Chapter Three
Abbacchio didn't even make it into the prison to see Polpo.
He wasn't really sure what he had expected, maybe that just the simple act of asking to see Polpo would allow him in, but it turned out they ran a tighter ship than he'd thought.
"It's urgent that I see him," Abbacchio tried to reason.
The guard looked him up and down, and yeah, okay, Abbacchio knew he looked like shit, but he wasn't about to let Bucciarati die just because he couldn't get into a prison after hours.
"I'm here on behalf of Bruno Bucciarati," he tried.
The guard still looked unimpressed. "You missed visiting hours, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"I don't have until tomorrow!" Abbacchio snapped, fists clenched. The man reached surreptitiously for the gun in his holster and Abbacchio forced himself to calm down. "Look, can you at least pass him a written message?" He wasn't sure what that would do, but he also knew Polpo had ways of getting messages to people whenever he needed to, so hopefully it would be better than nothing.
"That's against policy."
Abbacchio gritted his teeth. "I'll use your own supplies, but he needs to get this message tonight."
The guard pursed his lips, but finally nodded. "Fine. Come into my office and you can write the letter."
Relief flooded Abbacchio as the guard allowed him to step into the hut and handed him a notepad and pencil. Abbacchio scratched out a quick message that was hopefully not too vague, and even more hopefully legible considering his uncooperative hands.
Abbacchio handed the note to the guard when he had finished and the man let him out of the office.
"Next time come back during visiting hours," the guard said and shut the door behind Abbacchio firmly.
Abbacchio stared, mouth open to say something, urge the man to hurry with the note, but that had obviously been a dismissal.
Fury and desperation washed through him and he had to force himself to walk back to the car. The fact was, he couldn't trust that they would even get the message to Polpo at all, let alone in time for him to reach out to Abbacchio or someone else who would be able to make the exchange. And if that was the case, then Bucciarati would be dead by tomorrow and the tenuous hold on order in this city would be gone with him. Bucciarati was the only man Abbacchio had seen care enough about this city to actually do anything to make it better. Hell, he was the only one who had cared enough to recruit him even though he was beyond damaged goods. Abbacchio may have failed in his ambition to make the city better, but he was positive that Bucciarati could actually do something about it, and he wanted to be there when he did.
If no one else was going to save Bucciarati, he would have to do it himself.
It was finally time to put his Stand to good use.
He drove back to the spot where he had found Fugo. His headache was pounding a little less now with his new determination and sense of purpose. He found the spot and called out Moody Blues, having his Stand find Bucciarati's playback and rewind to the point where he dropped off Fugo.
The Stand morphed into Bucciarati, slightly hunched, with a worrying stain on his shoulder as he stepped away from the crates, looking around, before he hurried off down the alley.
Abbacchio followed the replay, watching as Bucciarati mimed raising a gun before dashing down another side street.
He came to an abrupt halt as he darted around another corner, the replay getting thrown back against a wall.
"There you are," an ambient voice spoke as Bucciarati struggled, disarmed. His hands were forced behind his back, pulling a grunt of pain from him. "Take him."
Bucciarati tried to fight back again, but it appeared that someone must have hit him over the head before he got the chance to call out his Stand, because he fell limp, held up by invisible figures and dragged toward the street.
Abbacchio gritted his teeth in annoyance. He'd found out early on that Moody Blues couldn't track replays if the person got into a car.
However, he'd only had his Stand for a couple months. He'd been practicing deductive methods for a lot longer and it didn't take a lot to figure out where Giordano had likely taken Bucciarati. What better place to keep a captive than an old warehouse where you ran your illegal business?
It might be a better idea to wait and see what Polpo wanted done, but Abbacchio had already figured out his priorities. He didn't know how, quite yet, but he was going to get Bucciarati out of there.
Bruno slumped against the wall of the warehouse, a growing puddle of blood seeping around him from the gunshot to his leg. He hadn't been able to zip it closed, Sticky Fingers mostly immobilized as well with how tight they had bound him, putting an agonizing amount of pressure on his injured shoulder. He was having to fight just to stay conscious.
He had to think, because he couldn't count on Abbacchio being able to get here by morning. He would be lucky if he were able to get a message to Polpo before then. It wasn't that Bruno wasn't always prepared to die in this line of work, but in this case, he refused to let Giordano get the upper hand. The outcome would be a lot more catastrophic than just him dying. With Giordano having formed alliances with the police and other forms of local government outside of Passione, he could do actual damage to the city. Take down everything Bruno had been fighting for.
And here he was, sitting in his own blood in some abandoned warehouse, good for nothing but to act as bait. He just hoped Fugo was all right. He hadn't had the chance to check his injury before he'd had to run to make sure they weren't both captured.
