Mista woke to the smell of smoke and flickering lights in the doorway.
For a brief second, he was thrown back to the days of living with his family, when their old man was at work and their ma was doing laundry and his brothers would run in jumping on his bed as his sister carried in a breakfast of burnt toast and tomatoes and he'd eat every damn bite.
And then he blinked and breathed in and nearly choked on the blanket of smoke hanging in the bedroom, the sounds of flames licking up the walls finally reaching his ears and he refocused.
Everything was ablaze.
Well, not everything, he wasn't and the bed wasn't and honestly most of the room was flame-free but the door was wide open and there was fire in the halls and it was creeping up one of the walls near the doorway and the rug had caught fire as well and that would spread a lot faster than the one on the wall would.
He knew he was a heavy sleeper but holy fuck, he could've died. Why hadn't Giorno woken him? He looked to his left and immediately realized why.
Couldn't really say something if you weren't there, now could ya?
Which begged the question: where the fuck was he?!
Mista barely had time to yank on his pants and sweater, preferring to sleep shirtless in his boxers, using his beanie to cover his mouth and nose from the smoke as he called Sex Pistols out.
"There's fire!"
"What did you burn down?"
"Mista, I'm scaaaared!"
"Shut up!" he snapped, drawing his gun out as he heard a noise in the hall that definitely wasn't from the fire. Fire didn't make footsteps.
He had taken a few steps towards the door just as a man passed through the fire in the hall, wearing what looked like some weird, shiny black suit, probably flame retardant. Mista froze, the guy seeming shocked to see someone in the room as well, and they both stared for a split second before the man thrust his hand down, reaching for his belt.
Mista grabbed the nearest thing, the potted plant near the window and chucked it as hard as he could. The guy had just pulled out a gun from his belt when the pot collided with his head, an ugly cracking sound resounding over the crackling of the flame and the guy crumbled to the ground as Mista rushed towards him.
He needed both hands, didn't have time to maneuver between combat and holding something over his face so he yanked his shirt up and hoped it would stay over his mouth and nose. It looked ridiculously stupid but that didn't matter right now.
Upon reaching the door, it was quite clear the guy was dead. If it hadn't been because of the fractured skull that was oozing blood onto the floor, it was from the flames igniting across the man's face causing the skin to blister and bubble and melt away. The gun looked in good shape though and Mista pocketed it, two weapons better than one.
"Check the rooms," he ordered Pistols as he crept into the hall, keeping a careful eye for any movement as he analyzed the best path to the stairs.
The fire was much more widespread in the hallway, old paintings and peeling wallpaper aiding the combustion as a layer of smoke was settling against the ceiling and beginning to ooze its way into eye level. The floor itself wasn't too bad however, a few patches of rugs that hadn't been fully burned left along with figures he could only make out as burnt corpses.
He rushed down the hall, stopping only once to poke his head into Fugo and Narancia's room. When he found it empty, he was satisfied and went for the stairs.
A noise behind him, the click of a gun, and he only had a second to react as a gunshot cut through the air, whistling towards his head. It only grazed his cheek, cutting through the protective layer against his face like it was nothing and he cursed again. Just great; he couldn't inhale the smoke or he'd pass out. He'd have to fix it later.
Drawing his gun from his pants, he darted out of the way of another gunshot, back flattened against a wall as he fired back. Bad idea; the wall itself was burning hot and he pushed away, wincing as the skin of his side screamed in pain. He ignored it as he swivelled around to fire his gun again, the stretch of burnt skin aching in protest.
The man crumpled to the floor, one clean gunshot to his forehead all it took.
Mista went for the stairs, this time managing to get down them just in time to see a small group of men backing up past the entrance to the stairway. He could hear shouting and banging, the telltale sounds of fistfights and insults, and he leapt forward, sweeping his leg out as he shot past them to knock the guys off their feet.
None of them seemed to expect it, and when they pitched backwards, Mista grabbed one of them by the collar and used the momentum to shove his face directly into a burning picture frame. The man shrieked and flailed, stumbling away clutching at his burning face when Mista let go, kicking him back towards the other two who were just starting to get to their feet. He toppled into them, knocking all three to the ground again.
Mista went for his gun but a cracking noise above him caught him off guard and he had to frantically bolt forwards to avoid a crumbling board holding up the second floor that was too burnt to continue on. Its thud to the floor kicked up a cloud of dust and debris that instantly caught ablaze from the fire and Mista barely had time to protect his eyes from the flaming debris.
