"Do you think the Ancient Romans did backflips?"

"What the-"

Fugo choked on his black coffee, hastily placing down his cup to beat his fist against his chest. Once his throat was clear – and rather dry due to the rough coughing – he voiced his confusion.

"Mista, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Hey, could you let me finish first?" Mista asked nonchalantly, unbothered by Fugo's outburst.

The blonde glanced at Narancia, watching Mista with eager, innocent eyes. The question genuinely interested him, and he appeared to ponder it like an intellectual. Perhaps it was the most scholarly question he had ever encountered. That possibility would not be surprising, considering that the highest education he received was whatever simple concepts were taught in grade three.

Wait, why wasn't Abbacchio saying anything? Such a strange question should have elicited a groan or grumble. He would voice a complaint at the team's idiocy and direct the conversation elsewhere.

Guess it was Fugo's turn to lead the team. Surely there was no harm in humoring Mista.

"Alright," Fugo said with a sigh. "You can continue."

"Okay, so," resumed Mista, taking a deep breath to prepare himself. "Did they think it was cool?"

"THAT WAS YOUR FOLLOW-UP?"

"Hey! It's a valid question!"

"Didn't the Romans invent alotta stuff?" Narancia questioned, ignoring the huffing and puffing of Fugo. "Maybe backflips were one of them?"

"Well, we don't know who invented backflips, do we?" snarled Fugo. "So it's pointless to ponder about shit like this."

"The fuck you mean it's 'pointless'?" responded Mista, placing his hand on his chest in offense. "What, are open discussions illegal now?"

"You told me the other day that I should start studyin' again," Narancia said while facing Fugo. "And now you're stoppin' me from learning about history. You're such a fuckin' extrovert."

"The word you're looking for is hypocrite, Narancia. How you confused that with extrovert is beyond me. This is why you need an education."

"I just told you that you're puttin' me down for learnin' stuff!"

"Because you're proudly wrong! Ugh! Abbacchio, can you please join the conversation and back me up?"

Fugo turned to face Abbacchio, but the tall, imposing man was not in view. He frantically looked back and forth until his eyes finally caught Abbacchio. His head laid on the table, deep purple bags under his closed eyes. Fugo always considered Abbacchio's appearance as a bit frightening; a pale face with glaring, sunset eyes and dark-colored lipstick was not the most welcoming of portrayals.

"Is he dead?" asked Mista, eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Of course not!" Fugo shot back. "He's just sleeping. Narancia, I can see you tearing up. You can stop with that. Abbacchio is fine."

"He was awake just fine when I got here. Is he always like this?"

"He's grumpy in the morning," Narancia said with a sniffle. "But he looks awful. Does he have a pulse?"

"Oh my god, Narancia, I can see him breathing. Just because he looks like shit doesn't mean he's dead."

"Why are you so loud?" Bucciarati questioned as he approached the table. "The other patrons were staring at you all. Can't you give Libeccio some resp– Oh god, what's wrong with Abbacchio?"

Narancia ran to Bucciarati, frantically grabbing his collar and blinking back tears.

"Abbacchio might be dead! Please check him for a pulse, Bucciarati. Please!"

Bucciarati responded with a heavy sigh. He rustled Narancia's hair to comfort him, and hopefully get him to let go of his collar. It was likely causing quite the scene.

"I can see him breathing, Narancia," Bucciarati softly spoke. "He will be alright, even if things are unpleasant for him right now."

"Are you sure he's fine?" questioned Mista, scratching the back of his head. "I really didn't notice earlier, but he looks like shit."

"Don't worry, Mista. Abbacchio will get himself out of whatever slump he's in."

Truthfully, a pit of worry was in his stomach. Bucciarati had witnessed several moments of exhaustion firsthand. Spending nights soothing a screaming bundle proved to interrupt his once steady sleep schedule. It was not surprising to walk into Libeccio and see Abbacchio with his head lazily laid on their table, blinking away the bodily desire to regain the necessary hours of slumber.

But the purple under his eyes had never been so deep. Even the loud noises only an earshot away could not wake him.

Something was wrong.

"I'll check in with him at the end of the day," Bucciarati said while placing his hands on Narancia's shoulders. "I would wait and ask him now, but we have urgent work to do.

"Mista, Fugo, you're with me today. Narancia, you'll be with Abbacchio, and so you have to wake him up. Once he's awake, he will inform you of your tasks today."

"What?" Narancia questioned with a shriek. "Why do I gotta do it? What if he stabs me?"

"Stab you? Why would he… why do you think he would do that?"

"He's said it before to get me to shut up. The stabbin' instinct is in his eyes. Can't you do it before you go? He wouldn't stab you."

"I'm sorry, Narancia, but time is of utmost urgency right now. Mista and Fugo, we leave now."

