been watching us. It wouldn't have been hard for him to find out about the meeting, he might even have had informants inside, people still loyal to his father—that drug dealer included."

"I guess he wasn't as much of a civilian as we thought," Abbacchio grunted.

"Or he loved his father enough to turn to regrettable measures to take out the man who hurt him—me," Giorno said grimly. "Or…more appropriately, pay back the hurt in kind. He had the resources and…family is a heavy motivator."

The others all shared looks with each other, knowing that well enough.

There was a knock on the front door and Abbacchio looked up. "That will be the doctor. We'll see Bucciarati taken care of and then we'll go."

Giorno nodded and checked the clock. They still had a few hours. He didn't think it would be hard to find Strinati's son, especially if he knew they were coming.

---

Giorno stared down at Bucciarati as Doctor Antonio attached an IV into the crook of the man's arm before fixing an oxygen mask over his face. It was hard seeing him like this, so still and pale. The doctor listened to his chest and abdomen for a few long seconds before he finally pulled back, taking his stethoscope from his ears.

"The systemic failure of organs is already in progress," he said grimly.

"And there's nothing you can do?" Narancia demanded, pressed close to Trish's side as she held him tightly.

"As long as the poison is still in him, no," the doctor replied. "Without the antidote, he has hours left."

"Then let's not waste any more time," Abbacchio said, turning on his heel.

"I'm staying with him," Fugo said suddenly, glancing between Abbacchio and Giorno. "The way I feel…I'd be better off here. I don't want to risk the rest of you if I get too angry to control myself."

"It's okay, Fugo," Giorno told him. "It will be good to have someone here just in case."

The other boy ducked his head in a grateful nod.

"I'll stay too," Trish said, eyes slightly puffy as she blinked back wetness. "I just…I don't want to leave him right now."

"Thank you," Giorno said quietly, knowing this had to remind Trish of her mother and wishing he could do more to comfort her. But he had another duty. He turned to the others.

"Are we ready?"

They nodded. Giorno was about to follow them out when he heard a weak voice call his name.

"Giorno?"

He turned around and saw Bucciarati struggling to hold the oxygen mask off of his face.

Giorno hurried over and crouched by the bed so he could hear him. "I'm here," he said.

Bucciarati offered a small smile, reaching out to cup Giorno's cheek. "Giorno, if it turns out that you can't find the antidote…it's okay."

"Buccia—"

"I just want you to know that I won't blame you. Just…" His eyes squeezed shut for a brief moment, swallowing convulsively as he tensed in pain. "Just take care of the others. All right?"

Giorno reached up to press his hand over top of Bucciarati's, fighting to keep his lip from trembling. "I will find it," he whispered. "I promise I won't let you die."

Bruno gave him another tired smile, and urged him to lean down. "Come here, raggazo mio."

Giorno closed his eyes as he leaned over and Bruno kissed him on the forehead. When he pulled back, Giornoo couldn't hide the wetness in brimming in his eyes as he blinked and a single tear slid down his cheek. Bucciarati clumsily wiped it away with a thumb.

"Go," he whispered before he started coughing.

Fugo and Trish hurried over, Fugo fussing over Bucciarati with shaking hands, readjusting the oxygen mask. Trish wrapped her arms around Giorno, hugging him tight as he briefly hid his face in her shoulder for just a moment to collect himself before he pulled away, casting one last glance at Bucciarati.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Trish promised, squeezing his hand. "Just go get that bastard and find the antidote."

And Giorno didn't need any more bidding. He nodded to Fugo and hurried out of the room.

The others were already down in the foyer, tucking weapons onto their persons. They looked up as Giorno arrived and chose to ignore his red eyes. Mista silently handed Giorno his small pistol that he always took on missions just in case. Giorno tucked it inside his coat, feeling the resolve wash over him.

"We're not letting him get away with this," he said darkly. "Let's go take him out."

Strinati's house was empty when they got there. Either that, or he wasn't answering. The door dissolved into thorny vines that Gold Experience pushed through their life cycle within seconds, leaving them crumbling into dust.

Giorno stepped inside. "Strinati! If you're looking for me, come out now! I'm here!"

"Giorno!"

Mista suddenly tackled him to the ground just as a gunshot rang out, the displaced air from the bullet, whipping above their heads.