One of the men had been ready to take advantage of the situation but there was shouting in front of him and suddenly a dark shoe was planted firmly in the man's face.
Abbacchio had stepped on the guy's face and drove his head back into the ground, using all his weight to grind it so hard against the floorboards that Mista could see blood trickling from the man's ears as his feeble jerking eventually ceased.
"Bout fucking time," the older man growled, glaring furiously at Mista. He threw something at Mista, which he caught right before it fell into the flames. A dish towel. Perfect.
While Abbacchio kicked the shit out of the one guy still alive, the others either mauled by the flames or brains ground into the hardwood, Mista tied the towel around his face and took inventory.
They were in the foyer, the front door wide open in front of them which led to a massive blazing porch, not a single centimeter clear of the flames. Must've been where it had started. The stairs were still mostly clear but the groaning of the wood above them made it clear that the house could come crumbling down at any time. He could hear the sounds of fighting in the kitchen and decided it was probably Bucciarati, since Abbacchio was out here with him. The others must either be with him or had escaped outside already.
Mista lazily pointed his gun at the last guy and fired, halting Abbacchio mid-foot-to-the-gut and received an angry glare in return. "I'll clean my own messes," he growled but stepped back anyways. Now that he wasn't beating the shit out of someone, Mista could see that he looked about as prepared for this as he had been: his white hair was pulled back in the low ponytail he normally wore to bed, coat hanging unlaced around his bare chest which was laced with minor burns and streaks of gray that were probably ash and smoke. His face looked no better, smeared with black, and Mista figured he must look the same.
"The others?" Mista asked, glancing nervously up the stairs. Pistols weren't back yet, and while he could feel that they were okay, he was worried. What if one of them got cornered in the flames? They had better be careful or they'd be in for it later.
"Bruno's in the kitchen," Abbacchio growled, turning to plod back down the burning hallway like the fire was nothing more than a convenient lightsource. Mista wished he had that kind of confidence, dodging any small bursts of flames and creeping through the clear floorboards carefully. Come to think of it, Abbacchio couldn't be that confident either. He wouldn't have called Bucciarati Bruno otherwise.
"And?"
Abbacchio's gaze flicked towards him for a second before he just jerked his head towards the entrance to the kitchen just as another body flew through the door and slammed into the wall in front of them.
Bucciarati stepped through a second later, his familiar white jacket streaked with ash and blood, hair messy, his French braid absent for once. Sticky Fingers was out at his side, hovering around its user. Bucciarati's frustration was evident; Sticky Fingers could do nothing against the fire, only expand the range of physical attack which would also have the downside of increasing the likelihood of Bucciarati getting burned. His blue eyes looked wild as they locked onto Abbacchio and Mista, illuminated in the firelight.
"Where's Trish?"
Mista froze. "I thought she was with you."
Bucciarati just shook his head in anger, cursing under his breath as he slammed his fist into one of the walls. It looked like he'd hit a patch of fire but when Bucciarati pulled back like nothing had happened, Mista figured his eyes must have been playing tricks on him.
"Then where-"
"Mista!"
That was Three and Five, appearing next to him just as Bucciarati was about to ask for their answer. One and Two arrived a second later and a chorus of voices began.
"Trish is upstairs! In her room!"
"Six and Seven are there-"
"Trouble, they're trapped and-"
"Shut up!" One, Two and Three looked irritated but obeyed while Five just whimpered, looking like it was about to start crying any second. "You said she was upstairs?"
Two nodded quickly. "She's trapped in her room!"
"And the others?"
"Narancia is with her," Three chimed in, just as Five stammered, "A-And Six and Seven are t-too."
"Go get them," Bucciarati ordered, not wasting a single second as voices drifted towards them from the other end of the house. More enemies. "We don't have time to worry about being careful, do what you must. Get her out alive. We'll handle things down here."
"Where are-"
"Go Mista!"
Mista hesitated a second longer, long enough for Abbacchio to shove him backwards towards the stairs. He staggered but regained his footing and, after throwing a wary glance back at them, bolted for the stairs.
"Find Giorno. And Fugo," he instructed Three and Five. "One, Two, you're both with me. Show me where the problem is."
The two Pistols nodded and flew up the staircase, scouting around for any enemies as Mista himself crept up them cautiously. They groaned beneath his feet, the fire weakening the structure of the house, and he blinked back tears as smoke accosted his eyes. The blaze was getting worse; Bucciarati was right, there wasn't time to hesitate.
