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Chapter Text

PROWL

0 dice, roll 2d6 and take the lower

DICE: 6, 5

POSITION: DESPERATE

EFFECT: STANDARD

They say people have never escaped before, but that has to be an exaggeration. People escape from everywhere. That’s what people do. Maybe some might take heart in the idea that they’re the first one to accomplish a task, but not you. You know that if something’s been done before, it can be done again. You can hear the dogs snarling and barking in the distance. 

You used to like dogs. 

You scramble up the fence, your bare feet curling around the chain link. There’s barbed wire at the top, but what are a few punctures in your palms? If you get sick, you’ll treat it, the same way you did when you were inside. You’re a physicker, and people like physickers, especially when you’ll treat most anyone for free. Right now, your last patients, a group of goons by the names of Pita, Rosetta, and Filone should be covering your escape. You didn’t even need to ask. Filone offered as soon as he heard about your plan, said he owed you one for treating the sepsis in his leg. 

“Listen, Giorno,” he said, “when Pita, Rosy, and I are all out, we’ll buy you dinner. Can’t promise you much else, but we’re rooting for you, kid.” 

Good people, those three. Setting aside the fact that they’re all convicted murderers. You can’t hold that against them, here. You’re a murderer, too. 

You jump off the fence and hit the ground in a dead sprint. Your last obstacle is the bridge that connects Dunslough—home of Ironhook Prison—with Coalridge. It’ll be easy to get lost in Coalridge, and even easier to lose your tail. The factories there operate around the clock, and you shouldn’t have too hard of a time ditching your prison garb for a worker’s uniform. Then you’ll look just the same as everyone else in the district. 

All that remains is the bridge. You have a plan for the bridge. 

You formulated the plan with help from a prisoner named Kocaqi, another of your erstwhile patients. In all honesty, you didn’t like him, but he was the only Whisper who still owed you favors by the time your business in Ironhook was done. You curl your fingers around the bottle he gave you. 

News of your escape shouldn’t have reached here yet, but the guards will catch onto you as soon as you’re close enough to the bridge lamps for them to see how you’re dressed. You slow your pace, ducking down along the canal wall as you approach the edge of the lamplight. The guards likely saw you, but only your silhouette. 

Confirming your suspicions, one of them calls, “Is someone there?”

You chew on your bottom lip. Here goes nothing. You reach over the wall and hurl the bottle at the guards. A split second later, you hear it shatter. 

Kocaqi told you, “You’re not immune to it, you know. Your only edge is that you’ll be prepared for what it does.”

What it does is create a kind of temporary spirit well. What it does is call all nearby ghosts to your area, overwhelming the bridge and everyone on it. The wind howls, and the moon looms overhead, its dimmed siblings visible next to it. It’s an omen, you think, but of what, you don’t know. The ghosts that swarm the bridge flicker in and out of visibility. 

You run. 

The guards are absolutely going to pieces, screaming, fleeing the bridge in both directions. They don’t notice you; or maybe they do, but it doesn’t matter. At least one has succumbed to possession, and he lunges at you, grabbing you by the collar, the moon in his eyes, tears leaking from the outer corner of one of them. He shoves you up against the bridge wall, dipping you backwards over the churning canal below. The stone of the wall digs into your lower back. You beat at him, try and wrench your clothes free from his grasp.

Your eyes land on his pistol where it rests in its holster. You’d hoped this escape would be bloodless, but wishes like that don’t often come true. You reach for the gun, slipping it out without much trouble. You pull the trigger before you can rethink this maneuver. Blam! A bullet to the face and the guard slumps over against you, his blood smearing on your shirt. You watch the ghost that had him float upwards, then make eye contact with you. 

You shouldn’t have killed him. 

The ghost dives for you, forcing itself into your mouth, clawing at the inside of your throat. You hear yourself scream, but your voice sounds far away. The inside of your skull grows cold, and then burning hot—a fire lit behind your eyes. Memories flood your senses. A crying baby. A ringing factory bell. A gunshot. Falling into the canal. 

No—that last one isn’t a memory. It’s actually happening. The air gets sucked from your lungs as you plunge into the icy water. You can see the face of the moon above you, distorted by the water, swelling, reaching down to pluck you from the mortal coil.

In your head you hear a voice. Is it the ghost’s voice? No, it’s making too much sense. The ghost’s voice is howling mad, screaming until it makes no sound at all. This voice is a rich baritone, even and composed. Strange happenings this night, it says. What have we here? A little dhampir summoning ghosts from a bottle? What a foolish creature you are. You play with what you think are toys, but are in truth intricate mechanisms, tools for the wise and powerful. And you are neither wise nor powerful. Not yet. 

You’re drowning. Water forces its way into your lungs. 

Let us be rid of the interloper. 

Then the voice of the ghost falls silent, its presence vanishing from your mind, and only the tertiary voice remains. The entity is massive, its anima far greater than that of the ghost, and yet you’re more than sure that what you feel is only a fraction of whatever it actually is. The tip of the iceberg. What is a dhampir?

It is what you are, young thing, fresh thing, small red thing with a beating heart. Stranger from across the sea. 

Stranger…it must be referring to your mother’s heritage, her homeland far, far away from here that you barely remember.  

Just so. You are naïve, but you may be of use to me yet. Besides, your father would not be pleased if he learned of your demise. 

Your father? How does it know about your father? You cannot ask it, however, since that is the last thing you hear before you lose consciousness. 

Chapter Text

Bucciarati will return from Dunslough early this morning. The guard at the bridge turns him away. It’s a new guard, not the one normally on the morning shift. “Look, Bucciarati, right?” he says. “We can’t let you in today. Sorry. We had a breakout last night. They’ve locked down the whole district. No one in or out.” 

“I have an appointment with Lady Thorn.”

“She’ll still be around tomorrow. It’s like I said: no one in or out.” 

“I can make it worth your while.” 

“You probably don’t have enough money on you to do that.” 

Bucciarati sighs. He probably doesn’t. It’d be a waste of coin regardless. He’ll keep his appointment tomorrow. He just gets itchy when he can’t come here. Abbacchio thinks he’s weird for it, but this is how he relieves stress. “You relieve stress by hanging out with destitute convicts?” Abbacchio said. “Are you some kind of saint or something?” Abbacchio said it in that way that only Abbacchio could, half insult and half worship.  

“Can you at least tell me what happened?” Bucciarati asks the guard. The bridge is sparsely staffed today, and one of the lamps has been shattered. “Where’s Luca?” 

“Dead. Got possessed and then shot with his own gun. Spirit Wardens took his body away an hour ago.”

Bucciarati’s eyes widen. It’s usually difficult to faze him, but possession isn’t something was expecting to hear about this morning. He hadn’t been fond of Luca—he doesn’t care for Bluecoats (with one notable exception)—but it’s odd that so familiar a face can disappear so suddenly. “What happened?” he asks again. 

“Some kid broke out. I dunno the details, but maybe you can ask Thorn next you see her. He must’ve been a Whisper, or knew one, because he gets to this bridge and suddenly it’s crawling with ghosts. He didn’t make it out, though. Got possessed himself and fell into the canal. He must not’ve been a very good Whisper.” 

So Bucciarati goes home. It’s still early. If he’s lucky, the boys will still be asleep and Abbacchio will be passed out just inside the door. Maybe on the stairs. If he’s unlucky, the boys will be awake and Abbacchio won’t be home at all. 

Doskvol itself never sleeps. When can a city sleep if it’s always nighttime? Bucciarati is carried through Coalridge by the changing shifts, and despite his lack of uniform, no one pays him any mind. 

Nightmarket is similar. There’s always something afoot, although things quiet down farther from the rail station and closer to the canal. Glancing over the edge of the bridge, Bucciarati notices a disturbance in the water. It’s not unusual for all manner of detritus to end up in the canal, but this is a rather large bit of flotsam. 

He hurries over to the embankment, squatting down at the water’s edge. His suspicions were correct; it is a body. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s dumped a corpse in the canal, but usually whoever’s doing the dumping weighs the body down a little better than this. The figure is small—a woman or a young boy, blonde hair tinged gray by the dirty water. It can’t have been here too long, or else a Gondolier would’ve picked it up. 

The body drifts closer to shore, and Bucciarati can make out the telltale midnight blue and off-white stripes on the clothes it’s wearing: the Ironhook uniform. Could this be last night’s escapee? Bucciarati wraps his hand around the corpse’s collar and yanks it onto shore. 

It’s a boy, or it was. No older than twenty, the body is fresh-faced, young and pretty, with all the luster of a youth lived free of hardship. Bucciarati doesn’t think he himself ever looked like this, even in his own halcyon days. If you can even call them that. 

Then the boy coughs, spraying water all over Bucciarati’s face, alive after all. His eyes fly open, but Bucciarati can tell that his gaze is inert, unseeing, his irises darting around as those of a person in the throes of a nightmare. Then his eyelids flutter shut once more. His breathing is ragged and shallow, but he might make it. The scent of death doesn’t cling to him the way it might to a person who might become a corpse in the immediate future. Bucciarati digs around the kid’s collar, looking for a name. Inmates tend to sew their names into their clothes—if they can sew, and if they can write. Luckily, this kid can seemingly do both; the thread is faded and soaked through, but Bucciarati can make it out well enough: GIORNO GIOVANNA. 

So, this is the kid who busted out of Ironhook. He likely had help, but he was the only one who made it outside the gates. Faked his own death in the process, too, however unintentionally, and then survived floating in the canal for several hours. 

Yep. No doubt about it. Giorno Giovanna is trouble. Bucciarati can smell it as sure as standing downwind of the Docks. He should just leave him here. He’ll make it, probably. He’s survived this long, and Bucciarati has business to attend to that doesn’t include caring for a half-drowned convict, teenager or not. 

Unfortunately, however, Bucciarati has always had a weakness for young people in distress. It’s his fatal flaw, at least according to Abbacchio. “One day,” Abbacchio said, “you’re gonna let an adolescent in through that door—“ he pointed at the door of their hideout for emphasis, “—and he’s gonna bring with him more trouble than we’re equipped to handle.” 

He was probably right about that. But that doesn’t stop Bucciarati from hoisting Giorno over his shoulder like a sack of stones and making for Aiello’s Delicatezza. Bucciarati and Abbacchio have never been able to stop each other from doing much of anything. 

Aiello’s Delicatezza had been closed for six months by the time Bucciarati came into its ownership. Aiello himself was a retired, well—everything, if you believed what he told you. Leviathan Hunter, Deathlands Scavenger, Spirit Warden, Whisper, alchemist, physicker, prison guard, Imperial soldier, Ecstatic priest, astronomer, astrologer, and of course, restaurateur. “He’s a liar before he’s anything else,” Abbacchio muttered upon meeting him for the first time. 

Whatever his previous occupations, he’d kept the building in fine shape even after the deli’s closing and sold it to Bucciarati for a fair price. “My name’s not on the deed anymore,” he said with a wink. “You can do whatever you want with the place.” 

And what Bucciarati did was open the deli back up. Not all the time, mind you. A few days a week, when Mista is up for manning the counter. It’s always Mista. Bucciarati is too busy, Narancia is too spacey, and Abbacchio and Fugo, to put it kindly, do not have the temperament for food service. Mista took to the work with alacrity, and soon the deli became both a suitable hideout and stable front for their actual mode of business. 

It’s quiet when Bucciarati walks in, bumping and tripping over himself in an uncharacteristic display of gracelessness, thrown off balance by Giorno’s extra weight. The boy hasn’t woken, but he has hacked up a not insignificant amount of canal water all over Bucciarati’s back. Several lungfuls, it seems like. One can’t help but wonder how the hell the kid is still alive. 

Abbacchio is not on the stairs, nor is he inside the apartment. Mista is still asleep, but Narancia and Fugo are awake and playing True False War. Narancia is winning, as per usual, since the kid’s the best card counter this side of the city. 

“If you just applied all this to actual mathematics,” Fugo is saying, “you’d be considered a genius.” 

Bucciarati bites back a sigh. This morning has gone from bad to worse. 

Li’l Bomber, Narancia’s bird, greets Bucciarati first. She gives a soft little kak-kak as he walks in. “Hello sweet girl,” he says to her, reaching over to scratch beneath her beak. “Everything quiet here? No trouble?” 

Fugo and Narancia snap their heads around at Li’l Bomber’s signal. 

“What is that?” Narancia asks, referring to Giorno. 

“Who is that?” Fugo corrects. “Or who was that, I guess.”

“He’s still alive,” Bucciarati says. “For now. Where is Abbacchio?”

Fugo snorts. “Where do you think?”

Bucciarati looks at him sharply. “Lose the attitude, Fugo, or I’ll get rid of it for you.” He winces. What is that even supposed to mean? 

Fugo backs down regardless. “Sorry.” 

“Get Mista up and take care of the kid. Get him out of his wet clothes and patch up any wounds you find as best you can. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Gross!” Narancia exclaims. “You want us to strip someone we don’t even know?”

“You see all of us naked all the time,” Fugo says. “It’s not like he’ll look any different. How are you this immature?” 

“I’m older than you!”

“Then act like it,” Bucciarati snaps. Then he sighs once more and then shuffles back down the stairs and back out into the crisp morning air. 

Morning. What a joke. Everyone says you can tell the difference between noon and midnight, despite the sorry state of the sun, but Bucciarati never could. Sometimes he dreams about the sun, the real sun, in its full glory. It’s so bright and obvious and he’s never seen anything like it before. Sometimes he knows its light so well he wakes up with its warmth on his skin. 

He goes to the Docks. Abbacchio used to drink at the bars in Nightmarket, the ones only a few blocks from Aiello’s. Then, when people started to recognize him, when the bartenders would have his regular order for him ready when he walked in, he went elsewhere. Then he kept doing that, straying farther and farther afield until he’s halfway across town when the morning comes. Bucciarati expects him to be drinking in Iruvia by this time next year. 

His current haunt is the Greasy Snifter, a bar that’s exactly as pleasant as its name implies. 

“Come to pick up your boytoy?” one of its inhabitants asks as Bucciarati walks in the door, his voice nasally and thick with alcohol. 

Bucciarati doesn’t know any of the Greasy Snifter’s regulars, but they sure know him. He’s in here nearly as often as Abbacchio, and there ends up being a scene nearly as often as that. Hm. Abbacchio might be leaving the Snifter behind sooner rather than later, then. 

Bucciarati doesn’t give the drunkard the privilege of a reaction. Instead he scans the dim and dingy room for Abbacchio’s silver hair, which just catches the dusty incandescent light. Abbacchio is sitting at a table with one middle-aged man and one middle-aged woman—Bucciarati recognizes them, but doesn’t know their names. He suspects they might be Gray Cloaks, which means they spell trouble for Abbacchio. 

Or maybe not. The three seem to be drinking in companionable silence, and Abbacchio looks up at Bucciarati when he approaches, his face slack and his gaze fond. It must’ve been a long night, if Abbacchio is still drunk. 

“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” Bucciarati says. 

Instead of answering, Abbacchio grabs Bucciarati by his lapels and yanks him downwards into a smothering, torrid kiss. Still very drunk, then. The male Gray Cloak wolf whistles, and the female says, “Go home, Abbacchio. You’ve had enough, clearly.” 

Bucciarati has to agree with her. He detaches his mouth from Abbacchio’s and helps the other to his feet. “C’mon, up you go. Time for bed.” Well past time for bed, but that’s neither here nor there. As they exit the Greasy Snifter, Bucciarati asks, “Did something happen yesterday?” even though he’s unlikely to get a straight answer out of Abbacchio when he’s in this state. 

“Nothing,” Abbacchio says. “It’s nothing. It isn’t anything. It’s been five years. It shouldn’t be anything.” 

Ah. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Yesterday was the five year anniversary of the day the Watch station burned—the day Abbacchio’s partner lost his life. “I see,” Bucciarati says. He flags down a passing Gondolier. “The western bank of Nightmarket, if you would,” he says to her. She nods. 

Abbacchio slumps down in the boat, his head on Bucciarati’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, the words sliding out of the side of his mouth. 

“What for?”

“Sorry you have to take care of me. Like I’m one of your foundlings.”

“You are one of my foundlings.”

“I just turned thirty, didn’t I?” 

“And?”

Abbacchio scoffs. “Ugh. You know what I mean. I’m too old to be acting like this.”

If Bucciarati thought that Abbacchio would remember this exchange in a few hours, he would say something different. Instead, he agrees. “You are too old to be acting like this.” 

“I love you,” Abbacchio says, adjusting his grip on Bucciarati’s arm and nuzzling his cheek against Bucciarati’s shoulder. “I really, really love you. I’m so in love with you and it drives me crazy.”

Bucciarati keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, trained on the prow of the gondola. “You only say that to me when you’re plastered.”

“But I think it when I’m sober, too. I think it all the time. Trust me; I’d know.” 

“I believe you.” And Bucciarati does, although things might be easier for him if he didn’t. However, for better and for worse, Bucciarati can’t be lied to. 

The gondola glides smoothly through the quiet canals. Doskvol mornings are the quietest part of the day, especially during the blind hour, when fog shrouds the city. It’s why Bucciarati likes to go to Dunslough first thing. He momentarily considers letting Abbacchio know about the fugitive they’re harboring back at home, but decides against it. Abbacchio probably won’t even notice the extra body until night falls. 

Bucciarati tips the Gondolier and helps Abbacchio into Aiello’s. The sign on the door still reads “closed”, which means that either Fugo and Narancia failed in their duty to wake Mista, or they’re preoccupied with their unexpected guest. 

It seems to be the latter. The boy—Giorno—is awake when Bucciarati walks in, wearing one of Narancia’s shirts and a pair of Mista’s boxers. Fugo, Narancia, and Mista form a semicircle around him as he sips water from a tin mug. 

Everyone looks up at Bucciarati as he and Abbacchio stumble in. “Who is this kid?” Mista asks. “Where’d he come from? Why was he all wet? Fugo said you didn’t tell him anything.” 

“He didn’t tell you?” Bucciarati says, referring to Giorno. Sure, the kid probably has secrets, but he hasn’t run off yet either. And it’s not like the Bluecoats are looking for him, if they think he’s dead. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Giorno says, looking up at Bucciarati with faded blue-gray-green eyes. “I don’t know who I am or where I came from. I don’t even remember my name.”

Abbacchio narrows his eyes at Giorno. “Liar,” he slurs. Then his grip on Bucciarati’s arm fails him and he collapses unceremoniously to the floor. Bucciarati sighs. What has he gotten himself into this time? 

Chapter Text

Giorno, at the very least, is eminently polite. He thanks Bucciarati profusely for saving him, and then everyone else for taking him in. He examines the still-wet fabric of his prison uniform, running his thumb over his embroidered name. 

“I suppose we don’t know for sure that you’re Giorno,” Bucciarati says. “It could be an alias, or you could have stolen someone else’s clothing—although I’m not sure why you would.”

“Me neither,” Giorno says. “I’m not sure how I ended up in Ironhook in the first place. I mean—I think I’m smart enough not to get caught.”

Mista snorts, half derisive and half impressed. “Wow.” 

“But you know what Ironhook is? You know about Duskwall?” Bucciarati says. 