The warehouse door was opened and Bruno glanced up with the rest of Giordano's men as another man in police uniform strode in.
Giordano greeted him. "Sergente Lombardi, just in time. I have a gift for you."
The man gave a satisfied smirk in Bruno's direction. "So that's Bucciarati? Thought he'd be older. You're not gonna kill him?"
"Only if his man doesn't show up with the promised money. If they do, I think it would be apropos for him to end up in jail with his boss."
Bruno bristled as the sergeant came over to him, raising a foot to grind against the bullet wound in his leg. Bruno gritted his teeth, refusing to give him any satisfaction.
"I think it might be wise to see what info we can get out of him before we hand him over, however," the sergeant said.
"You think I'll talk?" Bruno demanded coldly.
The man gave a cruel smile. "I think I have methods to make sure you do." He cocked his head to one side. "But I might be more lenient if you promise me a little more cash on the side. Get you a cozy cell like Polpo's instead of throwing you in with the rest of the rabble. Though I'm sure they'd take kindly to a pretty face like yours…"
Bruno glowered at him. He wondered when these men thought they had the upper hand in the city? It wasn't like he was the only man loyal to Polpo. Once the other capos heard about this, they wouldn't just stand by and let Giordano get very far.
"If he's not going to talk just gag him, I have some calls to make," Giordano said.
The sergeant reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he rolled into a strip, leaning down to shove it against Bruno's mouth, pushing him forward before tying it tightly behind the back of his head. Bruno winced as the gag pressed his already split lips into his teeth.
The man snorted as he pulled away and kicked him in the ribs before returning to a discussion with Giordano. Bruno slumped back against the wall, shivering from the cold of the concrete floor and blood loss, trying to figure out if he could find some way out of this.
Abbacchio got turned around several times as he tried to remember exactly where Giordano's warehouse was. He hadn't exactly been paying much attention when they'd gone earlier.
After pulling over and consulting a map, growing more and more frustrated and desperate, head still aching dully, he finally found the spot and drove toward it.
He knew he had found the right place when he came across several other cars, and a couple men walking the perimeter of the building.
He figured there wasn't really a point in hiding now considering, once he got in there, there would be no hiding so he parked within view of the guards and got out of the car.
"Stop right there!" they called to him.
Abbacchio stood with his hands raised slightly. "I'm just here to deal with Giordano."
"We'll take your weapons then," the man said.
Abbacchio silently handed over his gun. It wasn't like he had expected to keep it. He was still figuring out this plan as his went, as stupid as it was, but he wasn't necessarily bad at planning on the fly. He still had his Stand as a distraction and he was pretty sure Giordano and his men weren't Stand users so that was already an advantage for him.
They led him inside and Abbacchio's eyes instantly fell on the crumpled form of Bucciarati sitting against one wall. He was restrained, covered in blood, and gagged, but his eyes still met Abbacchio's, wary, multiple mixed emotions swimming in them. Abbacchio looked away to meet Giordano as the man strode up, another man at his shoulder.
Abbacchio instantly saw the other man's police uniform and his stomach dropped out. His face also looked somewhat familiar. Abbacchio supposed it was probably too much to hope that he wouldn't recognize him or know his reputation.
"Leone Abbacchio, I presume," Giordano greeted as they met in the middle of the warehouse. "I didn't exactly expect you to show up here." The guards pointedly didn't leave Abbacchio's sides, but in this case, it was to his advantage.
"You have the money?"
Abbacchio met Giordano's eyes. "No. I can't get the money until I can get in to see Polpo."
"That was not the agreement," Giordano said darkly. "I specifically said the deadline was dawn."
"I'm aware," Abbacchio growled. "That's why I came to offer myself as collateral in Bucciarati's place."
Giordano and his friend started laughing.
"You? What are you worth to anyone?" Giordano scoffed. "The sergente here was just telling me how you got kicked off the force. A truly sordid affair. I hope you know that getting a cop killed like that won't help you in Passione. It will only assure that no one trusts you ever again."
Abbacchio's hands clenched at his sides as he tried to fight off the waves of guilt.
"And you must have known that, so what exactly was your point in coming here?" Giordano asked.
A thud from the side had them all turning to see that Bucciarati had slipped down the wall and crashed into the floor with a grunt, obviously trying to move.
Abbacchio took the distraction he got. He used Moody Blues to grab his gun out of the guard's belt, throwing a flying roundhouse kick to the head with his Stand as well, sending the man to the ground.
"What the—" the sergeant gaped, reaching for his own gun.
The other guard tackled Abbacchio and he went down hard, almost losing his gun in the process. But his shaky hands somehow kept hold of it, and he slammed an elbow back into the man's jaw. He took a couple more blows before he was able to roll onto his back and get his gun into position to slam into the man's jaw.