He saw where One and Two were waiting, gesturing at a door that he hadn't noticed before. And no wonder; there was a mountain of caved-in debris that likely came from the ceiling, judging by the hole in the fixture, and he hadn't visited Trish's room at all so he hadn't known to check it.
"Narancia!" he yelled through the pile of debris, "Trish!"
There was silence but then he heard a muffled voice yelling back, "Mista?! Is that you?!"
"Narancia! Thank fuck, are you guys okay?!"
"As good as we can be," the voice cried, "Better if you get us out of here!"
"Right, working on it! And whatever you do, don't use Aerosmith!"
"I'm not stupid you dumbass!"
Well, Narancia clearly was fine if he could still mouth off. Mista was glad he hadn't tried to free them himself; if Aerosmith had attacked the debris, he could only imagine what would have happened if those bombs hit the fire. Worst case scenario, it could blow up the entire room they were in, best case they'd escape with mild third degree burns. Could Giorno even heal burns? Was Giorno even alive?
He didn't have time to think about that right now, he had to focus. 'Think dammit, use your fucking brain for once,' he thought frantically, trying to figure out what to do. What had Fugo told him about fires the last time they were trapped in a burning building?
An information deal had gone wrong; they'd been trapped in a room as the building burned and Mista had tried to go for the door but was stopped by Fugo. What had he said? That opening the door would cause an explosion? But why, why was that, if he could only remember, maybe he could use that to do something-
"Mista, duck!"
He barely had time to dart out of the way from One's warning just as a cracking noise sounded and part of the doorframe across the hall crumbled and crashed to the floor, the fire leaping at the chance to spread further. This was bad; the air was getting thinner and thinner, he needed to-
Wait. The air. That was it!
He looked around, searching desperately for what he needed. There. At the end of the hallway, just a few meters away, was a large window next to the ladder leading to the attic.
"Narancia?!" he called, hoping the boy could still hear him but now that the fire was spreading and consuming nearly the entire floor, he received no response. "Fuck! One, Two, have Six and Seven tell them to get back! As far from the door as they can, maybe behind a bed or something? If they can get extra protection, have them do it!"
His Pistols nodded and began talking frantically as Mista stepped back, taking one look at the only open doorway left. It was Narancia and Fugo's room, fire licking up the doorframe and alighting the rugs and curtains and bedsheets but it was the only choice he had. He leapt over the flames in the doorway, stumbling and barely able to avoid the burning rug.
"One! Two! It's up to you guys!" he yelled, calling them back to his side as he leaned around the doorframe, ignoring the heat scorching his clothes and bare skin. He pointed his gun at the window at the end of the hall, making eye contact with the two Pistols before he fired.
The bullet ricocheted off their kicks, picking up more and more speed until he couldn't even see it anymore. Mista darted around the doorframe, covering his ears and yelling, "Now!"
There was the sound of shattering glass, so loud it was as if the entire wall had been torn off and not half a second later, a massive fwoosh echoed through the hall followed by an incredibly loud boom.
Boiling heat shot past the doorway, an explosion of flame and fire enveloping the entire hall as the influx of free oxygen exploded throughout the hall. Mista gritted his teeth as a horrible scorching pain shot up his left arm, eyes flying open with desperation to bite back a scream. One of the Pistols hadn't been quick enough to get out of the way. Two. He could feel it, it was gone, dissipated back into him as the injury burnt up his forearm. It was all he could do to not tear off his sweater; exposing it to more heat couldn't possibly be good, even if the fabric made it seven billion times worse.
He peered out into the hall and amid the smoke and flames, he could see that the worst of the debris had been knocked away. Or incinerated. One of the two. Either way, he could see into the bedroom now, and could knock away whatever was left.
Narancia was already there it seemed, kicking at the burning wood and plaster, his skirt around his mouth and nose. He looked battered, burns on his arms and torso, hands bright red and scorched, but for the most part seemed okay.
Mista joined him and together they were able to make enough of an entrance for both he and Trish to squeeze through, his three Pistols still with him worrying about above them. Trish looked worse than both of them, though Mista wasn't sure it was really physically. From what he could see around the bandana Narancia had given her to shield her mouth and nose, she had a few minor wounds but it was the frightened look in her eyes and the way Spice Girl flickered in and out of existence at her side, as if she was unable to decide whether it could help or not.
