Arriving early at Rusellae meant a whole lot of time with a whole lot of nothing to do, and even on a good day, if there was one thing Fugo was, it was impatient. He'd always preferred getting straight to the action, finding beating around the bush to be absolutely pointless and honestly, irritating. It was part of why he normally didn't work well with others.

He'd been watching the clouds for the last hour or so from where he had stretched out across the stones of the building, climbing up to the tops of the walls to feel the sun better. For some reason, he'd been feeling colder than normal.

They passed by with all the urgency of a little old woman going for a nice walk among the rose gardens: none at all. Fugo thought that was pretty damn poetic of him, but he didn't have anyone to share it with, so he kept it to himself.

Too much time meant his thoughts were eating away at him. Endless circles of Bucciarati saying he betrayed the boss, the others joining him one by one, and Narancia's voice calling for the boat to wait played on repeat. Narancia's voice was always the loudest.

"I want to understand, Bucciarati," he murmured to himself. On occasion, when he was confident he was alone, Fugo liked to voice his thoughts. It helped him process them better, and this was something he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to process.

Closing his eyes to listen to the songs of the birds and the peaceful rustling of the trees, he whispered, "I really do. But I don't. Who's wrong and who's right? Is it even that simple?"

Somehow he was pretty sure Bucciarati would tell him that it wasn't.


"I don't understand, Bucciarati," Fugo asked as he followed his captain down the hallway toward the prison cell. "Why did Polpo ask for me too?"

"Likely because you were the reason Narancia was recruited," was Bucciarati's reply, but Fugo could tell by the tone in his voice that he didn't actually know the answer. His captain was nervous, but unfortunately, Fugo had too many theories as to why to narrow one down.

"Um, Bucciarati, I didn't realize that-"

"I know you didn't, Fugo." The man paused in the hall and turned to face him, resting his hands on Fugo's shoulders as he looked him in the eye. "As I've said, I'm not upset with you. You were just trying to help someone, never apologize for that."

The gentle squeeze that Bucciarati gave him lingered on Fugo's shoulders, memories of his older brother bubbling up. As the pair rounded the corner to face the glass pane in front of Polpo's cell, Fugo wondered if that was what it would've been like if his brother hadn't run away, leaving a seven-year-old Fugo at the mercy of their parents.

"Ah, Bucciarati, welcome, welcome! I see you've brought young Fugo as I asked!" No matter how many times Fugo saw Polpo, he was always disgusted. The man oozed insincerity with every pore, his affable nature reminding Fugo of the professors at university, who only treated him kindly because they wanted something from him. He was waiting for the day when Polpo would ask too much- just like that professor had.

A shudder ran down his spine and he took a step closer to Bucciarati. The brunette seemed not to notice, not acknowledging Fugo at all, but the blond felt a hand come to rest on the small of his back and some of the tension eased out of it.

"Of course, Signor Polpo." Bucciarait bowed his head as he asked, "May I ask why we have both been summoned?"

"Oh come now, Bucciarati, no need to be so formal," Polpo purred, picking up one of the wine bottles from the fridge and pouring out a glass to pass through the slit in the cell. "You know I see you like a close friend, a son even! Please, drink, enjoy! This is a 1973 vintage from one of my favorite vineyards in Piemonte."

As Bucciarati accepted the glass, Polpo's beady green eyes shifted to Fugo, a leering smile crossing his face as he added, "And a glass for the Cucciolo as well."

Fugo bristled at the nickname but held his tongue, focusing on Bucciarati's gentle touch that all too quickly pulled away to take the second glass from the shelf.

"It's just as you've said, Signor," Bucciarati said kindly, not showing any signs of irritation or disgust, even though Fugo knew he had to be as uncomfortable as he was. He'd heard Bucciarati discussing his low view of the capo late at night with Abbacchio. "Fugo is underage. I shall drink his share."

"Ah, yes, how silly of me! Such a good captain you are, Bucciarati. Just as I'd expect of one who has my favor."

"Thank you, Signor."

"Of course, of course! Now then, as for what you're both doing here." Finally, Fugo didn't want to be in this man's presence any longer than necessary. "I'm sure you've both heard of the little one who has passed my test?"

