Finally time to post the 2nd part of this one! I hope you're all ready for more Giorno angst and whump
For Whumptober day 27: Scars, "let me see"
Part Two
It had been a week now that Giorno had been in the Calabresi household. It was the same routine every day: Wake up, report to the family physician, get bled, and then be sent back to his room for the rest of the day with nothing to occupy his time but resurfacing memories that he had to fight constantly to keep down.
And what was worse was that with his blood being drained, he was weakening by the day and he was…starving. He was allotted one meal of bread and cheese a day but it was starting to curdle in his stomach, his body rejecting it, refusing to process it properly until it got blood. It had been almost three weeks since he'd had blood and he was quickly approaching the point where his control would start slipping, turning him ravenous. He used to wait as long as he could before imbibing, but he hadn't had to do that with Bucciarati around since Hunters were always provided with a supply of blood from donations. It wasn't like it was as a child, when Giorno had been locked up in a room similar to this for the most part, his mother and stepfather waiting until he got sick from normal food before throwing him a small animal carcass or some blood from the butcher's. As he got older they left hunting up to him, glad to wash their hands of the task. Giorno was eternally grateful that they had never found out about his healing abilities, because if they had he was sure he would have ended up in a situation just like this a lot earlier.
Giorno slumped in the chair on one side of the sick Conte's bedroom and watched dully as the man coughed, chest rattling. Contessa Calabresi sat by his bedside, dabbing spatters of blood from his lips. Giorno tried not to lick his own. The scent of blood was making his stomach hurt. He fought to keep his fangs retracted.
"Easy, my lord, take your medicine," the doctor murmured to the old man as he propped his head up to drink Giorno's blood.
The son stood against the wall, arms folded, watching with a severe expression as the Conte was settled into unconsciousness again. Then Lord Calabresi pulled the doctor to one side.
"Be honest, is this doing anything?"
The doctor hesitated. "It's hard to tell, my lord."
The young man shoved him in the chest. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You're a damned doctor, aren't you? Aren't you supposed to know whether a patient is getting better?"
"My lord, I have no precedent for this. All the studies I have seen done with dhampir blood were inconclusive when it came to sickness."
"So the little fang is doing nothing? My father must recover—you understand? At least long enough to be able to change his will over to me."
"Ottavio, enough," the Contessa snapped as she stood. "That's in very poor taste, don't you think?"
Lord Calabresi scoffed. "And you care so much, Mother? The old bastard was more interested in chasing the serving girls than looking at you—the younger the better."
"Don't be crass," the woman snapped. "I have my reasons, but these are things to discuss with a solicitor, not a doctor."
The doctor looked uncomfortable, but he held up his hands. "Rest assured, I have not gone through all our options yet. I would like to try a transfusion of blood. It is a bit of a new process, but it would possibly be more effective in this case."
"Then do that tomorrow instead of wasting time making him drink this filth—it could be killing him quicker for all we know."
Lord Calabresi marched over to Giorno and reached down to pull him up by his lapel. "And you. I bet you know more than you're letting on, don't you?"
"My lord," Giorno forced out. "I already told you I know nothing aside from healing physical injuries. I've never done anything else."
The young man's hand connected with his face, a heavy ring cutting into the flesh under Giorno's eye. "That's not acceptable! I paid good money for you and you will deliver or suffer the consequences." He shoved Giorno toward the door. "Get out of my sight."
Giorno left and made a hasty retreat. Any of the servants he passed flinched away from him, despite the fact that he had never done anything to make them scared of him. It made a dark, greasy feeling pit form in his stomach. Sending him back to those days when he had been made to believe that he was more monster than human.
He made his way back to his room and found that his usual meal had been left.
He felt sick just looking at it, but he tried to take a couple mouthfuls, if only to sustain his body a little.
His stomach rebelled the instant the food touched it though and he retched into the chamber pot, eyes watering. He rinsed his mouth out and slumped against the wall, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
Had he been foolish to start feeling so at home with his new team? Would they also have eventually turned against him to only use him for his powers? He refused to believe it, frankly, knowing that he had formed genuine connections with the other Hunters. Bucciarati was a valued mentor and he and Giorno shared mutual respect for each other. Mista and Narancia were constantly friendly and non-judgmental, always there to watch his back during missions. Fugo was always willing to discuss more arcane knowledge with Giorno and things he found interesting. Even Abbacchio had warmed up to Giorno since their initial rough start and had been showing him some of the finer aspects of hand-to-hand fighting—though Giorno suspected part of that might be because the older Hunter could use it as an excuse to rough him up. He still knew Abbacchio would come to his aid when needed though.
In conclusion, he missed them. Missed feeling like he was a part of more than just a team but, a family. The kind of thing he'd always dreamed of, but never expected to be able to have.
And, he supposed, that was why he couldn't quite give up hope that they would come for him.
The next day Giorno was brought, once again, to the ailing Conte's room after a restless night. This time the doctor sat him in a chair next to the bed, unrolling some rubber tubing.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Contessa Calabresi asked skeptically as she stood to one side of the room.
"Blood transfusions have been very successful with all the new research," the doctor told her. "And even so, this is a little different and will hopefully make your husband's blood stronger."
"Just get on with it," Lord Calabresi snapped.
"This had better work, Gerald," the Contessa said to Giorno. "Or you've quite outstayed your welcome."
Giorno sat silently, watching as the doctor hooked the tubes up with thick needles, one of which he stuck into the old man's arm, trailing one of the tubes down into a pan.
Giorno watched with sudden rapt attention as blood started to flow down the tube and dribble into the pan. His mouth watered, and he felt light-headed, trying to keep himself from straight up drooling. He was so, so hungry.
He startled slightly as the doctor spoke to him. "Take your coat off."
Giorno struggled with the buttons and pulled the coat off, glad for it, actually, he was feeling rather warm.
The doctor unceremoniously pushed his sleeve up and forced a second needle into his flesh. Giorno winced, then watched as this tube was attached to the ailing lord's other arm, and Giorno's blood started to flow at a rapid pace.