"Huh? Now?" questioned Mista. "Well, if you say so. Lead the way."

The three began exiting the restaurant. Fugo directed a small wave of goodbye as Narancia started panting.

"Wait! Please! Don't go yet!"

The rest seemingly did not hear Narancia, but that was unlikely since he was yelling and earning captious stares from the patrons. They were ignoring him. Fugo even moved the topic of conversation by commenting: "We need to stop having such strange chats in the morning."

Narancia turned to look at Abbacchio, still asleep and unaware of his surroundings. Well, best to get this over with.

"Aabbaachioooooo…" Narancia whispered while poking the grey-haired man's cheek. "Abbacchio, please wake up. We gotta get to work. Oh, god, maybe you really are dead."

Akin to a miracle, Abbacchio's face scrunched up in response to the poking.

"You're alive!" excitedly exclaimed Narancia.

Abbacchio groaned and grumbled, his head relaxing on the table once again.

"Wait, no! Please wake up! Are you a zombie? Please don't be a zombie."

"Mmm… Lili… you need to sleep…" Abbacchio hazily mumbled, his eyes beginning to flutter open. "If you don't sleep… then papa doesn't sleep… please… Huh?"

Abbacchio stood up straight in a matter of seconds, eyes opened wide. A surprised Narancia retracted with a scared squeak. He fell to the ground while continuing to stare at the older man despite the fear growing in his gut.

"Where is everyone?" Abbacchio questioned, now acutely aware of his surroundings. "Why are you on the floor? And what the fuck are you looking at me like that for?"

"I, uhh, I thought you were dead," shakily explained Narancia as he stood up and feigned a brave face by puffing up his cheeks and putting his hands on his hips; his bluffing skills needed serious practice. "And then I thought you were a zombie. It's all good though now that you're awake! You… you aren't really a zombie, right?"

Abbacchio tilted his head, squinting his eyes at Narancia with a neutral expression, seemingly analyzing him.

"You're so fucking stupid."

"Great! You are alive!"

The fright left Narancia's body in an instant. He hurriedly approached Abbacchio and wrapped his arm around his shoulders like they were old friends catching up. The emotional changes of this boy were exactly like a light switch, Abbacchio realized.

"Bucciarati told me to wake you up before he left with Mista and Fugo," Narancia began to ramble, unbothered by Abbacchio sighing and rubbing his eyes. "He said we're workin' together today! Anyway… you mentioned Liliana in your weird grumblin' thing earlier. What's up with that?"

"Huh? I did? I'm more tired than I thought, but that's none of your business."

Abbacchio stood up, cup of coffee in hand, and consumed the contents in one gulp. He placed the cup back on the table with a refreshed sigh.

"That should kick in five minutes from now," Abbacchio commented to himself. "Now, let's get out of here. We have an area to scope out."

The baby books laid neatly on a bookshelf near his desk. Originally arranged in alphabetical order, Abbacchio found himself referencing them often and placing them back onto the shelf without much thought. He remembered what specific contents were written on each one, so the now random order of the books had no impact.

Every parenting advice essentially equated to following instincts, which Abbacchio often did. But, as an only child who did not like children that were not his own daughter, he had little reference on what instincts to reference whenever a new development with Liliana arose.

All the books mentioned sleep regressions. However, there was an inconsistency between the dates listed and the current age of his daughter.

"You always said she was stubborn," Bucciarati commented from the kitchen, opening a can of applesauce as Liliana sat in her high chair, watching him with wide eyes. "And that included sleep. From what you told me, she sometimes fights going to sleep. Is it happening more now?"

"Technically, yes," answered Abbacchio as he turned the pages of a baby book. "But this one is different. Way different."

"How so?"

"She's doing it at night now, for hours at a time. Her naps in between are so short, too. I've tried to figure out the issue but I can't. Usually I can distinguish between her cries. Now, they're all blending together. It's been like this for days."

"Oh, that doesn't sound… ideal."

"I could manage it if I knew the reason why but I can't figure it out. The books say she should should be going through sleep regression at four and eight months, not seven. I'm totally clueless on what to do and what to do something, but I can't. I'm so… lost…"

Abbacchio closed the book with a sneer, pinching the bridge of his nose as he blinked back tears. It was only natural that some moments with Liliana would be tougher than others. She was a baby, after all, and they could not communicate normally. Despite this barrier, Abbacchio adept at discerning her problems.

The unclear source of her displeasure was all too painful to ensure. He wanted to soothe her discomfort through a lullaby and wiping away of her tears, but such tactics were not working.

He felt powerless, a failure. Just like he was when the wad of cash was waved against his fist, accepting defeat as he unclenched.

It was a cycle, doomed to repeat over and over…

"Oh no!" Bucciarati gasped, holding a spoonful of applesauce as Liliana observed with apt attention. "The airplane is crashing! You better catch it before it explodes! It's all up to you, mia angioletta!"

