I haven't written any Prosciutto centric whump before so I thought it was time to do that. By the way, this is an Everyone Lives AU so La Squadra are also still alive.


Breaking Point

Day 17: Hanging by a Threat

(breaking point, stress positions, reluctant caretaker)

A simple mission goes wrong, leaving Prosciutto strung up and left to die. Luckily Bucciarati's team happen to show up, but it makes for a bit of an awkward meeting.

Prosciutto considered himself something of a stoic. While he had long since given up his ideas of long-term goals after joining Passione and becoming a hitman, he exchanged those for the simple satisfaction of completing every job that Risotto handed him. As long as he could see the end, the results, in sight, he was good.

It was when things started to go wrong in ways he couldn't do anything about that the ball of anxiety he had spent years learning how to repress to better do his job started to rear its ugly head, some grotesque creature that awoke when he least wanted it to and began clawing at its cage.

"Tell me, what exactly did you have in mind for our boss?"

Prosciutto snarled up at his interrogator but refused to say anything. Truth was, they'd been taking some shitty jobs to make whatever money they could. They'd been bad off before the Boss had been replaced with the new upstart Giorno Giovanna, but with how they'd gone about things with Bucciarati's team, Risotto hadn't thought that trying to make peace was the best option. So instead, they'd been taking whatever work they could, hits or not. They'd pretty much become nothing more than despicable bruisers.

Prosciutto hadn't even gone on this job to kill anyone. He'd been instructed by their client to send a warning—get a rival drug dealing gang off their turf. He'd thought it would be easy, go in, rough the guy up, and hopefully escalate the situation for a more pricy hit if he didn't run away. Instead, the info he'd been given was rotten, and he'd ended up walking into the base of operations when literally the whole gang was there seeing in a new shipment.

He'd called out Grateful Dead, but there were so many men already rushing him, that by the time his Stand started to take effect, he had already been grabbed and beaten unconscious.

When he'd come to, it was to a bucket of cold water, and the muted feeling that came with being drugged.

"He's awake, get him up."

Hands grabbed him and shoved him into a chair. One snagged him by the hair, yanking it out of its usual neat coifs as they wrenched his head back painfully.

"That's one of Passione's hitmen," a man said as he walked over. "Probably here to take the boss out, hm? You working for the little blond brat?"

Prosciutto spat out some blood from a split lip and refused to speak. He tried to reach for Grateful Dead, but his Stand wasn't accessible. Probably why they had drugged him.

Prosciutto viciously bit back the embarrassing flare of panic as he was only restrained more firmly to the chair.

He was a trained hitman. He knew how to deal with torture. Death did not scare him.

Nevertheless, he hated being helpless. Being powerless in the face of his enemies was an unforgivable sin in Prosciutto's book.

The only thing he had at this point was his silence. And he would hold on to that until he could think of a way to get out of here.

The drug dealers, it seemed were not happy about that.

"You really are a tight-lipped bastard," the interrogator snarled, throwing another blow with his brass knuckled hand, this time striking Prosciutto's cheek. The skin split and blood flowed freely down his face.

"What's this then?"

Prosciutto's eyes tracked up to the door as the thugs all turned to see a man stride through. Prosciutto's target.

"Boss," the interrogator said. "We found him skulking around; we think he was here to take you out, but he's not talking."

"Not, talking, huh?" the man said, slipping his coat off his shoulders and handing it to one of his men as he strode forward.

Prosciutto met his eyes defiantly as the man reached out to grip his chin. "What's the matter, pretty boy like you doesn't know how to sing?"

Prosciutto spat at him, the gob of bloody spittle hitting the man's cheek.

"You filthy little shit."

Prosciutto and the chair he was tied to were toppled to the side with the force of the man's blow. His head slammed into the ground, stars bursting across his vision. The toe of the man's shoe slammed into his stomach, forcibly knocking the air out of him.

"Get him off that, I want him strung up."

Prosciutto felt the thugs start to undo his bonds and he tensed, waiting for the perfect opportunity…

Agony tore through his shoulder and he couldn't help the cry of surprise that burst from him before he clamped his teeth shut again.

The thugs laughed as the sound of chains rattling was heard while they threaded them through the cuffs holding Prosciutto's hands behind his back. When he could see again, he glanced down and recognized a meat hook punched through his shoulder, right under the collarbone.

Before he could force himself to adjust to that pain, he was unceremoniously hauled up by the chains, arms wrenched upward behind his back sending a whole new wave of agony through his body.

Prosciutto shook as they finally tied off the chain, panting through the pain that had crashed through him. Even the drug they had given him did nothing to help with that.

"It's called strappado," the boss told Prosciutto as he watched him with a sadistic satisfaction. "Eventually, it will cause breathing issues from the pressure on your diaphragm." He took a small pistol out of his coat pocket. "Especially if you're not holding up your own weight."

The sound of gunfire proceeded a new agony tearing through Prosciutto's leg as the bullet found his thigh. The leg instantly gave out, leaving the job of holding up his body weight to his arms which felt like they were going to be ripped out of their sockets.

