Chapter 5: Hot Thoughts

The blood never stopped dripping.

First it was his parents. He never saw their bodies, but his six-year-old self couldn't stop imagining how brutal the scene was: limbs disjointed, blood that had clotted yet still wet covering every inch of themselves.

All he did was cry, hugging his lion plushie for comfort and wishing that somehow his parents would return.

Once he learned that his relatives did not want him under their care, and was sent off to an orphanage with the promise that he would receive his parents' belongings when he was of age, he used his entire supply of tears. He was alone in a place where he received no pity, and twelve years sounded like an eternity.

"Leone is so quiet and mean. Doesn't bother interacting with the other kids, and whenever he doesn't look angry, he looks like he's about to cry. He is a good student, but with his attitude, he won't be getting very far."

Admittedly, running away felt like an exaggeration. He was eighteen, had finally inherited everything from his parents, and Naples was close to the city of Salerno. No one cared if he did vanish into the night.

He thought the sun would rise once he graduated from the police academy at the top of his class. If only he didn't spot so many contradictions. Perhaps it was not his brightest idea to look for the police file for the incident that led to the death of his parents. It took a single fact that he didn't originally know for him to feel like the blood never stopped dripping.

Then his police partner died because of him. The tank was overflowing. Everyone blamed him. Every night, as he attempted to drink away his sorrows with an entire bottle of wine, he thought that he deserved the guilt.

Bars and sex were welcome distractions before the second occurrence of blood. With a heavy drink and the satisfaction of pleasing someone in bed, he could forget about his daily life.

"Ya know, Leone, I've never seen anyone in the punk scene as sexy as you. You know how to work that big cock of yours. I haven't been railed so good in a while. I don't think I'll be this wet again."

"Oh, Elisabetta, I can't take all the credit. You're great at pleasing the body. Those butt grips and neck kisses really motivated me to keep going. Mmm… those big boobs of yours are so warm."

Ugh, they were so disgusting and unbelievably horny. He really said that to a woman? Even drunk and with the knowledge of an eighteen-year-old, his words were nauseating.

The voices came from the other side of the wall behind him. The furniture was wispy, like it was made of black clouds. It was some hotel where they snuck in and could easily leave without awareness from the staff. He never went to their homes. It was too personal. Finding another room was relaxing, more exciting.

But the distractions never lasted. He couldn't remember enough of those nights to attach to the feelings of pleasure. The despair always returned with a vengeance.

Wait, something was different about that encounter. He was always too hungover the next morning to remember the exact details of the sex he partook in. The morning after that one, his memory was foggy. When did it become clear? What happened afterward that made him remember?

Something suddenly dripped onto his shoulder with a plop. Its reminds flowed onto his chest with the splat spreading on his wide shoulder, trying to expand to every inch of his body. The lighting in the room was dark, but he could see the crimson streaks.

Another landed on the top of his head, dripping downward and staining his hair. Immediately as the scarlet dyed itself onto his white locks, it was raining blood. The droplets were drenching his body, seemingly never ending.

He could never escape the blood. Sex and alcohol weren't fast enough to evade. He was stupid to think that his life would be peaceful.

He was doomed to live while those he cared about died. No one would care about his tragedy of a life. He would live everyday with a mind of despair and a world waking to make him suffer.

The rain had stopped, but something was still dripping down his body. Abbacchio felt hot, and whatever room he was now in, the air was cool. He was sitting on a soft, comforting material. There was a persistent, high-pitched noise in the background, growing louder with every pant he released.

He looked down in confusion, seeing no red stains but rather his bare chest. It was sweat that covered his body, running down in a panic and landing on his pajama pants. Abbacchio shifted slightly, and the material below him bounced. Since when was he in his bedroom?

That noise suddenly sounded pitiful, like someone desperately calling out for help. It was a cry for hunger, he recognized.

Wait, why did he know that? He shouldn't have been able to detect the purpose for a cry.

His vision cleared as he glanced across the room. Something was failing its arms.

No, not something… Liliana! It was Liliana!

