Same warnings for last chapter as well as some descriptions of amateur first aid.

Chapter Two

Bucciarati and Fugo spent the rest of the day handling business as usual, while also poking into what Giordano might be doing.

During the day, though, Bruno couldn't help but think of Abbacchio. Maybe Abbacchio's relapse was partly on him. He'd seen the man slipping the last few days, should have been there for him the night before but he'd had work to do. He knew it was hard, the physical pain alone was enough to put someone down, but add to that Abbacchio's self-deprecation and crushing guilt and it was a recipe for setbacks like this. It wasn't like Bruno hadn't thought there would be setbacks, but in the two months he'd had Abbacchio with him, this was the longest stretch—almost a week—that he'd gone without having a drink. It just made him mad to see all that progress lost, and especially when he could really use Abbacchio on the job.

Fugo's thoughts seemed to be heading in the same direction because as they drove to their next location, he glanced over to Bruno and said, "You know I trust your judgement, right?"

Bruno hummed, cocking his head for Fugo to go on.

"I'm just wondering how many times you're going to let Abbacchio do this before you realize he's a lost cause."

"No one is a lost cause, Fugo," Bruno said pointedly. "There's going to be setbacks, that's the reality of getting over an addiction."

"You also have to want to get through it; all he does is wallow!" Fugo added.

Bruno pressed his lips together. "It is not for us to judge what is harder for others than it might be for us. He hasn't been with us long, I think he deserves more of a chance. From both of us."

Fugo folded his arms over his chest and looked away. "I just want to know I can trust my team members."

"Then let's give Abbacchio the same courtesy," Bruno replied. "He needs to know we'll be there to help him through this as well, okay?"

Fugo sighed but gave a small nod. Bruno pulled over to let him out as they split up to go look at more information. "We'll meet at Libecchio later and then head out to the warehouse," he told the teen.

Fugo nodded and got out.

Bruno drove toward his next destination, wondering if he should call Abbacchio to see how he was doing. He was probably sleeping though, so he didn't really want to disturb him.

He set his jaw, and gripped the wheel a little tighter. He was determined the get the other man through this, no matter how much tough love he had to employ to do it.

With business taken care of for the day, Bruno headed toward Libecchio and ordered a coffee while he waited for Fugo. By this time, it was well into the dinner rush, and the atmosphere set a pleasant backdrop, despite the things hanging over his head.

Despite their efforts, they hadn't been able to find an exact time for the shipment Giordano was expecting to arrive, but Bruno had already been resigned to spending the night out by the warehouses to wait for everything to go down. Better have another coffee then. Or two.

Fugo showed up with no more information for him despite his efforts and they made plans over dinner before heading out to take up their position for the night.

Bruno spotted the man by his car quickly, but not quickly enough to stop him before he bent to slash the tires.

"Hey!" Fugo shouted before Bruno reached out to snag his shoulder to keep him from charging.

The man turned and instantly brought a gun up.

"Get down!" Bruno yelled at Fugo, covering the boy as he shoved him out of the line of fire and they both went down as a gunshot rang out. A rod of pain slammed into Bruno's shoulder as he hit the concrete and rolled.

"Bucciarati!" Fugo gasped, staring wide-eyed as they pushed upward.

Bruno pressed a hand to his shoulder, fingers coming away painted red, but he simply gritted his teeth and summoned Sticky Fingers to open a zipper through the wall and back into the restaurant.

He dragged Fugo through, luckily coming out in the back of the restaurant and they made their way through the kitchen toward the back exit.

Unfortunately, more men were waiting for them when they got out.

Bruno took one out with Sticky Fingers before he could shoot, but there were more coming.

He and Fugo dodged, ducking behind some dumpsters.

"Giordano's men?" Fugo hissed.

"I'm assuming so," Bruno said grimly, trying to ignore the pain currently ripping through his shoulder. "They must have caught on we were looking into them…"

"What do we do then?"

Bruno pulled a gun out of his coat and pressed it into Fugo's hand as the teen's eyes widened. "I only count two more. We might be able to at least take them out and regroup. Cover me?"

"Bucciarati!"

He didn't give Fugo time to protest before he sprinted out from behind cover and drew the men's gunfire toward him.

More shots rang out, he felt shards of brick sting at his legs, but also heard a grunt from one of their pursuers so maybe Fugo got a lucky shot.

Bruno ducked behind a car, and spotted one of the gunmen. He summoned Sticky Fingers again and then lunged toward the man, taking him out from behind.

