We're reaching the end of the month now which mean's 2-part fics! The second part will go up tomorrow so get ready for a cliff-hanger today *evil laugh*
This is yet another Abbacchio angst fic because I cannot be stopped. Set pre-series. Abbacchio and Bucciarati are both way too stubborn, someone please send help because Fugo is tired and like, 14.
Little Lion Man
Part One
Day 28: It's Just the Tip of the Iceberg
(anger born of worry, punching the wall, headache)
Abbacchio cannot understand Bucciarati's reluctance when it comes to anyone protecting his life. But when an undercover business dinner goes wrong, a corrupt capo is set on using Abbacchio and Bucciarati against each other for his own gain. Will they be able to break the hold of a dangerous Stand in time to take down their enemy and get out of there alive, or will one of them have to make the ultimate sacrifice?
The drive back was silent. Abbacchio stared out the window, elbow propped against it as he rested his aching head against his fist.
That…could have gone better.
But it hadn't gone terribly either. After all, they were all alive and there had been no serious injuries. That was how Abbacchio chose to see it anyway. However, from Bucciarati's point of view that didn't seem to be the case if his chilly silence and the way he gripped the steering wheel were any indication. Fugo was looking out the window in the back, not saying anything. Abbacchio huffed a brief sigh. He didn't know whose side the kid was on in this, but, frankly it didn't matter.
Not like Abbacchio wasn't just doing his job or anything.
They got back to the apartment and Bucciarati parked the car in their usual spot before they headed up to their rooms.
"I need to prepare my report for Polpo," Bucciarati said, and briefly, stupidly, Abbacchio thought he might have escaped, before the dark bob angled slightly toward him. "Abbacchio, may I have a word with you?"
Abbacchio gave a barely audible sigh. He was about the get an earful. He shared a brief look with Fugo before the kid headed toward his own room, lucky to escape.
He followed Bucciarati into the tiny office and the other man shut the door heavily behind them.
"Do you want to explain to me exactly what the hell you were doing?" Bucciarati demanded, not bothering with niceties.
Abbacchio instantly bristled. "My job, as far as I understand it."
"Your job today was information gathering. A job which you left halfway through, sacrificing valuable information to throw punches in a fight we had handled."
"When I got there, you were up against three men!" Abbacchio protested. "And Fugo wouldn't have gotten there in time, what did you expect me to do?"
"Your job, Abbacchio!" Bucciarati snapped. "You're vulnerable when Moody Blues is in use, you know that."
Abbacchio scoffed. "I don't need my Stand to fight, it's worthless for that anyway."
"All that I ask is that you do the job I assign you, or is that too much to ask of you, Abbacchio?"
The ex-cop bristled with anger, clenching his sore fists. "You know, normally people are a little more grateful when you save their life. I should know."
He was not expecting the fist that came flying by his head in a fraction of a second, burying itself into the wall a few inches away. Abbacchio's eyes followed, wide, as Bucciarati reeled his arm back and rezipped it, leaving a very obvious mark in the drywall.
"I didn't save your life and spend months getting you clean, just so you could throw it away, Leone," Bucciarati snapped.
A sudden wave of guilt washed over Abbacchio, curdling to growing anger in his stomach, his head aching even more from the throw-down earlier.
"What do you expect me to do then?" he demanded. "My Stand is only good for one thing, but I can fight and you need a damn bodyguard or you're going to get yourself killed."
"I never dictated that was what you're here for."
"Then what the hell am I here for?" Abbacchio demanded. "Why would you want a piece of shit like me hanging around? You want to get rid of me, I'll gladly put my life on the line for you and get it over with."
Bucciarati exhaled, looking like he was trying to gather himself. "Is that what you really think?"
Abbacchio folded his arms over his chest. "I don't know, you tell me. Boss."
Bucciarati cringed. He hated it when they were formal to him, had made it a point that while he might dictate the orders as he got them from Polpo, they were equals in this. Until it came to Bucciarati's safety, that is.
"Abbacchio," Bucciarati started, then shook his head, raising a hand. "No, I can't deal with this right now. You're injured. Go get cleaned up. I have a report to make."
The dismissal was obvious, and Abbacchio started toward the door to the office, casting one more glance at the hole in the wall.
He shouldn't have said it, but he was in a bad mood that day, and had been putting up with Bucciarati's self-sacrificing bullshit for too long. "If it had been Fugo I went to help, would you be this pissed?"
Bucciarati stopped on his way to sitting down at his desk and turned back to Abbacchio as he continued, unable to stop himself.