He was feeling woozy, swaying slightly in his seat, unable to keep from watching the blood pool into the pan on the floor, the sweet aroma making him sick with need.
"My god, his eyes!" Contessa Calabresi exclaimed suddenly, backing away. "Geraldo's eyes are red!"
Giorno blinked, realizing that he could feel his fangs pricking his lower lip, he tried to concentrate on retracting them, but Calabresi strode forward, pulling a rosary from his pocket and shoving it against Giorno's neck, burning his skin. He flinched back with a small cry.
"Put those away you disgusting freak!" the young noble snapped, swinging the rosary and striking Giorno across the face with it, a burning line across his cheek and eyelid. "How dare you sit here lusting after my father's blood while he is dying!"
"Horrific," Contessa Calabresi said, pulling out her own rosary and worrying the beads, muttering prayers under her breath.
"I think this is as much as we should try for today," the doctor cut in, seeming slightly unnerved himself as he took the tubing from Giorno's arm. "We will see how your father does and perhaps try another dose tomorrow."
Giorno swayed and the doctor eyed him warily but as he leaned in to wrap a quick bandage around Giorno's arm, Giorno chanced asking, "Signore, please…I will need some blood to drink if this continues. My…my blood will only become weaker if I do not keep my strength." That wasn't exactly the truth but it might get them to understand his need a little better.
"What the hell is it asking?" Lord Calabresi demanded, striding over.
The doctor looked up. "For blood, my lord?"
"Is it?" Calabresi said, a cold sneer on his lips. He bent to pick up the pan of blood that had been taken from the ailing lord, raising it to Giorno's face.
The heady scent had his fangs returning in an instant, eyes turning red and pupils dilating. He leaned forward eagerly, only for Calabresi to backhand him across the face so hard he toppled out of the chair.
"You disgusting fiend!" he snarled and strode over to the window, throwing it open. "You won't get any blood until you've done anything at all to heal my father." He threw the pan out the window and Giorno watched it sail off in a crimson ribbon of blood.
He actually felt a whimper escape his throat at the waste and Calabresi stormed back over and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him out of the chair. "Get out of my sight." He threw him toward the door and Giorno slammed into the door frame face first, the sharp coppery scent of his own blood in the back of his nose. He retreated quickly, hurrying back to his room.
One of the footmen brought him a plate of food as he was returning.
"Here," he said.
Giorno spun and swatted it out of the young man's hand, baring his fangs as he staggered into his room.
The footman scrambled back, horror on his face.
Giorno slammed his door and collapsed onto the cot, covering his mouth and nose, burying his head under the tiny pillow in an attempt to not hear the heartbeats of anyone in the near vicinity. He breathed through his mouth slowly to calm himself until his fangs retracted and the bloodlust turned, once again, into just a gnawing hunger. But he didn't know how much longer he would be able to control himself and he was terrified.
Bucciarati watched as the police hauled the participants of an illegal auction out of the back of the gentleman's club they were holding it in. This had been the third bust they had orchestrated with the local law enforcement over the course of their investigation and yet there was still no sign of Nico Costa anywhere.
At least this auction had been nothing but Hunter's relics—no dhampirs. But still, the knowledge of so many auctions going on under his nose was sobering to say the least.
"Chief Inspector," Bruno called to the man who was standing off to one side, monitoring the bust. "Let me know if any of these men have information on a Nico Costa."
The man nodded and Bucciarati motioned to Abbacchio as they headed back towards headquarters.
"I think we need to consider a different approach," Abbacchio muttered as they got into the carriage. "I don't think he's in the city anymore."
"I have my network checking all ports and train stations. The problem is none of these auctions keep written records so there's no paper trail. Costa's literally the only one who knows where Giorno ended up."
"And what makes you think he'd talk even if we do find him?" Abbacchio asked. "Discretion is the number one rule in that game."
"And men like that are generally cowards and can be easily swayed with the right…persuasive measures," Bucciarati replied darkly, clenching his fists in his lap.
"Look, I'm always willing to beat on trash like that but I've seen how futile it is. They're the kind who think they can pay people off to forget things."
Bucciarati glanced across the carriage at his companion. "I'm actually very grateful to you for your help on this case, Leone. Especially considering your opinions."
Abbacchio grunted, cringing. "I'm working on my opinions," he muttered. "And just because I'm not hugely fond of fangs, doesn't mean I condone anyone selling dhampirs. I never did. It's despicable. Besides, whatever my opinion, Giorno is still part of our team and as such I'm not gonna let this slide. You shouldn't be surprised."
"I'm not," Bruno said sincerely, grateful for Abbacchio's continuous dedication.
When they got back, Mista and Narancia met them in the foyer, armed and dressed for a job.
"Did something come up?" Bucciarati asked.
"Formaggio called and said that an informant sighted Costa in Milan. Narancia and I were going to meet him and Ghiaccio at the station and head over there if that's okay with you, boss."
"Of course, go," Bucciarati said hurriedly. "We'll keep an eye out here to see if any new developments arise."
Mista and Narancia hurried off to the coach Bruno and Abbacchio just left and Bruno watched them leave with dark contemplation. He looked up at the rising moon and realized it must have been three weeks now since Giorno had eaten. He really hoped that whoever his captors were, they at least had the decency to feed him.
Giorno's dreams were full of flashes of blood and the crack of a belt. The sting on his back, and dark, cold spaces. He woke in a fevered sweat the next day as a knock was delivered on his door. He ached, sick to his stomach still. It had been so long since he'd gotten a fever due to not drinking any blood. It must have been because his constitution was destroyed from all the forced bleeding he'd endured. He certainly felt very weak and shaky that morning.
He dressed and accompanied the butler to the old Conte's room as he did every morning. The doctor once again sat him down and connected him by tubing to the sick man, draining yet more of Giorno's precious blood.
"We should know after this round whether this is working or not," the doctor informed Lord Calabresi and his mother as they stood by, watching as always.
Giorno felt the dangerous pull of blood loss, muddling his brain along with the fever. Clammy sweat broke out on his brow and he allowed his eyes to flutter shut, drifting for the moment so he could keep a hold of himself.