He didn't see any others, so he rushed back to Fugo, who was still crouched, ready, behind the dumpsters.

"Let's go," Bruno told him.

Before they could make it three steps, Bruno only barely caught sight of another figure out of the corner of his eye before another shot rang out.

Fugo dropped with a cry, and without thinking, Bruno snagged the gun that had slid out of his hand and fired at their attacker.

"Fugo!" he called softly, worry piercing his chest as he saw the blood spreading rapidly over the teen's side.

Fugo gave a shuddering breath, pushing himself up onto an elbow. "Go. I—I'm fine."

Bruno wouldn't have that though and pulled him upright, cringing at Fugo's gasp of pain from the movement.

"Easy, let's just try to get out of here."

"But what about—"

Another gunshot rang out, causing them both to duck and Bruno urged Fugo into a stumbling run, dashing into an alley to try to escape. More gunfire sounded out and Bruno felt the burn of a bullet across the back of his calf, causing him to stumble, crashing to the ground with Fugo's increasing weight.

"Fugo, are you all right?" Bruno gasped as he forced himself back up. He turned and quickly shot over his shoulder, hearing a satisfying grunt and the thud of a body hitting the ground.

No reply from Fugo had him frantically turning back around to see the boy limp, eyes closed.

Bruno carefully eased him upright, seeing blood seeping from his temple and realized he must have hit his head in the fall.

"Shit," Bruno hissed and without hesitation pulled Fugo up into his arms, his shoulder protesting strongly. But he wasn't going to leave Fugo here. He just had to get him someplace safe, think about what to do next…

There didn't seem to be any other goons after them at the moment, but Bruno wasn't sure how long that would last so he ducked down another alley and saw a stack of crates set behind a bakery. He bit his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was abandon Fugo, but he would only put them both in danger if he had to carry him like this and he knew his shoulder wouldn't be able to stand the strain much longer.

He ducked behind the crates and lowered Fugo down as gently as possible before he yanked his phone out, pulling out the antenna with his teeth as his bloody fingers slipped on the buttons while he dialed.

He really hoped that someone would pick up.

Abbacchio wasn't sure what dragged him from sleep at first—not that he'd been having much luck anyway—but as soon as he realized it was his phone, he peeled his eyes open with a groan to pitch darkness.

The sound continued and he fumbled with his lamp, squinting in the sudden light before he looked around. Where the hell was his phone?

He suddenly remembered his discarded coat and slid off the bed, fumbling in the pockets of the garment he had left on the floor, until he found the phone, and spent way too long stabbing at the button to answer it before he sank back against the bed to prop himself up.

"Yeah?" he grunted groggily.

"Abbacchio, I need you to listen carefully."

Some of the grogginess disappeared at the urgent sound of Bucciarati's voice over the phone.

"Bucciarati? What's wrong?"

"Fugo and I ran into some trouble. He's been injured." From the detectible strain in Bucciarati's voice, Abbacchio was pretty sure he had also been injured, but of course he wouldn't mention that.

"I need you to pick him up, we're still being followed. I'm pretty sure it's Giordano. I'm leaving Fugo two streets down from Libecchio. He's going to be behind a bakery, hidden by a stack of crates."

Abbacchio was already pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the dull ache in his skull. "Wait, don't you need help?"

"Just get to Fugo. Please. I'll handle the rest."

"Bucciarati—"

The call cut off, and Abbacchio stood there for a moment, stunned, before he kicked himself into gear. He hurried to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water then grabbed new clothes. His hands were shaking as he grabbed the keys to his car and he realized he should probably have tried to eat something earlier, but that obviously hadn't gone well. Now he would definitely regret it, but he didn't really have time to.

He could maybe still redeem himself though. Even though he knew he should have been there in the first place. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened.

He tried not to drive too slowly, but it was still pretty hard to concentrate. He wished he'd had time for at least a cup of coffee before he left, but that wasn't going to happen. Instead he concentrated on getting to Libecchio then finding the bakery…

Ah, there.

Abbacchio parked and hurried around the building to the alley behind it. He looked around, and spotted the crates stacked to one side of the back door. He hurried toward them and peered over top of the structure, seeing a small figure curled up in the shadows.

"Shit," Abbacchio breathed as he pulled enough of the crates away to get Fugo out. Blood was soaking a lot of his left side and he carefully maneuvered the boy out before pulling him into his arms.