This wasn't some illusion. Her cries created a familiar ring in his ears. The sheets didn't turn into dust when he gripped them. Everything around him was tangible. He was freed from a nightmare. She helped him escape.

"Lili!" Abbacchio cried out.

He sprinted to the corner of the room where her crib stood, quickly lifting Liliana and laying her on his shoulder. Her fists and tiny feet hit and kicked against his shirtless body, undoubtedly irritated and hungry.

"Oh Liliana," he comforted her, ignoring the tears falling down his cheeks. "I've got you. Papa is right here. Everything is gonna be alright."

Abbacchio faintly heard the signature summoning sound of Moody Blues. In the corner of his eye he saw his Stand glide toward the door. He didn't want to use his Stand for mundane tasks, but Liliana was the most important right now, and Moody Blues must have agreed.

The baby wasn't screaming, her stress diminishing into hiccups and whines. Perhaps she was confused as to why he hadn't left the room, but he didn't want to go into the light. He felt like hiding in his room, pacing around his bed while bouncing his daughter.

Liliana tilted her head, staring at her father with teary eyes and a pout. Whether she was attempting to comfort him, or impatient for her bottle, Abbacchio released another bout of tears.

If Stands, especially robotic, mouthless ones, could convey sympathy, then Moody Blues was successful with its emotional beep proceeding its dismissal by Abbacchio.

With a happy squirm, Liliana began drinking her meal. Abbacchio sat back on his bed, moving to lay against the pillows and the headboard using his back. His hands were occupied, as Liliana decided to grip his fingers as they held the bottle for her. With her stubbornness, Abbacchio knew that she wouldn't let go easily.

She never broke eye contact. Her violet eyes shined with love and resolve, seemingly afraid that if she looked away for a moment, then he would disappear.

Receiving unconditional love from an innocent being gave jubilant, foreign energy to Abbacchio's soul. He couldn't stop the warm, genuine smile directed toward his daughter, even as he cursed himself for giving her such a difficult life.

Simply looking at Liliana would not give passerbys the knowledge that she was the result of a one-night-stand. But even the most average person might consider such a possibility upon noticing that she only had a very young dad with no mother in sight. Society may have become more accepting of single parents, but there were not many single fathers, and certainly not ones that reached the title when they were in their late teens.

She was also of Romani descent. Those from his childhood were not shy with their bigotry toward the ethic group, especially those of South Asian descent. Liliana applied to both categories, and that would make her life harder.

How was he, someone who was neither Romani nor biracial, supposed to explain a culture he was unfamiliar with. And how could he approach his innocent daughter that she might be hated simply because of her heritage. Abbacchio didn't know anyone that could help him describe her situation.

He wondered if his sexuality would be a factor in her life. He wasn't openly bisexual, so perhaps if he continue staying quiet, no one would know. But that would be a pained existence.

Around the age of fifteen is when Abbacchio realized that he was sexually attracted to both men and women. He quickly accepted his bisexuality, but he wouldn't dare discuss it with anyone else. He was raised in a Catholic orphanage, and he knew that it was unlikely for anyone being supportive. Perhaps he wasn't the only kid hiding, but he didn't want to risk finding out. He stayed silent.

His early teen years created a fear of disclosing his sexuality. Perchance, Italy was more accepting of various sexualities than he thought. His childhood may have skewed his knowledge on the views of the general public. Though with a majority of Italians practicing Catholicism, he doubted how progressive his country was.

And all of these circumstances were falling upon a little girl only fourteen weeks old.

She wouldn't recognize that her situation was very unlike other children for many years. He was supposed to explain to her that her parents did not love one another and that her mother chose not to be in her life. Despite the truth that Elisabetta left for Liliana's wellbeing, he imagined his daughter would be hurt that she would never have a standard childhood.

As Liliana was propped against his shoulder and burped, she continued staring at him with fascination, kicking her little legs against his bare chest. Abbacchio teared up for what felt like the fiftieth time that night. She really did love him.

Liliana whined and extended her hand, patting his cheek like she was wiping his tears away. Abbacchio laughed, nuzzling his face into her hair.

