Chapter Five

Giorno spent the next few days resigned to his current fate, tip-toeing around his stepfather. Though luckily, he and Giorno's mother were usually gone for the better part of the day. Giorno's mother brought paint chips and fabric samples home every day, going around and around on decisions for redoing the living room, and making one of the spare rooms into a formal dining room—what for, Giorno couldn't possibly figure out. She seemed to be redoing the whole house. At least it made her happy and she rarely bothered Giorno unless she needed him to do something or help her move furniture.

His stepfather on the other hand was constantly glowering at him. Even if Giorno was just sitting doing nothing. He was always on edge, waiting for the man to take off his belt and start beating Giorno again like he used to.

He seemed determined to make Giorno's life a living hell. He always only left a tiny bit of food for Giorno to eat, but the teen had started to quickly scarf down a plate of food as he was cooking so no one was the wiser. It wasn't ideal, but at least he was full.

One day while he was cleaning, the pair of tired old pants he was wearing ripped right down the inside seem of the leg, leaving them unwearable. Giorno sighed and went to rummage through his closet again. There was only one other pair of pants besides his pajamas and these were in no better condition than the other ones, so undoubtedly wouldn't last long either. It was time to bite the bullet and ask his mother to give him a little money so he could go buy some new clothes. If they really had as much money now as they seemed to judging from the expensive clothes and furniture his mother was buying, then, surely, she could afford a little for Giorno.

He found her sitting at the kitchen table, looking over designs the decorator had given her when she came by earlier that day.

"Mother?" Giorno asked quietly.

She barely glanced up at him. "What, Giorno?"

He swallowed, clasping his hands together, knowing she was going to complain either way and just wanting to get it over with. "I was wondering if I could have a bit of money for some new clothes if I'm going to be staying here. And it seems like my things from school didn't make it here, so..."

His mother looked up with pursed lips. "That slipped my mind. The school didn't give us anything when we came to get you."

"Not even my wallet?" Giorno asked, although he was pretty sure that had made it, he just wouldn't likely be seeing it again. "There should have been enough money in there for me to at least buy a couple new pairs of pants."

"What does the little brat want now?"

Giorno felt his heart sink as his stepfather came into the room. By his slight stagger, it appeared he was already drunk and it was barely mid-afternoon.

"He just wants some new clothes," Giorno's mother said dismissively.

Giovanna spun around, eyes pinning Giorno into place. "You have clothes—you're wearing them! That's not good enough for you?"

"They're too small, and they're wearing out in the seams," Giorno said, shifting uncomfortably.

"They look fine to me, you should be grateful you have anything at all! What, you want a fancy suit or something?"

"They don't have to be fancy, I just want pants that fit," Giorno said before he could stop himself.

Giovanna's face darkened and he stepped closer into Giorno's space. "What was that?"

"I just asked for clothes that fit," Giorno repeated. There was really no point in not saying it again now, he would end up with the same result anyway.

"You think you deserve better? You should be grateful we even bother to give you so much as a roof over your head, you ungrateful little shit. Your time away spoiled you. I think it's time I teach you a lesson in humility."

Giorno froze as his stepfather grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise and yanked him out of the kitchen. He stumbled as he was shoved toward the stairs.

"Get up to your room," he snapped.

"Ferro, the painters are going to be here soon," Giorno's mother complained, not caring about Giorno, just their image.

"It won't take me that long to teach the brat a lesson," Giovanna grunted as he dragged Giorno up the last few steps and practically threw him into his room.

"You know what's coming," Giovanna grunted, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Or have you gotten so comfy that you forgot what happens when you act like an ungrateful brat?"

All Giorno could do was shake his head, breath coming in shaky pants.

His stepfather grabbed his shoulder and shoved him toward the corner of the room—the one that already bore the marks of countless other punishments. Giorno wondered wryly if his mother would have them paint over that too. He doubted it.

"Take your shirt off. Don't want to ruin it, do we?"

Giorno reached up with trembling hands, having difficulty unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt. He could feel his stepfather's impatience and tried to hurry, accidently popping one of the buttons off entirely.