He staggered, gasping for breath, as the thugs laughed.

"We'll let him stew like this for a bit while we finish up with the shipment. Maybe he'll be more inclined to talk then."

"Fuck you," Prosciutto gritted out between clenched teeth. He was mainly trying to just breathe through the pain and the tightness in his chest that was making it increasingly difficult. He hadn't been in this much agony even after getting thrown from a train at top speed. This was…

Prosciutto had never felt this helpless; not even when he had fought and failed to take down Bucciarati. He always planned a mission to a fault, leaving no room for errors. This should not have happened, and he was finding himself closer and closer to unleashing the panic inside of him.

Could he actually, for the first time in his career as a hitman, be reaching his breaking point? All on this stupid, pointless mission that wasn't supposed to have been this hard to begin with?

He tried to fortify himself, tried to think of how he could escape this, but he was in a constant state of agony between his injured, bleeding leg, and the position he'd been put in putting immense pressure on his shoulders, and thus the meat hook through the right one.

Prosciutto had truly never felt this helpless, and he honestly didn't know what he was going to do.

XXX

He drifted through the waves of pain, fighting for every breath and then regretting each one when it only served to cause fire to shoot through his chest. His back was in agony, shoulders practically numb from the pain of the position now. On top of that the blood loss, and he was losing himself. Maybe, Prosciutto thought wildly, desperation surging through his muddied brain, maybe he would talk when the thugs got back to him. After all, what the hell did he have to hide? Even if they were to kill him, it would be an end to this right?

And then his teammates would have to go to his funeral knowing he had gone out while on a mission that could have been handled by any mediocre enforcer in Passione.

Then, at some point through his muddled brains, he started to hear the sounds of shouting and gunfire, cries of pain. Very briefly he thought that it might be Risotto and the others mounting a rescue mission. But they probably wouldn't have even expected him back yet.

When the sounds finally stopped, followed by silence, Prosciutto began to feel a new form of panic. Had a rival gang come in and killed the thugs off? And if that were the case, would anyone know he was here? Would this new party bother to help him or would they just increase his already unbearable torture?

He started to hear the murmur of voices outside the room he was in.

"Hey! There's still someone in here."

"Are you sure? I thought we cleared the building."

"I didn't pick up the signature before. It's pretty light. Might even be a rat."

"We'll check it out anyway just to make sure."

A couple of the voices sounded familiar, but not enough for Prosciutto to place them. It wasn't his team, he realized with surprising disappointment and…hopelessness? Where the hell was that coming from? He couldn't possibly be considering himself finished yet, could he?

The door opened, and figures with guns appeared as Prosciutto raised his head, finding himself staring at the head figure who stepped inside, wearing a familiar white suit.

Everyone stopped and stared at each other for a moment. Bucciarati's eyes wide.

"Hey," the scraggly brat named Narancia piped up, pointing. "That's—"

"Prosciutto," Bucciarati said, lowering his gun. "My god, what happened to you?"

Prosciutto suddenly felt the urge to laugh—well, he thought it was a laugh. But the pain in his chest was so horrific upon the spasming that it turned into more of a wheezing sob.

"Of course it would be you," he spat, right before his body just decided it had had enough. He felt himself slipping, legs completely giving way so that he was hanging by his arms, unable to breathe. He didn't care anymore though, just allowed himself to slip off into the painless darkness.

XXX

Prosciutto woke to a sickening sensation and opened his eyes to find himself staring at the ground and the tail of a black coat. He briefly thought it was Risotto carrying him like a sack of flour and couldn't decide if he was more or less mortified to find out he had been incorrect when he heard his presumed rescuer speak.

"I'll put him in the guest room. Fugo, grab the medical kit."

Prosciutto groaned. Leone Abbacchio. More hands grabbed hold of him as he was carried into a room and lowered onto a bed so that he was staring up at the goth and Guido Mista.

"Hey, you're awake," Mista said, eyebrows raised. "Gotta say, you actually look worse than I felt when, ya know, you shot me in the head."

Prosciutto groaned. "You want to hold a grudge, be my guest."

The gunman shrugged. "Oh, me? Nah. I can get over it. These guys however…" His Stand materialized and six tiny figures simultaneously glowered down at Prosciutto, one pointedly pounding a fist into their opposite hand while another ran a finger across its throat.

"I think he's had enough for one day, Mista," Bucciarati said as he came into the room with an armful of towels. Giorno Giovanna was behind him with an unreadable expression as his eyes wandered over Prosciutto's injuries. The hitman noticed that his shoulder and thigh and stopped bleeding and there was a strange pull on the skin there that he didn't recognize.

Mista's Stand disappeared and the gunman shrugged and turned to leave the room.

Bucciarati came over to the side of the bed and Prosciutto watched him cautiously.

"What are your plans with me?" he finally spat, unable to stand the anticipation. "If you want revenge—"

Abbacchio snorted, folding his arms before he left the room. "I'll go find him some pain meds."