"We're gonna be fine," he reassured her and himself. "Papa's gonna do his best to give you a happy life. Hopefully it will be much better than mine. You've already got a supportive almost-family. We'll be fine, principessa."

Abbacchio repositioned Liliana into his arms. The genuine grin on his face was inevitable once he saw Liliana's bright smile.

She then released a small yawn and leaned against his chest. Abbacchio felt exhaustion consume his body. He laid down against his pillows, Liliana still in his hold as he lazily stroked her silver curls.

"We'll have happy lives, Lili. I promise."

"Whatever the results may be, the resolve and methods in getting them is most important. You probably think that you have long lost such ideals, but trust me, they are still within you. I can help you get it back if you join my team, Leone Abbacchio."

Abbacchio never forgot his first meeting with Bucciarati. This mafioso didn't have a gleam of disappointment in his eyes like so many others did. Or maybe he was imagining; he couldn't remember a moment in the past six weeks where he wasn't drunk.

He was drunk right now in fact. Despite that, he was confident that the welcoming, stretched out hand of Bucciarati was not a hallucination.

Abbacchio joined Bucciarati, dropping the empty bottle of Irish whiskey and welcomed the protection of an umbrella. He somehow managed to not stumble the entire time, though he did almost trip upon noticing the blood dripping from his forehead.

He was dreaming again. This dream was a concrete memory, nothing metaphorical like before.

Daydreaming was never a normal occurrence to Abbacchio. The only flashbacks that did occur were traumatic moments from his past. This specific memory was not memorable after his initial interaction with Bucciarati, but his brain must have kept a majority of it intact. The origin of his head injury was still a mystery, however.

"How did you find me?" Abbacchio asked Bucciarati, currently occupied with wrapping a bandage around the taller man's head.

"Passione has a data management team," answered Bucciarati. "Sounds ridiculous, I know. You'd be surprised by the reach of Passione. Anyway, my superior needed information regarding a cop that arrested one of our own. While doing that, some information came up about your discharge. The police report seemed rather unprofessional, with some holes in the story, so I did some investigating and learned about you…"

Bucciarati became silent. Abbacchio didn't bother to look at him, knowing that he was pondering on what to say next that won't offend the new member.

It didn't matter how he phrased it. Whether it be fired or dishonorably discharged, they both had the same definition and weight.

Perhaps Abbacchio was once known as a hard-working and intelligent officer among his peers. Was Bucciarati judging based on a previous version of himself? Even then, he was certain that he wasn't liked by the other officers.

And why was a member of the mafia trusting of a former police officer? Most of the general public thought unfavorably of cops, something Abbacchio began to comprehend months ago and very recently agreed with.

Abbacchio wanted to explain himself, state that he already knew what Bucciarati was going to say. The words refused to leave his mouth. He couldn't move his head or any of his limbs. The dream refused to explore an alternate version of events.

It was then that Abbacchio realized that his thoughts were disconnected from his words and actions. This dream was a recreation of prior events, as if he was trapped in a replay of his own Stand. Nothing could interrupt the memory from within.

"I had one of my subordinates attempt to locate you," Bucciarati finally continued. "We thought you were still in jail awaiting sentencing, but by the time he arrived, you were gone."

"I posted bail," Abbacchio explained. "I already lost my job, so I didn't need to add a prison sentence to that. And cops in prison don't last long. I realize that I'm physically strong but there, many people would be after me at once. I don't really have a will to live right now. I have enough integrity to not want to die in prison."

Abbacchio didn't plan to spend a fourth of the money he inherited from his parents over the course of ten months. The bail and ungodly amount of purchased alcohol were costly. He mentally patted himself on the back for ending his spending spree soon after this moment.

After all, he would need to purchase many items for a little girl that would make her appearance four months from now.

"You deserve to live, Abbacchio," Bucciarati said with a sincere sigh. "You can't see it now, but there is definitely resolve in your soul. Your sense of justice will come back."

"How the fuck do you know that?" snapped Abbacchio. "You've researched me for the past… what, six weeks? You think you can catch me drinking in the middle of an alley and convince me that everything is okay? That my life isn't utter shit? You don't know what I've been through, you opaque cunt."