Narancia slams his hands on the floor, rocking forward on his palms to peer at Giorno intently. “What’s nine times nine?”

Giorno gives him a quizzical look. “Eighty-one?”

Narancia turns to Fugo. “I guess he still knows how to do math.”

Fugo folds his arms. “Of course he does. Most people with amnesia still retain access to any general knowledge they had—history, geography, mathematics, athletic or artistic skills. It’s only personal memories that get wiped away.” 

“We’ll keep calling you Giorno for now,” Bucciarati says, “if that’s all right with you.”

Giorno nods. “It’s fine. Giorno, it—it doesn’t ring any bells, but it feels right all the same.”

“Are you injured at all?” 

Giorno holds out his palms for Bucciarati to inspect. They’ve been neatly bandaged, likely by Fugo, with little rust-colored spots of blood seeping through the white cloth. “I must’ve hurt my hands and feet on something, but now that I’m awake, I can stitch myself up.”

Bucciarati recoils slightly. “You can?”

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

Fugo passes Giorno the kit wordlessly, and the four of them watch, rapt, as Giorno unwraps his bandages. There are several punctures in his palms and many more cuts and bruises on his feet, oozing pus and leaking blood. Narancia wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t say anything. Giorno pours iodine on a scrap of cloth and lets out a hiss of air from between his teeth as he applies it to his palms—left first, and then right. Then he takes a needle and thread and sutures up the larger wounds before re-wrapping his hands in fresh bandages. 

“You’re a physicker,” Mista points out when Giorno is through.

“I guess I must be,” Giorno says. 

“And you don’t remember learning any of that stuff?” Narancia says. “You can just…do it?”

“So it seems.”

“That’s not fair.” Narancia turns to Fugo. “Fugo, that’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair about it? I mean, he must’ve learned all this at some point, even if he doesn’t remember when or where. And besides, even if it isn’t fair, I don’t know what you want me to do about it.” 

“Speaking of,” Giorno says, standing up, “I think I can help your friend with his hangover when he wakes up.” He points to where Abbacchio is splayed out across his bunk, sleeping like the dead. “His head is going to hurt something awful.” 

“He probably won’t want the help,” Bucciarati says. “But thank you for offering.” It’s strange how seamlessly Giorno seems to be fitting in here already. Maybe it’s that he’s wearing Narancia and Mista’s clothes, but he already blends into the fabric of the Aiello’s upstairs apartment. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t blend in that he blends in so well. In spite of Fugo’s best efforts, the apartment eternally looks like a hurricane blew through it: clothes and blankets all over the floor, Narancia’s deck of cards from earlier similarly scattered, patchwork curtains hanging lamely over dirty windows, the haphazard way their beds are arranged. They’re not even all beds. Narancia prefers to sleep on a pallet on the floor, and Mista, being the most recent addition to their team, had to string up a hammock in the corner. Luckily, the hammock suits him just fine. 

Giorno hums. “I see. And just who are you all? I mean, Mista, Fugo, and Narancia introduced themselves, but…”

Bucciarati stands up. “My name is Bruno Bucciarati, and I head up Sticky Fingers. We’re a small smuggling outfit out of Nightmarket, which is where we are now.” 

“Smugglers?” Giorno turns to look at Bucciarati. There’s an odd character to his face—like he’s suspicious of them, for some reason. “What do you smuggle?”

“Whatever people ask for,” Mista says, folding his hands behind his head. “Luxury goods and art, mostly, but we’ll move narcotics, medicines, alchemicals, and occult items for the right price. And the boss has a soft spot for rare books.” He jerks his chin at Bucciarati. 

“Anything goes except people,” Bucciarati says sharply. “We are not slavers, and we will not participate in the buying and selling of human beings.”

“Good,” Giorno says, his suspicious look disappearing. “That’s good.”

“We’re honorable,” Mista adds. “Thanks to Bucciarati, people think we’re honorable smugglers.” 

Giorno seems to contemplate this. “Honorable,” he murmurs to himself. “Well,” he says, turning fully around and smiling brightly, “it was certainly honorable of you to rescue me from the canal and take me in. I must thank you once again. I am in your debt.” 

Later, while Mista is downstairs cooking breakfast for everyone, he waves Bucciarati over. “Why do you think he talks like that?”

“Like what?” Bucciarati asks. He doesn’t have to ask Mista to specify who. 

“So fancy. You think he’s rich? And I mean legitimately rich. Old money, you know?” 

“The legitimately rich, as you put it, rarely end up in Ironhook.”

“I know, I know, but they do sometimes. It’s not common, but it happens. And he talks like he was raised right. He talks like someone from Brightstone. I am in your debt and all that. No one from Charhollow or Crow’s Foot talks like that. I’m just thinking maybe he has family who might want him back. Rich family who’d pay well for his return.”

“Mista,” Bucciarati scolds, folding his arms. “We don’t do people.”

“It’s not like we kidnapped him or anything! It wouldn’t even be a ransom. I’m just saying that if we can figure out who the hell he is and bring him back to where he came from, there might be a reward in it for us.” Mista cracks an egg against the side of a ceramic bowl. “One egg or two?”

“Two.”

“On it, boss.” Mista cracks a second egg. 

“In that line of thinking, we could just bring him back to Ironhook. I’m sure they’ll be happy to take him.”

“C’mon,” Mista snorts, “you’re not taking this seriously. You think Ironhook is gonna properly reward us for his capture? And besides, we’re not gonna punish the guy for escaping from that place. If I were in charge of the world, anyone who escaped prison successfully would get a pardon, straight up.”

“Would that you were in charge of the world, Mista,” Bucciarati says, smiling. “I wasn’t being serious, of course. Abbacchio probably will wanna turn him in, but…”

“But we ignore Abbacchio,” Mista says decisively, whisking the eggs with a fork. “You can take the boy out of the Bluecoats…”

“You’re being unfair. He just doesn’t want more trouble for us.”

“And yet you keep opening the door for it like it’s a caroler at Moontide. Sometimes I wonder how you two make it work.”

We don’t, mostly. To call Bucciarati’s relationship with Abbacchio complicated would be a massive understatement. 

“Anyway,” Mista continues, “Giorno seems nice, even if he was a rich kid at one point.”

“Even Fugo seems to like him,” Bucciarati agrees. 

“Crazy, right? And I thought Fugo only liked you and Narancia.”

“He likes you too, Mista.” 

“Only because I’m so likable.”

“I was thinking,” Bucciarati says, “it wouldn’t hurt for us to have a physicker around. Zafaran is very kind, and very competent, but we can’t expect to always be able to rely on her kindness and her competence when she’s not on our payroll.”

Mista steps back from the stove, turning to look Bucciarati right in the eyes. “You’re actually thinking about taking him in long-term.”

“It could be awhile before his memories start to come back, if they come back at all. We’ll keep our ears to the ground for information about him, but for now, he doesn’t have anywhere to go that isn’t back to prison. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” 

“Don’t tell me I’ll have to share the hammock.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll string up another.” 

Abbacchio doesn’t wake until late in the afternoon. He looks bad, but he’s looked worse, if Bucciarati is being honest. “Ugh,” he says, sitting up on the bed. “My head.” He scans the room, his eyes landing on where Giorno sits on the floor, feeding bits of dried eel to Li’l Bomber. “I’d hoped I’d hallucinated that you’d brought home another stray. Or dreamt it.”

“Look,” Bucciarati says, sitting across from Abbacchio on his own bunk, “the bird likes him.”

“The bird likes anyone who’ll feed it.”

Which isn’t true. Li’l Bomber, in direct opposition to her master’s absent-mindedness, is a keen-eyed observer and discerning judge of character. “Corvids are very smart,” Bucciarati says. “Li’l Bomber is no less so.”

“You brought home another,” Abbacchio repeats. “Who is he?”

“His name’s Giorno. We think.” 

“You think?” 

Bucciarati fills him in on Giorno’s rescue and his apparent amnesia. 

After he’s through, Abbacchio says exactly what Bucciarati expected him to say: “He’s lying to you, Bucciarati. I thought you were cleverer than this.”

Bucciarati decides to take the accusation with grace, perhaps more grace than Abbacchio deserves in this moment. He also decides not to point out that he can spot liars from a kilometer away. Abbacchio has never put much stock in Bucciarati’s intuition anyway, no matter how often it’s correct. “You’re right, Leone.” Abbacchio flinches at the use of his first name. “He could very well be lying about his lack of memories. I have no way to prove otherwise, since one can’t prove a negative. To what end, though? What does he stand to gain from faking amnesia to a group of complete strangers, rather than making anything else up? And besides, aren’t you at least a little curious?”

“Curious?” Abbacchio raises his eyebrows. “Why would I be curious?” 

“It’s a mystery. You were a detective.”

“I was an Investigator for the Watch. Detective work is the Inspectors’ job. There’s a difference. You think I’m curious because you’re curious.”

“Of course I’m curious! The kid was floating facedown in the canal for what had to have been hours and survived. He successfully escaped Ironhook and he’s a damn good physicker. And he has no memory? Come on.” 

“Allegedly has no memory,” Abbacchio corrects. 

“Right. Yes.” It’s then that Bucciarati notices that Giorno is watching them. He’s sly about it, only stealing occasional glances out of the corner of his eye while occupying his hands with feeding Li’l Bomber. His gaze meets Bucciarati’s, and he quickly stands up, leaving Li’l Bomber behind and scampering downstairs. 

“Caught him,” Abbacchio says. 

“I can’t blame him for eavesdropping. It’s pretty close quarters up here—hard to ignore people when they’re talking about you.”

Abbacchio stares intently at the stairs, as if he’s expecting Giorno to reappear up them at any moment. “I still don’t believe he’s really an amnesiac.”

“There’s no way to prove it one way or the other, and everyone else seems to be fine with him staying here for the time being. Mista thinks there might be a reward if we return him to his family.”

“It’ll be a lot less trouble if we just send him back to Ironhook.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Look, if you and the boys are bent on keeping him around, fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I know I’m outnumbered here. But we should at least get a second opinion on this whole amnesia thing. It’s too convenient.”

Bucciarati folds his arms and raises an eyebrow at Abbacchio. “What about it is convenient, exactly?”

“It keeps him from having to explain himself,” Abbacchio says. “From having to answer annoying questions like, Why were you in Ironhook? or, How did you escape? or even, Where the hell did you come from?”

Bucciarati has to admit that Abbacchio has a point. It’s hard to invent a better excuse for secrecy than amnesia. He can’t help but smile at Abbacchio, then. Abbacchio may have never been a detective, but he’s always had an analytical mind, quick and perceptive and skeptical. It’s one of the qualities that makes him a good teammate, and one of the qualities that drew Bucciarati to him in their personal lives. “Mista thinks he’s from money.”

“Probably,” Abbacchio says. “But Giovanna? I’ve never heard the name before. It reeks of…I don’t know what. But there’s a hell of a stench to it. And he’s not Akorosi, by the looks of him.”

“Neither am I.”

“Not your parents, but you were born in Duskwall. But it’s as I was saying—I want a second opinion on his amnesia. We should take him to Zafaran.”

“We shouldn’t waste her time with this.”

“Waste her time? If he really does have significant memory loss, that’s a sign of brain damage. He could be just days away from total neurological collapse.” 

Once again, Bucciarati has to concede his point. “All right, Leone. We’ll take him to see Zafaran. If she has the availability.” They fall silent after that, with Bucciarati breaking it to ask, “Speaking of brain damage, how’s your head?”

“What do you think?”

“Zafaran could give you something.”

Abbacchio snorts. “Now that would be a waste of her time.” 

“Giorno offered to help too.”

“I’ll bet.” 

Bucciarati reaches over and lays a hand on Abbacchio’s cheek, tipping his head back slightly. “Who were those two you were sitting with? At the Snifter?” He rubs his thumb over Abbacchio’s cheekbone. 

“I don’t remember.”

Bucciarati’s hand slides off of Abbacchio’s cheek to curl around his chin. “Convenient. Don’t lie to your capo. Don’t lie to me.” Capo is an old Akorosi word, not used by most these days except those in the underworld. Bucciarati likes it better than ‘boss’ or ‘leader’ because it’s specific and punchy. The plosive in the middle does a lot of work. 

“Just a couple of Gray Cloaks I knew from before, and not even very well.”

“What are their names?”

“The man is Frico. The woman is Nessa. Again, I didn’t know them very well. They just happened to be in the bar, and they recognized me and sat down. We didn’t even talk about anything.” 

Bucciarati lets go of Abbacchio’s chin. “You know I don’t like them. You know I think they’ll get you in trouble again.” 

“I know.”

“They’re in this for the wrong reasons. You’re above petty revenge, aren’t you?”

“Trust me; the last thing I want is revenge.”

“No, you want something much worse.”

Abbacchio doesn’t have a response to that. 

Finally, Bucciarati says, “You know I care about you. We all do.”

“I know.”

“None of us would put up with your bullshit otherwise.”

“…I know.” 

Chapter Text

Bucciarati finally makes it to Dunslough during the next morning’s blind hour. Most people stay inside this time of day, children’s faces pressed to windows, staring out at the fog. Giorno should’ve made his escape now, during the dawn or dusk, when he couldn’t be seen. 

Ah well. There may’ve been extenuating circumstances that Bucciarati doesn’t know about—that Giorno doesn’t know about either. Allegedly. 

All it takes is a wad of cash pressed into a guard’s palm for Bucciarati to make it across the bridge. The new morning watchman escorts him to the Deathlands Scavengers’ encampment at the edge of the district. Bucciarati doesn’t know his name yet, only that he’s not Luca. Luca is dead. 

Like everywhere else in the city during the blind hour, Dunslough moves slowly. Even the day laborers, those convicts that Ironhook works ‘til they drop, have a moment to bandage their calloused hands and rest their weary limbs. It’s a long trek through the district to get to the lightning barrier, the clear, rigid line where the city ends and the Deathlands begin. “I’ll only wait here an hour,” Bucciarati’s escort says. “Then you’ll have to find your own way back in.” 

This close to the barrier, Bucciarati doesn’t have much to worry about, especially at a Scavengers outpost, but Abbacchio still frets about specters and horrors. “Why can’t you just stay in Dunslough? There are plenty of people inside the lightning barrier who need your help.” 

Unfortunately for Abbacchio, Bucciarati considers Lady Thorn a friend, and the Deathlands Scavengers as close as blood siblings. He pushes aside the canvas tent flap. Thorn is a small lean wiry woman in her forties, her hair clipped close and streaked with gray. Like most of the Deathlands Scavengers, her skin is scarred to ribbons, and one of her eyes is missing. Some might wear an eyepatch to cover the loss, but not Thorn. She displays the pink puckered hole in her face as a badge of honor. She’s also not actually a lady of any kind except the most general, and never has been. ‘Lady’ is an honorific bestowed upon her by her fellow Scavengers—Lady Thorn of the Blighted Lands, they call her. “Bucciarati,” she says. “The knives need sharpening.” Then she places a crate of them on the ground in between them and pushes a whetstone into his hands. 

The blades come in all varieties, from tiny pocket knives to machetes as big as Bucciarati’s forearm. Bucciarati sharpens them sitting on a low stool, the only sound that of the whetstone against the metal. It’s monotonous work—some might even call it mind-numbing. But it grounds Bucciarati, stabilizes him. 

“Have you eaten yet this morning?” Thorn asks. 

“I eat when I get back. You should keep your food for yourself and your crew.”

“I have news. I thought food might help it go down easier.” 

Bucciarati glances up at that. “News?”

“Have some milk.” She places a mug of it down on the floor in front of him. It’s hot, so he takes it, letting the warmth coat his mouth. “Polpo is dead,” Thorn says once he’s taken his drink. 

Bucciarati thinks he ought to be surprised, if not dismayed, but he can’t find it in him to be either. “When?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“How?”

“He shot himself. Or so it seems.” 

Suicide. Huh. That wasn’t what Bucciarati expected. Suicide was very out of character for Polpo, who had been doing quite well for himself behind bars. Perhaps even better than he’d been doing in the free world. “I was just beginning to wonder why I hadn’t heard from him. He was one of our principal contacts.”

“I know. That’s why I thought I ought to inform you. Passione already knows, of course.” 

“Of course.” Passione. One of the largest, most successful gangs in the city, its membership vast, its leadership anonymous. Polpo had been a fairly high-ranking member, and through him, Sticky Fingers was able to secure contracts, contacts, and a consistent current of capital. As useful as Polpo had been, however, Bucciarati did not and does not care for Passione. One can even say he loathes them. 

He does so for two reasons. The first is personal, and the second is political: they trade in, among other things, the one type of contraband that he’s sworn never to move for any price: human beings. 

“Thank you for letting me know,” he says to Thorn. 

“Of course. I can never repay my debt to you, but I can pass along what I know.” 

“I’ve already told you; you owe me nothing.”

“Still.”

“But while you’re feeling talkative, I have another question. What do you know about yesterday’s escape?”

Thorn raises an eyebrow. “You heard about that then, did you?” 

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how he did it, if that’s what you’re wondering, and I don’t know why. He wasn’t doing too poorly here.”

“Then, you knew him?”

“Knew him?” Thorn huffs out a laugh, examining the large hunting knife she’s been working on, pressing its tip into the pad of her finger. “We all knew Giorno—everyone in Dunslough knew him. He made himself known. Every time we came back from a scavenging run, he’d treat our wounded for free, if we could find a way to meet up with him.” 

“Do you know what he was in for?”

Thorn sighs, setting the knife aside on the table next to her. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Why does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.”

Thorn gives Bucciarati a suspicious look, but doesn’t comment. “I don’t know anything about his life in the free world. I don’t know how he came by his physicker training, or who his family is or was. But…”

“But?” Bucciarati prompts. 

“But I heard that he was in for arson. He took a torch to the old Brando Manor in Six Towers. That was the rumor, anyway, but it was pervasive enough that I found myself believing it.”

“The Brando Manor?” Why would Giorno have done something like that? “Isn’t it abandoned?”

“Word on the street is that some sort of young Brando relative has been living there these past few years—I wouldn’t know for sure.”

Some sort of young Brando relative. Could that be Giorno? But then, why would he burn down his own family’s house? Or perhaps Giorno has some sort of enmity with that relative—or with Lord Brando himself. Bucciarati will have to visit, but he isn’t sure it’s the best idea to bring Giorno with him. Perhaps Abbacchio’s skepticism is rubbing off on him. 

“All I can say is he was nothing but kind to me and mine,” Thorn continues. “I was sorry to learn of his death.”

“Speaking of you and yours,” Bucciarati says. “How was the last run?”

“Salva and Torta didn’t make it back. Panko came down with something, and Louis lost two of her fingers. Could be worse, all things considered. And,” she adds, “I didn’t see him.”

And I didn’t ask. “Okay,” is all Bucciarati says. 

Her already hard features harden further. “I don’t know why you feign nonchalance, Bruno. You don’t have to. Not with me.” 

He blinks at her. “Who says I’m feigning anything?”

“I know you,” she says. “You’re feigning everything.” 

Bucciarati finishes his milk and stands up. “Until later, Thorn,” he says. “Thank you again.”

“Likewise,” she says, although she doesn’t look particularly grateful. 