And then he realized he was actually swaying, too light-headed to stay upright another second. He collapsed to one side, tugging the tubing free with him.
"What the hell?! Get it up!" Lord Calabresi demanded.
Giorno felt someone's fingers press to his throat, feeling for his pulse. "The dhampir feels somewhat fevered, my lord," the doctor's voice trickled in.
Giorno tried to find the strength to push himself upright, but Lord Calabresi stomped over and drove his foot into Giorno's ribs. Then did the same to his stomach, sky-rocketing Giorno's nausea. He tried to curl up but Calabresi just kept slamming his foot into whatever part of Giorno he could reach.
"Get up, you little bastard! You think I'll allow this pathetic show? You're only here for one reason and that's to heal my damn father!"
"Um, my lord," the doctor cut in hesitantly. "If I may, dhampirs do require blood periodically to survive. I would suggest feeding him for optimum results regarding his blood."
"Damn it, just one thing after another," Calabresi muttered as he went to the door and shouted for some of the servants.
"I thought that Giovanelli was a bit heartier than the others," Contessa Calabresi sniffed.
"We don't know how long it was since he'd eaten, my lady," the doctor said. "It's possible he's just reaching his limit."
Giorno didn't have the energy to move as two footmen came in and hauled him to his feet, his already aching body protesting further with the beating.
"Put it in the cellars. Animals don't deserve beds," Calabresi snapped.
Giorno was dragged down into the cellars and pushed into what appeared to be an empty store room. The door was locked and he sank into a corner of the room, shivering and holding back moans from fever pains making his beaten body feel worse.
He glanced back up in shock as the door was opened again and Calabresi stood there, holding one of the maids by the arm. She shook, tears streaming down her face.
"My lord, please don't!" she pleaded.
"What are you doing?" Giorno demanded.
Calabresi wrenched the maid's arm out to one side and pulled a knife from his pocket, cutting across the palm of her hand as the shrieked.
Giorno's senses instantly lit up at the sudden smell of blood.
"You want blood, you abhorrent creature?" the young lord demanded. "Then feed." He shoved the maid into the room and slammed the door shut.
"Please, my lord, please don't!" the maid screamed, clawing at the door, before she turned around, sinking to the floor. "Please don't, I—I have a child!"
Giorno could smell her fear, hear how quickly her heart was pounding and it made him sick, the brief animalistic need at smelling the blood souring.
"Stay there," he snapped at her and she whimpered, cowering against the door. "Stay right there and don't come any closer. Cover your wound the best you can."
The maid continued to whimper out terrified sobs as she ripped her petticoat, hurriedly wrapping her bleeding hand. It made the sensation a little better, but Giorno was still digging his nails into his palms until they bled, trying to concentrate on anything else. Willing himself to sit there instead of flying across the room, sinking his teeth into that fluttering pulse-point…
He turned around and pressed himself into the corner, breathing heavily through his mouth as he pressed a hand against his nose. He could not allow himself to do that. Never once had he killed an innocent. Only those who deserved it. He couldn't allow Calabresi to turn him into the monster that the man thought he was.
Why do you think you're better? A cruel inner voice spoke up. What does it matter the kind of people you kill? You still kill them, drink their blood, driven by animalistic need.
Giorno swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't know how long he sat there, listening to the maid's quiet sobbing as she curled up by the door practically begging for escape. Her fear was so palpable it burned his nose. The last time he had smelled anything like that was from his mother. It had hurt him then to know she feared him so much. To smell that terror as he panicked in the dark closet she would lock him in, sick for the need of blood, never knowing when or if it would come. His begging and scratching at the door only driving her further away.
The hours stretched on and his body burned with fever, aching from sitting on the hard floor. The maid was shivering, hugging herself for warmth and Giorno finally remembered that it must be cold down here, even though he was burning up.
He shifted and finally pushed himself to his knees.
The maid's heartrate picked up again instantly and she gasped, pressing closer to the door.
"D-don't," she pleaded.
Giorno was silent but he tugged his jacket and waistcoat off, feeling slightly less suffocated as he tossed them to the maid.
"These will keep you warm," he muttered.
She seemed shocked, wide eyes staring at him in the dark, but gratefully snagged the coat and wrapped it around her before resuming her huddle in the corner.
Eventually, she seemed to pass out from pure exhaustion sometime during the night, but Giorno didn't. He stared at her, drifting in his fevered state, thinking about how easy it would be to cross the room, drink her blood, and be done with it.
It wasn't until hours later that he realized he had bitten through his bottom lip with his own fangs, fingernails creating bloody crescents on his upper arms where he had locked himself into position.
He slowly shifted, gasping breathlessly as he untucked his bottom lip from his teeth, feeling the crack of dried blood as he forcibly retracted his fangs.
He hadn't felt this lack of control in years. Not even when he had been extremely hungry before. He had always pushed himself to track down a deserving victim, and if that failed then some hapless animal he tried not to steal from anyone who couldn't spare it.
Was he really slipping? What was he going to do if this maid was the only option Lord Calabresi offered him?
Perhaps he could convince her to give him a little blood, but in this current state, he honestly didn't fully trust himself to be able to stop.
Both of them were startled when the door opened and the maid gratefully scrambled through it, startling the butler and Lord Calabresi who stood on the other side with several rougher looking men who Giorno thought he recognized as the groundskeepers.
"What the hell is this?" Calabresi snapped, looming toward Giorno. "I thought you were hungry. You refuse the meal I offer you?"
Giorno stared up to meet his eyes. "I refuse to drink the blood of innocents. My Lord."
Lord Calabresi's face turned furious. "You little shit! Bad little monsters who don't eat the supper their masters graciously provide deserve a thrashing!"
He snapped his fingers to the burley men who strode forward and grabbed hold of Giorno.
"Graciously provided, you say?" Giorno couldn't help but add. "Is that what you call gambling with someone else's life? A servant no less, someone who should be under your protection. But maybe gambling is a little pastime of yours, hm? Is that why you're so eager for your father's will to be changed in your favor? Too many accrued debts, perhaps?"