Abbacchio was going to slap himself when he woke up. He remembered the glare he directed toward Bucciarati. His glares conveyed an anger similar to hellish fires. Children would cry, adults would abruptly look away and shakily clench their hands. The latter was written on Bucciarati's face.

Modern Abbacchio recognized that Bucciarati only had knowledge of his life when he turned eighteen. He never had information about his deceased parents and nonexistent family.

Bucciarati wanted to reassure Abbacchio. Yes, he had made a misstep, but he was willing to change strategies if necessary.

"You're right, I am unable to relate to how you feel," responded Bucciarati. "But I do want the best for you, and I am confident that I can help with that. I realize that working as a mafioso may be against your morals. However, you can trust me when I say that you will be doing good.

"Abbacchio, I'm building a team, and you would make an honorable member. Since you're familiar with the law, I'm considering assigning you as second-in-command once the Squad gets bigger."

"Huh?," Abbacchio questioned, his eyebrows tightening in confusion. "You just met me and you trust me to help lead your dream team?"

"Yes," Bucciarati immediately answered. "You're extremely familiar with the law, and you seem to be a quite serious person that people would listen to."

"Well, if that's what you think, then I might as well give it a try."

In truth, Abbacchio was comforted by Bucciarati's statements of leadership. Back then, he thought that he could make his miserable life better by following the commands of a well-intentioned leader. His modern self continued to feel the same.

He never told Bucciarati his true motivations. Abbacchio knew that his will for life was rather depressing and worrisome and would certainly draw such concern from Bucciarati. He chose to never address it to his superior unless absolutely necessary.

"I would be honored if you joined," said Bucciarati. "Well before that, you'll have to pass a test by the capo of Naples, though I'm confident that you'll do just fine."

As the duo walked, Abbacchio remembered the many stages of confusion during his Passione initiation. First it was encountering the giant that was Polpo and wondering how a being such as him was biologically possible. Then it was the seemingly rather simple test of keeping a lighter intact for a day, only for the flame to be extinguished by the cold air of his apartment.

The flash of a ghost-like figure was followed by the worst pain Abbacchio had ever encountered. Even with his screams of anguish as an arrow penetrated his neck and the blood that spattered on the floor, the injury had disappeared. He was surprised that none of his neighbors knocked on his door in a panic due to the noise.

The memory was starting to fade. Abbacchio remembered Bucciarati walking him back to his apartment with instructions to find Polpo, but the exact words were meshing together into an unintelligible, fuzzy sound.

His mind suddenly realized that it was January 1999. Two months before his nineteenth birthday. Two months before Elisabetta located him after their heatful encounter months prior.

Abbacchio wanted to turn his head backward as he pondered the whereabouts of her. She was probably about five months along. He wondered if she had just been told that she was having a girl and if it was then where she was beginning to plan their unborn daughter into his care.

If he could, he would excuse himself from Bucciarati and look for Elisabetta. She left so suddenly that day, only telling him via a note that motherhood was not the correct path for her. He wanted to see her wellbeing, help her process the pregnancy, keep an eye for any symptoms of postpartum depression and see if she was able to live a happy life after birthing Liliana.

Abbacchio didn't love Elisabetta, but was concerned for her. She didn't ask to be pregnant with a child that she was unsure if she wanted by an alcoholic, corrupt cop. He left her in that state and couldn't do anything to help you. Even reliving a memory, he could not change anything.

He knew that he was unable to move in a different direction, no matter his curiosity and worry. It was foolish to consider such an option. After all, Abbacchio had to repeat it to himself often, words that Bucciarati stated earlier.

There was no use in dwelling on the past.

The only option is to move forward.

Abbacchio had grown accustomed to walking everywhere he went. It was standard for people living in European countries to favor walking over driving. Yet the combination of having an infant and his dislike for appearing in crowds led to him purchasing a car.

He certainly prided himself on buying one rather quickly, as the decision to take a forty-five minute drive to his hometown was abrupt.

The nightmare occurred on a Friday where he did not have to work. As he read the morning paper while holding Liliana, he decided it would be a proper time to introduce his daughter to her grandparents.