Bucciarati bangs on the gate, his knuckles making the steel ring and the bolts rattle. High above his head, the electricity that gives the lightning barrier its name crackles. The guard opens the door. “What’s your name?” Bucciarati asks him. 

He hesitates for a moment before saying, “Pesto.” 

“Bucciarati,” Bucciarati says. And then they start back across the desolate fields of Dunslough. 

They don’t make it far. A cold hand grasps his wrist, and a voice says, “Bruno.” 

Bucciarati turns to look at the woman clinging to him. She’s older than Thorn—well into her fifties, and she has her characteristic wild look in her eyes. “Vandra,” he says gently. “It’s good to see you. How are you doing?”

“No time for all that, little boy, I have something I need to tell you.” 

Oh dear. It’s one of those days then, is it? 

“You need to tell me? Have you spoken to Lady Thorn lately? She just got back from her last scavenging run. I’m sure you could—if one of her people is in the city—“

“Thorn? Thorn? Listen to me, boy.” Her grip on his wrist tightens. “I want to talk to you. I have something to tell you.” 

Pesto turns around. “Excuse me? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He goes for his gun. 

“Stop,” Bucciarati says, and thankfully Pesto backs off. “It’s all right. I know her. All right Vandra, what do you need to tell me?”

“I saw something two nights ago,” she says, lowering her voice. “I saw something terrible, hovering in the sky over the canal. On my mother’s ashes, on my right hand—“ She holds up her right hand. “—on my right hand I saw a demon.” 

“A demon?” Demons are bad news, assuming what Vandra saw was actually a demon. Assuming she saw anything at all. 

“It was huge, the size of a building, and translucent. I could see the moonlight shining through it. I swear to you, Bruno, I saw it, and when I woke up this morning, I knew I had to tell you.”

Bucciarati frees his wrist from her grasp and takes her tiny, fragile hands in his. “Thank you for telling me this, Vandra. Is there anything else?”

“Be careful, boy,” she says. “Your father would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. If I didn’t warn you about all these strangenesses.” 

“I appreciate you looking out for me. I’ll be back soon to check in, okay?”

Vandra is perhaps the most successful Deathlands Scavenger ever. After surviving seven runs, she was granted a pardon for her crimes; the only thing it cost her was her sanity. Bucciarati doesn’t know what kind of crime Vandra committed to be exiled to the Deathlands—if there was any crime at all. All he knows is that he owes her a great debt. Even if Paolo never did come back from the Deathlands in the end, Vandra did her best to protect him while they were out there together. Bucciarati has tried several times to extricate her from Dunslough, but to no avail. 

As for what she says, she’s right more often than not, if only one can make sense of what she says. Luckily, today’s prophecy was relatively straightforward: a demon in the sky over the canal on the night Giorno escaped. It could be nothing. It could just be an unintended consequence of the ghosts Giorno summoned during his escape—an unexpected presence, there and then gone. 

But then, why would Vandra be so insistent about telling Bucciarati about this? She isn’t even aware that Giorno’s alive, much less that he’s in Bucciarati’s care. Something strange happened that night—between this supposed demon and Giorno’s miraculous survival…if only Bucciarati can figure out what the hell is going on. 

“You’re friends with that old hag?” Pesto asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

Bucciarati could’ve slapped him. His eye twitches. “Vandra is a survivor. You ought to show her some respect.” 

“I’ll show respect to people who aren’t criminals. You’re crazy for offering these scoundrels your charity.”

“This is Duskwall, officer. We’re all scoundrels here.” 

One of several downsides to not having a physicker in your crew is that the free clinic is in Charhollow, which is a bit of a hike from Nightmarket. Luckily, it’s less of a hike from Dunslough, and Bucciarati is able to meet Abbacchio and Giorno there, at Alya Zafaran’s clinic. Like most of the buildings in Charhollow, the free clinic is cramped, dirty, and noisy. Zafaran does her best to keep things as sterile as possible, but there’s only so much she can do. Seven other patients wait in what passes for a waiting room, separated from the examination room by a pair of bedsheets clipped to a length of twine hung from the ceiling. 

The patients are a motley crew, representative of the full breadth of Doskvol’s population: an elderly Iruvian man, a woman who looks to be Skovlan and her two children, a surprisingly well-dressed Akorosi teenager, and a pair of sailors who may be from the Dagger Isles. 

And then there’s the three of them. They wait for maybe ten minutes, Abbacchio eyeing Giorno like the boy will attack them at any second. Giorno doesn’t seem to notice, looking around the clinic with a wide-eyed wonder. Finally, Zafaran pushes back the makeshift curtain, seeing out a third young Skovlander, who skitters over to grab onto his mother’s skirts. Zafaran’s gaze bounces off of Giorno before she locks eyes with Bucciarati. “Who’s the kid?” she asks neutrally. 

“Would that I knew,” Bucciarati replies.

She releases a tiny, barely audible sigh. “You’ll have to wait.” She checks her watch. “None of you are at risk of imminent death?”

“No,” Bucciarati says. “I don’t think so.” 

“Forty-five minutes.” Then she beckons the Iruvian man back behind the curtain. Like Bucciarati, Zafaran herself is Iruvian bred, but Doskvol born, and she’s the type of woman who might be beautiful if she lived a different life. Her nut brown eyes are ringed by dark circles, and her hands are chapped from the antiseptic. Her dark, dense hair is prematurely going gray. 

They wait for forty-five minutes on the bare mattresses Zafaran’s set out for patients to sit on, watching as she whittles down the others who have come to see her. At the last moment, a woman bursts in with a baby, wailing for help. So they wait another twenty minutes while Zafaran cares for the baby and assures the woman that everything will be all right. 

Giorno falls asleep at some point, curling into the fetal position on the mattress between Bucciarati and Abbacchio. “How old do you think he is?” Abbacchio asks. 

“Late teens?” Bucciarati hazards a guess. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“He looks younger. Fugo’s nineteen, isn’t he? This one looks younger than that.” 

“I suppose.” Bucciarati considers telling Abbacchio about what Vandra said, but decides against it. Abbacchio doesn’t put much stock into Vandra’s foretellings, but connecting what could potentially be a demon to Giorno’s escape might set him off regardless. 

At last, Zafaran sends the woman and her baby out, and beckons the three of them over. Bucciarati rouses Giorno. “It’s time,” he says. He’s a little envious of Giorno’s ability to sleep in a place as lively as this. 

Giorno stands and takes Zafaran’s hand. “They tell me my name is Giorno Giovanna,” he says. “You’re the physicker here?”

“Yes,” she says. “You’re very polite.” She gives him an odd look. 

He lets go of her hand. “Should I not be?”

“It’s fine. It’s appreciated, even. Are you running with Sticky Fingers now?”

“For the time being. Bucciarati saved me, so I’d like to pay him back if I can. Besides, I don’t know where I came from, so I don’t have any place to go.”

Zafaran looks up at Bucciarati. “Amnesia, then?”

“Yes.”

“If you wouldn’t mind taking a look at him,” Abbacchio says. 

The examination room is crowded with four people. Zafaran sits Giorno down on a wooden stool, then crouches down to look him in the eye. She holds four fingers up in front of him. “How many fingers?”

“Four.”

“And now?”

“Two.”

“All right.” She sticks out her index finger so that she’s pointing at Giorno. “Follow my finger with your eyes. Don’t move your head. Does your head hurt at all?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How’s your appetite been?”

“It’s been just fine, ma’am.”

“And your sleep?”

“Also fine, ma’am.” 

“Cut it with the ‘ma’am’. I’m not that old. Just ‘Zafaran’ is fine.”

“Sorry, m—Zafaran.” 

“Have you been seeing anything odd? Any auras, or hallucinations?” 

Giorno hesitates for a moment before saying, “I haven’t seen anything, but I have heard things. Sometimes right before I fall asleep, or right as I wake up, I think I hear my name, or hear someone talking. Someone very close to my ear.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s not the voice of Bucciarati or any of his crew, anyway. It’s very deep, and I usually can’t make out what it says, but it seems…articulate.” Giorno swallows thickly. “According to Bucciarati, I was possessed when I—I got possessed at some point before he found me. Could I still be?”

“By a ghost? Unlikely. You would know if you were. Unless you’re the one doing the possessing, in which case you’d probably be a vampire.”

“I don’t think I’m a vampire.”

Zafaran leans forward and tugs on Giorno’s eyes, peering into his pupils. “Open your mouth.” She curls her fingers around Giorno’s lips, pressing on his teeth. “Your teeth are fairly pointy, but that isn’t necessarily indicative of vampirism.” Looking over her shoulder, Bucciarati gets a good view of Giorno’s teeth for the first time. Huh. They are rather sharp, particularly the canines. “Are you Tycherosi by any chance?” Zafaran asks. 

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose not. They’re good teeth, well taken care of. You’ve had a molar replaced.”

“Oh.” 

“And Bucciarati told you your name?”

“It was embroidered on the clothes I was wearing when he found me.”

“And how did he find you?”

“Floating in the canal. I’d been there for a while.”

“The plot coagulates.” She takes Giorno by the chin and turns his head to one side, and then the other, looking into his ears. “Take your shirt off,” she instructs. 

Giorno does. He’s a small young man in terms of his bone structure, but his musculature is fairly developed, like that of a laborer. She pulls out a stethoscope and presses it to his chest, then to his back. “Breathe deeply and evenly.” After a moment of listening to his heartbeat, she says, “Seventy-two BPM. Well within the normal range.” She circles around him, examining his skin. “What’s this?” she asks, tapping the place where his neck meets his left shoulder. 

“What’s what?” Giorno asks.

“Is this a tattoo? It’s star-shaped.” 

“I don’t know. It might be. It might be a birthmark.”

“It’s an awfully clean-looking birthmark. Does it hurt?”

“No. It itches a bit, sometimes.” 

Zafaran sighs. “I don’t know what to say, Giorno. You seem healthy, at the very least. I’m not a psychologist, so I don’t know what to tell you about your hallucinations. You’re free to go, but definitely come back if anything changes.”

“Wait,” Abbacchio says. “Giorno, if we may speak with Zafaran in private.” 

Giorno nods, then dips back out into the waiting room. 

“So,” Abbacchio says when Giorno is gone, “you don’t think he’s faking?”

“Faking? Why would he be faking?” She sighs, waving her hand dismissively. “And can’t he—“ She gestures at Bucciarati. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. Regardless of whether the amnesia is fake, his story is odd, to say the least.”

“What do you think is going on, then?” Bucciarati asks.

 “I really should be discussing this with the patient, but if he does have amnesia, there isn’t a physiological cause that I can determine,” Zafaran says. “While almost drowning can deprive the brain of oxygen, that usually results in more short-term amnesia. He also doesn’t seem to have taken any blows to the head. It’s not my area of expertise, not by a long shot, but there may be some psychological, or more likely, occult elements at play here, especially if he managed to survive possession and floating in the canal.” 

The demon. Whatever it was Vandra saw, could it have intervened on Giorno’s behalf? But why would it do something like that? Bucciarati sighs. “Do you know of anyone who might know more?” Bucciarati asks. “About this occult business, I mean.”

“I think you’d be more likely than me to know someone,” Zafaran says.

“We don’t have a Whisper.”

“You ought to find one, then.” 

There’s an elderly fellow hanging around outside Aiello’s when they get back. He’s dressed in coveralls and a brimmed cap, like a Coalridge factory worker. Bucciarati might think he was one if he didn’t know better, especially since it’s the lunch hour. The man knocks on the window. “Closed?” he says, chuckling raspily and gesturing to the sign hanging there. “At this time of the day? It’s peak business hours, lad.”

“Mista decides when we’re open,” Bucciarati says. “But you’re not here for a sandwich, Pericolo.”

Pericolo chuckles again, taking off his hat and holding it over his breast. “You see right through me, Bucciarati. I am not. But tell dear Mista that I do like his cooking.”

Bucciarati unlocks the door. “Tell him yourself. He’s probably inside. Come in.” The four of them step into the dusty deli. “Giorno, go upstairs.” 

Giorno does as he’s told, darting towards the stairwell. 

“Giorno, eh?” Pericolo says, eyeing the stairwell with intrigue. 

“He’s my new subordinate.”

“Where’d you find him?” 

Bucciarati doesn’t answer. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Dried mushrooms? We might have some eggs left over from breakfast.”

“I’m all right, thank you.”

“So, why don’t you tell us why you’re actually here,” Abbacchio says, folding his arms and slumping down into one of the booths, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He’s nailing Pericolo with one of his patented Abbacchio Glares. It’s a miracle the man doesn’t wither under the force of it. 

“I bring tidings of good work, of course,” Pericolo says jovially, ignoring the murderous look he’s receiving from Abbacchio. “This could be your best-paying job yet.” He retrieves an envelope from his pocket and hands it to Bucciarati. As expected, its wax seal is stamped with the face of the devil: the symbol of Passione. 

Bucciarati doesn’t open the envelope yet. “Tell me about it.” 

“As you may or may not be aware, Polpo is dead.”

Abbacchio sits up. “He is? Wasn’t he in prison?” 

Bucciarati winces. He forgot to mention that.

“Yes, yes,” Pericolo says dismissively. “The circumstances are very suspicious and Passione is looking into the matter, but rest assured that’s none of your concern. He trusted you, however. You were able to move the goods he asked you to, and so, the Boss has taken his post mortem recommendation to heart.”

“The Boss?” Abbacchio says. “Which boss?”

“The Boss,” Pericolo says. “The Boss of Passione.”

Bucciarati feels like he’s been struck. No one knows who leads Passione. Rumor has it that the entire organization is headed by a single man, his name and appearance utterly secret. No one has met him and lived to tell the tale. “The Boss wants to contract…with us?”

“You’re a small outfit. Largely unknown in the city, especially compared to Passione. And this is a very delicate task. There is a young woman who needs to be escorted to Brightstone on a certain date.” 

“Absolutely not,” Bucciarati says without hesitation. “You know our policy, Pericolo. No people. Ever.” 

“Of course. But you didn’t let me finish. This young woman isn’t just anyone. She is the Boss’s own precious daughter, and I assure you, a very willing passenger.” 

It’s a long moment before Abbacchio finally says, “…The Boss of Passione has a daughter?”

“This was as much news to me as it is to you,” Pericolo says. “The two have never met, but the girl’s mother passed away recently, and her dying wish was that her family be reunited. The details of the job itself are in that envelope. Why don’t you take a look and let me know if you’ll accept?” 

Bucciarati and Abbacchio exchange glances, and then Bucciarati opens the envelope. It contains a single letter, printed on fine paper. It reads, simply:

GADDOC RAIL STATION

NIGHTMARKET 

KALIVET 44th 

NOON 

THE GRAND BALLROOM PELLIER

BRIGHTSTONE

KALIVET 60th 

1900 HRS

And then it lists the money. It takes everything in Bucciarati not to let his jaw go slack. It’s more coin than the payouts from all their previous jobs combined. It’s enough coin for all five of them—all six of them, even, including Giorno—to retire in comfort, with some to spare for the causes Bucciarati’s been supporting. They’d never have to work again if they didn’t want to. 

Wordlessly, he passes the letter to Abbacchio. He watches Abbacchio’s eyes scan the page once, twice, and then a third time. “I don’t like it,” he finally says. “It’s too good to be true.”

“I have to agree,” Bucciarati says. “Surely your Boss wouldn’t fork over this much just for asking us to take care of a girl for sixteen days.”

“The girl is very important to him,” Pericolo says. “He doesn’t want her falling into the wrong hands.”

“Then you have a reason to think she might be in danger?”

“Let’s just put it this way,” Pericolo says. “The Boss’s identity is a well-kept secret. Even his daughter doesn’t know his name or what he looks like, but there are those out there who might believe otherwise. Just keep her safe for these sixteen days. You’ll get a fourth of the money up front, another fourth after retrieving the girl, and the rest upon handing her over to the Boss. You have twenty-four hours to think it over. I’ll be back to receive your answer this time tomorrow.” He tips his hat to Bucciarati. “Good luck.” Then he leaves, the little bell above the door ringing as he exits. 

Bucciarati sighs and turns towards the stairwell. “You four can come out now.” 

With a good deal of grunting and shuffling, the boys emerge from their hiding place, first Narancia, then Fugo, then Mista, then Giorno. “So how much money is it?” Fugo blurts, but Narancia is already snatching the letter from Abbacchio’s hands. The others crowd around him, reading the letter over his shoulder. They fall into silence. 

Mista breaks it after a long moment. “That’s a lotta money, boss.” 

“I’m well aware,” Bucciarati says. 

“I agree with Abbacchio,” Fugo says. “It’s suspicious. It’s too easy. Especially since they’re outsourcing the job. I’m willing to bet Passione’s experiencing some internal discord. That’s why their Boss is so worried about someone going after his daughter.”

“But it’s so much money,” Mista protests. “We can’t just turn our noses up at it because it smells like trouble. Everything smells like trouble around here.”

“That’s true,” Bucciarati says. “That’s why we’re going to take the twenty-four hours Pericolo’s given us to dig up as much information on Passione, this girl, and the Boss. We’ll split into three teams of two.” He scans the room, rubbing his chin. “Giorno, Mista, see what you can learn about recent Passione dealings. Fugo, N arancia, try to scope out the rail station and the ballroom. Abbacchio, you’re with me.” 

Chapter Text

"All right, Giorno,” Mista says, slinging his arm around the other boy’s shoulder. “How much do you remember about the gangs around here?”

“Not much,” Giorno confesses. “The name Passione, though…it sounds familiar, somehow.” 

Mista turns to Fugo. “Could Passione be classified as common knowledge? Like reading and math?”

“How would I know?” Fugo asks. “Come on, Narancia. Let’s head for the rail station. Bucciarati, do we have leave to take the boat to Brightstone? It’s kinda far.”

“Feel free,” Bucciarati says. “Just be careful with it.” The boat was a big investment and has come in useful several times. 

“Don’t worry,” Fugo says. “I won’t let Narancia drive.”

“Hey!” Narancia exclaims. 

“Remember you only have twenty-four hours,” Bucciarati says. “Be back here by this time tomorrow. Keep yourselves safe—Giorno and Mista, try to keep anyone from finding out what you’re asking about.” 

“Yes, capo,” comes the chorus. Narancia whistles, and Li’l Bomber comes gliding down the stairwell to land on her owner’s shoulder. 

The boys file out the door, leaving Bucciarati and Abbacchio alone in the deli. “So,” Abbacchio says, “what are we doing? We’re not going to use these hours to slack off, are we?” There’s a note of hope in Abbacchio's voice. It’s so rare that they have Aiello’s to themselves. 

Unfortunately, Bucciarati has to dash those hopes. “Of course not. We’re going to Six Towers.”

A look of confusion comes over Abbacchio’s face. “Six Towers? What’s in Six Towers? I know some things about Passione, and I don’t think they have any holdings there.”

“We’re not looking into Passione. I trust the boys to take care of all that. We’re looking into Giorno. I’ll fill you in on the way.” 