"What the hell?" Narancia demanded, whipping his head around, Aerosmith already out and hovering above his head. "Where is he?! He's not coming up on my radar!"

"He won't," Abbacchio said, stepping further into the house and kicking aside the rug to reveal a string attached to a simple mechanism. "He left a present."

Mista got up, helping Giorno to his feet again as he swiftly had the Pistols deactivate the trap just in case.

"This guy is some kind of sadistic bastard," Mista muttered.

"If he was expecting us," Giorno said darkly. "Then, where is he?"

"Before we go any further, we need to make sure there's no more traps," Abbacchio said.

Mista nodded as he called for his Stand. "The Pistols will check it out, right guys?"

"Right!" they called and darted off.

Giorno and the others waited impatiently until the Pistols came back with their report.

"There's no other traps," Number One said. "But there's something for Giorno in the office."

Giorno paled and glanced at the others who all looked at him. "Let's go."

They followed Number One back to the office where Giorno did see a note addressed to him on the desk, sitting on top of the keyboard to a computer. The movement from Giorno taking the note up woke the computer screen so that it showed an ominous countdown.

"What the hell is that?" Narancia demanded, pointing to the large numbers continuously ticking down. "Is it a bomb?"

"No," Giorno said darkly. "It's for Bucciarati."

Even if he hadn't been using the same countdown in his head the entire time, knowing it almost to the minute (Three Hours, Twenty-Four Minutes now) he would have known. Because this man was indeed a sadistic bastard as Mista had commented earlier.

"What's the note say?" Abbacchio asked.

Giorno shook himself, tearing his eyes away from the horrible countdown to the note in his hand. He saw the 'Don Giovanna' in neat script on the front, and opened it.

Everyone crowded around to read it.

How does it feel to lose a father, Giorno Giovanna? And I won't stop with Bucciarati. By the time you're reading this, I've already started with whoever you left behind. You're too late to stop me now.

Giorno crushed the note in his hand as Gold Experience rippled under his skin before he let out a furious shout.

"MUDA!"

Gold Experience punched the computer which instantly started sparking, vines and deadly nightshade growing out of the cracks. He took a deep breath before he said, "We've just been led on a wild goose chase through this whole thing. We need to get back there now."

There were no protests. Abbacchio had his phone out, but cursed as he seemed unable to get through.

"No one's answering," he growled. "Dammit."

Giorno refused to think the worst. Trish and Fugo could take care of themselves, but…

Giorno felt fury rise in him. He would protect his famiglia and take this bastard down if it was the last thing he did. Because no one messed with Giorno Giovanna's family and lived to tell the tale.

---

Fugo fought the urge to pace but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He knew the others had only been gone for about twenty minutes, but even that small amount of time was too much when time was all they had to think about.

He glanced over at Trish who was currently sitting on the side of Bucciarati's bed, dabbing sweat from his face, making sure the oxygen mask was settled properly. It wasn't doing much to help his breathing anymore. Soon, nothing would. The only time Fugo had ever seen Bucciarati look this vulnerable was when he had literally died and laid in bed for three days after Giorno was somehow able to bring him back to life…

The only difference was that this time, he was only fading further.

Bucciarati's face scrunched and he shifted slightly, a small sound of pain escaping behind the mask. Trish took his hand and squeezed it gently.

"He won't even wake up anymore," Trish said quietly.

Fugo couldn't tear his eyes off of Bucciarati's face. This was the man who had turned his young life around. The one who had saved him. Fugo had always been fine on his own, but he'd never been happy. He'd never had a loving family, or anyone who cared enough to help him with his troubles. Until Bucciarati. He could never repay that.

He exhaled slowly, sinking down onto the side of the bed beside Trish. To his surprise she put her hands over his where he was clenching them in his lap. He shifted so he could wrap his fingers around her hand.

"I don't want to lose him," Trish said, voice choked.

Fugo squeezed her hand tighter. "Giorno and the others will get what he needs. You know they will."

Trish choked on a sob and leaned against Fugo. Throwing aside his usual aversion to contact, Fugo wrapped his arms around Trish as they sat there, holding onto each other as Bucciarati's life ticked away.

Eventually Trish pulled back, wiping her eyes, makeup smeared slightly. "I think Doctor Antonio was making tea. I'm going to go see if he needs any help."