Prosciutto watched him go before he turned back to Bucciarati who set the towels on the end of the bed. "Not revenge. Not torture. Just here to tend your injuries."

That was almost more surprising than any other option. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Bucciarati met his eyes. "We might not have parted ways civilly previously…"

"You threw me off a train," Prosciutto reminded him flatly.

Bucciarati shrugged in agreement. "I had a mission to see done. And I was protecting my famiglia. I'm sure you can at least respect that?"

Prosciutto looked away briefly. He could respect that. In fact, despite their last fight, he respected Bucciarati a lot. Both as a mafioso and as a man. That didn't mean he didn't also despise him.

"Regardless of past actions, we are on the same side," Bucciarati continued. "It's none of my business how you ended up in that warehouse. The only business we have now is tending your injuries as I hope your team would do for any of my famiglia if you happened to find them in a similar state."

Giorno stepped closer to the bed then. "I'm afraid I can't do anything for the bruises or the muscle strain—and I'm sure that's pretty bad right now." Prosciutto grunted in confirmation. "But I can fix the bullet wound and the injury in your shoulder, as well as replace your lost blood."

Prosciutto glowered, but had no intention of fighting the brat. He had knelt and sworn his fealty to him after all, just like the rest of them had. He was just annoyed that their luck hadn't turned since Giorno had taken the seat as Don.

Giorno started with the bullet wound in his thigh, ripping the material of his trousers enough to make Prosciutto grit his teeth. He would have complained if those thugs hadn't already ruined his suit. He'd definitely have to get a new one now.

He thought he was hallucinating when he saw a golden zipper seemingly holding his skin together. His eyes shot to Bucciarati.

"We had to stop the bleeding quickly," the capo told him as he reached out and his Stand's hand manifested and touched the spot, removing the zipper and allowing blood to sluggishly flow from the wound again.

"A handy trick," Prosciutto had to admit. He gritted his teeth as Giorno bent, revealing his own Stand as it placed it's glowing hands over Prosciutto's injury.

"Gah!" he cried, grimacing at the pain of his flesh knitting back together—somehow.

"There. I just changed the bullet into new flesh. You won't have effects from any scar tissue," Giorno said.

Prosciutto stared at him incredulously as the teen turned to his shoulder, peeling his blood crusted shirt away from his injury.

"This might hurt a bit more."

Prosciutto opened his mouth to scoff, but as Giorno's Stand worked, he groaned through his teeth, fighting the urge to pull away.

When it was finally over, he felt slightly woozy again. Bucciarati had approached with a wet cloth.

"I'm sure your arms aren't going to move very well for a couple days, so let me help clean you up a little."

"Not necessary," Prosciutto gritted out, embarrassed. He tried to grab the cloth away from the capo, but his arms genuinely wouldn't work, and on top of that, the pure agony that shot through him from his neck to the middle of his back nearly had him blacking out again.

Bucciarati didn't grace him with a reply as he set to work cleaning and disinfecting his other injuries. He was not gentle by any means, but he was efficient and that made it more bearable.

Abbacchio came back in with water and pills and Prosciutto dutifully took them, resigned at this point.

"Nero's on his way," Bucciarati told him as he finished up. "You can rest here until then."

Prosciutto didn't have the energy to protest. He drifted off into a fitful rest feeling only slightly better with two of his injuries healed, and was woken later by a familiar voice.

"Thank you for taking care of him. If I had known you were going there today…"

"It was no trouble. And perhaps in future we should collaborate movements? It might be beneficial for both of us."

Prosciutto pried his eyelids apart as the door was pushed open and a tall figure entered. Both relief and a grimace passed over Risotto's face as he saw Prosciutto.

"You look terrible."

Prosciutto sighed and rolled his eyes, too exhausted to argue with the truth. "Let's just go home."

Risotto eased him upright as carefully as possible and Prosciutto bit his lip to bleeding so he didn't make a sound. At least his leg was fixed so he could mostly walk by himself if not without pain.

"We'll discuss more soon," Risotto told Bucciarati as they passed the capo.

Bucciarati nodded and opened the front door for them.

Risotto eased Prosciutto down into the passenger seat of the car and closed the door for him. Prosciutto leaned back, eyes closed as he heard Risotto get in and start the car.

"Sorry I fucked that up."

"You got bad intel. I should have sent someone else with you."

Prosciutto clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"I'm glad you're safe, though. It was fortunate Bucciarati was the one to invade the warehouse."

And yeah, Prosciutto understood that he had been lucky. He was still a little bit annoyed, but was logical enough to understand when to let bygones be bygones.

And he felt even less annoyed when Risotto helped him back to their headquarters and Pesci ran to meet him, barely able to hold back tears. Prosciutto grunted and swore as he was squeezed by several pairs of arms, but didn't deny the support as he was helped back to his own room.

At the end of the day, he was alive, and for a man of his profession, that was about as good as it got.