Maybe it’s because Bucciarati lost someone to possession, or maybe the district is just that creepy, but Six Towers has always made a chill crawl down his spine. It’s right across the canal from Nightmarket, and sometimes, when the clouds aren’t so thick, and when the moon is especially bright, you can see the silhouettes of the dilapidated towers that give the district its name. Even though cutting through it is probably the quickest way to the Docks, Bucciarati takes pains to avoid the shortcut if he can help it. 

It’s easier with Abbacchio here. Abbacchio doesn’t give the time of day to the occult. It’s always the last thing on his mind, even when it would seem the most obvious explanation or solution. The wind howls down the empty streets, and Bucciarati draws his coat more tightly around himself. 

“I don’t buy it,” Abbacchio says. “There’s no way he’s related to Lord Brando . There’s no way that man has reproduced.”

“The Boss of Passione has apparently reproduced,” Bucciarati says. 

“But we don’t know anything about Passione’s Boss. We know of Lord Brando. He’s never even taken a wife.” 

“You would know better than most.” 

Abbacchio scoffs, not dignifying Bucciarati’s (admittedly underhanded) jab with a response. “Regardless, I think it’s far more likely that it’s a Brando cousin or nephew who’s been living there, and Giorno went after them because of some vendetta. Besides, if he were living there, why would he burn his own house down? And his surname is Giovanna.” 

“Maybe he’s a nephew or cousin,” Bucciarati suggests. “Or that’s his mother’s surname. There are any number of possibilities on the table. We shouldn’t rule anything out just yet—at least not before we look around the manor.” 

The manor was hard to miss even before Giorno took a torch to it. Bucciarati had seen it several times on his rare trips to Six Towers. It was sprawling and ostentatious, more like a palace than a city manor, as well as perfectly symmetrical, its wings unfurling like those of a great white-feathered bird. Even as it had surely seen better days, its grandeur was undeniable. 

That grandeur still remains, even with half of its face blackened and collapsed in on itself. Ash whirls through the air like fresh snow. 

“Well,” Abbacchio says, “someone certainly burned it down.” 

The manor’s wrought iron gate hangs ajar, swinging slightly in the wind, its hinges creaking. 

“Should we go in?” Bucciarati asks. 

“I didn’t come all this way to stand outside the front gate,” Abbacchio says, and pushes the gate open with an ear-splitting squeal. “If Giorno did live here, he wasn’t taking very good care of it even before the fire.” 

“The damage is worse than I hoped,” Bucciarati says. “We’ll have to stick to the first floor. We don’t want any floorboards collapsing under us.” 

“I’m more concerned about anyone who might be hanging around,” Abbacchio says. “If Giorno wasn’t the one living here, or wasn’t the only one living here.”

“Surely there can’t be anyone here now.”

“But maybe someone’s keeping an eye on the place. Maybe even Lord Brando himself.”

“I’m sure we can talk our way out of it if we do run into anyone,” Bucciarati says, raising a hand to knock on the charred front doors. The knock is a heavy one, making the doors sound thick and impenetrable. There’s no response. Bucciarati tries the handles, but they’re locked. He turns to Abbacchio. “I guess we’ll have to go in through the collapsed portion.” 

Abbacchio nods, and they steal around the side of the manor to slip inside one of the gaping holes in the walls. Ash kicks up, and Bucciarati coughs into his arm, blinking away the flakes of it. The manor still has a distinctly smoky smell, and the interior is just this side of pitch black. “Lantern,” Bucciarati says, and Abbacchio lights it, holding it up so they can scan the room. The parts that haven’t been reduced to cinders are quite ornate, matching the manor’s grandiose exterior. 

They start by making their way into the grand foyer, which hosts a vase of wilted flowers on a circular table, a plush rug, and two magnificent staircases that bracket either side of a large portrait of who Bucciarati has to assume is Lord Brando. Bucciarati elbows Abbacchio and takes the lantern from him, holding it up to better illuminate the portrait. It’s the first time he’s ever seen an image of Lord Brando. He’s quite a handsome fellow—or at least he was when this was painted. He has a strong jaw, thick eyelashes, and hair the color of radiant light. Bucciarati narrows his eyes. “Does he look a bit like Giorno to you?”

“He’s blond, I’ll give you that,” Abbacchio says dismissively. “Let’s keep looking.” 

The rest of the manor proves unfruitful. It’s a very nice house, but there’s little to indicate who lived here or why Giorno might’ve tried to burn the place down. The most striking thing about the place is that there are mirrors everywhere, in every room. Bucciarati keeps getting startled by his own reflection, especially with the way the lantern light catches his and Abbacchio’s eyes. 

After some time, Abbacchio checks his watch. “It’s been two hours and we haven’t found anything. We should either check upstairs or call it a day. Maybe we can come back with Narancia and Li’l Bomber once we’re through with that job for Passione.”

Bucciarati nods. “You’re right.” They’re in what seems to be the library, which should be a wealth of information, but actually contains very little of use. Half the books are in languages neither of them can read, and the other half aren’t anything out of the ordinary for a wealthy man’s personal collection. Bucciarati puts away a book entitled From the Far Reaches of Hell, a fictional journal purported to have been written by a man who journeyed to that very place. 

As they move to leave, he takes sight of his own reflection once more. Something stops him this time, though. There’s a third figure in the mirror. He reaches out and takes hold of Abbacchio’s arm. “Stop,” he says, pointing to the mirror. 

Abbacchio peers into the gloom. “I don’t see anything.” 

Indeed, the third figure is gone, leaving Bucciarati wondering if he really saw anything at all. He shakes his head. “Never mind. Let’s just get out of here.” 

As they walk down the hall, Bucciarati slides his hand into Abbacchio’s. It’s rare for them, this casual display of non-charged affection. Abbacchio lets it happen. There’s no reason for him not to. 

Bucciarati hears a floorboard creak behind them. He whips around. “What was that?” 

“Keep moving, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio says through gritted teeth. He lets go of Bucciarati’s hand and pushes him lightly on his upper back. “The sooner we get outta here the better.” 

It doesn’t seem possible, but the shadows look to have gotten longer and deeper. 

Then Bucciarati hears something. Something else. It’s a voice. “Thievessssss,” it hisses, carrying down the hallway. “Thieves and looterssssss.” Slowly, Bucciarati and Abbacchio both turn. There’s a figure standing at the end of the hall. No, not standing. Floating, inches above the floor. “Begone from my father’s housssssse,” it says, and then it begins to fly at them. 

“Leone, run!” Bucciarati cries, and they run. Neither of them have any experience with the occult whatsoever. No one in Sticky Fingers does. Even Fugo, for all his formal education, only ever dabbled in the alchemical, never the ritual. Damnit. We really need a Whisper. Fear makes them quick on their feet, but not quick enough. The ghost can fucking fly, after all. It’s hard to get around that. 

But they don’t have far to go. It’s a big mansion, but not that big. Once they get outside, surely the ghost will leave them be. They make it to the burned out section of the manor, and they’re so close, Bucciarati can taste the fresh air. And then his shoe catches on a bit of warped floor, and he comes crashing to the ground unceremoniously.

That would be bad on its own. But it gets worse, because the floorboards that he lands on give way under him and he finds himself in free fall, plummeting towards the devil knows what. 

The impact is brief but painful. He doesn’t feel anything break, but he does momentarily see stars burst against the backs of his eyes, the wind pushed out of his lungs. He thanks his good reflexes for allowing him to knit his hands together behind his head, preventing him from cracking his skull on the stone floor. Stone floor. Huh. He must’ve fallen into the basement. 

When he finally manages to open his eyes, he sees Leone staring down at him, the lantern light forming a halo behind his head. “Bruno!” Abbacchio calls down. “Are you okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned, which is very sweet. 

“Nothing’s broken,” Bucciarati says. “I think. What about the ghost?”

“I managed to trap it.”

“Trap it? How did you do that?” 

Abbacchio holds up a small glass bottle, a tiny green light swirling inside. “Spirit bottle.”

“Spirit bottle? Where did you get one of those?”

“We have a few around the base and I thought it would be useful to bring along. Even I know that Six Towers is extremely haunted. But enough about that. We need to find a way to get you out of there before another ghost shows up. I only brought the one bottle.” 

Bucciarati sits up, wincing. His back is sore. Probably bruised all over. He feels a bit lightheaded too. “There are probably stairs around here somewhere.”

Abbacchio nods. “You look for the stairs. Let me try and find something to pull you out.”

“You brought a spirit bottle but you didn’t bring rope?” Bucciarati mutters as Abbacchio’s head disappears from view. Wincing again, Bucciarati manages to bring himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he does so. He looks around. It ought to be dark down here without the lantern, but oddly enough, the hallway he’s standing in is illuminated by sour, flickering electric lights. Have these been on all this time? It must be expensive if so. 

The lights are the hallway’s only notable feature. Everything else is plain stone, rough-hewn, a far cry from the luxury on display upstairs. 

He trails his hand along the wall, which is cool and damp to the touch. Yeugh. The hall is lined with several heavy wooden doors fitted with iron-barred windows, like a dungeon. He peeks in a few, but the rooms aren’t illuminated as the hall is, and he has no way to pick the lock. He brought his lock picking tools with him, of course, but the doors don’t seem to have any locks for him to pick, nor any handles. He pushes on a few of them, but they don’t budge. 

Then he finally comes to the end of the hall. He knows it’s the end because there’s a stone stairway leading upwards. To the right of the stairway is the first open door he’s yet encountered. The room beyond is also lit up, the same as the hall, the queasy light pooling in the corners and casting the stone in a much paler color than it should be. The only thing in the room is what has to be an electroplasmic generator, rattling away in tune with the flickering of the lights. So, Lord Brando has his own generator here and isn’t on the city’s power grid. That makes some amount of sense, but why? Why keep everything turned on down here, and not upstairs? Why still, even after the mansion was set ablaze? And where is he getting the electroplasm? Sure, there are ghosts everywhere, but turning a spirit like the one Abbacchio has in his bottle into a usable source of power is no mean feat. It’s often not worth the trouble, since the amount of electroplasm that can be gained from a single ghost is almost nothing. So, Lord Brando likely has an independent source of leviathan blood instead. Stranger still. 

This trip seems to be dredging up more questions than answers. And did Bucciarati mishear, or did that ghost upstairs refer to the manor as its “father’s house”? Not satisfied with all of this, Bucciarati turns on his heel and heads back down the hall, this time pushing on every door he encounters along the way. None of them open, and soon he finds himself back to where he fell, shards of burned wood scattered across the floor. He kicks a piece of it, and it ricochets off the wall. 

That’s when Bucciarati notices something. The wall it bounced off of wasn’t stone, but wood, too. More burned wood. A final door that Bucciarati missed the first time around, given that its blackened state matches that of the manor around it. He approaches the door, and yep, sure as anything, it’s the same as the rest, right down to the iron-barred window, although the iron has been warped by the fire. He pushes against the wood and it all but collapses with little effort. 

The room beyond is mostly caved in and burned beyond all recognition. Bucciarati has to stoop to even enter. There are fragments of what may have been tables, or chairs, or some other wooden furniture. There are lumps of what appear to be melted glass. It’s even more thoroughly destroyed than what’s upstairs, which is impressive, given the room’s stone walls. 

Abbacchio’s voice comes echoing down the hallway, “Bucciarati? Are you here?” 

“Here,” Bucciarati calls back. “Come see this.” 

A few moments later, Abbacchio comes jogging in, holding the lantern above his head. “I found a cellar door around the back of the manor. Are you all right? That was a pretty bad fall.”

“I’m just fine.” Honestly, Bucciarati has already almost forgotten about the fall, and barely notices the pain he’s in. He’ll notice tomorrow, but for today, this is much more pressing. 

Abbacchio looks around. His eyes widen, glowing golden in the lamplight. “This is the place where the fire started.” 

Bucciarati stands there stunned for a moment. “How do you know?” 

“Well, there’s no way to know for sure, but the scorch marks are a lot denser here, which is odd, given that this place is made from stone. And here.” He squats down and traces his finger over the floor. Bucciarati squats down next to him, peering at his hand. “It looks like something detonated here. See the blast marks? And then…” Abbacchio stands and points upward. “Heat rises. Fire burns up. If the fire started upstairs, this place wouldn’t be nearly as damaged as it is. If you look closely at the ceiling,” he holds up the lantern, “you’ll see smoke marks. A lot of them, very densely clustered. It seems like the fire burned down here for some time before one of the support beams caught and spread the fire to the first floor. And then you can see wood splinters in the cracks in the walls. The same is true in the hall. There’s wooden scaffolding—why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he says, but he can feel himself smiling as he looks up at Abbacchio.  

“Like an idiot.” 

Bucciarati sighs and stands up, dusting the soot off his trousers. Abbacchio often makes him feel like an idiot in more ways than one. “Acute deductive reasoning, detective. Very nice work. Now let’s…” Something catches his eye. It’s sticking out from under a collapsed beam, bright against the scorched wood. 

He reaches down and yanks it free. It’s a photo. Singed, but still perfectly legible, somehow mostly untouched by the flames. The photo is of a man and a woman, clinging to each other in the very picture of young love. The man is obviously Lord Brando. He looks identical to the portrait upstairs. The woman is new, but not wholly unfamiliar. She’s Tycherosi, if the dark feathers that bloom around her hairline are anything to go by. But that’s not the familiar thing about her. 

“Shit,” Abbacchio mutters. Shit is right. The woman is the spitting likeness of Giorno Giovanna. 

It takes them until they cross the canal back into Nightmarket to start arguing, which Bucciarati counts as a win. “We have to tell him,” Abbacchio says. “We have to give him that photo.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Bucciarati says. “We still don’t have enough information to act.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line? Isn’t this what you wanted? You’ve found his family; you’ve found where he belongs. You were right! He’s rich! His father probably wants him back and will reward us for it. It’ll all work out for the better and we can wash our hands of this mess. But no,” Abbacchio spits, “this was never about finding more information. You want to keep him! You always wanted to keep him!” 

“I do want more information!” Bucciarati exclaims. “And yes, I do want to keep him, as you put it. He’s useful. If you don’t understand the emotions I’m experiencing, maybe you’ll understand pragmatism. He’s a good physicker. We need one of those.”

“Pragmatism?! This is the opposite of pragmatism! He’s an escaped prisoner, convicted arsonist, he has no memory, might be possessed, and on top of all of that, he’s the son of one of the most dangerous men in Duskwall! How is keeping him around at all pragmatic?” 

They’re rounding the corner to Aiello’s, their argument reaching a fever pitch. “All right, fine. It’s not pragmatic. But doesn’t it bother you? All this not knowing?” Bucciarati’s hands are shaking as he jams the key in the lock. “Yes, Giorno probably started that fire, and he probably did it in that basement room we were in. But why? Why burn down his father’s house? What was the basement for? What was in those sealed rooms we found? Who was that ghost, even? Why don’t you want to know?” Finally, the door swings open and the two of them stumble into the deli. 

“Because wanting to know got my Watch station burned to the ground and my partner killed!” 

The words echo against the deli’s low ceiling. “Leone…” 

“He warned us against pursuing all of the business with Lord Brando,” Leone says. “Said it was dangerous. I didn’t know how right he was until it was too late. That’s why I couldn’t keep hanging around the Gray Cloaks. They still want to know. And this isn’t—this is only barely related. I mean, we didn’t even know the man had a kid for goodness sake. But it’s still just as dangerous. Maybe even more so.” 

“Leone, I…listen. We can work something out. The circumstances around Giorno might be strange, but he’s just a kid. He’s still—mmph!” 

Leone silences Bruno with a fierce kiss, all teeth, clutching both of Bruno’s cheeks like a man overboard clinging to the side of his boat. Bruno lets it happen. This argument isn’t going anywhere, not today. It’s fruitless. And a kiss like this is a universal Leone-ism for shut the fuck up. So Bruno shuts the fuck up. Lets himself be shut up. Twists his hands into the gray wool of Leone’s cloak and allows all his other thoughts to slip away. 

It doesn’t hurt that Leone is a really good kisser. Sometimes Bruno wonders where he learned to kiss like this, with his whole body and soul. 

Then, distantly, Bucciarati hears the bell above the door ring. Immediately, Abbacchio pulls away as Mista and Giorno stroll into the deli. They stop in the doorway, and the four of them stare at each other for a long, excruciatingly awkward moment. 

“Boss. Abbacchio,” Mista says, a thoroughly pained look on his face. Giorno is silent, his eyes wide and his cheeks bright pink. “Are we…interrupting something? We can come back later.” He begins to creep backwards out the door. “Come on, Giorno.” He tugs on the boy’s sleeve. 

“It’s fine,” Bucciarati says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A smear of black lipstick comes away with some of Abbacchio’s saliva. He peels himself off of the wall. “Tell us what you found.” 

“Um, right,” Mista says. “If you’re sure.” 

Bucciarati jerks his head towards the stairwell. “Let’s go upstairs.” 

Upstairs, sitting on the floor, Giorno and Mista run down everything they discovered that day. It’s deep in the evening now, and Bucciarati wonders if Fugo and Narancia will be back before dawn. “Right, so Passione is—“

“Evil,” Giorno says, cutting Mista off. “Truly the worst of the worst of Doskvol.” 

“Well, yes, obviously,” Mista says. “No one’s successful in this city without being at least a little evil. And Passione is massively successful. They’ve got their fingers in every possible pie.”

Abbacchio wrinkles his nose. “Did you have to phrase it like that?”

Mista ignores him. “The point is, they’ve amassed a fair amount of power while maintaining anonymity. Their entire membership isn’t completely anonymous of course, but—“

“The Boss’s identity is utterly unknown,” Giorno says. “No name, no photographs, no paintings, no records. It’s like he only exists in the collective consciousness of the city. He might not even be a he. He might not even exist at all.”

“Fugo thought there might be some internal strife within Passione,” Mista says, jumping in. “It seems like there’re some rumblings of that, too. The Boss’s identity being so secret rubs some people the wrong way, especially those higher up the ranks. Seems like some Passione members feel entitled to more information.” 

“The name La Squadra Esecuzione got mentioned a few times,” Giorno says. “But we couldn’t get anyone to say more. That’s old Akorosi, right?” 

Bucciarati nods, rubbing his chin. “The Execution Team. I—there are rumors—I don’t know anything about them, other than that they’re feared. And you think they might be the ones sowing discord among Passione?” 

“Theirs was the only name that came up in relation to any trouble the gang might be having,” Mista says. 

That’s trouble indeed, both for Passione and for Sticky Fingers, if they’re to take this job. 

“We can go back out again,” Giorno offers, “but I don’t know how much else we can learn without attracting attention.” 

“This is enough for now,” Bucciarati says. “Thank you. Get some rest. I know I said twenty-four hours, but if Fugo and Narancia aren’t back by morning, we may have a larger problem on our hands.” 

They aren’t back by the time the remaining four start turning in for the night. Bucciarati ends up falling asleep on the floor with a book in his lap, only to awaken to the sound of a voice, crying out in fear and anguish. At first he thinks it’s Narancia, or maybe Li’l Bomber—her cries can sometimes sound terrifyingly human. But then he looks over to their newest hammock, and it’s Giorno, tossing and turning in his sleep. His arm is flung over his face, and he’s whimpering softly, “Please, stop. Please, let me go. I’ll do anything. Just let me go home.” 