"What exactly offends you so much about someone watching your back? It's like you want to die or something, and trust me, I know a lot about that."
Bucciarati's face twitched slightly before it became a mask once again. "You're dismissed, Abbacchio."
"Whatever, Boss," Abbacchio replied swiftly and yanked the door open, slamming it behind him. It was childish, and also made his headache worse, so joke was on him he supposed.
He made his way to the bathroom, yanking his coat and shirt off a little too viciously, cringing as the purple and crimson bruises across his ribs became visible. He bent stiffly over the sink and started to scrub the blood off his head and from his hair.
The door, which he'd left slightly ajar was pushed open and Fugo appeared.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes, ringing out damp hair. "Come here to gloat about me getting chewed out, brat?"
Fugo snorted, setting a bottle of pills down on the counter. "Thought you might want these."
Abbacchio sighed and grabbed the bottle, counting out the proper dosage of pain meds and swallowing them dry.
"I'm on your side with this one," Fugo told him.
"Was he always like this then?"
"I didn't go on missions when I first joined him since I…well, Purple Haze isn't fit for a lot of normal jobs." Abbacchio grunted in agreement. "But Bucciarati came home injured enough times for me to realize he needed someone there. He's capable, but he doesn't think when he's on a mission. He gets too focused. No one else is allowed to take a hit for him either."
Abbacchio pressed his lips together and finished washing the blood out of his hair before he started scrubbing off his makeup, too tired to redo it this late in the day.
Fugo reached out and prodded his ribs, causing Abbacchio to yelp in protest, pulling away. "Any broken?"
"No, and you're not making them hurt less," Abbacchio growled. "Don't you have paperwork to do or something?"
Fugo gave him a look, folding his arms over his chest. "At the end of the day, Bucciarati is really just afraid of losing anyone close to him. We're all he has, you know. We're essentially his family."
Another wave of guilt and…understanding… washed over Abbacchio, taking the last of whatever malice toward Bucciarati he'd formed in his gut earlier. Because he got it. It wasn't like he had anyone. Everyone from his past life wanted nothing to do with him now and he was still an outcast in Passione because of his past as well. Bucciarati and Fugo were the only people who cared whether he lived or died. Maybe too much.
"Family should mean equal support," Abbacchio finally said as he tossed the dirty cloth into the hamper. "If that's what he wants to view this team as, then that's what he needs to understand."
Fugo didn't reply, simply shifted so Abbacchio could get out the door.
"Do you want me to let you know when dinner is ready?" the blond asked.
Abbacchio grunted. "Just save me something, I'll eat later."
He really just wanted to lie down right now. What you really want is a drink, his brain whispered, and while he couldn't deny that was a fact, he wasn't about to fall back into those habits again. He was three months sober and he planned to keep it that way.
Once in his room he kicked off his shoes and pants before climbing into bed with a groan, settling his elbow over his eyes. Breathing hurt, but he could feel the meds starting to kick in and should be able to sleep soon enough.
Honestly, he was ready for the day to all be forgotten.
Bucciarati wasn't exactly cold to him over the next couple days, but he did seem stiffer and more formal than usual. Abbacchio just ignored it for the most part, trying not to get annoyed by it. He knew it would blow over eventually.
He was almost glad when the new mission came up.
They all gathered at the kitchen table as Bucciarati gave the briefing.
"There have been recent suspicions that one of the capos is setting up trade routes behind Passione's back," Bucciarati said, laying out files on the table. "The Boss asked Polpo to look into it and the task has now been entrusted to me."
Fugo took the file. "Arturo Mascarpone, 42, bought his rank of Capo last year after he fell into a fortune that wasn't quite suspicious enough for anyone to ask about. He owns a string of clubs and casinos in the eastern side of the city."
Abbacchio glanced at the file, seeing a pretty plain looking middle-aged man pictured there. "Stand user?" he asked.
"No, but it's suspected he might have one among his confidants," Bucciarati said. "It's also suspected that he's using his establishments to move drugs and is keeping the profit instead of giving the proper percentage to Passione." Bruno's face was dark. Abbacchio knew how much he hated drug traffickers and would rather see them gone from the organization all together."
"So how are we going about this?" Fugo asked. "If he's that much of a problem, why didn't the Boss call in La Squadra di Esecuzione instead and just have him taken out?"