Fugo nodded, watching as Trish left the room. He glanced back over at Bucciarati, pressing his fingers to the man's wrist to feel his pulse, not encouraged by what he felt. Bucciarati's skin was also too cool. Fugo got up to find another blanket for him, rummaging through Bucciarati's closet.

The door opened and Fugo glanced over to see if Trish needed any help with the tea.

"F-Fugo."

He dropped the blanket he had been holding as terror instantly rushed through him.

A man Fugo instantly recognized as the younger Strinati was standing in the doorway, holding Trish against him, a syringe pricking her throat.

"Let her go," Fugo snarled. He could feel Purple Haze hammering at him, wanting to be let out, but there was no way Fugo could take out Strinati without Trish getting caught in the crossfire.

"Fugo, it's okay," Trish said, trying to keep her voice steady.

The man tightened his arm around her neck. "Is that what you think, signorina? You don't think I came to take you both out before your precious child Don gets back?"

Fugo's fists clenched. "I know you're mad because Giorno had to take out your father, but he was scum!"

"He was my father!" Strinati screamed, the hand holding the syringe against Trish's neck was shaking.

There was a stirring behind Fugo and he chanced a glance backward to see Bucciarati's eyes open, widening as he took in the scene. He started to push himself up, taking off the oxygen mask.

Strinati sneered. "Glad you're awake, Bucciarati. I'd like for you to see what I do to the girl."

"Trish," Bucciarati gasped out, struggling to get off the bed, reaching for his bedside table.

"Don't!" Fugo snarled, rushing toward Strinati.

Strinati wasted no time in jamming the syringe into Trish's neck.

Except the needle simply bent against her skin. Fugo's eyes widened. Spice Girl must have been able to touch it in time.

Strinati looked so surprised, it gave Trish the moment she needed to slam her fist directly into the man's groin.

He cried out, staggering back as Trish surged forward. Fugo caught her and they collapsed against the ground.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

"Fugo!"

Bucciarati's gasp startled them both and they whipped around to see Strinati holding a gun toward them.

"It's not my preferred method, but it will do well enough for now," the man snarled.

In the short seconds they had, Fugo couldn't think of anything but protecting Trish with his body.

Then a gunshot rang out, extremely close, followed by a sharp cry and a resulting clatter.

Fugo blinked his eyes open, seeing Bucciarati on the ground beside them, back pressed against the bed, a small pistol held in his trembling hand.

Strinati was doubled over, the hand he'd been holding the gun with bleeding profusely, his pistol now on the ground.

Everything erupted in that moment as familiar shouts came from the hallway outside.

---

Giorno and the others burst into the house and straight toward the stairs. They stopped at the bottom of them where they found Doctor Antonio coming to from a bump on his head.

"Where is he?" Giorno demanded.

"I…don't know…" the doctor replied with a groan. "Hit me from behind…"

Giorno ignored him and rushed up the stairs, the others on his heels, heading for Bucciarati's room.

A gunshot rang out, spurring him faster down the hallway, heart pounding, where he saw Strinati staggering away from the door, hissing in pain as he held his hand. Giorno took the scene in in an instant, seeing both a gun and the glint of a syringe on the floor.

"The syringe!" he shouted.

"On it," Mista said. "Sex Pistols!"

His Stand separated and dove for the syringe as Giorno turned to the man.

"Strinati!" he shouted, seeing red as Gold Experience appeared at his back with all his requiem power.

"Giovanna!" Strinati snarled, reaching for something until he realized his gun was still on the ground. He yanked something else out of his jacket and lunged at Giorno.

Giorno surged forward to meet him and tackled the man to the ground, throwing caution to the winds as his fury overwhelmed him.

"You touch my famiglia, you die," Giorno said darkly. "Those are the only rules I stand by!"

The man choked, gasping for breath, as thorny vines crawled through his insides and out of his mouth, punching holes through his chest before wrapping him tightly, strangling the life out of him.

"Gold Experience!" Giorno shouted.

His Stand threw one last blow toward the prone man.

"MUDA!"

And Strinati burst into light before he was nothing but a husk wrapped in vines.

"Holy crap," Mista breathed as he cautiously approached Giorno who knelt, panting on the ground, still straddling the man.

"Giorno!" one of the Pistols called. "We have the poison!"

Giorno took a deep breath. "Are Trish and Fugo all right?"