He knew he had gone too far, but it felt so good to finally say what he had been thinking this whole time.
Calabresi's face went bright red in fury.
"I'll have the skin off your back for that, fang!" he screamed.
Giorno was hauled out into the cellar and shoved face-first against the wall. Silver manacles were put around his wrists, locking him to a loop built into the wall that kept his arms raised slightly above his head.
One of the men handed Calabresi a coiled whip and Giorno's stomach sank, raw terror washing through him.
"I've used this on your kind before," the man said, uncoiling the leather tail. "It's made specifically for dhampirs, silver-tipped and with silver threads woven into the leather braiding. I want to make sure you'll actually feel this."
The first blow cracked through the air and cut across Giorno's back. He flinched with a sharp cry, the burning sting and trickle of blood down his skin bringing back so many memories he tried so hard to suppress. Memories he thought he had come to terms with as a part of his past life only. All of them resurfacing the second the lash touched his skin.
Calabresi swung the whip with fury, more often than not causing the leather to wrap around Giorno and tear at his ribs and stomach and sometimes his neck. The white shirt he had been wearing was being torn to pieces and he could only imagine how much it was being stained red now.
Giorno squeezed his eyes shut, the crack of the whip turning into verbal blows that he had heard over and over as a child, digging deeper than any lash ever could:
You're just a monster
You should have been drowned at birth
Don't look at me, you little freak!
I regret keeping you every day
Take it, you little shit! What do you say?
Absolutely vile
The stinging finally stopped and Giorno sagged in the restraints, listening to Calabresi panting. He stepped forward and shoved Giorno flat against the wall, pulling apart the gaps in his shirt.
"Well, would you look at that. It already has scars on its back. Not at all surprising. Did you mouth off to your previous master too?"
Giorno didn't reply, there would be no point in it. He was woozy and light-headed and everything was crashing around him at once.
"Put it back in the cell. I might give it another chance at eating later if I see any improvement in my father's condition."
Giorno was unlocked from the wall, but the cuffs were left around his wrists as the large men each grabbed an arm and pulled him back.
That was when Giorno made his move, slamming his elbow back into one man's solar plexus and his heel into the other man's knee.
They both staggered with a cry of shock and Giorno was already on Calabresi, bearing him to the ground, eyes red and fangs out, saliva dripping from his mouth.
"Guards!" Calabresi snapped, bucking under Giorno, but the dhampir simply held him down, fury and need giving him strength.
"I said I don't feed on the innocent, but I have drained countless men like you," he growled. "The kind that the world would do better without. I am a monster, but only to those who deserve to die under the fangs of something inhuman."
"Get it off me!" Calabresi screamed as Giorno leaned down.
His fangs barely grazed the man's throat before a silver chain wrapped around his neck and he was hauled back.
He hissed and fought, but the burn of holy water splashed over him and he cried out, going to his knees before the men pulled out clubs and began to beat him mercilessly.
Giorno finally lay still, unable to move another inch, bloody and bruised, sure that some of his ribs were now broken.
"Chain it up!"
Silver manacles were locked around Giorno's ankles as well and attached to his hands so he didn't have a large range of motion. He was hauled up and thrown back into the cellar room, lying on the hard, stone floor in agony.
Calabresi stood over him with wild eyes, hand placed over his throat where Giorno had nearly gotten his fangs in him. "Let that be a lesson, fang, that your kind only exist to be used by their betters. You don't get to dictate how you feed. You live under my orders and I can kill you whenever I wish, just like the other dhampirs who failed to be useful to me. You had better hope that your blood does something for the old bastard because if it doesn't, you'll be joining them shortly."
He slammed the door and Giorno lay there, starving, aching, and very briefly wishing that Calabresi might have actually done him in so he would be spared the suffering.
He drifted in a fevered, half asleep state, memories muddling together until his mind settled on one particular one. One that he held onto, grasping like a lifeline.
He'd made a mistake, and he knew it. He shouldn't have gone through known ghoul territory this late at night but he had been more scared of being seen by his stepfather and his friends at the public house than he was of crossing through a graveyard.
But he regretted it when the ghouls caught him, three of them, roughing him up a bit, slamming his face into the wall to stun him before poking and prodding him with dirty fingers.
"A bit skinny, but a decent enough meal."
"You had better share! I'm starving!"
"Let me go!" Giorno pleaded, trying to pull away, but the ghouls' claws tore through his clothes and flesh, holding him tightly, making him feel utterly helpless.
It was then that he showed up. A dark figure in a hat and long coat, wielding a gun and a blade, showing up out of the fog like the grim reaper.
Giorno knew what he was even before the ghouls started screaming. A Hunter.
Giorno watched, rapt and terrified as the man cut through the ghouls, finishing the last one with a headshot.
Giorno staggered back against the wall, sure he was next. He knew Hunters killed things like him. He doubted he would garner any mercy.
"Are you all right?"
Giorno stared in shock, not realizing the man was speaking to him at first.
"I-I'm sorry?" he squeaked.
"Are you all right?" the man repeated.
Giorno was about to attempt a reply when the whole graveyard seemed to come to life. Ghouls appeared from behind gravestones, rusty knives and cudgels glinting in the moonlight.
He pointed shakily. "Th-there's more!"
The Hunter turned briefly, before he stepped forward and grabbed Giorno's shoulder, pushing him. "Run, boy. Run and hide, and do not come out until you can't hear anything anymore."
Giorno, terrified, didn't know what else to do but obey. He fled, finding a spot away from the fighting and crouched down behind a large family gravesite, underneath the watchful eye of a statue of St. Michael. He covered his ears against the inhuman shrieks, eyes squeezed shut.
By the time all the sounds of fighting ceased, he crept cautiously from his hiding spot and looked around.
The bodies of ghouls were strewn everywhere, but he couldn't see the Hunter.