"I asked Polpo the same thing," Bucciarati admitted. "But it seems like this might run deeper than Mascarpone and the Boss wants to make sure to take out the thorn and the roots all at once. Our job is to go in and gather the information on who else is working this racket." He flipped through another file. "Polpo arraigned a business meeting with Mascarpone which I will be attending on his behalf, of course. The proposition is for purchasing sharing profits in a couple casinos Polpo 'plans to open' in his territory if Mascarpone helps set them up and sends some of his employees to help train others to get them started."
"I assume you'll be hinting at other opportunities to make money," Fugo caught on.
Bruno nodded. "Precisely."
"So the hope is that you'll be introduced to the other partners eventually?" Fugo asked. "I wouldn't have expected this to be a long con."
"It won't be if everything goes to plan, in fact it should all be figured out by tomorrow night," Bucciarati said and turned to Abbacchio. "That's where you'll come in."
"Me?" Abbacchio asked, incredulously.
"Mascarpone undoubtedly has a ledger or some account of funds hidden somewhere in his office. I'll find a way to keep him distracted while you use Moody Blues to find it."
Abbacchio nodded. "I should be able to do that."
"Good," Bucciarati nodded. "Make sure you have your formal wear ready for tomorrow night then. We want to make a good impression on our new business partners."
Abbacchio tugged at the collar of his dress-shirt. It had been a long time now since he'd worn a tie and it felt slightly constricting. A look in the mirror told him he'd gotten the majority of the creases out of his suit-coat though, and he sighed wearily before touching up his makeup and tying his hair back.
He came out into the main room to see Fugo helping Bucciarati with his tie—the dark-haired man still hadn't gotten the hang of it, not much of a reason to, growing up in a fishing village.
"I pulled up the dossier on all of Mascarpone's known associates," Fugo was saying. "That way if he mentions names, you'll know who he's referring to."
Bucciarati nodded, adjusting his tie as Fugo stepped back after completing the knot. He took the file Fugo handed him next and flipped through it before glancing up at Abbacchio.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Abbacchio nodded. "Are we bringing guns?"
In answer, Bucciarati reached into his coat and pulled out his handgun to show Abbacchio. "Just in case."
Abbacchio nodded and went to grab his own, before rejoining Bucciarati.
The other man grabbed the car keys off the table and tossed them to Abbacchio. "You drive while I read through this dossier."
Abbacchio nodded.
"Be careful," Fugo told them. "When are you planning on being back?"
"Probably not before midnight," Bucciarati told him.
"And if you don't show up?"
"Then you can go to Polpo." Bucciarati opened the door and Abbacchio followed him out.
"I trust you know your part of the mission tonight," Bucciarati said as they got into the car.
Abbacchio bristled slightly, but knew it was important they go over it. "I'll wait for an opportunity to step away and go to Mascarpone's office to find his accounts book. Ideally you'll keep him distracted long enough to do that and once I've found it we'll make nice until we can leave without suspicion."
Bucciarati nodded. "Polpo has done business with Mascarpone before in the past so hopefully he will have no reason to suspect anything, but Mascarpone is a cunning man and if we're correct in thinking he has a Stand user on retainer then we'll have to watch our backs."
Abbacchio nodded as he pulled out onto the road.
Bucciarati turned to the information Fugo had given him, reading the profiles out loud to Abbacchio as they drove. Granted, Abbacchio didn't know a lot of people in Passione, but considering what a lot of these men did in the organization, he had a feeling this might run deeper than they had initially thought.
A pit of worry started to form in his stomach. Something about this just seemed like it had the potential to go wrong. He hoped he would be proven incorrect about that.
Mascarpone's mansion was even bigger than Abbacchio had suspected. He supposed that with as much money as the man allegedly had he could have pretty much any property he wanted in Naples.
"For the most part, just follow my lead," Bucciarati said as he parked out front.
Abbacchio nodded, trying to force down the unease he was still feeling as they straightened their suits and walked up to the door.
It was opened by a footman who was obviously armed, and they were motioned inside before the man led them to a pretty gaudy parlor where the man they intended to meet was sitting with several other men, drinking whisky.
The man Abbacchio recognized as Mascarpone from the picture in the dossier stood up, setting aside a cigar as he stepped forward to greet them.
"Ah, you must be Polpo's boy—Bucciarati, right?"
"Correct, signore," Bucciarati replied with a nod as he shook the man's hand. "Capo Polpo thanks you for allowing me the opportunity to speak with you."
Mascarpone gave a small smile. "I am always eager to discuss business. But why don't you and your man sit and have a drink first before we get to the discussing part?"