Bucciarati stands and pads over to the boy’s hammock, gently shaking him awake. Giorno comes to consciousness with a start, sitting up so violently as to make the wooden beams the hammock hangs from creak. “Bwuh—I—Bucciarati?” He blinks twice. His eyes are so large and so luminous in the darkness. He reaches around to scratch at the birthmark/tattoo Zafaran pointed out. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Bucciarati says. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. What were you dreaming about?” 

Giorno is silent for a long moment, apparently thinking it over. “I don’t remember,” he finally says. His whole body is shaking. 

“Are you cold?” Bucciarati asks. 

“No,” Giorno says. “I don’t think so.” He clenches his muscles, seemingly willing them to still. His teeth begin to chatter in their stead. 

“Here,” Bucciarati says, pulling a quilt off of Narancia’s bed. “You can use this, at least until Narancia gets back.” 

“Th-thanks,” Giorno says, teeth still chattering. He takes the quilt and pulls it around his shoulders. “Aren’t you w-w-worried about them?” 

“I’m out of my mind with it,” Bucciarati tells him. “But we’ll think about it in the morning.” 

Luckily, the lock downstairs rattles and the bell above the door rings. Alongside some shuffling and stomping, Fugo’s voice drifts up the stairway. “Wake up,” he says. “I can’t carry you anymore. You’re so heavy.” 

Bucciarati moves to the top of the stairs, and at the bottom is Fugo with Narancia on his back and Li’l Bomber on his head. “Are you all right? Is he hurt?”

“Not hurt,” Fugo says, “just tired.” He slides the other boy off of his back. 

Narancia sways on his feet, rubbing his eye and yawning. “Are we home yet?”

“Yeah, stupid, we’re home. Now walk up the stairs like a good boy and go to sleep.” 

“What h—“ Bucciarati sighs. “Never mind. Let’s discuss this in the morning.” 

Morning comes, and Narancia is passed out face down on his pallet, still missing his quilt. Abbacchio and Giorno are talking. For a moment, ice curls around Bucciarati’s heart. So, Abbacchio went ahead and told Giorno everything they’d discovered. 

But then Giorno comes over and sits on the edge of Bucciarati’s bed. “He said you took a fall yesterday. I’d like to take a look, if you don’t mind.” 

Bucciarati nods and takes off his sweater. “What did he tell you?”

“He said the two of you were doing some independent investigation and you fell through some rotted floorboards.” 

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” 

Bucciarati makes eye contact with Abbacchio, silently thanking him. Abbacchio snorts and looks away. 

Giorno sucks in air through his teeth when he sees Bucciarati’s back. “How far did you fall?”

“Just one story. Ten, maybe fifteen feet.”

“Hm. Nothing’s broken, but it seems like you might’ve bruised a few ribs. You should rest and apply ice and compression. Twenty minutes at a time, three times a day. Do we have any painkillers?” 

“Ask Fugo,” Bucciarati says. 

“What are we asking me?” Fugo says, his head appearing at the top of the stairs. “Is it about last night? Because that’s Abbacchio’s fault.” 

“My fault?” Abbacchio says. “I wasn’t even there!”

“I just want to know about painkillers,” Giorno says. 

Fugo addresses Abbacchio. “We got waylaid by the Gray Cloaks on the way back from Brightstone. They hadn’t seen you around in a while and they wanted to know how you were doing.”

“How is that my fault?” Abbacchio asks. “You know I haven’t been one of their number in years.” 

“But you still talk to them,” Fugo argues. “They’re still interested in you.”

“Again, that isn’t my problem. I haven’t given them any reason to keep looking for me.”

Bucciarati decides not to bring up him drinking with Nessa and Frico at the Snifter the other day. “It doesn’t matter,” Bucciarati says. “What matters is that you and Narancia got home safe. Now, tell us what you found.” 

Fugo climbs the rest of the way up the stairs. “The rail station is the rail station. We couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary there. All it suggests is that the Boss’s daughter is being transported here from within Akoros—either somewhere farther up the coast, or from the Capital. If she were coming from overseas, she’d come by boat, not by rail. The Grand Ballroom was much more interesting. It’s de facto designated neutral ground. No faction owns it, and no weapons are allowed on the premises. No one has been injured or killed there in over fifteen years.” 

“Allegedly,” Abbacchio says. “Anything can happen if you cover it up well enough. Certain rites can even fool the Spirit Wardens.”

“True enough, but its reputation is solid,” Fugo says. “Anyone hosting an event there knows it. Including the Boss of Passione, presumably.” 

Bucciarati mulls this over. “What time is it?” he asks. 

“About 0900 hours,” Abbacchio says. 

“Then we have three hours to talk through everything and make our decision. Get Mista up here and wake Narancia.” The boy sleeps like the dead. “I want everyone’s input.” 

“It’s too much money to pass up,” Mista says when he gets upstairs. “Even if it is suspicious. And these La Squadra guys, whoever they are, may not even know about the Boss’s daughter.”

“Let’s look at the worst case scenario here,” Fugo says. Catastrophizing is what Fugo’s best at. “Yes, it’s a lot of money. But is it enough to risk being wiped out over? And even if we do succeed, we’ll never enjoy this kind of anonymity again.” 

“Who needs anonymity?” Narancia asks. “I mean, I barely know what that means.” He laughs. “Don’t you wanna be famous, Fugo?”

“No,” Fugo says. 

“I’m with Fugo,” Abbacchio says. “It’s just too big of a risk. It’s not worth it.” 

Bucciarati turns to their newest member. “And Giorno? What do you think?” 

“I also think Abbacchio is right,” Giorno says. “It’s dangerous. We don’t have very much information, or enough time to get more. Passione is huge, and powerful, and evil, and it makes me sick to my stomach to think about working with them.”

“If that’s what you think, then—“

“But I still think we should take the job,” Giorno says. “I don’t know exactly why, but it feels important that we do it. If anything, I want to meet the Boss’s daughter.”

“That’s three to two,” Bucciarati says. It’s not a consensus, but it’s the closest they’re going to get. “We’ll take the job.”

Chapter Text

It’s a busy afternoon at Gaddoc Rail Station, and Sticky Fingers is collectively doing its best to look inconspicuous. The first step of this job is transportation, and things should be fairly straightforward. Pick up the girl. Escort the girl to Aiello’s. Keep her safe for sixteen days. Go to a party. Dust off their hands, sweep out the deli, no muss no fuss. 

It’s simple. It’s too simple. 

It’s starting to get less simple by the second, since there’s this guy who keeps talking to Bucciarati. And the girl hasn’t shown up yet. Bucciarati checks his watch. It’s well past noon. She should be here by now. Many trains have come and gone. 

And there’s this guy. His face seems familiar, but Bucciarati can’t place him. Best to just regard him as a friendly stranger for now. 

“I swear I keep working longer and longer hours,” he’s saying. “But the bells toll at the same time every day.” He huffs out a sigh. “Can’t wait for Moontide.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucciarati says, trying to seem as disinterested as possible. 

“Think my niece is having a party, but she hasn’t invited me. How about that?”

“Huh.”

“You going to any parties at the end of the month?”

“Nope.”

“Hm. Seems like a waste. You got a name?”

“Uh—B—Paolo,” Bruno says, stumbling over his words. He didn’t think he would have to come up with a fake identity today. 

“Paolo, eh? I coulda sworn your name was Bruno. You change it?”

Shit. So this man does know him. 

“You really don’t recognize me, Bruno Bucciarati?” the man continues. “I’m hurt. I’m wounded. I thought we had a good working relationship. Let me reintroduce myself: name’s Zucchero. How’s it going?”

Zucchero. The name rings a bell. He must be a client, Bucciarati decides. Bucciarati lets his eyes dart around the station. Narancia is in the far corner. Li’l Bomber is on the rafters. Fugo and Mista are both covering the exit. Abbacchio is on the roof. Giorno is camped out in an alleyway between here and Aiello’s ready to run interference or provide medical aid if need be. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” Zucchero asks. 

“My sister,” Bucciarati says, even though he doesn’t have a sister. 

“C’mon, don’t lie to your clients,” Zucchero says, slapping Bucciarati twice on the back. 

Bucciarati winces. His back is still sore from his fall the other day. Where is the girl? If he receives the signal from any of the others that they have the girl, then he’s free to get out of here. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you unhappy with some service we’ve provided? If so, I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Not at all! Quite the opposite, actually. We think you do great work; that’s why we want in.”

“You want in?” Bucciarati can’t believe what he’s hearing. We? Zucchero must have a partner. 

“You’re here because you’re on a job, aren’t you? Must be awful important if you’ve brought the whole crew—even the bird.” Zucchero points to Li’l Bomber where she’s perched in the rafters. “Tell me about it.”

“I really don’t think I will.”

Zucchero circles around him so that they’re face to face. He leans in and then Bucciarati can feel it: the muzzle of a gun pressed into his stomach. Once you’ve felt it for the first time, you’ll never forget the sensation. It’s unmistakable. “You’re here, that boy’s over there, the other two kids are outside, the crow’s up near the ceiling, so all that’s missing is—“

“Jackdaw.”

Zucchero blinks. “What?”

“The bird’s not a crow. She’s a jackdaw.”

“What the fuck is a jackdaw?”

Bucciarati points up at Li’l Bomber. “That’s a jackdaw.” And bless Zucchero’s moronic heart, he actually turns around and looks. That’s all the time Bucciarati needs to slip first into the ghost field and then into the crowd. 

The ritual is a simple one, and is commonly used by the scoundrels of Duskwall. Really, it’s actually one of several different rituals, but they all produce more or less the same effect: Bucciarati dissolves into shadow. His ears fill first with what feels like cotton, and then they begin to ring. His vision dims, color bleeding from the world, lines blurring. When he snaps back to the material realm, he’s several meters away, near the rail station door, and his hearing returns to him just in time for several gunshots to sound outside. 

Shit. Someone shouts, and the crowd begins to panic, uncertain whether to get outside the station or to run away from the gunshots. Bucciarati has to get to Mista—that was probably his gun that went off—but he’s caught up in the crowd. Things go from bad to worse when he hears a pop and then a hissing noise and smoke begins to fill the entryway. Damnit, Fugo. It’s just a smoke grenade this time, thankfully, but it’s still only contributing to the chaos. 

Bucciarati jumps back into the ghost field, concentrating harder so that he can remain insubstantial longer. He phases through the swirling bodies, the smoke no longer affecting his eyesight. 

At last he stumbles out of the station, collapsing to his knees on the cobblestone outside. He’s off to the side, out of the way of the throng of panicked townsfolk. “Are you all right?” someone asks, touching him lightly on the shoulder. 

He looks at them, his head swimming. It’s two people, both in janitors’ uniforms and dust masks. “I’m fine,” he says, standing up. “I’ve gotta—“ He has to find Mista. He has to find everyone. Damnit. Zucchero probably went after Narancia next. 

He sees someone approaching him. “There you are,” the man says. 

Bucciarati doesn’t recognize the man, but does recognize his intent. This must be Zucchero’s partner. Bucciarati acts without thinking. He still has a little bit of stress left to spend before he passes out. He grabs the man by the wrist and slams his knee upward into his forearm. There’s a sickening crack and the man cries out. Right hook, left hook, both to the face, then punch in the stomach and he’s down for the count, whimpering on the ground with blood seeping out of his mouth. 

Bucciarati stumbles backwards, propping himself up against the wall behind him. 

“Well, well,” a familiar voice says. One of the janitors steps forward, pulling down his mask. “I didn’t expect things to get quite that dramatic, but you handled yourself admirably just then, Bucciarati.”

“Pericolo,” Bucciarati says. “Why are you here?”

“It was my task to receive the girl when she arrived early this morning,” Pericolo says. “And then make sure she was handed off to you safely.”

“Then the girl is…”

The other janitor, the one who asked Bucciarati if he was okay, takes off her mask. She’s young, Giorno’s age or even younger, with wild pink hair cut just above her shoulders. Her eyes are bright green—the kind of green not really found in this world anymore. “Trish,” she says. Her face betrays no emotion. “Patricia Una. But you should call us—me Trish.” 

Getting Trish back to Aiello’s is easy. The hard thing is figuring out what to do with who Mista identifies as Sale. Zucchero fled the scene once the gang had reunited, and Bucciarati decided that chasing him wouldn’t be worth the effort. 

They drag Sale into an alley near the station. Mista prods his skull with his foot and Sale groans. “Well, he’s still alive,” Mista says. “That’s gotta count for something. Dead bodies always attract so much attention.”

“All I did was punch him a few times and break his arm,” Bucciarati says. 

“Who is he?” Narancia asks. 

“His name’s Sale,” Mista says. “I’ve sold to him a few times. I always suspected he and that other guy were reselling, trying to turn a profit. Guess they got big-headed about it.” Mista hocks a fat glob of saliva onto Sale’s face. “You thought you could run with us? Dipshit.” 

“Guess that means we’re moving up in the world,” Fugo says detachedly. “Did they know what we were doing here? That could pose a real problem if so.”

Bucciarati shakes his head. “Zucchero threatened me in order to try and find out what the job was. I doubt he would’ve done that if he already knew.” He turns to Trish. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

“It’s fine,” she says. “We’ve seen worse. We’ll probably see worse again.” 

Well that’s worrying, but maybe it shouldn’t be. All of the rest of them have seen much, much worse. It’s likely Giorno has too, even if he doesn’t remember it now. 

Abbacchio comes jogging up to their group. “We should get out of here. The Watch’ll probably be here soon.” Then he stomps over to Sale and grabs him by the collar, yanks him up onto his knees, and spits directly into his face, “You better get the fuck out of here too. If you tell the Bluecoats anything I’ll cut your tongue out, and if you fuck with us again you and your partner will end up at the bottom of the canal, do you hear me?” 

“Loud’n clear,” Sale slurs, stumbling to his feet. 

“And I think it goes without saying you’re cut off,” Mista says. “Find a new supplier. Dick.” 

“Let’s go,” Bucciarati says. 

He expects to find Giorno in his designated hiding spot a block away, but their group doesn’t take two steps before the boy slinks out of the shadows. “I heard a commotion,” he says. “So I came.” 

“You can’t even stay put for an hour?”  Abbacchio says. “Trust that we had it under control.” 

“Is everyone okay?” Giorno asks, ignoring him. “I’ve got the first aid k—“ He cuts himself off when he sees Trish. “You must be. You know.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I know. And I am. Name’s Trish, by the way.”

“Giorno.” He pulls the first aid kit out from under his arm. “It’s as I was saying, is anyone hurt?”

“All fine, I think,” Bucciarati says. “No one injured?”

“Just a bit of smoke inhalation,” Mista says. Then he coughs for emphasis.

“Oh, grow up,” Fugo says. “You’ve inhaled worse.”

“Yeah,” Narancia adds. “You should count yourself lucky that it wasn’t the drowning gas this time.”

“The what?” Giorno says, looking confused and slightly horrified. 

“Don’t ask,” Bucciarati says. 

As they walk back to Aiello’s, Bucciarati’s attention is thrice divided: first, he wants to keep an eye on Giorno. The boy is always in his thoughts, every waking minute, especially since the trip to Six Towers. Abbacchio has seemingly agreed to keep their findings from Giorno for now, but how long will that remain the case? 

Maybe Abbacchio will decide that it’s really none of his business. That might be the best case scenario, but it’s also the most unlikely one, because for all his talk about not wanting to know, he’s still a detective at heart. He and his partner were both in line to become Inspectors. He’s a nosy son of a bitch, and that’s one of the things Bucciarati likes about him. He’ll probably keep quiet at least until Trish is gone, but there are no guarantees about what will happen after. 

Which brings Bucciarati to the place where his attention finally lands: Trish. Out of her janitor’s disguise, she wears a layered, lacy dress and leather bodice under an embroidered shawl. Her outfit is very eclectic, almost haphazard, like she’s trying to be fashionable under less than ideal circumstances. It reminds him of their hideout—a whirlwind of life and color and mess. She also has a tattoo. It peeks out from her bodice just beneath her collarbone. 

He falls into step next to her. “He was bluffing, you know. Abbacchio.”

“Abbacchio is the tall one? In the cloak?”

“Yeah. Um, he was bluffing. About the tongue thing.”

“I really don’t think he was,” Trish says easily. “But that’s fine. Really, you don’t have to treat us with kid gloves. We—I mean I used to work in customer service in the Capital, you know. So I’ve heard it all and worse.” 

“Customer service?” Bucciarati says. 

“Yes, I um. I don’t—I’m not actually supposed to talk about myself or my family to you. So I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” That’s when Bucciarati notices her place her hand on her tattoo. She looks down. 

“Of course,” he says easily. They have sixteen days together, and if she’s already blabbing about her old customer service job, getting her to spill on everything she knows about Passione should be simple. 

They make it back to Aiello’s with little issue, dodging a cadre of Bluecoats headed towards the scene of the crime on the way. They unwind back at the deli. Mista sautees some mushrooms, distributes little bowls of them to everyone. 

As they eat, Bucciarati stands in the middle of the deli and introduces himself. “My name is Bruno Bucciarati. This is Sticky Fingers.” He gestures around the room. Then he continues, addressing Trish, “I know you can’t say anything about yourself, but maybe you might feel more at ease if you knew some things about us, especially since you’ll be staying with us for a little while. Did Pericolo tell you anything about who we are?”

Trish shakes her head. “Nothing. Just that you’re a group of smugglers.” 

“That’s true. I’m the leader, and I specialize in infiltration. Abbacchio here is my right hand.” Fugo loudly clears his throat. “My left hand,” Bucciarati corrects. “He’s our planner. Fugo is an alchemist. He studied at Charterhall.”

“Briefly,” Fugo says. 

“Then Narancia’s our nose, so to speak,” Bucciarati says. 

Narancia waves at Trish and smiles. “Hey! That’s me: the nose, the eyes, and the wings.” He makes a little bird shape with both hands. “Li’l Bomber is mine. She’s friendly, as long as you’re friendly to us.” He scratches under her chin where she sits on his shoulder. 

“Narancia’s a great tracker,” Bucciarati says.

“And the poorest mathematician I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting,” Fugo mutters under his breath. 

“Then there’s Mista,” Bucciarati continues, ignoring Fugo. “He’s an enforcer—a Cutter, in common parlance.” 

“But I’m nice,” Mista says. “I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. It’s just that sometimes people need to get their legs broken.” He shrugs like, what can you do? 

“And finally, Giorno,” Bucciarati says. “Our most recent addition. He’s our physicker.”

“Hello,” Giorno says, wisely deciding against mentioning his amnesia to a girl they know nothing about. The amnesia thing is ongoing—Bucciarati and Abbacchio still haven’t told Giorno about what they found in Six Towers, and Bucciarati classifies the whole thing as being on hold until Trish is out of their hair. 

And she’s in their hair right now in a big way. Bucciarati can’t really fault her, given that he knows her mother recently passed away, but could she at least thank him when he offers to let her sleep in his bed? She borrows Abbacchio’s makeup without asking, messes with Fugo’s notes, and never really apologizes whenever they ask her to stop. Then there’s her odd little habit of occasionally referring to herself as “we” and “us” rather than “I” and “me.” That’s not a problem, per se, but it is curious. It tickles the edge of Bucciarati’s brain, but he doesn’t question her about it. 