Until he finally found him slumped against one of the gravestones, bleeding heavily from bites and clawmarks, and what looked to be a couple stab-wounds. One in his chest was bleeding rather badly and Giorno hurried forward, eyes wide in horror.
"Signore! Signore, please. Please be all right," he pleaded. His hands were scraped raw, but he pressed them over the man's wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His nose dripped and he cringed in silent apology as drops of his own blood fell onto the man's wound.
And to his shock, the wound started to close, slowing the blood flow. Shocked, Giorno pulled his hands away. Had he really just seen that? How had he been able to do that?
Curious, he took a knife from the man's belt and cut his palm, pressing it to the man's wound. He pulled it back after a couple minutes and saw that by some miracle it really was healing!
The man groaned and Giorno pulled back, breath catching in his throat, only to find that his wrist was caught in the Hunter's large hand.
The man stared at the cut on Giorno's palm before he looked up to meet his eyes.
"You have quite the gift, little one," he said with a kindness and respect Giorno had never heard from anyone. Had never expected to, least of all from a Hunter. "Be careful who you share it with. There are a lot of people who would abuse your gift for their own purposes."
Giorno had nodded jerkily as figures could be seen hurrying across the graveyard, calling out.
The Hunter released him. "Those are my teammates. I'll be fine, ragazzo. Run along home now."
Giorno did as he said, feeling something he had never felt before well up in his chest. A realization, perhaps, that he wasn't just a monster. That he too could do some good for the world.
The man had appeared periodically as Giorno got older, a shadow tipping his hat to the young dhampir, keeping an eye on him. It had been his fairness that had led Giorno to the thought that he wanted to become a Hunter one day. He had previously been told they were nothing but mindless killers who took joy in destroying all supernatural creatures. But in reality, Hunters showed a sense of justice few others in the world did and Giorno aspired to that justice as well.
"Have I failed?" he whispered to himself as he lay there shivering in that cellar. He had tried so hard since that night to never do anything he thought would make that Hunter disappointed in him. But maybe he had been foolish all along. After all, one's true nature would always come out, especially if they were too weak to fight it. Perhaps he had just finally reached his breaking point where he showed his true colors and became the monster he was always supposed to be.
After confirming with the police the day after the latest bust that none of the people running the auction or participating in it knew who Nico Costa was—or at least weren't willing to say—Bucciarati returned to the Hunter's manor, frustration bubbling up. If the tip Mista and Narancia had gone to check out turned out to be nothing or Costa refused to talk they were right back where they started.
He headed to the office with a cup of tea for Fugo and found the young man pouring over papers.
"There was no good information from the bust last night," he said.
Fugo glanced up. "Well, I might have found something, actually." He shuffled papers around as Bruno set his tea down and took a seat across the desk. "I started looking into noble families that might have reason to buy a dhampir with Giorno's abilities. Cross-checking that with families likely to have connections or the lack of scruples to make purchases at black market auctions, I found the Calabresi family."
Bruno took the sheet of information Fugo handed him, glancing through it.
"It says that Conte Calabresi is ill and the son is currently running the family estate," Bruno murmured. "Ottavio Calabresi is known to be bit of a wastrel, frequenting the gambling houses and accruing debts." He frowned. "But if he wants his father's money why not let him die?"
"Because the Conte probably cut him out of the will when he wouldn't stop gambling," Fugo snorted. "Trust me, will manipulation is rampant among the upper classes. You wouldn't believe the lengths people go to for it. There's also this to back up my theory." He handed over a records book. "This was sent over from the previous auction bust. Apparently they did keep a book. And three months ago, Calabresi bought another dhampir from them."
Bruno stared at the list, fury rising. "You think he's looking for someone to cure his father."
"I do, though he probably doesn't know that dhampirs with healing abilities don't usually have the ability to cure sickness."
"Three months ago, you said?" Bruno murmured, worry gnawing at him again. "That's quite the turnover."
"He's the kind of man who would run an expensive horse into the ground just because it didn't satisfy him," Fugo said in disgust. "I doubt any dhampirs he acquired were well-treated. Which makes me even more anxious to get Giorno out of there."
Bruno nodded but they were interrupted by the phone at his desk ringing. He went to answer it. "Bucciarati."
"It's Mista," the reply came and Bucciarati narrowed his eyes as he heard the sounds of muffled screaming in the background. "We found Costa and managed to actually get the info out of him. Giorno was bought by an Ottavio Calabresi."
"We just found out," Bruno said. "Thank you, Mista. If there's anything left of him, bring him back to stand trial for his crimes."
"Will do, boss."
Bruno put the phone down, already on the move, heading toward the stairs. "That was our confirmation. Let's go. Abbacchio!"
They raced out to the carriage and made their way to the Calabresi estate on the far side of town.
"What's our plan of action?" Abbacchio asked.
"We can't afford casualties," Bruno said, a slight growl escaping his voice. "But we don't leave without Giorno."
"Fair enough," Abbacchio said.
Once they got to the mansion, they were greeted by footmen as soon as Bucciarati and the others stepped out of the carriage.
"Excuse me, signori, but what business do you have here?" one asked.
Bruno pulled out his hunting credentials. "Hunter's business with the Lord Calabresi."
The men gave disapproving looks but showed them in.
"Please wait here."
Bruno tried not to let his agitation show as he tapped his foot impatiently. Fugo looked uncomfortable, arms folded over his chest and Abbacchio looked like he was about ready to start breaking down doors if they had to wait another second.
However, soon enough a young man with what Bruno could only describe as a punchable face, sauntered up with a haughty look.
"Yes? How may I help you?"
"Are you Signore Ottavio Calabresi?" Bruno asked.
"Lord Calabresi," the man correctly firmly. "My father, the Conte, is ill and no longer able to run the estate." He looked them up and down. "May I ask what reason Hunters have to be in my house?"
"Lord Calabresi, I regret to inform you that the dhampir you recently acquired was sold to you by mistake and I would ask that you return Giorno Giovanna to me immediately."
Calabresi scoffed. "Immediately? Are you the thing's previous master then? What, did you leave it's cage open and have it run off?"