The drive itself was uneventful. The radio provided some entertainment as he traveled on empty streets. Then Liliana had woken up from her nap thirty minutes in. The motion of the car was surprisingly soothing, though Abbacchio wanted to assure that there would be no tears. Moody Blues was summoned and dangled her favorite stuffed animals above her.

"Why does she have to adore that fucking lamb plushie?" Abbacchio mumbled to himself. "Damn you, Bucciarati."

Despite his rather fatuous grievances, he smiled as Liliana cooed behind him.

The parking lot was empty. No one was visiting their loved ones in the early afternoon, it seemed. Abbacchio was glad that he didn't have to fear someone interfering with a tender moment.

He turned off the car and everything went silent. Even Liliana stopped cooing. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he remembered the history of these visits.

It took him two years to see his parents' graves after their funeral. The orphanage was cruel with their no travel rules, no matter how much he pleaded and behaved. At eight years old, he learned the bus schedule and snuck on.

Similar to today, the cemetery was empty when he arrived. Standing across their gravestones, his little body immediately felt numb. He fell to the ground and cried, wondering why fate had hurt him at such a young age.

Future visits would produce less tears. He would talk about recent events in his life and describe how much they missed him. The caretakers at the orphanage never caught him, so he never stopped.

However, the visits did decrease in frequency as the years progressed. Seeing their graves reminded him of how shitty his life had become. He didn't want them to see how sad their son was.

His last visit was the night he left for Naples. It was possibly the first time he stood with pride at the cemetery. He told them that he was finally going to have a good life and actually use the justice he believed in for so far.

And then it all fell apart, so quickly, so painfully…

Liliana whined and squirmed in her seat, bored of the silence.

"You're too energetic and fussy sometimes, Lili," Abbacchio sighed as he exited the car. "Can't you just let papa lament? Maybe just once?"

He never had the chance to dress her in formal clothes. A dark purple dress with horizontal pleats at the skirt was purchased before her knew she would look cuter with the addition of her white sun hat Bucciarati bought for her.

"You're better dressed than me," Abbacchio commented as he laid her on his shoulder and adjusted her hat. "Papa should have bought a suit or something fancy before we left."

Although the dark colors and gold embellishments of his everyday attire could be considered lavish, Abbacchio wanted to appear more commonplace. He didn't think many would regard his typical outfit as appropriate for a cemetery setting.

He wore a long sleeve black shirt adorned with a gold collar. There was a large, v-shaped cutout similar to his overcoat, though the ending tip was not as deep and was bordered with gold that connected to the collar. At the bottom was a button, making his shirt akin to a light jacket. Around his wrists were silver chains attached to the sleeves that were identical to his belt. His ebony bell-bottomed pants were replicas of his regular pair, though the cuffs were tucked into his ankle boots with a frye harness.

Passing by the many graves, Abbacchio noticed Liliana lazily looking up at him and wondered what his parents would have thought of her.

He supposed that they would understandably be disappointed upon receiving the news that their adult yet still teenaged son forgot to use protection and would soon be a father. Whether they would offer help or disown him would never be answered.

He heard stories of parents forcing marriage so their child would not be born out of wedlock. He was already rushing into fatherhood and didn't want to do the same with marriage. Besides, Abbacchio would never marry someone that he did not love. Liliana didn't deserve to be raised by parents pretending to be affectionate.

And what would his parents think of Liliana? He hoped that they would have considered her as their granddaughter. Or perhaps she would represent another layer of Abbacchio's depressing life and be treated as such.

It was stupid to contemplate endless possibilities, Abbacchio realized. The purpose of his visit was to introduce his parents to their granddaughter whom she would never properly meet.

Standing in front of their gravestones, Abbacchio readjusted his hold of Liliana. He placed her back against his chest as he supported her legs. She responded with a delighted squeal, kicking her little legs and hitting her father. He gave her a smile before directing his attention toward his parents.

"Mama, papa, sorry it's been so long. I have someone important for you to meet. This is your granddaughter, Liliana Violetta Abbacchio."