“She’s so—she’s so bitchy,” Fugo says, fisting both his hands in his hair. Out of all of them, Trish’s presence seems to rankle Fugo the most. “She completely ruined my filing system. I was working on something for Giorno, and she’s delayed that by at least a day or two.”

Bucciarati raises an eyebrow at him. “For Giorno?” 

“His memory,” Fugo clarifies. “I know the occult isn’t my area of expertise, but there’s still some crossover with alchemy. Now if I could just get my hands on some Dream Smoke…”

“I’m sure we’ll move a shipment you can skim off the top of soon.” 

This continues for two days and two nights. Then, on the third night, things change. Giorno has another nightmare—that’s not new, but it’s always distressing. He says such awful things in his sleep, like he’s being attacked, or tortured, or worse. He never remembers them, which is probably for the best, but it still nags at Bucciarati. He always wakes Giorno when Giorno’s nightmares wake him. 

And this time, Giorno’s nightmares wake Trish, too. She sits up just as Bucciarati approaches the boy’s hammock to rouse him. “Help me,” Giorno is saying. “Mama, help me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did. Just take me back.” 

Trish sits on the edge of the bed, green eyes luminous in the darkness. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks, her voice trembling a little. 

Bucciarati shushes her and gently shakes Giorno awake. Giorno sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Was I doing it again?” he asks Bucciarati. He’s shivering, as usual. 

Bucciarati nods, then turns back to Trish. “He gets night terrors. That’s all.”

Trish stands, padding over to stand next to Giorno. “How long have you gotten them for?” 

“I—I don’t know,” Giorno says. “I don’t know why, either.”

“We used to get them too,” Trish says. Then, playing with the hem of her pajama shirt, she says, “Maybe we can help.” She swallows thickly. “We have…abilities. Does Fugo keep quicksilver around?” 

Quicksilver? If Bucciarati remembers right, that’s a drug that opens up one’s mind to the ghost field. Then that must mean—her abilities—holy shit. Trish is a Whisper. She has to be. 

Chapter Text

They wait until morning. They have to. Bucciarati doesn’t want to. He doesn’t sleep a wink that night after rousing Giorno from his nightmare. Whatever Trish can do, he wants to try it right away. But he can’t. They need to wait. They need Fugo and his quicksilver—something he’s not happy about lending to them. He gets into an argument with Bucciarati about it in the kitchen as the rest of the house is waking up. 

“You’re guessing she’s a Whisper,” Fugo says. “She said she has abilities and then refused to elaborate. And even if she is one, she could end up doing more harm than good. Quicksilver is dangerous—it’s a poison, if you recall.”

“I thought you wanted to help Giorno recover his memories. And besides, he knows the risks and he’s already agreed to go through with it. Trish too.”

“It’s still my quicksilver! It’s expensive and hard to make. She could be the best Whisper in the world and I wouldn’t give it to her. She could be the Immortal fucking Emperor himself and I’d still say no.” 

“That’s not true,” Bucciarati says flatly. If the Immortal Emperor were in their deli, they’d have a lot more to worry about. “What else are you using it for, if I may ask?” 

“Nothing right now,” Fugo admits. 

“Well, there we go.”

So Fugo acquiesces, grumbling the whole way. 

The setup is like this: Trish kneels on the floor. Giorno lies down, his head in Trish’s lap, staring up at the ceiling, their fingers laced together. “Whatever you do,” Trish says, “don’t let go of my hands.” 

Fugo administers the quicksilver. Everyone else watches with the attention of a pack of anxious hunting dogs. “Keep your eyes shut,” Fugo instructs. “Both of you. Try not to open them for the duration. You’re going to be sick after this; there’s a bucket next to you if you need to throw up.” He wraps his hand around Giorno’s chin, pulling his mouth open. 

The quicksilver comes in two sealed bottles—tiny, each the size of the tips of Fugo’s fingers. He drops the liquid onto Giorno’s tongue. It’s silver, as the name implies, and shines brightly like liquid metal. Its surface tension is high so that it forms distinct beads as it runs down Giorno’s throat. Fugo administers to Trish, and then they wait. 

“What’s happening?” Narancia whispers to Bucciarati. 

“Shh,” Bucciarati says. 

“Just wait,” Trish says. “It takes a short while to take effect.” True to Fugo’s instructions, her eyes are still closed. 

Then both of their eyes fly open at once and a chill wind rips through the room. 

-

Taking quicksilver never gets any more pleasant. The worst part is after it’s worn off, but the during part isn’t exactly fun either. We look down at Giorno, and we see him. He’s clutching our hands like a man clinging to the side of a raft in a storm. His face is pale. His chest heaves. Then we see him, his spirit, just off center from his body. It’s been drained somehow—it’s paler and less concrete than an embodied soul ought to be, and yet it’s much more mobile too. It’s in full flux, writhing and twisting and dancing within his corporeal form. 

The room drops away. His body drops away, and our own body is long gone. There’s a long tether attached to him, leading off into the ether. It’s a thin yet strong silver strand, like a beam of moonlight, pulled taut from his mind and body to whoever or whatever holds onto the other end. 

And there must be something on the other end, which is why we can’t sever the strand. Never mind what such a sudden change might do to Giorno, it will certainly attract attention. We don’t want attention. Not from whatever this is. Whatever it is, it’s cold. We can feel the chill radiating off of it. It’s not cold like ice or snow—it’s cold like nothingness, like the depths of the sea or the vacuum of space. Cold like a bare sheet of rock. 

We run our finger along the tether, watching how it vibrates. Then we wait. Nothing happens at first, but then—then. The strand vibrates again. There’s a point of light at the far end. We can see it. No, we can feel it. It’s seen us. It laughs, deep and condescending. He’s made a friend, it says. How sweet. 

But it doesn’t come. It’s not coming. Wherever it is, it has other things to do, other plans. So it doesn’t come. And that’s what saves us. 

-

You’ve always wondered why the moon shines. In the era before the Cataclysm, the moon shone because it reflected the light of the sun. And yet now, with the sun small and withered, the moon still shines as brightly as ever. Brighter, even. Brighter and larger, its face staring down into you. It’s daytime. It was daytime when Fugo gave you the quicksilver. The moon might’ve been out—you didn’t check, and you’re kicking yourself for it—but it should’ve been dim and distant, barely visible. 

But you can see it. Here, in the ghost field, it’s larger than life. You want to turn away, but you can’t. It has you locked in its gaze. The only thing that anchors you is the weight of Trish’s hands in yours. You mustn’t let go of her hands. Whatever you do, you have to hold onto her. 

Then you hear it. The voice is familiar, but you can’t place it. It’s not talking to you, anyway. It doesn’t seem to be talking to Trish either. It chuckles, and then says, He’s made a friend. How sweet. 

-

Trish and Giorno come to consciousness simultaneously, fifteen minutes to the second after their submersion. Trish throws up first only by virtue of being sat up and therefore having easier access to the bucket provided for this exact purpose. Giorno shoves her out of the way in a very un-Giorno-like maneuver just in time for him to hurl into the bucket, their heads bonking against one another. 

It’s almost comic, and Narancia laughs. “Wow,” he says. “Just wow.”

“Gah, damnit,” Trish says, slumping backwards on her hands. “Hate that stuff.”

“Did you at least find out anything useful, or did I waste two doses of quicksilver for nothing?” Fugo asks. 

Bucciarati shoots him a look. “Give them a minute.” 

Giorno is shivering all over, like he sometimes does when he wakes up from his nightmares. “I-I-It was so co-o-old,” he says. 

“I’ll get you a blanket,” Mista says, standing up and grabbing a hammock out of Giorno’s hammock. “Shit, I should’ve made something hot.”

“They shouldn’t eat anything for at least another two hours,” Fugo says. 

“Boiled some water, maybe. I’ll go do that now.” Mista lays the blanket over Giorno’s prone form, then heads downstairs. 

Giorno doesn’t stop talking after that. He babbles, mostly, his teeth chattering. “C-c-old,” he says. “And the m-m-m-moon—“

Eventually he calms down, his shivers stilling and his eyes fluttering shut. Trish seems to be tolerating the after effects of the quicksilver much better. She gulps down the hot water Mista brings her, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and says, “There’s something linked to him somehow.”

“Linked?” Bucciarati asks, leaning forward. 

“Tethered. Attached. Whatever you want to call it,” Trish says. “We don’t know who it is or what it is or where it is or why it is. But he has something. A parasite, maybe. We don’t know. But that’s probably why he’s having nightmares.” 

The demon. The demon over the canal. It’s probably what’s blocking his memories as well. Bucciarati clears his throat. “I have something to tell everyone. Giorno, are you awake?” Abbacchio shoots Bucciarati a look. 

“I think so,” Giorno says, his eyes still closed. 

“I spoke to Vandra last week.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Abbacchio mutters, turning away. 

“Who’s Vandra?” Trish asks, rubbing her temple.

“It’s not important. But she sees things. Sees things other people can’t see. She said she saw something over the canal the night Giorno escaped. She thinks it was a demon.”

“A demon?” Fugo says. 

“And why didn’t you tell us this before?” Abbacchio demands. 

“I wasn’t sure if it would be relevant,” Bucciarati says. “I didn’t want anyone to panic. And we still shouldn’t panic. Quicksilver notwithstanding, Giorno is in perfect health. I’m not sure what the demon wants with him, but it hasn’t come after him or us yet. Assuming it’s a demon at all.”

“Maybe it’s a nice demon,” Narancia offers, causing Fugo and Abbacchio to shoot him a pair of downright poisonous glares. 

“And what does the moon have to do with it?” Giorno asks. 

“The moon?” Fugo says. 

“I keep seeing it. It’s behind my eyes every time I go to sleep. It was there in my vision. So big. So bright.” He pauses before adding, “My head hurts.”

“I can’t give you anything for it,” Fugo says, clearly fretting a little. “Not until you’re recovered a little more.” 

“‘S fine,” Giorno says. 

“What do you know about demons?” Bucciarati asks Trish.

“Nothing. As much as anyone,” she says. “Our expertise was always in ghosts, not demons. Demons are beyond the pale.” 

“Great,” Fugo says. “Just great. What did we do then, aside from making Giorno sick and maybe attracting the attention of a fucking demon? What did we accomplish here? I never should’ve given you my quicksilver.”

“He asked!” Trish says, gesturing to Giorno. “He wanted to know! And now we know a little bit more.”

“Who’s we?” Fugo spits. “You’re here for a few weeks. That’s it. You’re not one of us.”

“Fugo,” Bucciarati says, standing up. “That’s enough. Abbacchio, Fugo, come with me. Narancia, Mista, make sure Giorno and Trish are doing okay. Get them some food in two hours. Pain relief in four. There’s trance powder in Fugo’s desk.”

“Maybe I should—“ Fugo starts.

“No,” Bucciarati says, cutting him off. “We’re going to the library.” 

“The library? The Charterhall library?” Fugo asks as they exit Aiello’s. “You know I’m banned from there, right?” 

“Better keep your head down, then,” Bucciarati says breezily. “I need your help. We need to learn all we can about demons. The two of you are my best researchers.” A little flattery often does wonders. 

This tactic works on Fugo, who doesn’t protest this outing further. It does not work on Abbacchio. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for keeping quiet about Vandra,” Abbacchio says. “That was necessary information, Bucciarati. And don’t think I’m not going to ask why the hell we’re still keeping Giorno around when he clearly has a massive target on his back. A tether to a demon. Fucking hell.” 

“He’s still just a teenager,” Fugo says. “He looks even younger than me.”

“And why are you defending this decision?” Abbacchio asks. “I thought you were the sensible one.”

“Sensible,” Fugo says. “Not cruel. We shouldn’t throw Giorno out. He’s nice. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“You’re a donkey calling a mule an ass, kid.”

“Fuck you, Bluecoat pig.” 

“Stop it,” Bucciarati says. “Behave yourselves. We need to lay low while we’re at the library. Going there tends to draw unwanted attention.” 

All of that aside, Bucciarati does like the Charterhall library. Mista wasn’t lying when he told Giorno about Bucciarati’s soft spot for rare books. Not that any of them have access to the rare books that are kept here, but that doesn’t matter in this instance. 

Bucciarati loves running his fingers along the spines of the books in the library. He loves the smell. He loves turning the pages, some of which are so thin you can see the light shining through them. He loves the quiet community, the way everyone here is in one room together without saying anything. He isn’t hurried in his search for a book on demonology, doesn’t even bother to use the card catalog the way Fugo and Abbacchio do. 

He finds what he’s looking for regardless. The book is simply titled Demonology, bound in plain green fabric, and it’s exactly what it says on the tin. It was written by someone called Zamira Helles, and its introduction reads:

“Some scholars believe that demons are the first beings, brought into existence at the origin of reality, as the primal forces of the universe coalesced into the elements of nature. Each demon strain is thus connected to an element. There are demons of the earth, demons of flame and smoke, demons of the sea, demons of the sky and stars, etc. 

Before the events that caused the cataclysm, it’s said that the Immortal Emperor bound most of the demons and imprisoned them in the dark, hidden places of the world. Only a few escaped this subjugation, and scholars believe that it was these few that broke the Gates of Death in their rebellion and freed the greatest of their kind—the leviathans—to shatter the world.

Demons are corporeal creatures, not spirits, though they are extremely difficult to kill. Most appear as monstrous humanoids with physical features related to their element. A sea demon is covered in dark scales and has black shark eyes, a fire demon has flesh of smoldering coal with fires burning within, and so on. Some demons can transmute into their corresponding element and a few can disguise themselves with a convincing human illusion.

The exceptions are the massive leviathans. No one knows the true shape of these horrors that dwarf the largest iron ships. Only a small portion may be glimpsed when they crest the surface of the ink-dark sea, drawn by electroplasmic lures.

Each demon is obsessed with its dark desire (mayhem, manipulation, corruption, etc.), which it attempts to satisfy in every way it can, usually by preying on humans. A demon is living embodiment of its dark desire, not a “person” in a normal sense.”

Well, that’s less than ideal. The demon attached to Giorno must be preying on him somehow, but in what way? Bucciarati also doesn’t think he knew that leviathans were kin to demons, and that’s worrying in and of itself. The bit about demons’ elemental affinity intrigues him as well. What Giorno kept saying about the moon…could this demon embody the concept of moonlight, or even the moon itself? That seems…not good if so. Bucciarati reads on: 

“Every demon has these supernatural abilities:

• Strength & Speed: Demons possess monstrous strength—they can dent steel with their bare hands, shatter stones, etc. They are also extremely quick, able to out-pace the swiftest steed.
• Arcane Speech: Demons speak the ancient tongue of sorcery, which every human ear can discern. They may also speak arcane effects into existence according to the elemental affinity and power level of the demon.
• Strange Travel: A demon may teleport from one site of their elemental affinity to another. For example, a sea demon could teleport from the water in a fountain to a canal under a manor house on the other side of town. The greater the distance, the more powerful the demon must be. A demon may bring others with them when they travel. A demon may also be summoned in this way, by forcing it to travel to the summoner’s ritual presentation of their element.”

 

Things go from bad to worse, then. Bucciarati knew demons to be immortal, but this makes them seem nigh invincible. What has he gotten himself into? 

He isn’t sure if he wants to keep reading, but the choice is made for him when a commotion behind him catches his attention. 

It’s Fugo, backed up against a bookshelf by a much taller man. Despite nominally being a support player on their team, Fugo is probably Sticky Fingers’ deadliest member, owing to his intimate knowledge of chemical weapons. Yet he’s still very small—barely taller than Narancia, and lacking the other boy’s wiry strength. “You’re that kid, aren’t you?” the man demands. “That punk who beat up Professor Milos.” 

“You must be thinking of someone else,” Fugo says, looking down and away, gripping his left elbow with his right hand. “I’ve never been here before.”

“No, I’ve definitely seen your mug. You were in my lecture, weren’t you? First year. What was your name? Fucko? Why they hell aren’t you rotting in Ironhook?” 

Bucciarati stands up to intervene, but Abbacchio beats him to it. He claps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do we have a problem here?”

“Who the hell are you?” the man spits. “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for this hellspawn.” 

“He’s my kid brother,” Abbacchio says. “I don’t know who the hell you think he is, but what he says is true. He’s never been here before, and he was certainly never in your lecture. We couldn’t afford to send him here, are you kidding?”

Bucciarati can tell that the man sees through the lie, but Abbacchio being there and 188 centimeters tall and using his cop voice convinces him to back off. “Whatever,” he mutters, slinking away. “Stupid kids.” 

Abbacchio turns to Bucciarati and jerks his head towards the exit. “We should make ourselves scarce,” he says. 

Bucciarati’s never asked why Fugo beat up that professor, and Fugo hasn’t been forthcoming about it. But even given Fugo’s temper, Bucciarati hasn’t ever seen him lose control enough to almost kill a grown man with his fists alone. So there has to have been due cause. 

As the three leave the library, Bucciarati leans over to Abbacchio and murmurs, “That was nice of you.”

Abbacchio snorts. “No. It wasn’t.” 

Chapter Text

Giorno’s nightmares don’t go away. They don’t get any worse, thank fuck, but they don’t go away either. Trish claims that they likely won’t disappear until the thread connecting Giorno and the demon is severed, and maybe not even then. “They seem connected to his lost memory,” she says. “He might’ve been having them even before he fell into the canal.”

That’s the other development that occurs post-quicksilver ritual: Trish is now fully up to speed on Giorno’s situation. How can she not be, given that she got to take a good hard look at his soul? 

Things fall into a lull. Trish and Giorno recover from their bout with the ghost field, and the day of the Moontide Ball where they’re meant to turn Trish over to the Boss draws nearer. 

It happens at night. Bucciarati wakes with a start from a dream he can’t remember. At first he thinks it was Giorno’s sad cries that woke him, as is usually the case, but no. It’s a beam of light landing directly on his eyes. Moonlight? He gets up to close the curtains. They should really get in the habit of keeping them shut. If the demon is associated with moonlight, keeping them open is as good as an invitation. 

But it’s not moonlight. The color is wrong. It’s a lantern, casting swirling shadows as its carrier passes by. Bucciarati looks out the window at him. He thinks it’s a him—it’s a bit too dark to tell. There are two figures in the street, one in a dark hood and the one with the lantern, whose glasses catch the light. 

They’re probably no one. A couple of Gondoliers getting off work, or some fellow scoundrels on a job. Aiello’s sits right on a corner, near the canal, and Nightmarket comes alive after hours. 

Then the one of them, the one in the hood, looks directly up at Bucciarati. Their eyes meet, and the hooded figure snatches the lantern from his companion and douses the light. A chill crawls down Bucciarati’s spine. He opens the window, listening. Footsteps—many pairs. At least four, probably more. Voices, low. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but people are congregating around the deli. Who to wake first? They’re most likely here for either Trish or Giorno, but Narancia can scout the area, or Mista can go in guns blazing, or Fugo can lay traps, and Abbacchio will have a plan. 

Bucciarati picks Abbacchio. “Wake up,” he says, shaking his partner. “Someone’s here.”

