"Is that better?"
Polpo sounded entertained, as if this was one of the most interesting things to happen to him recently, and Fugo wanted nothing more than to punch that stupid smirk off his fat fucking face. Instead, he just nodded and said, "Yes. Thank you, Signor."
"Of course, anything for a dear subordinate."
"I thought you didn't play favorites."
"I do not," Polpo said as he poured another glass of wine. "I do, however, believe in accommodating even the lowest ranking members beneath me. A content soldato is a beneficial one." As if noticing the surprise from that insinuation that Fugo was certain hadn't reached his face, Polpo explained, "I see no reason to hide my intentions from you, Cucciolo, I know of your intellect and therefore value your input in this matter."
"Understood," Fugo replied slowly, analyzing the capo's words with careful precaution. That meant Polpo was expecting a certain type of response from him. First off, he had to know if what he'd heard about Narancia's Stand was true. "You mentioned Narancia's Stand. That's the long-distance Aerosmith I heard about, right?"
"Indeed; the rumors are all true." Perfect, that meant Polpo was the one who planted them, just as Fugo had expected.
"Then wouldn't a Stand like that be more useful for a variety of missions, not assassinations?"
"How so?"
"Well," and Fugo was glad he'd asked because he'd prepared for this ahead of time, "It's true that the fighting potential of Aerosmith is high, but a Stand like that would kill messily. It would leave behind a lot of evidence and be difficult to clean up, as opposed to the other Stands Passione normally uses to carry out assassination missions. It also isn't very accurate; surely, it would rack up more damage than Passione would be willing to cover up?"
"If that was the case, we would simply rid ourselves of the problem. It is up to the user to control the Stand, as I'm sure you're aware, Cucciolo."
That was a dig at him, Fugo was certain of it. He wasn't going to let it get to him, not until he was out of the prison. "But then you'd be losing a useful pawn," he began slowly, trying to think of what Polpo would want to hear. "Like you said, Signor Polpo, Narancia is incredibly loyal, to a fault and then some. His loyalty would be useful if he were to work under Bucciarati; he'd be able to carry out any order no matter how big or small. That loyalty would also mean he'd act without question and cause his determination to increase exponentially."
"Are you saying he would not obey my orders?"
"No, of course not," Fugo backtracked with a wave of his hand. "I'm saying that his effectiveness would increase. It's just as you said, Signor. The Stand answers to the user; if the user has a higher focus on the mission, the Stand will as well."
"…I see." Polpo had begun scratching his chin again, and this time Fugo didn't look away, staring into those cold green eyes that scrutinized every inch of him. "You make a strong point, Cucciolo, just as I would expect from you." Just as Fugo's hopes began to rise, Polpo quickly followed with a, "However," that sent it plummeting again. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. "How would you suggest I make up for all the missions we will fail to carry out because of a lack of soldatos?"
"Passione is never lacking in men."
"True, of course you're right, but I see I must remind you of this; many of our men don't have Stands, making them unfit for the Pasione method of assassination. It is rare that a Stand user joins our ranks, and rarer still when they are fitting that role."
"Isn't there a team of executioners?" Fugo knew he wasn't technically supposed to know about them, that that team was a 'well-kept' secret, but Polpo had told Bucciarati, and-
"Bucciarati told you of that. I see."
"It was only because-"
"No, no, it could only be called a secret as far as a tomato being called a vegetable. A misconception at best; it would be foolish to assume a mafia would not have a squad of assassins. To answer your question, Cucciolo, an opening will be appearing in time."
Fugo knew he didn't really have any other options at this point. There was really only one way to keep Narancia from being forced into the role of an executioner. "…Must the soldato be on La Squadra di Esecuzioni?"
"I see no reason why they would have to be, so long as they can carry out their mission."
"Then what if I took the jobs instead?"
Polpo's eyes flashed at his suggestion, a wicked grin crossing the fat of the mordbidly obese man. "Are you suggesting that you take Narancia's place?"
"I know you wanted me to join La Squadra when I joined Passione. My Stand would be far more effective than Aerosmith. And it's just like you said, if I can carry out the orders, it doesn't matter whether I'm with Bucciarati's group or not."
"Very good, very good, yes, of course that would work as well. It can easily be arranged. What would you ask for in return?"
"Put Narancia in Bucciarati's care." The sneer on Polpo's face was nearly blinding.
"But of course, Cucciolo. I trust the boy will be in good hands- both Bucciarati's and yours. Tell me, Fugo," it was strange, hearing Polpo actually use his name rather than sickening nickname that made it obvious to Fugo that this man saw him as nothing more than an animal, "have you heard about blood and water?"
"Yes," Fugo answered, wondering if this was some kind of trick question, "You're referring to the phrase 'blood is thicker than water', right?"
"Indeed. However, did you know that the Arabs said that blood is thicker than a mother's milk? That of course is the opposite of what you just said, dead boy. The question, of course, is which one is right? Do you know the answer to that?"
"…I think the 'blood' is only what people want to hear at the time."
Polpo's grin grew as he exclaimed, "I see we think alike, Cucciolo! Blood has nothing to do with it. Both are right to whatever bond matters most. So then, my question to you is which phrase do you follow?"