"Narancia Ghirga," Bucciarati answered. "The boy we helped a few months ago."

"Yes, yes, he mentioned you both when I asked him his reasons for wanting to join." Polpo's gaze firmed as he continued. "Specifically you, Bucciarati. He has quite the admiration for you."

"He's a good child, Signor Polpo." Fugo recognized that for what it was: a plea to not send the boy anywhere too dangerous. He was just a kid. Fugo thought that he probably didn't have any right to say anything though, since he was technically a kid too. They all were.

"Indeed. Passione will have room for such a loyal and sincere boy."

There it was, the truth disguised behind Polpo's sickeningly sweet words. Narancia was useful to the group- but only as long as he remained loyal and easy to manipulate. If Fugo had known that that ratty-looking kid he'd helped off the streets was gonna wind up here in the gang, he would've thought twice. It wasn't an honorable job and it was full of the exact kind of people Fugo despised wholeheartedly. If it wasn't for Bucciarati, he likely would've gone off the rails years ago.

"Have you decided where he will go?" There was hope in Bucciarati's voice, that maybe Narancia would be assigned to them. They were the team that found the boy, and his admiration for Bucciarati would mean he'd work well under him.

"His Stand is quite the violent little thing," Polpo mused, scratching the flaps of fat around his chin and Fugo held back a gag at the way that sounded. "Ah, not quite like yours, Cucciolo. Your Stand is… exceptional."

Fugo hated how that sounded, how Polpo seemed to roll the word off his tongue with a wet purr and a spark of something dark in his grotesque green eyes. Knowing that he needed to respond regardless, Fugo bowed deeper than necessary to keep the capo from seeing his grimace of disgust as he said, "Thank you, Signor."

"Mm, yes, yes, your Haze is wonderful, a true blessing upon Passione," Polpo mused, "But Narancia's Aerosmith has quite the appeal as well. After seeing it, I believe its abilities would be well-suited for assassinations."

Fugo sensed the way Bucciarati stiffened at his side, though the only visible sign of distress being the single twitch above his left brow. That was the exact thing Bucciarati had said he'd been worried about.

"He's too young, Fugo. You both are. I don't want either of you to be forced to kill unnecessarily, for the single purpose of aiding Passione. You're no more than children, it's cruel."

"If I may, Signor-" Bucciarati began but Polpo held up his hand before the captain could continue. His eyes were cold as they swept over the two of them, and Fugo could tell he was plotting something.

"I know what you're going to ask, but I have already granted you a favor, Bucciarati-" Polpo's gaze rested on Fugo for a split second before switching back to the brunette and Fugo felt something heavy settle on his heart. "-and I do not want you to begin to expect preferential treatment. How can I keep the respect of my subordinates if I play favorites?"

"But-"

Fugo steeled himself as he interrupted Bucciarati's protest. "You're wrong, Signor."

Bucciarati's blue gaze was piercing as he swivelled to stare at Fugo in shock. He'd made the boy promise to not speak out of turn and to hold himself back while they met with Polpo, and this was an obvious betrayal of that. Polpo simply looked amused, green eyes twinkling as if they had expected this. And maybe he had, Fugo realized, but it was too late now. He'd spoken up and couldn't take it back. He didn't want to anyways.

"Oh? Care to tell me how, Cucciolo?"

Fugo ground his teeth but held back his anger, shooting a fervent glance at Bucciarati before looking back at Polpo. The capo, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised before he waved his hand and said, "Bucciarati, please leave us momentarily. I will summon you back when we've finished talking."

"Signor, that's-"

"Bruno."

Polpo didn't need to say more than that; the command was obvious. The brunette hesitated a second longer before bowing his head as he turned to leave the room. Bucciarati's face didn't show any signs of distress or frustration, but the way his hand brushed against Fugo's wrist for a split second to squeeze it tightly told Fugo everything his captain couldn't say out loud: he needed to be careful. This man was dangerous.

When the door shut with a click, Fugo pulled his stare away from the afterimage of his retreating captain to face this sickening thing in front of him.