Bruno ground his teeth, forcing himself to stay civil. "He is a registered Hunter under Capitano Polpo's jurisdiction. I am his boss, not his master. He does not belong to anyone but himself."
"I received no such documentation when I bought it," Calabresi said, waving them away. "Therefore, it rightfully belongs to me now."
"Actually, that is not true in this case," Fugo said, stepping forward. "You are correct, normally, a dhampir would have little chance of winning such a case, however, Hunters are a neutral party in Italy. The law dictates that Hunters have authority in all cases involving the supernatural no matter prince or pauper. Giorno Giovanna is a free man by order of the law and you have no right to keep him here."
"If you would like to make an argument for it, we can arrange a court meeting with the Hunting captains," Bruno added darkly. "But I warn you: a civilian has never won a case against our people unless it was a matter of public safety. And I don't think that counts in this case, do you?"
The man snarled, fuming, then finally threw up his hands. "Fine, take the beast out of here. It's worthless anyway and more trouble than it should be."
"Bring him here then," Bruno demanded.
"Go get your little blood-sucking pet yourself. It's in the cellar." He called for the footmen and instructed them to show Bucciarati and the others the way. "Then get the hell out of my house."
As they hurried through the house and down into the cellar, Abbacchio was shaking his head.
"Tell me I didn't sound like that piece of shit," he muttered. "Because if I did I'll punch my own teeth out."
"You were never quite that bad," Fugo replied blandly.
Bucciarati felt the tension rise in him as they made it to the cellar and the footmen started to unlock a storage room door.
He didn't really know what he was going to find on the other side. He was sure it would be infuriating, but he was downright horrified by the picture that greeted him.
Giorno lay on his side, chained hand and foot. His shirt was no longer white, and torn to bits, face bloody and bruised.
"My god," Bruno gasped as Abbacchio and Fugo swore under their breath. "Giorno!" He made to rush inside but Giorno's eyes flew open, a desperate look on his face.
"Don't," he hissed. "D-don't come any closer."
Bruno halted, hands out as he crouched down, making himself less threatening. "Giorno, it's me. We've come to get you out of here."
"I know it's you, Bucciarati," Giorno croaked, agony in his eyes. "That's why you can't come any closer to me. Please."
"What the hell's wrong? We came to get you out of this shithole," Abbacchio called.
"Just stay back!" Giorno shouted then, pushing himself up onto elbows and knees, burying his face between his wrists, clenching his hands in his hair.
"He's starving," Fugo said then, disgust and horror obvious in his voice. "That bastard has been starving you, hasn't he, Giorno?"
Giorno let out a whimper, nodding jerkily. "Please…all of you…your blood. It's too loud, and it smells..." A hard swallow. "If you get too close I don't think…I'll be able to stop myself."
Abbacchio and Fugo instantly stepped back and Abbacchio grabbed Bruno's shoulder, trying to haul him with them.
"No," Bruno snapped, shaking him off. "Giorno, it's all right. I trust you."
"I don't!" Giorno snapped, and his eyes came up, red and dilated, fangs wet and glistening between his parted lips.
But Bruno stood firm. "Then let me give you some of my blood now. Enough to take the edge off—"
"No. You don't understand," Giorno growled. "If any one of you spills a drop of blood in here now, I will kill you. I am starving and injured and I am quickly losing myself. So please. Just go. I'll follow you out, just make sure no one gets in my way."
"Bruno!" Abbacchio snapped finally yanking him backwards. "Listen to him. You're literally just torturing him right now. Dangling yourself like a…juicy steak."
Bruno snapped himself out of his need to offer his newest recruit aid, admittedly not having considered that. He turned to the footman. "Give me the key to his manacles and then tell the staff to clear a path to the door."
The footman tossed him the keys and got out of there.
"Here," Bruno said, about to toss them to Giorno.
"No, I'll…I'll keep them on," Giorno said firmly. "Now go!"
"You heard him," Abbacchio muttered, shoving Bruno and Fugo ahead of him as they made their way up from the cellar.
Bruno glanced back to see Giorno slowly shuffling out of the cell, making his way after them with an agonized wince.
They waited outside by the carriage for Giorno's slow movements to catch up as he made his way out the door, wincing in the light.
"We'll sit up top, you can get inside," Bruno called to him.
Giorno nodded, attempting to get up the step into the carriage. His foot missed, clumsy with the manacles around his ankles, and he staggered to his knees.
Bruno instinctively reached forward to help him, but Giorno's head snapped up, fangs out, a purely animalistic look in his eye.
"Back!" Abbacchio snapped, shoving his crucifix toward Giorno as he got between him and Bruno.
Giorno cringed backward.
"Abbacchio!" Bruno snapped. "That was uncalled for."
"It's not," Giorno insisted quietly as he crawled into the carriage. "I'm not myself right now."
He curled onto the floor of the carriage and Bucciarati's heart ached as he shut the dhampir inside, climbing up to the driver's bench with Fugo and Abbacchio.
It was a long trip back, All the while Bruno wishing he could do more, but realistically he knew how bad it could get to starve a dhampir or vampire. It was just harder to accept that when it was someone he knew so well.
Once they got back, Bucciarati saw that Mista and Narancia had just returned, and they came running out as they pulled up.
"Did you get him?" Narancia demanded.
"Yes, but stay back, he's not well," Bruno told them sincerely.
"What do you mean?" Mista demanded, already stepping toward the carriage door, about to open it before Giorno shouted from inside.
"Mista, stay back, dammit!"
Mista pulled back, hands up. "You shy, man?"
"You smell like a walking steak," Giorno growled.
Mista paled and scooted further back. "Alright, don't know whether to be flattered or terrified." He gave a nervous laugh.
Bucciarati jumped off the carriage and waved all of them away. "Go inside. We need to get Giorno some blood now."
"I'm on it," Narancia said and headed inside with Fugo, Mista trailing behind.
Abbacchio grabbed Bruno's shoulder and pulled him after them as Giorno started to make his way out of the carriage.