Liliana eagerly accepted the 'airplane' and swallowed with complaint, clearly entertained by the antics of Bucciarati as indicated by her giggle. His conversations with the baby were rather peculiar, but it was a heartwarming sight.

The scene unfolding in front of Abbacchio distracted him from the woes within. Even in the midst of sorrow, there was comfort a grasp away.

"Strange, she only lets me feed her solids," commented Abbacchio as he approached his superior and daughter. "Alessia tries, but she's stubborn. Really stubborn. I'm surprised she's letting you do it on your first try."

"Really?" replied a shocked Bucciarati, giving Liliana another spoonful. "She seemed so prepared."

"She can be weird like that," Abbacchio fondly said, placing his hand atop her head to rustle her hair. "But at least she's eating solids from someone other than me."

"I'm sure she will learn with time. I bet she will be as smart and tough as you, which is how she will get over this sleep regression. Speaking of which, are you handling it alright? If things get ugly tomorrow, I don't want you to get exhausted."

"Trust me, me and Mista will be fine. Narancia scoped out the area as I replayed Agliata to find where she keeps her stash. Besides where the cash was, there's no hiding spots in that area. She just walks in and out there every Friday. She doesn't even have a Stand. We got the cash, and tomorrow, we'll get her."

"I have trust in your confidence, just don't let it bring Mista down. It's his first assassination mission, after all."

"I'm sure the guy and those weird Pistols of his will be trigger-happy to get her. Shouldn't be too hard for him to find the motivation. Agliata has been stealing Passione's drug stash from dealers and selling it for herself for weeks now. She directly put herself into the crossfire."

"I know, I know. It's just, once we take care of her, the drug sales will be back to normal and still destroying lives."

Bucciarati placed the spoon on the table. Leaning his back against the chair, he looked out the kitchen window. Regular citizens walking on the street, going about their day seemingly without any struggles.

"Our team isn't usually involved in the drug trade, but we still have to place ourselves within in sometimes whenever Polpo commands. We're enforcing this evil system to continue."

"Yeah, it's tough to swallow that," was all Abbacchio could think to say.

The subject was hostile territory for Bucciarati. Whenever needed, he would talk to dealers with a straight face, but the moment he turned away, his face would sour like he wanted to throw up.

Abbacchio himself was familiar with street drugs. It was a common occurrence to receive a dispatch about junkies in public spaces. They were annoying to interact with, and Abbacchio was eager to place them in cuffs, but there were waves of pity coexisting.

What dreadful circumstances led them to drug use? It was likely a combination of systematic issues, culminated by the government deciding to manage the problems they created by arresting those affected the most, which Abbacchio once assisted in enforcing.

Bucciarati had his own, different reasons for strongly loathing the drug trade, whatever they were. The cause, however, would go unasked. Liliana, face dirty from the applesauce, was fussing in her chair.

"All this adult talk is much too serious for you," Abbacchio cooed to his daughter as he wiped the food off her face with the bib. "Why don't I turn on the Christmas tree lights for you?"

Removing the bib, Abbacchio lifted his daughter from her high hair. Bucciarati redirected his attention to father and daughter, smiling fondly as Abbacchio nuzzled his nose against hers. Her giggles could light up any room.

A small Christmas tree stood next to Abbacchio desk. In front of it was a playpen, where Liliana was delicately placed. She burst into a fit of giggles and bounced up and down when Abbacchio turned on the blinking lights wrapped around the tree.

"She seems excited for Christmas," Bucciarati tenderly commented. "Do you have any big plans?"

"Honestly, we'll just stay in the apartment all day," answered Abbacchio as he returned to the kitchen. "I already bought her presents, I just have to wrap them. I'm not the biggest fan of crowds, and Lili is really shy, so it's best if the day is just us."

"You don't seem like the person to go all out for a holiday. Still, I'm sure her first Christmas will be memorable for you."

"I have my camera at the ready."

The two men stopped talking, only the cooing of Liliana breaking the silence. For several minutes, they watched the baby continually amused by the lights in front of her.

In a field of work deep within the world of crime and blood, such an innocent sight was refreshing.

"We're doing the best we can," Bucciarati said.

It was not a question. Rather, it was a reassurance to himself.

"We are," agreed Abbacchio. "And we'll continue doing that however we can."

A genuine smile spread across Bucciarati's face.

"Principessa, please… It's not time to play, it's time to sleep."

The cranky baby bouncing in his arms was much too irritated to listen to his comforting words. Sleep, apparently, was her enemy.

"You only sleep in twenty-minute intervals," Abbacchio grumbled. "That isn't healthy for both of us. I had two hours of sleep last night. I can't take care of you well or do my job if I don't sleep."