As soon as he let it slide off his arms, Giovanna shoved him face first into the corner and Giorno caught himself against the wall, shaking as he heard his stepfather slip his belt from the loops of his pants.

"If you don't remember your manners it's not going to go well for you in this house," he snarled and drew back his arm.

Giorno couldn't help the sharp exhale as the belt connected with his back, creating a burning stripe across his pale skin. The next blow came swiftly and Giorno bit his lip against the cry that wanted to escape his throat. He pressed his forehead into the corner, fingernails digging at the wall as he tried to breathe while pain exploded across his back.

A particularly brutal hit to his lower back had him gasping, trying to pull away instinctively, but Giovanna simply reached out and grabbed hold of his braid, keeping him still. A whimper escaped Giorno before he could stop himself.

"You stay there you little prick. Take your punishment like a fucking man."

Giorno's knees were trembling. One blow caught him across his shoulder blade, splitting the skin as it stretched across the bone. Giorno let out a sharp gasp, feeling the blood trickle down his back. Another caught the back of his neck, wrapping slightly around the side to leave a nasty welt.

He didn't know how many blows had fallen by the time his stepfather was done, but he knew his entire back was in agony.

Giovanna slipped his belt back through the loops as he stepped back, releasing Giorno who tried to stay upright, but couldn't help sinking down, propping himself into the corner.

Giovanna shoved him the rest of the way to the floor, hand once again firmly gripping Giorno's hair, forcing his head back to look at him.

"Did you learn your lesson now? Will you think twice about asking for things you don't deserve?"

Giorno's eyes stung as much as his back. Giovanna shook him by his hair, the roots singing with pain. Giorno squeezed his eyes shut, reaching up to grasp his head.

"Well, did you learn your damn lesson?" his stepfather shouted.

"Y-yes," Giorno gasped. "S-sorry."

Giovanna finally released him and Giorno carefully pushed himself up, reaching back to try and reassemble his hair, his scalp aching. He started re-braiding it, touching the curls above his forehead, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity.

This action, for some reason, only seemed to set his stepfather off again though. He reached out and took an even firmer hold of Giorno's blond curls.

"This damn hair is bothering me too—what, did you go and bleach it or something? Try to hide what you really are?"

"I didn't, it just turned this color," Giorno protested before he pressed his lips shut, cursing himself for having to open his mouth again.

Giovanna backhanded him across the face. "Stop fucking lying! I don't care where it came from, I just hate it. It looks too high and mighty. You spend way too much time playing with it like some girl. You don't have any need of a fancy haircut here. You're not impressing anyone."

Giorno didn't register what he was doing until Giovanna pulled a knife out of his pocket, flipping it open.

Giorno's eyes widened as he tried to pull away. "No! Don't—"

"Oh, shut up, are you gonna cry over your pretty hair?" Giovanna sneered as he shoved Giorno against the ground, planting a knee into his abused back to hold him down as he tugged on Giorno's braid, holding it taut.

Giorno struggled, but couldn't stop his stepfather as he sliced through it with the knife. He then began hacking off any other long bits of hair, including the curls that rested against Giorno's forehead. Soon, Giorno was lying amongst a pile of brutally hacked blond locks, trying to keep the tears out of his eyes.

Thankfully, at that moment, the doorbell rang and Giovanna grunted, standing up.

"That's the damn painters. Don't try anything stupid, or I'll take even more skin off your back once they leave, understand?"

Giorno just stayed there lying on the ground until he heard his stepfather close the door, then he pushed himself up on shaking arms.

His head felt so light without all the hair; he felt naked, his neck bare and cold. His hands shook as he scooped the cut hair up into a pile. It looked lifeless already, kind of like Giorno felt now that he was back here.

Choking back a pointless sob, Giorno pushed himself to his feet and staggered down the hall to the tiny bathroom. He grabbed a washcloth and turned on the facet before he dared glance up at the mirror.

A pale boy with choppy hair stared back at him, eyes glistening and reddened. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair, the ends feeling rough and split from the dull knife cutting through them. This was almost worse than the beating; it was…humiliating.