That’s all he needs to say. Abbacchio shoots awake, springing to his feet. The two of them go around, rousing the rest of the crew. “Giorno, take Trish and hide in the kitchen. Take this knife with you,” Bucciarati instructs, pressing a switchblade into Trish’s hand. “Fugo, you’re on trap duty. Narancia, send out Li’l Bomber, but stay up here and try to pick them off. Abbacchio, back door. Mista, you’re with me. Everyone stay low, stay quiet, and keep away from the windows.” 

Mista loads his six shooter and snaps the chamber back into place. “On it, boss.” He stays close behind Bucciarati as they creep down the stairs. Yes—there are definitely multiple people outside. Bucciarati can pick out three voices, all male. 

“Do you think it’s La Squadra?” Mista whispers. 

“No idea,” Bucciarati whispers back. “It doesn’t matter.” Because it doesn’t. They don’t know anything about La Squadra Esecuzione, so it doesn’t help if it’s them. 

“Do we bargain?” Mista asks. 

“Only once we have leverage. I’m going to use the ghost field to slip outside. Open the door in three seconds once I’m gone. Shoot to injure.” 

“Heard.” 

Then Bucciarati slides into the ghost field and phases through the door. 

One one thousand. There are three men outside. He can see the spirits in their bodies, glowing like electroplasmic light. One is the one with the lantern, although it’s been snuffed. The second is the hooded man. He’s tall and broad and although his voice is muffled, he’s clearly giving the orders here. The leader. The third is smaller, more slender, and not saying anything. 

Two one thousand. Giorno and Trish should be hidden in the kitchen by now. It’s the safest room in the building, with no windows and only one entrance. There are a variety of places to hide—inside the pantry, under the washbasin, within the icebox. 

Three one thousand. The glare bouncing off of Narancia’s rifle scope is visible in the window overhead. Li’l Bomber circles the air. Bucciarati can’t see her, but he can feel her. Now, if Fugo can get any of them with his bombs, this’ll all be over. Bucciarati just has to stall until then. 

He pops out of the ghost field just as the door bursts open. Bucciarati tackles the leader, using the element of surprise against the man’s superior height and bulk. Mista fires off two shots. Blam! Blam! One of them nails the slender attacker in the leg, and he drops to his knees. The other shot goes wide.  

“How many?” Bucciarati demands, slamming the leader’s head into the cobblestone. “How many of you are there?”

There’s still a third attacker, the one with the glasses. He grabs Bucciarati by the back of the collar and yanks him off the leader. 

Mista shoots again, nailing the bespectacled attacker in the bicep. “Fuck!” He lets go of Bucciarati and clutches his arm, blood seeping through his fingers. 

But that’s just enough time for the leader to stumble to his feet. He’s huge—taller even than Abbacchio, and much broader too, with a barrel chest and tree trunk legs. His silver eyes glint in the moonlight, framed by black sclera. Tycherosi, like Giorno. Mista levels his gun at the man’s sternum. This’ll be his fourth shot. 

Just then, a cry rings out from within. It’s Giorno. Bucciarati would know that voice anywhere. “Trish!” Giorno wails. 

“Well?” the leader prompts Mista. “Shoot me or go to them. The choice is yours. But everyone here is dead if you kill me.”

“Mista,” Bucciarati says. 

Mista clicks his tongue, lowers his gun, and runs inside, leaving Bucciarati with the three members of who can only be La Squadra Esecuzione. Two are injured, yes, but Bucciarati is still clearly outnumbered. All he can do is buy time. “So, you’re here for the girl.”

“Give her to us and we’ll leave you and yours in peace,” the leader says. 

Bucciarati can feel the other two party members behind him, circling him like sharks. He waits. 

“We have no quarrel with you. We don’t even want to kill the girl. We won’t harm her. Our only real target is the Boss.”

He’s not lying. If he were lying, Bucciarati would be able to tell. Unfortunately, in this instance, the truth isn’t good enough. “I wish I could help you,” Bucciarati says. “But when we get hired for a job, we do it.” One of the others is directly behind him now, so he snaps into the ghost field and phases through the other man, popping out behind him and grabbing him by the collar. He yanks the bespectacled assassin to the side, shoving him against his compatriot, sending them both stumbling to the ground. Is it enough? Please let it be enough. Take the shot, Narancia. Fugo. Abbacchio. Mista. Anyone. 

The leader is on him. Bucciarati finds himself tackled to the ground, a meaty hand on the back of his head. “Ghiaccio! Melone!” the leader shouts. “The girl! This is taking Prosciutto longer than normal. What could be taking him so—“ BLAM! 

A gunshot—much louder than Mista’s rounds, which means that it can only have one source: Narancia’s rifle. The bullet pierces the leader through the chest before embedding itself in the ground next to Bucciarati’s head. The leader slumps over on top of Bucciarati. He’s alive, his chest heaving, but he’s in a bad way.

“Narancia!” Bucciarati barks up at him. “You almost shot me!”

“But I didn’t!” Narancia calls back down. Then he slams the upstairs window shut. 

-

The next thing we know we’re being stuffed in an icebox. Bucciarati gave us a knife (no idea what we’re meant to do with that), and handed us off to the kid, the youngest one, the one with no memory: Giorno. We probably like him the best out of any of them, although there’s a decent chance that’s just pity. It must suck to have amnesia and also be tethered to a demon for unknown reasons. But hey, at least someone’s having a worse time of it than us. 

And now he’s stuffing us into the icebox. We’re not much of a fighter, which we guess Sticky Fingers picked up on. We have a couple of tricks, a few ways of defending ourself, but we’d rather not pull those out unless we absolutely have to. 

It’s dark and cold inside the icebox. Gunshots outside. We’re scared. Giorno’s scared too, even if he’s trying to hide it. He’s doing an okay job. Poor kid—likely the same age as Trish. Too young for any of this. There’s a part of us that wants to take his hand, but we’re not feeling generous right now. We haven’t felt generous since Donatella died. We’ve only felt spiteful and ugly. Every time that Bucciarati guy so much as looks at us we want to claw his fucking eyes out. 

It’s not fair of us, we know. But life isn’t fair. If it were, Donatella would still be alive and we wouldn’t be hiding in an icebox right now. Oh well. It can’t exactly be helped now. It’ll all be worth it, though. As soon as we’re back with him, as soon as our family is reunited, it’ll all have been worth it. 

Then the lid to the icebox swings open, nearly blinding us with the light that floods in. Standing over us, and over Giorno too, is a blond man in a dark suit. He clicks his tongue. “What have we here?” Then he reaches in and grabs us by our neck.  

“Trish!” Giorno cries, reaching up to grab us by the leg, attempting to pull us free of the man’s grasp. He’s very loud, but his voice sounds so far away. 

“I’d advise against struggling,” the man says. “I don’t want to harm you if I don’t have to.” He tightens his grip on our neck, and we cough. 

Useless. Useless Bucciarati, useless Sticky Fingers! Can barely keep us safe for two weeks. What is Solido paying them for? 

There’s something we haven’t tried before. We’re pretty sure we can disentangle ourselves from one another, and that half of us can crawl out, reach up—and. And. She’s clinging to the blond man’s tongue, scratching at the inside of his mouth, clambering down his throat and pulling at the backs of his eyes. He’s choking, his eyeballs rolling back into his head. There are many noises at once: Giorno the Amnesiac freaking the fuck out, Mista the Cutter at the kitchen door, clearly unsure of what’s going on, and behind him a large, green-haired man getting garroted by Abbacchio the Spider. “Big brother!” The large man is choking out his words against the fishing wire around his neck. In the main room, two other goons are making noises like they’re drowning. 

We know everything there is to know about the blond man now: his name (Prosciutto), his age (thirty-two), and his profession (Passione assassin). There are seven members: this one, the man behind him, the two in the main room, and three more outside, including the leader.

Well, none of that matters now. We rip the spirit out of Prosciutto’s body screaming, struggling. His skin desiccates, flaking off like ashes in the wind, and the life leaves his eyes as we strangle his soul. He lets go of our neck and we drop to the floor. Somewhere outside, a chorus of bells sound. The noise is deafening. We clap our hands over our ears, but it doesn’t help to stifle the ringing. 

Then the front door bursts open and Bucciarati stumbles in, barely managing to hold upright the leader of the team, who’s been shot through the chest. He has a knife pressed to the other man’s throat. “Nobody move,” he says. “This can still be salvaged. The rest of you can still walk away.”

Well then. Not so useless after all. It’s too late for Prosciutto, though. He slumps to the floor, dead as anything. 

-

The leader is heavy, and it takes all of Bucciarati’s strength to get him upright with one arm slung over Bucciarati’s shoulder. He presses his switchblade against the man’s throat, then kicks open the door, not even taking the time to absorb the scene before saying, “Nobody move. This can still be salvaged. The rest of you can still walk away.” He says rest because he can hear the bells at the crematorium, and he has to assume that this means that at least one person here has died. 

He can only hope that it’s one of them, and not one of his crew. 

That means they have limited time. The deathseeker crow has likely already been dispatched, and it’s only a matter of time before the Spirit Wardens arrive. Hours, if they’re lucky. Minutes, if they’re not. 

Fugo walks in the back door, dragging a third assassin, who’s clearly under the influence of drown powder, by the leg. Bucciarati’s been subject to the substance once, by accident—it wasn’t a fun experience. “The bells,” Fugo says. “Who set off the bells?” He’s not showing it, but he clearly fears the worst. 

Bucciarati doesn’t know what Trish did or how, but there’s a dead man at her feet. 

“Enough,” the leader of the assassins says, coughing. Blood flies out of his mouth and splatters onto the floor. “I see we’re outmatched here.” 

“I don’t know anything,” Trish says. She’s still kneeling in the kitchen. “I don’t know anything about my father.”

Alarm bells go off in Bucciarati’s head. Lying. She’s lying. She knows something. A lot of things, even. Luckily, no one else here seems to pick up on that. 

“This isn’t our fight,” Abbacchio says, letting the fishing wire he’s holding go slack. “We’re not getting involved in your war. We have a job. We’re getting paid. That’s all.”

“If you get him out of here and to a physicker now, he might make it,” Bucciarati says, referring to the leader. “You’ll all live to fight another day.”

“Boss?” The man who was getting strangled by Abbacchio is the only subordinate inside the building who’s still alive and conscious. 

The boss heaves a great sigh. “Let’s go, Pesci.” And then they go. Despite his injuries, the boss still manages to grab one of the poisoned assassins off the floor and drag him away. The one who’s been grabbed by Fugo stumbles to his feet and follows, taking the other poisoned one with him, Pesci walks over to the corpse of his compatriot and scoops him into his arms. 

The assassins leave and the room falls silent. Narancia’s lingering on the stairs, rifle in hand, Li’l Bomber perched on his shoulder. Mista lowers his gun. Giorno peeks out of the icebox, his eyes wide. Everyone stares at Trish. 

“Trish? Are you all right?” Bucciarati asks her, approaching her where she stands in the kitchen. 

“Bucciarati, stop,” Abbacchio says, sticking his hand out to block Bucciarati’s progress. “That’s not Trish. Trish’s eyes are green.”

He’s right. Trish’s eyes are green—at least that’s normally the case. Because right now they’re not green at all. They’re a faded, icy blue. Very pale, almost gray. 

Abbacchio climbs to his feet. “Who are you?” he demands of Trish—or the thing that’s inhabiting Trish right now. 

“Please,” she (it?) says. “I mean you no harm. I only want to protect my dear Trish, and to reunite our family.”

“Your…” Bucciarati can’t finish his sentence. 

“My name is Donatella Una,” Trish’s mouth says. “And Patricia is my only daughter.” 

Chapter Text

It’s apparently pretty simple to carry a ghost around in your body without it fully possessing you. Trish, an eighteen-year-old novice Whisper, managed it just fine. “She wasn’t ready to let me go just yet,” Donatella explains. Her voice sounds the same as Trish’s, but her cadence and inflection are completely different. It’s uncanny. “And I still had things I wanted to achieve. So Trish agreed to host my spirit.”

Then Trish-Donatella blinks twice, her (their?) eyes flickering from blue back to green. “You would do the same thing, right?” Trish asks, sounding a little bit plaintive. “For your parents?”

“No,” Abbacchio says. 

“No way,” Narancia says. 

“Probably not,” Mista says, grimacing. 

“I’d rather die,” Fugo says, folding his arms.  

“I’m not sure?” Giorno says. “But it seems unlikely.” 

Bucciarati clears his throat. “Right. Well, even though I don’t empathize, I do understand.” What would he have done to prevent his father’s possession? Would he have volunteered up his own body to the spirit in Paolo’s place? Maybe, but Paolo wouldn’t have wanted that. “But I have to ask, what does she—what do you want?”

“We want to be with my father again,” Trish says. 

“Your mom wants to be with your dad again? In your body?” Narancia says, wrinkling his nose. “Gross.”

“Not—not like that,” Trish says. “She wants us to be a family again. She’ll—I don’t know what she’ll do after we see him again, but all she wants is for me to be safe, and with my father. He’ll keep me—keep us safe.”

“You are aware he’s a violent gang leader, right?” Mista says, earning him a whack on the back of the head from Bucciarati.

“That’s why he’s able to protect us,” Trish says. “He’s—no matter who he is now. He was my father. I can’t tell you anything else about him. That’s all that matters.” 

Okay then. Bucciarati doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have to like it. If Trish wants to see the Boss, and the Boss wants to see Trish, Bucciarati can think of no reason to protest. 

“I do have one question,” Narancia says. “Can you talk to each other? You and your mom, I mean.” 

“Almost,” Trish says. “Things that she feels, I feel. I can also hear things she says when she’s in control, at least if I’m awake. But it’s difficult for me to stay awake for long periods of time when I’m not at the front, so to speak. The same is true in the other direction. So it’s hard for us to talk to each other normally. But we leave each other notes—she left me this one.” Trish pulls a scrap of paper out of her bodice and passes it over. 

The men huddle around Narancia to read it. It says, My dear Trisha, no matter what happens, I love you. You are the greatest joy of my heart. 

“Oh,” Narancia says, handing the note back. “That’s kinda sad.”

“I guess it is,” Trish says, tucking it back into her bodice. “But it’s sad when people die. We’re making the most of it.” 

And that was that. It leaves them with a few more days left until Trish is gone from their lives forever. Some of that time is spent with Donatella, but she’s definitely a passenger in Trish’s body and not the one in charge. At least the two of them start being nicer to the crew. Things don’t improve between Trish and Fugo, but maybe that’s asking for too much. 

With eight days left until Moontide, Bucciarati decides to complete his monthly ritual early, since he won’t be available on the day of. And maybe Donatella Una’s sudden appearance in his life has him feeling sentimental. 

He has scant occasion to visit Crow’s Foot, but he’s somewhat fond of the district. It’s the crossroads of the city, full of every kind of person you can imagine. Young and old, men and women, Akorosi and Iruvian, alive and dead. The streets remind him of the Aiello’s apartment—an eclectic blend of a variety of tastes, not defined by any one type of person. 

It’s also the district with the highest crime rate, but that’s neither here nor there. 

The woman he seeks out is named Maryam Ma’amoul, and she’s an instructor at the Red Sash Sword Academy. He arrives just as the lesson is wrapping up, a quartet of strapping Iruvian youngsters standing at attention before Maryam’s watchful eye. They bow as one, saying, “Agahata, Maryam Mudarisa,” in unison. 

Bucciarati doesn’t really speak Iruvian anymore, but it’s nice to hear it from the lips of others. 

Class dismissed. Maryam stows her sword, and then she looks up at the doorway where Bucciarati leans, his arms folded. Her severe features soften. “Bruno. You’re here,” she says softly, her voice carrying through the wooden room. 

“Hi, Mama,” he says. 

“It’s not Moontide. We usually—“

“I know, Mama. But I have a job that evening, so I thought I’d come see you early. I brought lunch. Would you like to eat with me?” 

“Of course,” she says. “Of course I would.” 

They sit on the floor of her studio, which is just a mostly-empty room in the dilapidated manor that the Red Sashes claim as their HQ. It’s probably far less comfortable than what most of its students are used to from back home—not that Bruno would know. Maryam wouldn’t know either. She came from nothing, as she liked to remind him when he was a kid. 

They don’t go out to eat because Maryam is affiliated with the Red Sashes. The Gondoliers, frequent allies of Sticky Fingers, are in a constant low-level feud with the Red Sashes. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen in public together, even if they are mother and son. 

“Which boy makes the food for you again?” Maryam asks. 

“That’s Mista.”

“Right. You should tell him he’s good at it. He’s a good chef.” 

“I do. Often.”

Maryam nods. “Good. Tell me about this job you’re doing on Moontide.”

“I really can’t say much,” Bruno says. “We’re going to a party.”

“A party. Charming. It’s a big job, then?”

“The biggest we’ve ever had.” 

“That’s not saying much.”

Bruno gives her a look. “Mama, please. We can’t all be a part of the Iruvian mafia.” 

“You could be. I’ve told you before, there’s a place for you here, if you wanted it. Maybe you can’t swing a sword, but you’re good at other things.”

Bruno chuckles weakly. “There’s a place for me, is there? What about Mista? What about Narancia and Fugo? We have a new member now, too. Who will take care of them if not me?”

Maryam takes a long drink of her tea. “And that partner of yours? The Bluecoat you’re so fond of? Where is he in all of this? Do you take care of him like the others?”

“I try to. He’s…difficult.”

“Hm. Bluecoats tend to be like that.”

“Ex-Bluecoat.” 

Maryam hums again. Then she reaches out and wipes a crumb off the corner of Bruno’s mouth. Bruno doesn’t know why he keeps doing this. It always gets awkward. She always questions whatever he’s doing and he never knows what to say to defend himself. What is it about mothers that makes you return to the person you were as a kid? 

As if reading his mind, she says, “I like seeing you, you know. I only wish you would come around more often. Bring that man of yours next time, too. I want to meet him. You’ve never been so hung up on someone before.”

“Mama,” Bruno says, scrunching up his face. He feels his cheeks pinkening. No one else can embarrass him like she can, either. Forcing his features to relax, he says, “I talked to Lady Thorn a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t seen Paolo.” 

Maryam raises her eyebrows. “Are you expecting me to be surprised? He’s dead. He’s been dead a long time.”

“I know,” he says. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“I know what I know,” she says. “And what I know is right in front of me. I have a class full of ungrateful brats from across the sea and a son who only visits me once a month. I don’t have a husband. He isn’t here.” 

Bruno bites back what he was about to say and stands up. “I should go back. We still have things to prepare before Moontide.” 

“Have fun at your party,” she says, likewise standing up and dusting off her trousers. “Be safe. I’ll see you again soon.” 

“All right, Mama. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, Bruno.” 

As he leaves, heading south from Crow’s Foot back towards Nightmarket, he thinks about Trish again. He loves his mother, he does, but he cannot imagine giving himself over to her in the way Trish has for Donatella. Even outside of what would happen to the rest of Sticky Fingers, the thought of joining the Red Sashes to be with her is unbearable. She’s such a strange parent. How can she be both distant and overbearing—begging him to come be with her, yet not even able to say ‘I love you’ when he walks out the door? 

