It was a little under a day later that Fugo received any further instructions.
The plane ride to the Baccarini Airport had been the most remarkable uneventful trip he'd ever been on. While the ride itself had been smooth and peaceful, Fugo's inner turmoil had made him sick to his stomach. After emptying the contents of his intestines into the small bathroom in the back of the plane for the fourth time, the little old lady sitting next to him had offered him her cross and a quick prayer.
"It will be over soon, dearie," she'd told him with a reassuring smile and a tender pat on the shoulder.
"I know," Fugo had replied. She was right; it would be over soon. And then everything would be over for good, wouldn't it?
He'd left his seat again soon after that.
Now, tapping his foot nervously at the Bar la Vasca, wine untouched before him, he tried to settle his nerves. The phone call had come at seven in the morning and would've woken him if he'd managed to get any sleep at all. He was to wait here for his contact and partner for this mission, someone from the Boss's personal hitman squad. Fugo assumed it was similar to the Boss' elite guard, full of people he'd only heard cruel rumors of.
The click of heels against the pavement alerted him to someone's approach and he looked up to see a tall, scrawny man making a beeline for his table on the patio. Beady indigo eyes swept over him with the cold calculation of someone surveying a piece of meat before a tanned hand reached out to him.
"Signor Fugo, I presume?" came the rasping voice that likely was due to permanent throat damage.
"Indeed." Fugo took his hand, holding back his grimace at the sweaty palm that met his own, and shook it firmly.
"My name is Castagna Martino," the man said, brushing a stray lock of chestnut-colored hair behind his ear. A prominent scar stretched across his forehead, pale and misshapen and stretched too tight across the bone.
'Self-inflicted,' Fugo recognized with a start but held his tongue. The less he knew about this man, the better. He'd heard the name Castagna before: a religious fanatic who followed the Boss' orders like they were the word of God. Cruel and cold and calculating, yet ignorant and quick-tempered. 'Like me,' Fugo thought bitterly.
"How much do you know?" the man, Castagna, asked.
Fugo eyed him suspiciously before replying, "Only to meet with you here. And that we're to be at the ruins of Rusellae no later than half-past three."
Castagna nodded, "Good. Scusi, Signor Fugo, but I hate questions, so don't ask me anything. Ignorance is a sin; to be blissfully unaware, a blessing."
That was pretty much redundant and Fugo was starting to realize why this man had a reputation for being an idiot. Still, he simply nodded and stared down at the glass of red wine Castagna was downing in a single gulp. It had been his but he hadn't really planned on drinking it anyway. Best to be sober for whatever would occur.
"Come with me," Castagna instructed as he stood, iron chair scraping across the stone patio floor. "We have a job to do first."
Fugo followed him out to a sleek black car that was parked outside the bar blocking the lane in the opposite direction and causing the oncoming traffic to either brake or swerve or both. A Maserati honked angrily as it drove past, the driver rolling down his window to spit curses at the pair standing by the car.
Castagna seemed to freeze and then suddenly began shrieking in a language Fugo couldn't understand - Latin, he realized, recognizing some of the words as an old biblical verse - and stamping his foot as he stormed towards the Maserati, kicking up a cloud of dust as he went.
The driver looked rightfully terrified as he sped away and Fugo didn't blame him, a storm of smoke peeling up around the tires as he took off. Castagna was as bad as-what had his name been? Ghiaccio? Deciding it was best to just ignore them, he headed around the car. His hand had just brushed against the smooth handle just as a loud BOOM! echoed behind him. He spun around, ready to fight- only to see that it was the Maserati.
The sports car looked like it had spun out of control, judging by the smoke that was rising from the tire tracks on the road, and had driven headlong into an oncoming semi. The Maserati - or what was left of it - was in flames, the driver quite obviously dead, but the semi looked mostly unharmed.
A crowd was rapidly forming around the flaming wreckage of the crash and, as Fugo turned away to slide into the car next to Castagna, he heard the man whisper, "Liberalo dal male, Amen."
"Il Padre Nostro," Fugo realized. "Were you the one who did that?"
"I see you are a learned man, Signor Fugo," Castagna replied as he started up the car and peeled away. "However, even l'Onnipotente shall fault your ignorance. Ask naught, for thine shall receive not a thing."
'He isn't going to tell me,' was what that roughly translated to Fugo decided, but no answer said just as much as an answer: of course that had been Castagna. By refusing to reply, he was basically verifying that it was him. But Fugo didn't know how. It was surely a Stand, had to be, but he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. 'Perhaps it's remote controlled?' he wondered as he stared out the window and watched as the buildings were gradually replaced with farms and eventually just countryside.
It was a good idea to try to gather as much information about his partner's Stand as he could; he could play off his abilities better that way. Fugo tried to think that that was the only reason he was cataloguing everything he could about Castagna.
"I know you dislike questions," he began, trying to figure out how to phrase what he needed to know in a way that seemed honest, "But I feel like I should know what we're going to do."
Castagna frowned, the furrows in his brow causing the scar to twist and churn in a very ugly way, and when he spoke, his voice was restrained and hoarse. "To carry out the will of the Boss and eliminate his enemy."
So they were going to kill someone. Fugo had expected as much and it didn't faze him; he'd carried out assassinations along with Abbacchio before, unbeknownst to Bucciarati. The capo would never have approved, and that was why it had always been a secret between the two of them. However, he was confused about who they were going to kill.
As far as he knew, there were only two squads of traitors: La Squadra Esecuzioni, who Fugo knew was almost wiped out, and Bucciarati's group. Surely Passione didn't have even more traitors amongst its midst?
He must have been showing his confusion on his face because Castagna's voice shifted to a low growl that sounded near animalistic from the damaged vocal cords as he added "Let me make this clear, Signor Fugo, you shall not hinder my mission, lest you find yourself my target as well."
"I have just as much reason to be here as you," Fugo retorted, tone icy as he held back his anger. "I'm sure you've heard of my Stand; there isn't a soul in Passione who hasn't. Don't get in my way."
Castagna looked very much like he wanted to say something back, but Fugo's threat worked and he held his tongue. The feeling of intimidating someone into silence swept over him and, although it had always felt strange before, it was even more so now.
After all, he didn't have Mista or Narancia at his back to tease him in hushed tones about how he would never follow through with his threats.