Yes, Giorno was proud of his hair. He still wasn't sure why it had suddenly turned blond, but when it had, he had to admit that he'd been happy. It didn't look like his mother's anymore and it certainly didn't look like his stepfather's. It looked like the picture of his real father that he kept in his wallet. That and the starshaped birthmark on his shoulder, were the only things that he had to remind him that he didn't just belong to this life. And that was, in a way, a comfort.

Giorno choked out another breath, sniffing, and turned back to the sink, squeezing out the washcloth before turning his back toward the mirror. He swallowed but it wasn't any worse than any time before. Hot red lines crossed over old, pale scars that had stretched as he grew, sometimes getting tight and itchy. Giorno exhaled and contorted himself with a wince to dab at the bloody marks with his cloth. Only a couple were bleeding this time so it could have been worse. He could hardly reach all of them, but he was too tired to get into the shower right now, so he would leave it.

Tossing the bloody rag into the laundry, Giorno stumbled back to his room and collapsed onto the mattress, pressing his face into the single flat pillow.

Welcome home he said wryly to himself and finally let several tears slip silently into his pillow.


Later, when the painters were gone, Giorno forced himself up and slipped his shirt back on, wincing at the scrape of it over his raw back. But he couldn't find anything he could use as bandages, so he would have to deal with it.

He slipped downstairs and into the kitchen, silently making dinner before anyone yelled at him.

His mother appeared, looking angry, folding her arms over her chest.

"Why do you always have to make your father angry, Giorno? Can't you just be a good kid?"

"He's not my father," Giorno muttered, surprising even himself. He'd never said anything like that before. But he felt a certain conviction behind that statement that he hadn't before. It was odd, really. It wasn't that he really cared about his real dad, and yet for some reason, he felt that now he had more reason than ever to dispute the fact that his stepfather was at all a parent to him. A slight headache started behind his eyes and he reached up to rub at them.

"You're really pushing it, you know that?" his mother demanded. "I'm trying to turn our lives around, make something nice, the least you could do is not ruin it like you always do."

Giorno bit his lip as he turned to cut vegetables. All his mother ever thought about was herself. Giorno couldn't stand it, honestly, but he knew better than to think she would change. She never had, no matter how many times he had wished she would. Wished she could be like other mothers, who actually cared and put their children first. Who would have left a man who treated her son like Giovanna did.

But these were pointless hopes that Giorno had given up on a long time ago.

He finally looked up to meet his mother's eyes. "I'll try not to cause any trouble," he said blandly.

He would try to be as innocuous as possible, he always had. Not that it ever seemed to do any good. After all, how could you truly try not to do anything bad, when you could get in trouble for not doing anything at all?

His mother gave a put-upon sigh. "I guess that's all I can expect out of you. Let me know when dinner's ready."

Giorno turned back to the cutting board and methodically chopped carrots into little cubes. He needed to learn how not to feel things again. To just be numb, nothing. Because only then, could he not be hurt.


"Manicotti's men are causing trouble again."

Bruno glanced up from his computer, eyes strained from going through so many emails. He blinked and sighed as Fugo stood there, waiting for some kind of answer.

"Again? They haven't learned their lesson yet?" he demanded, unexpected anger surging through him.

Fugo pressed his lips together. "They're punks. They hardly know what they're doing. They just want to make trouble."

Bruno rubbed his hands over his face wearily. Three weeks. It had been three weeks now since Giorno had gone missing—left, whatever the hell they were calling it now. Unfortunately, all the questioning of informants Bucciarati had done to find out any information that could be had on their young Don had gotten around, and rival gangs were starting to figure out that Don Giovanna had taken a leave of absence from Passione.

It had just made everything worse for all of them, having to juggle all their normal duties while fighting all the random turf wars that were popping up. Not to mention that Bucciarati was now acting Don in Giorno's absence, and though he and the boy had essentially taken equal partnership in the running of Passione until the time Giorno got his footing, Bruno had vastly underestimated just how much work Giorno had been doing, which now he and Fugo had to take care of mostly by themselves.

"All right, send Abbacchio, Mista and Narancia out to take care of it," he said tiredly as he clicked through another email.