"She watched me kill them," Narancia muttered as he and Mista helped the girl through the door, and Mista just now noticed the bodies littering the floor in the room, about four or five of them in total.
He wasn't surprised; she wasn't part of the mafia, she hadn't truly seen anyone die. Not yet anyways. Mista locked arms with her left one, Narancia on her other side, and together they basically carried the girl down the hallway, just above the flames so her bare legs wouldn't get burned too badly. The staircase was, thankfully, still open but just barely. The fire had nearly consumed the entire house by now; they had to get out. It was too dangerous to stay here any longer.
Trish managed to wriggle out of their grip just as they reached the staircase and she walked down them herself. Mista had to give her credit; she hardly flinched as she stepped directly into the fire that had covered one of the floorboards of the stairs already. She was quick enough that it didn't spread to her boots, her skirt hiked up so high on her waist that if they weren't in a fucking burning building and he wasn't a damn gentleman, Mista might try to sneak a peek at what's under it.
Narancia went next and Mista brought up the rear. They barely had time to think as Bucciarati swarmed them, Abbacchio still fending off the last of the men. Mista thought they all needed to be thankful for his cop training; his hand to hand combat was by far the best in the group. The capo grabbed Trish and hurried her down the hallway, shielding her from the worst of the flames and smoke as he practically carried her out towards the back door.
Once she was thrust towards the door, he turned back to deal with the others. First Narancia, pushed out the broken screen door into the backyard right after Trish as Bucciarati instructed them to run as far as they could towards the cliffs.
Mista had stopped to help Abbacchio finish off the guys, shooting two of them in the head, kicking another in the chest through the entrance into the sitting room where the furniture was ablaze. Bucciarati wrenched him backwards just as part of the ceiling fan crashed to the floor and shoved him towards the door.
He obeyed, stepping out into the outside and running. He didn't stop until he reached Trish and Narancia and turned to see Bucciarati and Abbacchio rushing after them.
"Where are Fugo and Giorno?" Mista hadn't seen either of them in the house and hoped beyond hope that they'd already made it out. Bucciarati and Abbacchio exchanged a look that just about extinguished it.
"There were only six signatures in the house," Narancia offered. "When I last checked anyways, right before all those guys ambushed us. Fugo was on watch, so it's probably him I didn't see."
"That means he likely made it out," Bucciarati said just as Abbacchio hissed, "So he betrayed us after all."
Bucciarati swivelled, fixing Abbacchio with a steely glare and opened his mouth but Mista didn't give him the chance.
"Giorno. Where's Giorno?"
Silence. Mista watched as everyone looked away from him and his heart sank.
"…He was probably the other one in the house," Narancia whispered quietly.
"No. No I don't buy it," Mista muttered hoarsely. "He's smart, he wouldn't get killed, he'd never-"
"Mista! They found him!"
One's voice cut through his rapidly raising voice as Mista turned towards him so fast his head almost got whiplash, eyes full of hope.
"The attic," Six continued. "He's in the attic."
"He's… still inside?" When One and Six nodded, Mista turned towards the house and stepped forwards.
He would've broken into a run if it hadn't been for Bucciarati grabbing his arm right before he could. Mista shrieked, wrenching his burnt arm away and saw the fear in Bucciarati's eyes as the man pulled back with his hands in the air.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said evenly, his words careful and slow and Mista knew what he was going to say before he even said it. "Just to stop you. Stay here."
"Giorno's still in there," Mista protested, anger filling his veins as he narrowed his dark eyes. "We can't just leave him!"
"He knew the risks," Bucciarati argued. "Giorno understood what he was getting into better than anyone; he knew there might be… casualties. We can't take the chance of losing both of you."
"I'm not abandoning him-"
"Mista, you will not go back in that house!" Bucciarati's temper had apparently snapped, his tone commanding and forceful as he yelled at Mista directly, "That's a direct order!"
Mista felt blood ooze through his fingers as his fingernails cut into his palms from his clenched fists, tightened his jaw, ground his teeth together, squeezed his eyes shut, mentally prepared himself to get hell for this, turned and ran.
He could hear Bucciarati yelling, a chorus of voices springing up a second later as the others began to argue but he didn't care. Mista just ran.
It didn't matter what Bucciarati said; he would never leave Giorno. They'd have to pry him away over his own dead body.