Fugo let out a soft sound of pain, so at least he was alive, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey, I'm gonna get you taken care of, okay?" Abbacchio assured him.

But Fugo seemed surprised to see him, eyes darting around. "Bucciarati…" he croaked.

"He told me to come get you," Abbacchio said tightly, having to trust that Bucciarati hadn't gotten himself into worse trouble, though he wasn't very confident in that being the case.

Fugo didn't seem to have the energy to protest or maybe he was just that disappointed in Abbacchio coming to get him, because he seemed to fall unconscious again almost instantly, limp in the older man's arms.

Worried, Abbacchio got back to the car and propped Fugo in the passenger's seat. He wanted to call Bucciarati, but decided against it ultimately. If he was being chased, the phone going off wouldn't be a good thing, and really, he should be able to trust that Abbacchio would do what he'd asked. He had actually, this time. Finally.

So he simply drove back to the apartment, figuring that if Bucciarati needed anything else from him he would call.

Hopefully he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed.

Once they got back to the apartment, Abbacchio carried Fugo inside and laid him out on the couch, grabbing their first aid kit and turning on as many lights as they had to see what he was doing. His hands were still shaking, which wasn't good, but that wasn't going to stop any time soon so hopefully that wouldn't cause too many problems.

After he'd washed his hands thoroughly, he crouched by Fugo and started to peel his shirt up to see the wound.

A hand, surprisingly strong and wiry, clamped around his wrist and he looked up to see Fugo's eyes wide, frantic, blinking up at him.

Abbacchio held his other hand up calmly. "It's just me. I need to look at this."

Fugo blinked, seeming to recognize where he was, but didn't relax. "Where's Bucciarati? He was injured too," he croaked.

Abbacchio bit his lip. "He's not back yet."

Fugo tried to push himself up. "We—we have to—agh!"

He collapsed back against the couch, holding his side, face paling impossibly further. Abbacchio set a hand briefly on his shoulder, though took it back quickly as Fugo flinched away. He didn't really take offense though. He knew the kid didn't like to be touched and figured he probably had a good reason for it.

"Easy, kid," he said. "At least allow me to keep you from bleeding out first before you try to do anything."

Fugo gritted his teeth but finally took his hand away from Abbacchio's wrist, slumping back. Abbacchio took that as an invitation to start, so he carefully pushed Fugo's shirt up.

It was definitely a bullet wound, and was still bleeding sluggishly. Abbacchio wasn't usually affected by blood (didn't used to be) but this was… He swallowed sickly, trying to fight back the visions of blood on his hands and face, seeping around his feet. Just the nightmares earlier were enough to bring back horrible feelings of guilt and more self-loathing.

Fugo's hiss of pain as he prodded the wound brought him back around.

"Is there an exit?" he asked, slipping his hand briefly under Fugo's back, but didn't feel anything. Great.

"The bullet's still in there, isn't it?" Abbacchio asked.

Fugo's eyes opened, narrowing at Abbacchio. "Leave it until Bucciarati gets back. Your hands are shaking too much for this."

Abbacchio clenched his jaw and his traitorous hands. "I'm not leaving you with a bullet in the gut, kid. It won't take a second."

He turned swiftly away toward the first aid kit, wiping his hands on a towel. He would love to be drunk for this, but he quickly shoved that thought away. That's what had caused this in the first place. If he hadn't been a drunken asshole, a kid wouldn't have gotten shot. That should be him lying there with a bullet in him, not Fugo.

He pulled out a pair of forceps and sanitized them, wishing he could put this off. He took deep breaths trying to steady his hands more.

"Alright," he finally turned back to Fugo. "This isn't gonna be nice, but I'll try to make it as quick as possible."

Fugo screwed up his face and raised his arm over his eyes, his other hand gripping the couch cushions. Abbacchio took another deep breath before he just went for it.

He braced one hand against Fugo's hip, spreading the wound opening slightly before he went in with the forceps.

Fugo gave a strangled cry and instantly tried to kick out at Abbacchio, causing him to lean an elbow against the kid's thighs.

"Easy, the more you move the worse this is gonna get," he warned.

Fugo swore at him, shaking, but didn't move again as Abbacchio prodded as carefully as possible inside the wound until he felt the clink of metal.

Fugo tensed further, gasping. Abbacchio bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his hand to steady, as he carefully took hold of the bullet and pulled it out.