As he scrambled back to his feet, glancing around for Giordano, he finally spotted him as he heard the sound of pain off to one side.
Abbacchio whipped around and saw Giordano holding Bucciarati in front of him like a shield, a gun pressed firmly underneath Bucciarati's chin.
Abbacchio instantly swung his own gun up, hating the way his hands shook.
"I wouldn't," the cop said, also pulling his gun out, pointing it at Abbacchio.
"Listen," Giordano said darkly. "I'll give you one more chance. Get the money to me within an hour or I'll shoot him in the head now."
Abbacchio gritted his teeth, trying to will his hands to steady on the gun. He had just a small target. He hadn't shot for over a year and now…
Now he had no choice.
Giordano pressed the gun muzzle harder into Bucciarati's flesh, forcing his head back. "Take my advice. Don't be stupid."
"He's right," the sergeant said with a smirk, approaching Abbacchio slowly, gun still trained on him. "Look at your hands. You'll never make that shot, you drunken bastard. And anyway, I'll easily take you and Bucciarati out as soon as you try."
Abbacchio bit the inside of his cheek to bleeding. The dull pain helped to steady him, and he took a long exhale out his nose, aiming directly for the two inches of Giordano's forehead sticking out from behind Bucciarati's. Abbacchio briefly met Bucciarati's eyes and the man seemed to see what he was going for.
Abbacchio stopped halfway through his exhale and squeezed the trigger.
The blast of gunfire came at the exact moment Bucciarati leaned to one side. Another shot rang out, followed by a sharp burn across Abbacchio's shoulder, but Moody Blues had done his work and redirected the man's gun. Abbacchio spun and shot that man through the head as well, all in a fraction of a second.
Three bodies dropped to the floor at the same time as Abbacchio stood, panting, before he shoved the gun back into his waistband with disgust and hurried toward Bucciarati who was lying a few feet from Giordano's body, also breathing heavily.
"Bucciarati," Abbacchio crouched, untying the gag first so the man could breathe and then working on the restraints binding his hands behind his back. It took some work with Abbacchio's shaking fingers, especially since they were so tight, Bucciarati's hands having gotten swollen from the prolonged restraint.
"You still with me?" Abbacchio asked worriedly as he rolled the man onto his back and carefully placed his hands at his sides, taking stock of the other injuries—two bullet wounds, one in the shoulder, and the other just above the knee, as well as multiple bruises.
"I'm here," Bucciarati murmured, eyes sliding open. "That was a good shot."
Abbacchio let out a shuddering breath, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to tie around Bucciarati's leg to stop the bleeding. Bucciarati tensed and let out a sound of pain as he pulled it tight.
"A lucky shot," Abbacchio muttered, finishing up the knot and reaching under Bucciarati's good arm. "Come on, let's get you up."
"Have to…call this in," Bucciarati groaned as Abbacchio sat him up, then started to pull them both to their feet.
"I can do it if you need me to," Abbacchio said, taking the majority of Bucciarati's weight as he staggered, leaning heavily against the ex-cop.
"I…it's fine," he said hoarsely. "And Fugo?"
"Back at the apartment. I left him resting," Abbacchio assured him.
Bucciarati's arm wrapped around his shoulders, hand finding the wet spot on the back of Abbacchio's shoulder where the bullet had grazed him. "You're bleeding."
"You're bleeding more," Abbacchio protested.
Bucciarati only made a small sound and Abbacchio started them on the way out to the car. Bucciarati leaned more and more heavily against his side as they went and he slumped in the seat once Abbacchio got him in the car, eyes closed and face lined with pain.
Abbacchio got behind the wheel, debating whether it would be a better idea to take Bucciarati to the hospital, but eventually decided against it. They had enough trouble right now, and they didn't need more unwanted questions. Especially since he'd just shot a cop.
One that was a lot more deserving of it than his partner had been, but still, there might be trouble for it. At least a growing reputation on his part. Trouble he didn't need to bring down onto Bucciarati's head.
So he drove back to the apartment with Bucciarati passed out in the passenger seat, either feeling the effects of injury and blood loss, or confidence enough in Abbacchio that he would allow himself to do that in his presence.
Abbacchio swallowed hard, hands clenching tighter on the wheel as he tried to focus on driving. He wasn't sure he deserved any confidence put in him. He had barely been able to do this. Even now, he craved a drink more than anything. Almost more than getting Bucciarati back safely a traitorous voice in the back of his head said.
But no, he wouldn't give into it. Not this time. That's what had started all of this and he wasn't about to fall back into those habits. This time, he actually realized he meant it.
He hadn't let Bucciarati die, and that, in itself, was a victory.
Maybe things were looking up.