They'd known this would be a long evening, but it was still slightly annoying that it seemed like it would be dragged out unnecessarily. Bucciarati took a seat and a glass but Abbacchio declined, choosing to stand behind Bucciarati's chair to watch the room as Bucciarati sipped the bare minimum of alcohol from the glass and one of Mascarpone's men watched him with an undefined look.
"Let me introduce you to my associates," Mascarpone said as he motioned to the other men in the room. "Nero Canali runs my casinos, he'll be able to answer more of your questions about that side of things than I will. The older gentleman is Filipo Rossi, he handles my finances, and this is my new personal assistant, Massimo Tetrazzini."
The so-called personal assistant was the man who had been watching them since they came in. Abbacchio had a feeling he was more personal bodyguard than paper pusher. He'd definitely be keeping an eye on him.
He tried not to get visibly bored as the discussion continued, but frankly business talk wasn't something he had much interest in. Instead Abbacchio started to read the men's mannerisms. Canali and Rossi seemed comfortable enough and were obviously exactly what Mascarpone had introduced them as. Tetrazzini on the other hand…there was just something about him that Abbacchio wasn't sure about. Could he be the new Stand user Mascarpone had been rumored to hire? That would definitely explain the fact that he seemed to be more bodyguard than personal assistant. But if that was the case, then what was his power? They couldn't find any information on that. It was probably best to approach with caution then, because it could be the sort of Stand that could take them by surprise.
"Why don't we step into my office? You can show me on the map where Polpo is planning to build in his new establishments," Mascarpone stubbed his cigar out finally and stood, motioning for them to leave the room.
Abbacchio somehow managed to hide his frustration as well as Bucciarati. As he feared, they would all be holding the discussion on the place Abbacchio needed to get to alone. Hopefully there would be an opportunity later. If nothing else, he could escape during dinner perhaps.
As they made their way into the office Abbacchio really started to admire just how good an actor Bucciarati was. He genuinely seemed interested in what they were talking about and not only that, sounded knowledgeable. But then, he had been doing this a lot longer than Abbacchio had. And he was just naturally more personable. There was a reason he was Polpo's most trusted. Everyone liked Bucciarati.
Except for the people who were trying to take him down.
The meeting dragged on and on, and Abbacchio was finding it hard to stay focused. He knew there was little hope that Mascarpone's books, even the ones he would undoubtedly keep hidden were anywhere but this room. And until they left, Abbacchio would be unable to complete his part of the mission.
Tetrazzini, like him, stood a little back from the others, not really adding anything to the conversation. Seeming to just be watching. Abbacchio didn't miss the fact his eyes landed on him more than once as if trying to calculate how much of a threat he was. Abbacchio tried to play ignorant, but the scrutiny made him want to squirm in his skin, let alone the too-tight tie.
Finally, the conversation was finished when the footman who had greeted them came to relay the news that dinner was ready.
"Ah, perfect," Mascarpone said, clapping his hands briskly. "We'll continue the discussion over the meal then."
"Sounds good," Bucciarati agreed as they all filtered out of the office.
Abbacchio was instantly on the alert, waiting for his chance. Some opportunity or signal from Bucciarati.
Bucciarati, though, was still in conversation with Mascarpone and Canali as they reached the dining room and took their respective seats.
When Mascarpone finally took a breath to choose a bottle of wine, Bucciarati turned to Abbacchio as if just remembering something.
"Ah, Abbacchio, could you call Fugo and ask him about the budgets Polpo proposed? I'm afraid I don't quite remember the exact numbers."
"Of course," Abbacchio replied, instantly feeling the adrenaline come back. This was it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and motioned toward the entrance of the dining room. "I'll just be a couple minutes, excuse me."
He slipped out of the room, pretending to dial the phone, and once he was out of sight, he hurried toward the office they had just left, closing the door behind him and calling out his Stand.
"Moody Blues, find Mascarpone," he said.
His Stand took its place behind the desk and shifted into the man before rewinding. It was always difficult when they didn't have a specific time, it meant a lot of stopping and starting, but eventually, Abbacchio found what he was looking for as he watched the replay reached under the desk drawer, instead of opening the drawer itself.
Abbacchio paused the playback and crouched, glancing under the desk to find an almost imperceptible lever. And when he pulled it, a compartment opened and out slid a slim numbers book.
Abbacchio grabbed it, quickly flipping through it to make sure it was what he thought it was, before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He left the room, closing the door behind him, and made his way back down the hall toward the dining room.
"Did you get lost?"
Abbacchio froze, spinning around to see Tetrazzini standing behind him in the hallway, leaning against the wall. How long had he been there?