"Yeah, they're fine," Abbacchio said. "But, kid…"

Giorno finally looked down at what Abbacchio was staring at and saw a syringe sticking out of his arm, half dispensed. Strinati must have stabbed him with it during the tackle.

Narancia gasped. "GioGio?"

Giorno simply reached up and yanked the syringe out. "It's fine. We have the poison now, thus the ability to make an antidote. Go get the Doctor, Narancia."

He turned back to the room where he saw Fugo and Trish attempting to get Bucciarati back into bed. Giorno rushed forward, noticing the man was nearly blue in the lips from his inability to breathe, his eyes fluttering.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"He got out of bed to shoot Strinati," Fugo told him.

Bucciarati gasped. "Wh-where…"

"He's dead," Giorno said simply, reaching out to untangle the IV line from around Bucciarati. "But we'll be able to make the antidote now."

Abbacchio came up to them, gently taking the gun from Bucciarati, who was still clutching it tightly.

"I don't know how you keep hitting your targets," he muttered.

"Was…aiming for his…head," Bucciarati huffed with a brief smile before he started wheezing in earnest, doubling over.

"We need to hurry! Get the doctor!" Fugo shouted.

"We already gave him the poison," Giorno told him. "His Stand should be able to have it deconstructed in a couple seconds."

Fugo nodded. "I'm going to go help."

He left the room, leaving Giorno and Trish to help Abbacchio get Bucciarati back into bed, tucking him in. Bucciarati's eyes were closed again and Abbacchio fixed the oxygen mask back over his face, easing his breathing a bit. Giorno checked his vitals, sick at what he found.

"How is he?" Trish asked worriedly.

"Not good," Giorno said, glancing at the clock again. "We…we don't have a lot of time left."

Abbacchio's hand was on his shoulder, leaning over. "And how are you, kid?"

"I'm not feeling it yet," Giorno promised. "Hopefully the antidote will be done before then."

Abbacchio pressed his lips together tightly before straightening up, running a hand tiredly over his face and pulled Trish against his side after she grabbed his hand.

They sat in silence, listening to nothing but Bucciarati's labored breathing behind the mask, until footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Narancia appeared.

"We have the antidote!" he sang out. "The doc was able to figure out exactly what was in it so he knows what to give him!"

Everyone sagged in relief. Doctor Antonio appeared with Mista and Fugo trailing behind him.

"That's it?" Abbacchio demanded. "You're sure it's the right stuff?"

"For the cocktail given to him, yes," Doctor Antonio said. "It's the only thing that could possibly work."

Everyone watched silently as he injected the antidote into Bucciarati's IV drip.

"How long until we know if it works?" Giorno asked.

"It will be a few hours before we can be sure. We'll have to watch him closely and make sure he's not still getting worse." He motioned for Giorno to roll up his sleeve and Giorno presented his arm to the doctor to receive the antidote as well.

"Now, I would suggest you all get some rest," the doctor said. "I have a few patients I need to see to, but I'll be back later. Call me if he worsens."

Doctor Antonio left the room, leaving everyone else to stare silently at Bucciarati for the next few seconds.

"He's really safe now?" Narancia asked almost tentatively.

"Hopefully," Abbacchio said, looking around at them all. "Doc's right though, we should try to get some rest." He claimed the seat beside the bed, stretching out tiredly and leaning his head back.

"Yes," Trish agreed, and handed Abbacchio an extra pillow before she grabbed a blanket out of the closet and curled up in Bucciarati's reading chair in one corner of the room.

Narancia disappeared for a second, only to come back with a pile of blankets and pillows then proceeded to make a nest for him, Fugo and Mista who propped themselves as the end of the bed, sleeping on each other's shoulders.

Giorno continued to sit on the side of the bed, just watching the rise and fall of Bucciarati's chest. It seemed like his breathing had evened out slightly already. Despite the fact that they had found the antidote in time, Giorno still felt a deep pit in his stomach. He felt no regret over what he had to do to Strinati, or his son who had made it his duty to get into his father's business after all—revealing that he was even more of a sadistic bastard than his father had been. But the thought that he had almost lost Bucciarati, and possibly even more of his team because of it…Giorno understood this was a risk that came with the job, but at the same time, the idea terrified him. He decided he would be more careful next time. Looking into the connections of the people he had to take out so others wouldn't come after them. His position as Don wouldn't allow him to make these mistakes, and he refused to put his famiglia in danger of his own naivety.