Liliana ignored him, continuing her whimpering and hitting her fists against her father's chest.

He should have accepted sleep regression at some point during his daughter's infancy. But he was accustomed to her sleeping so well, and the concept of managing an overtired baby did not seem as overwhelming as it actually was.

Single parenthood could be a bitch at time.

"Lili, do you want to sleep with papa tonight? Will that calm you down?"

The answer was no. Liliana grew more frustrated. By what, he did not know.

He couldn't handle another night consisting of two hours of sleep. He couldn't. The mere thought was too much.

"Please, Lili, sleep," he pleaded.

"Abbacchio?"

"Don't cry, please."

"Abbacchio, what are you saying?"

"Papa is right here. Just sleep."

"C'mon Abbacchio! Stop speaking nonsense!"

"Huh?"

The rays of the morning sun hit his ombre eyes. He lifted his arm to shield himself from the brightness.

"There you are!" said a hyper voice next to him. "You feel asleep on me, again."

"Ugh, that I did," Abbacchio responded, blinking away sleep. "Sorry about that, Mista. I had a hard time falling asleep last nigh-"

The ground below him screeched to a halt. The rushed footsteps of people preparing to leave entered his ears. The walls were covered in windows where he saw people impatiently waiting for the doors to open.

"Oh right, we're on the way to confront Agliata."

"Glad you're caught up," said Mista. "You said the place was fou- uhhhhh, I mean two plus two stops away, and we're at the third stop right now. While we wait to get there, why don't tell me who the lady you mentioned in your sleep is?"

Mista looked at him with a cheeky grin. He probably considered himself a ladies' man. He could definitely appear as one, but that archetype was thrown out when his apparent lack of showers was considered.

Summoning the left arm of Moody Blues, Abbacchio leaned back against his seat as the Stand elbowed Mista in the groin.

"Oof… Hey!"

Abbacchio felt tiny feet on his shoulder.

"Hey!" exclaimed Number 3 "What are you doing all that for? Stop with the friendly fire!"

"Yeah!" agreed Number 1, suddenly appearing next to the other Pistol. "What's your problem?"

"Just shut up until we get there," commanded Abbacchio.

Clicking his tongue as he held his sore privates, Mista laid back with a frown. Number 3 and 5 jumped to his shoulder, shaking their heads at Abbacchio. A fight with his superior was not worth it, especially since their destination was so close.

Agliata's base was a recently burned down house. Well, the house was set ablaze by some teenage pyromaniac weeks ago, but the house itself remained in its damaged state since then and still smelled of fresh smoke. Clean-up was seemingly nowhere in sight.

The top two floors suffered the most damage. The walls, support, and furniture burned to ash, eventually carried by the wind, bringing a murky scent to parts of Naples. What remained fell through to the bottom floor and laid scattered. Besides the collapsed ceiling and singular wall as well as items covered in a soot-like layer of black, the base was mostly intact. The floor left puffs of smoke onto shoes when stepped upon

Walking in front of the house, Abbacchio took a deep breath. The air entering his lungs reminded him of cigarettes. The smell was strangely comforting, though not to Mista who was coughing next to him.

"We'll step away in a second," said Abbacchio. "Several meters away is a good spot for to stay in cover until she arrived. Once she does, take the shot."

"Will do!"

The two hid behind a brick wall, kneeling in preparation for an attack. Mista gripped his gun, aiming at the open wall. All seven Sex Pistols floated around his head, excited about the hunt.

The commands to shoot were on the tip of Abbacchio's tongue. He thought it would take a maximum of five minutes for the words to leave his mouth. But the minutes passed, and the words remained.

Time ticked away with no sight of Agliata as a breeze passed through.

"Where is she?" Mista gritted.

"She should be here," Abbacchio whispered. "Moody Blues got the right time. It has never been wrong."

The wind grew stronger, as if matching their frustration.

The Pistols were becoming antsy, hovering back and forth around Mista's body to keep themselves entertained.

"Are you sure?"

The harsh winds almost drowned out Mista's voice.

"Of course I am. There is no way I was wrong. Damn, was it supposed to be so windy today?"

Mista turned to face Abbacchio, an irritated expression on his face.

"That's the least of my concerns right… now…"

The anger was gone, now replaced with wide, confused eyes. The grip of the gun was still strong, but the focus of the gunslinger was focused elsewhere.

"Mista, what the hell are you looking at me like that for?"

"What the fuck is that?" Mista questioned with the point of his finger.

Abbacchio turned around. He did not expect to see a silhouette in the distance. It had pointed ears and floated inches above the ground. The limbs were akin to strands of spaghetti, a striking contrast to the center of its chest, which was… a spinning pinwheel?

"What am I looking at?" Abbacchio questioned.

"FLEET FOX!"