"Would you like to stay in the infirmary, Giorno?" Bruno asked him, hovering to one side of the foyer as the dhampir entered. "None of us will come in until you have had enough blood to be comfortable with us being around."
Giorno simply shook his head and started heading toward the stairs that led to the cellar. "Not safe enough. You have to lock me up."
"Giorno, come on man," Mista said sadly as he hovered at Bucciarati's shoulder.
"Would you rather I eat you?" Giorno snapped, swaying on his feet and doubling over slightly as if experiencing stomach cramps. "Abbacchio!"
The goth eyed him warily but he nodded. "Go. I'll lock you up in the holding cell."
"Abbacchio, he's our teammate," Bruno said helplessly. "We can't just…"
"Yes, we can, and you need to give the kid some space, okay? He knows what he needs."
He followed Giorno's slow shuffle down into the basement and Bucciarati trailed after, not knowing what to do about this.
Giorno made it to the cell and shut the door behind him before sitting with his back pressed into a corner, his shirt up over his face.
Abbacchio grabbed the keys and locked the door firmly before pocketing them.
"Thank you, Abbacchio," Giorno said gratefully.
"Is there anything else we can get you besides blood?" Bruno asked.
"A clean shirt," Giorno said firmly.
Bruno pressed his lips together, reaching into his pocket for the key to the manacles. "I assume you can unlock yourself now."
"I'd rather you keep that until I've had enough to drink," Giorno cut in.
Bruno huffed, glancing up as Narancia and Fugo came down with several bags of blood.
"We warmed them so they'd be nicer to eat," Narancia told him kindly.
Abbacchio snatched the blood from them and went over to put it through the bars.
Giorno didn't make a move to grab them like Bruno thought he would. "The shirt too, please?"
"We'll get it," Bruno assured him.
"Thank you, now, please, with all respect, leave me alone?"
Bruno tried to refrain from giving a frustrated sigh, but Abbacchio gripped his shoulder and practically pushed him back upstairs.
"You don't have to be so cold to him," Bruno said in a low voice to Abbacchio as the others left. "He's suffering."
"And your attempt at coddling is making it worse," Abbacchio said, then sighed. "I know it hurts to see him like that—not even I'm immune, trust me. If I had that Lord Calabresi bastard in front of me right now I'd rearrange his face. But what Giorno really needs right now is space. Let him be reassured that he won't fly into a blood rage and kill his comrades. The guilt of that would far outweigh any physical pain he's in right now."
Bruno sagged, running a hand over his face. "You're right."
"Now give him a few minutes to drink without anyone watching, then you can take him his shirt—don't know what good that's gonna do him, but whatever."
Bruno did as the other Hunter suggested and waited, making himself a cup of tea and drinking half of it before he went to fetch Giorno's shirt and take it down to him.
When he got there, he found Giorno still sitting in the corner of the cell, the blood un-touched.
"Giorno?" he called.
The dhampir looked up sharply, startled.
"I have the shirt," he said, holding up the fresh garment and crouching to place it inside the cell.
"Thanks," Giorno murmured.
"You haven't drunk the blood yet," Bruno frowned.
"I'll…drink it later."
"What's wrong?" Bruno demanded, knowing there was something underlying in Giorno's tone.
Giorno just shook his head, refusing to look at him.
Bruno exhaled slowly and straightened up. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Giorno shook his head again.
"Alright. Call if you need anything."
He headed back upstairs and found Abbacchio in the armory putting away his weapons.
"Giorno's not drinking the blood."
Abbacchio's face instantly turned from questioning to furious. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered as he headed out of the armory.
"Abbacchio, do not harass him!" Bucciarati commanded.
But Abbacchio was already gone, heading back into the cellar.
Giorno finally peeled himself away from the wall as Bucciarati left and shakily reached for his clean shirt. One without tears all through the back that would show off his scars.
But it was only then he realized that he was still manacled hand and foot and could not, in fact, change his shirt.
Sighing in annoyance, he pressed himself back into the corner, trying to breathe through the painful cravings he was having.
He didn't know why he couldn't stand the thought of drinking the blood in that moment. It was just that whenever he caught a scent of it, if he looked at it out of the corner of his eye, he could only see the maid lying terrified in the dark, fear tainting the scent of her blood, the sharp scent memory caught in his nose now and no matter how hungry he was, the thought of drinking those bags of blood turned his stomach.
He heard the door to the basement swing open again and footsteps stomping downward. He was somewhat surprised to see Abbacchio appear, fury on his face.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "You're practically feral for blood but the second you get some without the risk of killing someone to feed, you refuse to drink it?"
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Giorno said.
"Understand what?" Abbacchio demanded, black lips twisted in fury as he jabbed a finger toward Giorno. "I may not know what kind of shit went down in that gilded hellhole, but you think starving yourself will change anything? Do you think it's magically gonna change what you are? Because here's the truth, idiot, none of us get to change what we are, we can only strive to be the better versions of ourselves—Congratulations, that's the human experience. All you're doing here with your stupid little self-righteous act is hurting yourself and the people who care about you. I'm sorry you had some kind of shitty self-realization while you were kidnapped, but you are a monster. You know that. I'm a monster. We're all monsters if you look at it one way or another, so get over it!"
Giorno stared at him, stunned. It wasn't exactly the most eloquent way to put it, but…he had to admit there was a point to his words.
"Now stop being a baby and drink the damn blood," Abbacchio snapped. "I won't be able to keep Bucciarati out of here forever—he's practically frothing at the bit to tend to your injuries so take a minute to feed yourself so you can function around anything with a pulse."
He turned around then and headed back upstairs. Giorno just watched him go, sitting there for a long moment. Abbacchio's words had been the first thing that had truly gotten through his fever fog and in all honestly, he was genuinely grateful to the other Hunter for that.
He shifted slowly, and reached toward the blood. It was a nice temperature, not that it would have mattered at the moment, but it had been a kind thought from Narancia to warm the blood for him.
His hands shook so much he couldn't open the bag, so he simply brought it to his mouth and sank his fangs in with one swift movement.