"Was looking for the bathroom," Abbacchio grunted.
The man shifted himself away from the wall and came toward Abbacchio. The ex-cop steeled himself, ready for an attack, but Tetrazzini simply pointed past his shoulder. "Bathroom is down there."
Abbacchio nodded. "Thanks," he replied quickly and hurried off.
He stepped into the bathroom for a second just to sell his story and took out the accounts book again, flipping through it now that he had more light. This was exactly what they had been looking for. A couple of the names inside he recognized as Mascarpone's associates, but the numbers were what really caught his eye. The shipments of course were in code, but the numbers didn't lie and they were just as high as he had suspected.
Feeling accomplished, Abbacchio slipped the book safely back into his coat and left the bathroom, heading back to the dining room.
Tetrazzini was thankfully there and Abbacchio took his seat across from Bucciarati.
"Well?" Bucciarati asked him, raising an eyebrow.
Abbacchio gave him an almost imperceptible nod before replying, "Fugo said it was 20 billion." A number he hoped would be relevant. "But Signore Polpo is willing to negotiate if needed."
"I would say that is a generous enough budget to start off with," Mascarpone said, before glancing up as the servers came in with the first course. Some kind of soup.
Wine was poured and Abbacchio felt his mouth water slightly at the sight and smell, but reached for his water glass instead. He hadn't completely sworn off wine at meals as long as he was with company, but he didn't feel like going there tonight.
"I must say that I am a bit surprised that Polpo came to me for advice on this," Mascarpone said, slurping at his soup. "Especially since I only became Capo last year."
Bucciarati picked up his wine glass. "I believe that's precisely why he came to you. He respects the way you do business. And he's looking for opportunities to make more money. After all, anyone who made enough to buy himself a promotion to capo within five years of joining Passione must know a thing or two about that."
Bucciarati said it in a way that might suggest something else. Abbacchio waited to see if Mascarpone would take the bait, but he seemed completely oblivious. Or at least that was what he wanted everyone to think.
"Well, I'm flattered then," the man said. "I do hope that our partnership will be a fruitful one."
"As do I," Bucciarati said, tipping his wineglass toward Mascarpone as the older man did the same.
The second course arrived, some kind of fancy seafood dish Abbacchio wasn't entirely sure the name of. He wasn't the biggest fan of seafood, but Bucciarati looked delighted. Probably the kind of thing he'd grown up with.
Mascarpone paused before he picked his fork up. "Now that we have gotten to know each other, Bucciarati," he said. "I have one thing to ask you."
"Of course," Bucciarati replied before taking a bite.
Mascarpone watched him while taking a long drink from his glass, lowering it before he continued. "What exactly are your true intentions here?"
Bucciarati's fork halted halfway to his mouth as Abbacchio's stomach flipped, hand on his glass before he forced himself not to act too suspicious. Bucciarati might still be able to talk his way out of this.
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean," Bucciarati replied.
The pleasant host was gone and Mascarpone's face was suddenly hard and calculating. "I think you do, boy. And you better give me an answer quickly before you're no longer able to."
Abbacchio's eyes instantly went back across the table as Bucciarati let out a quiet gasp of shock, fork clattering onto the plate as it slipped from his hand. His eyes were wide and he reached up to his throat.
"Bucciarati," Abbacchio demanded, already pushing his chair back. "Hey, what's—"
Mascarpone nodded to Tetrazzini who was already on his feet, grabbing the back of Abbacchio's chair so he couldn't get away from the table and grabbing one of his arms, holding it behind his back.
"Get off!" Abbacchio snarled, struggling in his grasp as his eyes went back to Bucciarati, who was now choking. "Bucciarati!"
The footman and two other men appeared, guns pointed in their direction.
"Check him," Mascarpone said.
Tetrazzini yanked Abbacchio's coat open and instantly found the book and his pistol, handing the book over to Rossi who returned it to Mascarpone at the head of the table. At least afterward he released Abbacchio who vaulted over the table to grab Bucciarati's shoulders, steadying him as he gagged and clutched his stomach.
"What the hell did you do to him?" Abbacchio demanded, reaching out to loosen Bucciarati's tie and collar, as if that would do anything in this situation.
"Just a little security measure—a special, fast-acting poison. My suppliers don't just make designer drugs, you know," Mascarpone said. "I'll even be so kind as to give him the antidote if you'll be willing to cooperate."