"You should get some rest too, kid. Make sure that antidote gets to work on you before you start feeling the effects of the poison."

He looked up to see Abbacchio tiredly grabbing a book from the side table, wrinkling his nose at the title but still flipping to the first page.

Giorno sighed, but couldn't deny he was exhausted.

He took another of the extra blankets, knowing that exhaustion would win out eventually anyway, and curled up on the other side of the bed where he could use Gold to monitor Bucciarati even while he slept.

He turned his watch into a vine of morning glories, the other end tangling around Bucciarati's wrist, across his pulse point. With this contact, Giorno closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.

---

Bruno slid his eyes shut as he turned his face toward the sun. After all the clouds the day before, it was lovely to have woken up to them having dispersed to make way for the morning sun.

It truly was a new day.

The breeze was still slightly chilly to him, sitting out in the garden, but he was wrapped in an old sweater and had a cup of tea clutched in his hands to warm him.

It was the kind of morning where you could simply enjoy life. Bruno didn't do that enough, but today he thought it would be inappropriate not to.

After all, only twenty-four hours ago he had been dying from a poison delivered to him by a madman set on revenge.

He breathed deeply, the fresh air filling his lungs, giving him even more life. Doctor Antonio had stopped by earlier that morning and declared him out of danger but the others had firmly insisted that he rest for the next couple days, and, well, Bruno was actually going to take them up on it this time. He was still tired, and slightly shaken and he could use the rest.

"There you are."

He turned to see Giorno, the boy having come up behind him, holding a mug in his own hands. Bruno smiled at him in invitation and Giorno came to sit beside him on the bench.

"I didn't mean to run off," Bruno replied. "I just…wanted a bit of fresh air. It's nice to see the sun."

Giorno nodded in agreement as he settled down. "It is a beautiful day." He was silent for a long moment, looking into his mug before he said, "I've been doing some thinking, about…everything that happened. I wonder if I should have looked into Strinati's son to begin with. He did send threats but…" he sighed heavily. "I fear that I've forgotten that sometimes non-Stand users can be just as dangerous. Perhaps I've even gotten too confident in my own powers, and if I continue in that way I'm afraid I might lose my team through some stupid mistake."

Bruno turned toward him, clearly seeing the warring emotions in his eyes. "Giorno, you're a very bright young man, but you can't expect to never make mistakes."

"I understand, mistakes are only human, and yet…I couldn't stand to lose any of you for my own stupidity."

"I understand completely how you feel," Bruno replied sincerely. "It is one of the many burdens of being a leader. One that does not get easier. But…we can also learn from our mistakes, no matter how small or how big. Sometimes sacrifices happen, and sometimes we are blessed with ways to reverse them. But we can't forget our duties, or shrink from our role as a leader just because it hurts, Giorno."

Giorno straightened his shoulders, giving a stiff nod. "I understand."

"That being said," Bruno added firmly, "It's okay to be scared too."

Giorno turned to him, eyes wide with a little surprise. Bruno smiled and let out a soft chuckle.

"Don't be so surprised. Fear is healthy, whether it's for yourself or those you care about. In the end, it will only make you stronger."

Giorno's face softened and he offered a small smile, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm glad this time everything worked out," he said quietly.

"Me too, Giorno," Bucciarati said softly. "Thank you for your resolve in finding my attacker. It seems I owe you my life once again."

"You never need to owe me anything," Giorno said sincerely. "You've already done more for me than I could ever say." His eyes glistened in the morning sun and Bruno felt his heart soften for this boy he had so easily taken into his fold, just another one of 'the kids' that he was responsible for, that he could only hope to give better lives to.

"Oh, Giorno," he said softly, reaching out to run a hand fondly through the boy's curls before he stood up, still a little stiff, but feeling quite a bit better. "If you want my opinion, I think after this we all deserve some time off. Tell the others to pack some bags for three days."

Giorno looked up at him with confusion. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"How do you feel about the beach?" Bruno asked fondly. "The weather is lovely, and the sea air is good for the body and the soul."

Giorno smiled and stood as well, threading an arm through Bruno's to give him a little support as they walked back inside. "I think that sounds nice."