Fugo looked at him like he was insane. "This is the third mission this week you've sent them on—Mista's still recovering from the last one; his arm's in a sling, Bucciarati!"

"Dammit," Bruno muttered—had he actually forgotten that? He closed his computer and stood up, feeling his aching back protest. "I'll go then. You continue with the work here."

"Are you sure…?"

"I need to get out," Bruno snapped, and it was true. He was going crazy in here with all the letters he had to go through, penning diplomatic answers regarding any questions dealing with Giorno. And overarching everything, was the question of where was Giorno Giovanna?

And why hadn't he come home?

It was weighing on Bruno's mind all too heavily. He really needed to focus. He couldn't do this to the rest of the team who were just as upset as he was. He owed it to them.

And yet when the bastard they were chasing spouted off some quip about the new Don thinking the job was too much to handle and skipping town because of it, Bucciarati saw red, and then proceeded to paint his surroundings the same color, until the culprit was just bloody chunks, thanks to Sticky Fingers.

He stood there, panting, hands clenched at his sides, before he realized that Abbacchio and Narancia were standing there, staring at him.

He tried to regain some of his composure, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes before he realized that his hand was covered in blood. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

"There, now we won't have problems with Manicotti's gang anymore," he said simply.

"Holy shit," Narancia murmured, eyes wide.

Abbacchio just stared at him disapprovingly, but he kept his mouth shut. Bruno felt annoyance surge through him. "Well? Are you going to help clean this up or not?"

Half an hour later they were driving back to the house, Abbacchio at the wheel, Narancia in back—all of them silent.

Once they pulled up outside the house, Abbacchio put the car in park and glanced behind him. "Narancia, go inside."

The teen instantly hopped out as Bruno pressed his lips together, also reaching for the door handle. "I don't need an intervention."

Abbacchio pressed the button for the lock before Bruno could get the door open. He huffed, and summoned Sticky Fingers, only to have Moody Blues appear and grab his Stand's arm, squeezing hard enough that Bucciarati could feel the pressure in his wrist.

"Dammit, Bruno, just listen to me for five minutes," Abbacchio nearly pleaded.

"I know I overdid it today, and I apologize if I hurt anyone's sensitivities," Bruno snipped.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Abbacchio growled, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Bruno's jacket, yanking him around to face him. "Are you serious right now? Look, I get that you're worried about Giorno, but this has to stop. The overkill when you go on missions, the countless hours of work, the lack of sleep in general—everyone's worried about you. You're gonna drop at this rate."

"He's been gone for three weeks!" Bucciarati shouted, yanking free of Abbacchio's grasp. "Three weeks, Leone! And I can't understand it! I don't know why he left without saying anything, and I don't know why, when we were able to find the most elusive and dangerous man in Italy within a week, I can't find one sixteen-year-old kid!"

Abbacchio's face went from being frustrated to sympathetic. He leaned back against the seat and ran a hand over his face. "I know, believe me, I get it."

"Then what are we doing?!" Bruno demanded, slamming his hands into the dashboard. "What the fuck are we doing sitting here while my child is missing?!"

His voice cracked with emotion and he turned away, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He hugged himself, fingers digging into his arms. "Something's wrong, Leone, I can feel it. I should never have ignored it to begin with. I know something's wrong, I know he's in trouble."

"Then let's find him," Abbacchio said firmly. "All of us. You don't have to be the only one doing this, Bruno. We're all here for you and we want Giorno back as much as you do. If we actually get organized about it, leave no stone unturned, then we have to find him eventually."

"And what if he's…" Bruno stopped himself, hating to voice this thought that he'd had on the worst nights when he laid awake. "What if we're too late?"

"We won't be," Abbacchio growled. "So get that shit out of your head."

Bruno sighed heavily but nodded. "Let's do it then. Let's drop everything and look for him—I don't care how much work backs up; we're not going to stop until we find him."

Abbacchio looked a little relieved. "I can get behind that, and I know the others will too." He reached out and squeezed Bruno's shoulder. "We'll bring the kid home, Bruno. I promise."

Bruno took a shuddering breath, but nodded again. "Yes. We will."