Bucciarati's mouth curled in a snarl, one hand latching onto Abbacchio's arm with a solid grip as he fought to stand. "If you think killing me will help your case, you're wrong," he gritted out. "The Boss is the one who asked Polpo to look into you, and we have all the proof we need—especially if I were to suddenly go missing."
His knees buckled, taking Abbacchio and the chair down with him as he choked and coughed up blood. Abbacchio helplessly wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him from falling on his face, not knowing what else to do.
Bucciarati gasped for breath, eyes fluttering as blood dripped down his chin and he curled further around his stomach with a groan.
"Time is ticking," Tetrazzini said with a glint of sadistic pleasure.
Abbacchio glowered up at Mascarpone before carefully lowering Bucciarati to the ground and standing. "What do you want?"
"Ab-bacchio, don't," Bucciarati tried before he choked on another bubble of blood.
"You seem a good loyal dog, Abbacchio," Mascarpone said condescendingly. "So I'll give you a choice. You can try to walk out of here with Bucciarati—I'll give you a head start just to be fair—and we'll see if you can get your report back to Polpo and find Bucciarati help in time before the poison has him literally hacking up his guts. Or, you can agree to my terms and I'll give him the antidote right now, thus definitely saving his life."
Abbacchio bit his lip, glancing down at Bucciarati. His boss, his friend. The dark-haired man let out a breathless sound of pain, hands clamped around his stomach. Every second he hesitated was another that brought Bucciarati closer to death.
And he couldn't have that. He had taken it upon himself to protect this frustratingly self-sacrificial man and he was not about to stop now. They would think of something later as soon as the antidote had been administered.
"What are your terms?" Abbacchio blurted.
"Don't," Bucciarati hissed again, glowering up at Abbacchio who ignored him, instead focusing on Mascarpone.
The man seemed pleased. "I want a favor. You will get my men access somewhere."
"Where?" Abbacchio demanded.
"That's not important right now," Mascarpone said, sitting back and drinking his wine. The bastard just looked like he was enjoying the show, damn him. "Do you agree or not?"
Abbacchio gritted his teeth.
"Do…not…" Bucciarati gritted out, trying to push himself up onto his elbows before he was forced back into the fetal position, gagging on more blood as a pained whimper escaped his throat before he could bite it back.
Tetrazzini looked down at him with a glint in his eyes. "I'd guess he has about ten more minutes before the poison causes irreparable damage," he said.
Abbacchio felt trapped. Neither option was good. But he would rather Bucciarati be alive and hate him for the rest of his life, than watch him die a horrible death here on the floor of this sadistic bastard's dining room.
"Fine," he spat. "I accept."
Bucciarati's eyes opened, one glancing up at him in dismay, but he couldn't speak for the need to retch again.
Mascarpone opened his hands in a gesture of acceptance. "Very good then. I appreciate your cooperation."
"You don't have my damn cooperation until you hand over the antidote," Abbacchio said firmly.
"Of course," Mascarpone said and reached into his coat, pulling out a glass vial. He set it on the table and rolled it down toward Abbacchio who caught it quickly and popped the top, sniffing it.
He had no way to tell, of course, whether this was the right thing, but he really didn't have a choice but to trust Mascarpone to his deal.
He knelt, positioning Bruno so that his head was propped up against his arm and put the vial to his lips. "Come on, drink."
Bucciarati shifted to the side. "Abbacchio…you can't," he murmured.
Abbacchio wasn't going to listen to his berating at the moment. He simply poured the antidote into Bucciarati's mouth and pressed his hand over his lips when he had finished, worried Bucciarati might do something even more stupid. "Swallow it," he commanded.
Bucciarati choked briefly, but that was likely from more blood, a little of the antidote mixed with blood leaked out from under Abbacchio's hand, but Bucciarati's throat bobbed as he swallowed the liquid and was still for a second before he started shaking, hands clutching his stomach again with a groan, doubling over in Abbacchio's arms.
Abbacchio swiftly looked up, accusing, but Mascarpone had obviously anticipated this. "Don't worry, it's working." He motioned to his footmen. "Put them in the cellar for now. I have some arrangements to make before our plans can be fully seen to. Make sure to relieve them of their phone and any weapons."
The guards surrounded them and grabbed Abbacchio by the arms, wrenching him away from Bucciarati who was unceremoniously grabbed by the back of his coat and dragged from the room.
Abbacchio glowered at Mascarpone as he passed, but honestly what the hell could they do now? They were in some really deep shit, and it all felt like Abbacchio's fault.
Which meant that it was up to him to get them out of this.