"Blood is thicker than milk." It wasn't hard to tell that was the answer Polpo wanted. In fact, he'd given it away when he talked about important bonds. Fugo wasn't an idiot; he had no problems with lying if he had to.
"I believe it is wise to live by that adage," Polpo agreed with a nod. "This blood we all have signed to is chains, kept under lock and key. It is a collar, one that can easily be tightened until death. God is a noble being, He understands the binding importance of someone's word; therefore, death is a suitable punishment. As you would know well, Cucciolo, family means nothing here."
"I know." That was part of the reason why Fugo had joined, to put as much distance between himself and the Fugo household as he possibly could. He hadn't thought he'd find another family in a mafia group.
"Well then, I believe we're done here. No need to send Bucciarati back in, you both can go. Pick up the little Topi from the cafe he's waiting at. I'll take care of the rest."
"Thank you, Signor." It seemed like Polpo just liked calling his subordinates as animals. Fugo would enjoy the day he got what was coming to him.
"Ah, one last thing. Your jobs won't be coming in for a while. How long, I wasn't informed of, but the vacancy in La Squadra has not yet occurred." The fact that Polpo was revealing this to him had to mean- "I trust you'll keep this our secret, Cucciolo. I don't know what may happen otherwise."
"Of course, Signor. This conversation never happened."
"Such a smart boy, Cucciolo. Good luck with bearing those fangs of yours. Perhaps I should call you Cane instead." Polpo's fingers drumming against the glass paused as he added, "A word of advice, Pannacotta. Don't get attached to that Topi."
Fugo didn't say anything, just bowed his head as he strode confidently out of the room- a facade that quickly crumbled the second he was out of there. It had been stifling, that grotesque man's look, the too-sweet smell of alcohol and chocolate, and the way Fugo felt like every inch of him was being analyzed like a slab of meat.
He had to take a minute as the guards checked him over for anything he might've brought with him, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.
It wasn't from fear; he hadn't been scared at all. Nothing could compare to the helplessness he felt in his past, nothing could possibly be that terrifying. And fear was the wrong thing to have when you had a job like his. No, it was pure, unbridled rage!
Pannacotta Fugo had only felt this anger once before, and it had ended in a violent assault and disownment. However, he had had practice controlling himself since then, and he knew what would happen if he just waited. That sickening creature that was in no way human would die, would be killed one day in a graceless way and Bucciarati would take his place. Polpo played favorites, despite what he said, and Bucciarati was well-liked and well-respected by the other capos as well. Fugo, as his right hand and second-in-command, would display nothing but grace and dignity and respect as well. Anything to get Bucciarati higher in the ranks. The 'blood' of the group meant nothing in the face of 'his blood.' Fugo would bleed for that man if he had to.
The meaning of that adage had changed for a reason.
Fugo's eyes flew open, jerking awake violently as he came to himself. A quick glance at his surroundings told him he was still in the remains of the building he'd gone to to avoid Castagna, the sky still bright and blue. Not much time had passed. He must've just dozed off.
He got shakily to his feet, the memory still fresh in his mind. As if it was mocking him.
He'd forgotten about it, too busy with his new duties as an assassin and hands full of dealing with Narancia, whom he'd promised Bucciarati to protect. That conversation with Polpo had seemed so small, so pointless in remembering at the time, that he'd tried to push it out of his mind and ignore the rage he felt at being used. But now, after everything that had happened, he was starting to see it in a new light.
Blood thicker than milk, thicker than water, what was blood to him? Which road did he choose to pursue, and was it the right one? He didn't really know anymore. The 'blood' of his covenant to Passione compared to the 'blood' of the 'family' he'd found; which one did he value more? And since he was unwilling to admit his answer, did it make him a fool?
He hated idiots, hated ignorant hypocrites who stood on the pedestals of their ideals yet never did a thing to defend them. He was different, he was. Fugo knew he wasn't wrong; there was no way he could be, and yet…
No, there wasn't room for regrets. The choice had been made and he couldn't go back on it now; the least he could do was to honor his former teammates by being the one to give them a swift, merciful death. But the likelihood of that was small; he knew them well enough to know that none of them would just sit there and let him kill them. Not even Narancia.
The image of the boy on the boat staring at him with wide violet eyes sent a sharp pain through him. There had only been one choice for Narancia, and even if the boy himself hadn't realized, Fugo knew that Narancia would've chosen to go with them in the end. He could only hope that the others would protect him. Fugo couldn't anymore, he didn't have the right.
"'For whatever one sows, that will he also reap,'" Fugo murmured to himself, clenching his fists as he looked up to the sky. "If you're there, then tell me, God, is this my punishment for turning my back on the law?"
Of course there was no answer. There never was.
Footsteps alerted him to the approach of someone outside the building and he looked down towards the doorway to see Castagna's face appear within it.
"It is near time, Signor Fugo. You must be prepared."
Fugo nodded and glanced at his wristwatch. 15:23. Bucciarati and the others would be arriving any minute now. Deciding that he would chalk up his roiling stomach to nerves rather than guilt, he clenched his jaw and backed into the dark shadows of the building.
Prepared? Of course he wasn't. He didn't know if he ever had been.