Fugo let out a shuddering breath and collapsed limply against the couch, shaking uncontrollably.

"There we go," Abbacchio murmured and pressed the towel to the wound to stop the bleeding, before he pulled back, patting the kid's knee in relief.

"Let me wash up and I'll be back to clean and bandage that up."

Fugo didn't reply, and Abbacchio stood, heading quickly to the bathroom to wash the blood off of his hands.

They were still shaking, not quite as bad as before. He was shocked he had been able to do that so easily, but thankfully he hadn't to make Fugo suffer more than he already had. Luckily the bullet hadn't been in too deep.

His phone rang just as he was finishing up and he wiped his hands, pulling it out of his pocket. He recognized the number as Bucciarati's and felt a brief moment of relief.

"Hey," he said as he answered.

"Is this Leone Abbacchio?"

Abbacchio instantly froze at the unfamiliar voice. "Who is this?"

"It might be better if someone else explains."

There was a pause before a grunt came over the phone, followed by Bucciarati's voice, "Abbacchio, whatever he wants, don't—agh!"

The thud of a fist or foot connecting with flesh was audible even over the phone and Abbacchio's blood ran cold.

"Who is this?" Abbacchio demanded again.

"Giordano—heard of me?" the man finally said, confirming Abbacchio's suspicions. He must have taken his silence as an affirmative because he continued. "Good. I'm sure you can figure out the situation for what it is so I'll get to the point. You're going to be the go-between. Tell Polpo that he needs to meet my demands if he wants to see his favorite again." Another struggle could be heard in the background and Abbacchio gritted his teeth.

"Listen—"

"No, you listen."

A gunshot rang out followed by a scream of pain and Abbacchio's heart plummeted.

"You bastard! You—"

"That was a warning; That bullet just missed his knee—he should still be able to walk if he gets the proper attention in time. If you still want to refuse, I'll put the next one in his gut. You know how long it takes to bleed out from a gut wound, Abbacchio? A lot longer than it does from the head."

Abbacchio's heart was in his throat, thumping in his ears. His knees were weak, trembling. He slammed a shaking hand down on the sink to hold himself upright. It might have been an offhand comment, but it seemed too pointed. Gunshots, blood, screams tearing up his own throat…The only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't let that happen to Bucciarati. Not when this had really all been his fault to begin with. He refused to let him die.

"What do you want, you son of a bitch?"

"I told you, you're going to deliver my message to Polpo," Giordano said over the phone.

"Abbacchio."

Abbacchio glanced over and his eyes widened to see Fugo staggering toward the bathroom, one hand pressed to his side, the other holding himself up against the wall. Abbacchio held a still shaking hand up but Fugo only glowered. "Who's on the phone?"

"What message?" Abbacchio growled.

"Tell him I want 30 million lira to leave the city. Then he never has to worry about me again. If I don't get the money, I'll kill Bucciarati, and continue to take down the men in Polpo's territory until I'm given what I deserve. Tell him that."

"Abbacchio, do not—!"

Another background protest from Bucciarati was cut off with a sudden cry and more sounds of struggle. Abbacchio bit his lip. Obviously Polpo was going to have to be the one to make the call on this but still…Bucciarati was the last strand in Abbacchio's fraying rope. He couldn't let him go even if he'd wanted to.

"Fine," he snarled. "But I—"

"I want the money by dawn," Giordano added. "Call when you have it and I'll give you the meeting location. Understand?"

"I can't—"

"Good."

The phone call ended and Abbacchio was left standing there, having no idea what to do next when Fugo staggered toward him.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Abbacchio swallowed hard. "Giordano has Bucciarati."

"What?!" Fugo almost collapsed, leaving Abbacchio to have to grab his arm. "We—we have to…"

He was already sagging, eyes rolling upward and Abbacchio caught the kid as carefully as possible. He must have expended the last of his strength getting in here.

"I'll handle this," he murmured as he picked Fugo up and carried the boy toward his room.

"Don'…let 'im…die," Fugo whispered almost incoherently, but Abbacchio understood the message well enough. Threat or plea, it didn't really matter. He had no intention of letting Bucciarati die.

He laid Fugo down in bed, peeling off his bloody shirt before he glanced at the haphazard patch job the kid had obviously done himself. He hurried to fix it up, giving the wound a cursory cleaning, then he tucked the covers around Fugo tightly and went to grab his gun and car keys.

He had no idea how this was going to go, but regardless, he was going to save Bucciarati.