Relief flooded through him as he felt the first wash of blood hit his tongue, swallowing it down greedily. He whimpered as his empty stomach cramped violently, but after the first bag the nausea started to subside and by the second his head began to clear. The third one, he was able to drink slower and by the time he was done, he finally felt more like himself again.
He curled on his side, stomach full and body heavy. He was more aware of the pain now, the burning sensation of the silver chains around him, but he felt satisfied, tired. No longer ravenous for blood.
He was drifting off as Bucciarati appeared with a kind look, a blanket and cup of tea in hand.
"Well, I'm glad to see you've eaten now. Feeling better?"
Giorno hummed. "A little. I…at least feel like I can control myself now."
"Well, if that's the case, then please allow me to take those cuffs off? They must be burning you quite badly."
Giorno hesitated, but as he watched Bucciarati waiting for his cue, he didn't feel the same uncontrollable urge as he had before at the Calabresi mansion. He just felt normal, if not very tired, and in honestly quite a bit of pain.
"Alright," he said.
"May I come in then?" Bruno asked.
Giorno nodded and the man unlocked the door before he crouched beside Giorno and started to carefully unlock his wrists and ankles. Giorno hissed, cringing at the red rings around each wrist and ankle.
"We'll put a salve on those," he said. "If you're feeling up to it, might I suggest the infirmary as a more comfortable place to rest?"
Giorno hesitated but the thought of an actual bed was too tempting to pass up and he nodded, pushing himself upright.
He still flinched as Bucciarati reached out to help him, and though the man looked slightly pained, he pulled away respectfully. "I'll take this tea up there then. You can get cleaned up there too. Can you make it on your own?"
Giorno nodded.
Bucciarati grabbed the shirt he'd brought Giorno earlier without a comment as he made his way back upstairs.
Giorno was slow, having to stop to lean against the wall. He might have been better off with asking for Bucciarati's help, but he knew he would have to accept help with something much more difficult once he got there and relished this small amount of autonomy even if his body protested.
By the time he stumbled into the infirmary, Bucciarati had turned down the sheets of one of the comfortable infirmary cots and set out some medical supplies. Giorno felt a brief moment of sickness, but there were no needles and scalpels and tubing here. Just bandages and salves.
Bucciarati walked over to the bed with a pitcher of steaming water that he poured into a bowl. "Sit down before you fall, Giorno," he said gently.
Giorno sank onto the side of the cot, hands clenched in his lap. He hadn't felt this vulnerable for a long time and he hated it.
"Is it okay if I take a look at your injuries?" Bruno asked then. "I'm only afraid that they might be a bit difficult for you to tend yourself and I wouldn't want any of them to get infected."
Giorno wanted to protest, but at the same time, the fact that Bucciarati was still willing to be this close to him, to touch him, after what he had just seen was a testament to the Hunter and he couldn't quite bring himself to tell him no.
Besides, out of all of them, Bucciarati had already seen his scars. It wasn't like it was anything new.
He clumsily removed his ruined shirt, pulling it over his head, wincing as parts of it stuck to the dried blood on his back.
Bucciarati's eyes hardened as he took in Giorno's condition fully, not just the lash marks but the various burns and the heavy bruising blossoming across his body.
"Cracked ribs?" he asked knowingly, glancing at Giorno's side where deep purple bruising was showing.
Giorno nodded. "I think so."
Bucciarati wet a cloth in the heated water and went around behind Giorno, reaching out to lightly touch his shoulder with his fingertips before he started on his injuries. "I'm just going to clean your back to start," he said kindly.
Giorno hunched, hands clenched between his knees. Bucciarati set to the task dutifully, cleaning each wound with care.
"I…apologize for earlier," Giorno finally said.
"You don't have anything to apologize for," Bucciarati told him. "That bastard deliberately starved you. It was a natural reaction."
"I almost killed him," Giorno said then, almost to himself. "I had him for a brief moment and I don't think I would have felt bad if I had done it."
Bucciarati didn't reply, but he continued steadily tending to Giorno's injuries and suddenly the dhampir felt like he needed to confess his crimes.
"He tried to feed me one of the maids," he said in disgust. "Locked her in the cell with me overnight. She was…terrified."
"But you didn't feed on her," Bucciarati said.
"No, but…I wanted to. All I could think about was the smell of her blood, about how easy she would be to kill." He choked slightly and clenched his hands tighter. "I don't like feeling like that, I don't like losing control. I never want to feel like that again."
Bucciarati came back around to face him, setting aside the bloody cloth for a clean one that he poured some medication on. "Giorno, we have all been scared of ourselves at some point. That is a fact of life. But I can see the sense of justice in you. The fact that you didn't kill the maid even though you were starving, tells me everything I need to know about you."
"And what if I am ever in the position again where I am forced to lose control?" Giorno demanded, the fear manifesting in his voice despite his best efforts.
"Then we will all be here to make sure that you don't do anything you regret," Bucciarati said simply. "We're a team, that's what we do for each other."
Giorno's hands loosened slightly. He was silent as Bucciarati finished with his back and cleaned the rest of his injuries, wrapping bandages around his torso before he rubbed some salve into the burns on his wrists and ankles and wrapped those as well.
"You should try to rest," he told Giorno when he was done, turning to clean up the medical supplies. "I'm sure it's been a while since you got any decent sleep."
Giorno sagged, and dutifully lay down on the cot, curling onto his side. "Thank you, Bucciarati. For everything," he said.
The Hunter offered him a soft smile. "There's really no need to thank me, Giorno." He pulled the blankets over the dhampir, squeezing his shoulder briefly before he pulled back. "Sleep for now, and if you feel up to it, you can join us for dinner later. I'll have the cook make something easy on your stomach."
Giorno hummed, his eyes already sliding shut, unable to deny his exhaustion now that he had a belly full of blood and the comfort of knowing he could trust the people around him.
When he did wake later and hesitantly headed down to join the others for dinner, he was met with happy greetings and well-wishes, everyone making sure he had what he needed. It warmed his heart, and made him feel a little less like a monster and a little more like part of a family.