But then, his father was the same way. Even as a child, Bucciarati knew that Paolo would have collapsed had his son gone with Maryam when she and her husband divorced. Yet, he was never overly affectionate with Bucciarati. When he was arrested, he simply told his son not to worry, to leave him be. It was fine.

It was fine. 

It was fine every day until it wasn’t. Until the day something got him—went into his body, used his legs to walk out into the Deathlands, never to be seen again. 

So that’s another reason Bucciarati can’t comprehend what Trish did. Being possessed, even halfway possessed, seems like the worst thing in the world. If he were to die, and he were given the option, he’d choose to let the Spirit Wardens take his body, burn it to ash, and destroy his soul. 

It’s better that way. It’s easier. 

He’s tipped out of his thoughts and nearly off his feet by an arm slung roughly around his shoulder. “Didn’t know you were a Red Sash,” someone says. It’s a man in a dark blue coat with brass buttons. 

“Aren’t all Iruvians involved with them?” a similarly dressed woman says, coming up to Bucciarati’s other side. 

“Maybe,” the man says. “But that’s not what we’re here for.”

“Who are you?” Bucciarati asks coldly. 

“Concerned members of the Watch, naturally,” the woman says. “I’m Maiale, that’s Porco. We just have a few questions for you concerning an incident from last week.”

Shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman—Maiale—snorts. “Of course you don’t. Maybe a visit to the station’ll jog your memory. Otherwise we can head down to the deli and see if anyone there knows anything.” 

Shit. Shit! If they go there, they’ll find out about Trish, and then he’ll really be in trouble. He could probably pay them off, but all their liquid money is from Passione. He doesn’t want to spend too much of it until the job is done. 

He just won’t say anything. He’s good at that. There’s been trouble with the Bluecoats before, and they’ve always gotten out of it by keeping quiet. Everyone in the crew knows never to talk to the Bluecoats, no matter what they say or do. Be calm. Panicking won’t get him out of this. He takes a breath. He doesn’t smile, but he schools his features, letting none of his fear or disdain show. “I don’t know anything about whatever it is that’s happened,” he says evenly. “But if it helps, I’ll come with you.”

“Great,” Porco says. “That makes things much easier.”

For them, maybe. Not for Bucciarati. It doesn’t matter how cooperative he is, they’re still rough with him, shoving him all the way out of Crow’s Foot and into Charhollow, to a little Watch station on the bank of the canal. Maiale keeps kicking him in the back of his legs then pretending it’s an accident. He doesn’t know why she bothers. She isn’t subtle, and she doesn’t have to be. 

It’s only once they reach the station that they bother cuffing him, Porco slapping the manacles on in one swift motion. He doesn’t resist. This won’t hurt less if he doesn’t resist, but at least it might go faster—and they’re less likely to go back on their word and head for the deli. 

They shove him into an interrogation room, and that’s when he sees something unexpected—or rather, some one unexpected: a Spirit Warden. Like all of their compatriots, they wear a long dark cloak and featureless bronze mask. Only their eyes are visible: piercing and blue-green, and their gender is difficult to discern, even when they speak. They could be a woman, or a young man, or neither. 

“Bruno Bucciarati,” they say. “Good of you to come quietly.”

“Don’t you have corpses to track down?” Bucciarati asks. 

“I suggest,” the Spirit Warden says sharply, “that you not speak unless asked a question directly. To answer your question, tracking down a corpse is exactly what I am doing: I come to speak with you concerning a recent incident. There is yet still time for us to resolve this without issue. A death occurred at your place of residence two nights ago, and necessity dictates that we must find and destroy all corpses within three days of expiration. Who was it that died?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bucciarati says. “No one died at Aiello’s.”

The Spirit Warden jerks their chin at Porco, and he grabs Bucciarati by the back of his head and slams the back of his head onto the table in front of him. Bucciarati bites back a cry, releasing a grunt. The Spirit Warden leans over the table, taking hold of Bucciarati’s collar. “Try that again,” they say. 

A poorly-thought-out lie will only make things worse. Better to tell the truth, at least to start with. “I don’t know his name. He wasn’t one of ours. If you’re looking for his body, his people took it away.” 

“And who were his people?”

“Fog Hounds. I think.” He can’t mention Passione. It’s a death sentence if he does. “A few of theirs got into a scuffle with a few of mine. Brought it home. Stupid kids.” He doesn’t know if the stupid kids thing will work on a Spirit Warden, but it’s worked on Bluecoats in the past. 

“And who killed him?” 

“I don’t know.”

This time, the Spirit Warden slaps him clean across the face, reigniting the still-fresh bruise from getting his head slammed against the table. Then the Spirit Warden wipes their gloved hand off on their cloak and says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who killed him. Not to me, in any case. And, I suspect, not to them.” 

Maiale clicks her tongue. “One more bit of street scum dead and gone. Ain’t anything to me.” She spits on the ground. 

The Spirit Warden chuckles mirthlessly. “Well, he isn’t gone yet. Where are the Fog Hounds headquartered?”

“The Docks. I think.” He has to qualify everything he says about the Fog Hounds with “I think” because he doesn’t actually know that much about them. Narancia and Mista have gotten into scuffles with a couple of their members once or twice, but it was never deadly. A friendly rivalry more than anything. And now he’s chucking them under the railcar. 

“Hm.” The Spirit Warden whips out a little notebook and jots something down. “Very well. I believe that I am done here, in that case. But if I do not find that body, I will be seeing you again. Good day to you.” They address this last part to the Bluecoats that flank Bucciarati. “Do with him what you will.” And then they’re gone. 

In that moment, Bucciarati has never hated anyone more. More than he hates his mother, or any member of Passione, or the ghost who possessed his father and walked away with him, more even than the two Bluecoats. At least the Bluecoats know they’re evil. This Spirit Warden isn’t evil—at least they don’t think they are. All they are is—is apathetic. Bucciarati is just more street scum, just like the Fog Hounds, just like the La Squadra goon that Trish-and-Donatella killed. What does it matter what happens to him? To any of them? 

So the Spirit Warden tells Maiale and Porco to do what they will, and what they will is beat the shit out of Bucciarati. 

He’s no stranger to getting kicked in the stomach by cops, but that doesn’t mean it sucks any less. It doesn’t stop him from crying out when two of his ribs crack against the steel toe of Porco’s boot. Usually, when things like this happen, he thinks about Abbacchio, or about the boys, or about his favorite music, or about the book he’s reading—anything to get him out of his head. 

But now he can’t stop thinking about that Spirit Warden. He sees their mask in his mind’s eye as his vision goes red. He coughs blood onto the concrete floor of the interrogation room. I hope you don’t find any corpse at the Fog Hounds’ place, he thinks. I hope you have to come find me again. I’m going to kill you. 

I’m going to kill you. 

I’m going to kill you. 

And then he wakes up and he’s slumped against the wall outside of the Watch station. Everything hurts. He manages to stumble to his feet with a groan, clutching his side. Fuck. Those ribs are probably broken. 

At least he’s in Charhollow. Zafaran’s clinic isn’t too far away. 

He wanders down the street, tipping into buildings as he goes. Every step is agony. No one stops to help him. He doesn’t blame them, and nor does he expect otherwise—the Charhollow citizenry are a notoriously close-knit bunch, often to the exclusion of strangers. And besides, he just got tossed out of a Watch station on his ass. Everything about him screams trouble. 

He’s about to collapse by the time he makes it to the clinic. Through the haze that clouds his vision, he sees Zafaran. He hears her distantly say, “Bucciarati? Oh, fuck.” 

When next he comes to, he’s back home, in his bed, the one he relinquished to Trish. His wounds have been bandaged, the sheets are soaked in sweat, and Abbacchio is there next to him, holding an ice pack against his swollen face. Everything still hurts, but it’s a more distant, dulled pain. Giorno or Fugo must’ve given him some painkillers. His head feels heavy—so heavy he can’t lift it off the pillow. 

“You have to stop doing this,” Abbacchio says. 

“What, no hello? No what happened? How are you feeling?”

“You feel like shit, and I can tell because you look like shit,” Abbacchio says flatly. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t need to know. Not yet, anyway. Whatever trouble you got yourself into, you have to cut it out. This isn’t the first time you’ve come back here with a black eye and broken ribs.” 

“Eight days,” Bucciarati says. 

“Huh?”

“Eight days until the party. That’s not enough time for me to heal fully.”

“Not enough ti—are you insane?” Abbacchio says, leaning over Bucciarati. “You’re worried about the party? Look, the party isn’t even a thing. You won’t even have to come. We’ll just hand the girl over and be done with it. It’ll be an hour, max.”

“You don’t have to hold the ice pack for me,” Bucciarati says. “I can do it.” His face is numb from the cold. 

“Giorno says you shouldn’t. Your shoulder’s sprained.”

“Both shoulders?”

“Just the right one.” Then Abbacchio lets go of the ice pack, allowing Bucciarati to reach across his body and take hold of it with his left hand. 

“Bluecoats,” he says. 

“Hm?”

“There was a Spirit Warden. Wanted to know about the La Squadra guy we killed.”

“We?” says Fugo, appearing beside the post that divides the sleeping area from the main area upstairs. He pushes the curtain aside. “As far as I remember, I didn’t kill anyone. It was her. It was them.” 

“Nothing to be done either way,” Bucciarati says. They can’t exactly get rid of her now. “She’ll be out of our hands soon enough.” 

“She had better be,” Fugo says, folding his arms. 

“I had better be what?” Trish asks, coming up the stairs. 

“You had better not kill anyone else,” Fugo says, turning around to face her. “Neither of you. Killing people draws too much heat. Bucciarati got beat up by a Spirit Warden because of it.”

“It was the Bluecoats who beat me up,” Bucciarati clarifies. “It’s just that there was also a Spirit Warden there.”

“What’s a Spirit Warden?” Trish asks. 

“They don’t have those in the Capital?” Abbacchio asks. 

Trish shakes her head. 

“They’re corpse hunters,” Abbacchio says. “Anytime anyone dies within the city walls, the crematorium bells ring and the crows fly out to find the body. The Spirit Wardens retrieve and burn the body before its spirit has a chance to detach and become a ghost. They’re efficient, secretive, and ruthless—one of the city’s most powerful factions. It’s not a good idea to draw their ire, as you can see.” He nods back towards Bucciarati’s supine form. “They also try to destroy any ghosts they find, which is why it would be especially bad if they find you.” 

“Right.” Trish draws in on herself. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding sincere. “We’ll try not to kill anyone else. We just—panicked.” 

“Whatever,” Fugo says, brushing past her and stomping downstairs. 

“Trish,” Abbacchio says, “can you let Giorno know that he’s awake?”

Trish nods and slinks down the stairs after Fugo. 

Bucciarati sighs and relaxes back against the pillow. Of course she—they panicked. They’re an unholy fusion of an eighteen-year-old girl and her dead mother in a brand new city, being cared for by a bunch of strangers. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let that guy get inside in the first place.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault,” Abbacchio says. “It was a surprise attack. Well,” he says, “maybe it’s your fault for taking the job.” 

Arguing about fault and blame is always a pointless affair, so Bucciarati changes the subject. “I saw my mother today.”

Abbacchio lets out a hissing breath. “How was that?”

“Fine. She wants to meet you.”

“I thought she said she didn’t like me. Didn’t like the idea of you seeing an ex-Bluecoat.”

“She doesn’t. But she still wants to meet you. Maybe next Moontide. One meal with Maryam Ma’amoul per month is enough for me.” 

Abbacchio laughs softly. “She must be some woman, to have raised a man like you.”

“My father shares some of the blame.”

Abbacchio leans his head on the mattress next to Bucciarati. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You could’ve paid them off. Or you could’ve let them come here, take one of us in instead. We can take it just as well as you. It doesn’t have to always be you getting beat to shit.”

“Leone,” Bucciarati says, stroking Leone’s hair, “I’m not letting them come here. I’ve only ever brought one Bluecoat home with me, and I’m never doing it again.” 

Chapter Text

The evening before the party, Bucciarati sits with Abbacchio in Aiello’s makeshift washroom. Makeshift because this was never its intended purpose; it doesn’t have running water, but it’s the only available place where you can get any privacy. So that’s where the bathtub is, and whenever they have the time, they haul buckets of hot water from the kitchen for bathtime. 

Bathtime is an even more laborious affair when you’re injured. Abbacchio’s agreed to help him through it. “What can I say,” he says lightly, “I’m the jealous type. I don’t want anyone else seeing you naked.” 

Even joking about jealousy seems strange, when it comes to the two of them. For all their ups and downs, neither of them have ever even thought about seeing anyone else. 

The process of bathtime involves unwrapping Bucciarati’s bandages, cleaning his wounds, cleaning the rest of him, reapplying the antiseptic, and then redressing the wounds once more. Abbacchio goes about this with his characteristic careful eye and brusque touch. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says. 

“It all hurts,” Bucciarati says.

“And yet you’re insisting on coming out with us tonight,” Abbacchio says sharply as he unwinds the bandages from Bucciarati’s torso. Bucciarati winces as he tugs a little too hard, the bandage getting caught on one of his stitches. 

“I’m the one in charge around here,” Bucciarati says, “and if I say I’m going, I’m going. That’s final.” 

“Do you not trust us to handle this ourselves?”

“That’s not it at all,” Bucciarati says dismissively. “I don’t want any surprises, and I suspect Passione doesn’t want any either. They’re expecting me to be there. If I’m not, I don’t think they’ll be pleased.” 

“You flatter yourself,” Abbacchio mutters. He dips a rag into the iodine and applies it to the jagged cut on Bucciarati’s side. Bucciarati lets out a hiss of pain. “And you’re lying,” Abbacchio says as he continues to dab iodine on Bucciarati’s various scrapes. “You want to go because you want to go. It’s not about Passione, or about us.” 

Bang, right on target. “Maybe so. But I do want you to be safe. Anything could happen.” 

“It’s best to be prepared,” Abbacchio agrees. “Do you want makeup or bandages first?” 

“Bandages,” Bucciarati says decisively. He’s lucky his arm was only sprained and not broken or dislocated, and it’s healing nicely, which means that he doesn’t have to wear a sling tonight. The trouble comes from his ribs and his face. The former are a source of constant pain; the latter is his only visible injury when he’s dressed. That’s what the makeup is for. 

“Lift your arms,” Abbacchio says, wrapping the gauze around Bucciarati’s midsection. “Take it easy tonight. Please.”

“I always plan on taking it easy.”

“Now that’s a damn lie.”

Sometimes Bucciarati wonders if Abbacchio can do what Bucciarati does—see liars as clearly as his own reflection. But no. Abbacchio just knows him that well. His torso is bandaged, and then his arm, and then all that’s left is the makeup. He wears it regularly anyway, but he especially needs it tonight—needs it to cover his black eye. 

“Turn around,” Abbacchio says, and Bucciarati swivels around to face his partner. 

It’s stupid, but sometimes Abbacchio’s beauty takes Bucciarati’s breath away. His sharp jawline, his two-tone eyes, his dark eyebrows, his aquiline nose—he has a striking face, one that drew Bucciarati in the moment he saw him, drinking himself to death at a bar in Silkshore. In a fit of ardor, Bucciarati leans over and kisses him, tangling his hands in Abbacchio’s hair. Abbacchio lets him, his mouth opening under Bucciarati’s. Bucciarati gets up onto his knees, tilting Abbacchio’s head back, just looking at him. 

Abbacchio looks away. “I still need to put your makeup on. You can’t show up to a party like this with a black eye.” 

Bucciarati sits back down, letting go of Abbacchio. “All right. Go ahead, then.” 

Half an hour later, Bucciarati is dressed up and ready to go. Only he and Trish are actually going into the party, but everyone is dressed to impress. It’s always weird seeing Mista not in his overalls and sweater. He’s dressed like a Gondolier, having swapped out his knit cap for a boater hat. He won’t look at all out of place piloting their boat to Brightstone. Giorno is dressed more or less like normal—at least, he’s dressed similarly to how he’s been dressing since they bought him new clothes. They went shopping for Trish yesterday, settling on a bright mauve watered silk dress. Narancia has swapped his bandana for a top hat and his fur boots for leather ones, Abbacchio is wearing more makeup than usual, and Fugo is wearing a vest instead of his typical sweater. Bucciarati, for his part, isn’t dressed all that differently from usual; he never leaves home unless he’s dressed to the nines. 

They all pile into the boat, which is docked at the boathouse. The boathouse is co-owned by the Gondoliers, which is part of the reason why it’s important not to piss them off. Mista navigates them through the winding canals, north to Brightstone. The Grand Ballroom Pellier is right on the water, electroplasmic lights glimmering in its windows and a crowd around the outside. The moon glows high overhead. 

Bucciarati pulls out the invitations. They have his and Trish’s names on them, but it shouldn’t technically matter. Anyone can be Bucciarati. It’s only that Bucciarati wants it to be him. 

They go over the plan again. “Mista, you stay with the boat,” Bucciarati instructs. “Narancia, find somewhere high up and out of the way. Fugo, see if you can find any other first floor exits. Do laps around the building. Make note of anyone suspicious. Abbacchio, Giorno, if you can sneak in, do. Maybe with the staff?”

Mista clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Events like this, staff all know each other. They aren’t always paid enough to care if a new face or two shows up, but in this case, I suspect they are.”

Bucciarati frowns. “Try and sneak an invitation, then. Plenty of drunk people out and about around here. One could easily go missing.” 

Abbacchio and Giorno both nod. 

“Well then,” Bucciarati says. “Trish?” He offers his hand to her. He can tell it’s Trish and not Donatella because her eyes are green and not blue. The green of them is striking—bold, almost luminescent. She must’ve gotten the color from her father. Bucciarati probably won’t get the chance to meet that father. He wonders if Passione’s infamous Boss looks like his daughter in other ways. 

Trish takes his hand and steps out of the boat, lifting her skirts a bit as she does. This dress is different from her normal clothes—tailored, it fits her perfectly. It makes her look older than she is, or maybe younger—a child playing at being a woman, or vice versa. Her expression is hard to read. Fear? Doubt? Suspicion? Resolve? Longing? Relief? Some combination thereof? Bucciarati finds it difficult to put himself in her shoes. Sure, his family situation was and remains complicated, but not this complicated. He glances back as he leaves the boat behind, but no one’s looking at him. 

He and Trish present their invitations to the bouncer and are let in without another word. He’s snuck into parties like this, but never been invited. It’s a different feeling, having been invited. He doesn’t have to sneak around, duck his head to avoid anyone looking at him. No one pays him any mind either way. Trish, on the other hand, gets asked to dance more than once, but she refuses every time. “I don’t know what our feet will do,” she confesses to Bucciarati once her most recent prospective partner vanishes into the crowd. “We don’t fight for control, but sometimes control slips anyway, and my body reacts accordingly.”

Huh. So that’s why she walks so slowly. “I don’t know what we’re meant to do now,” Bucciarati admits in kind. He feels as though he should confess something mildly embarrassing to her, since she’s just done the same. “The note only told us to come. Do you see anyone you recognize?”

Trish shakes her head. “The only one I know in this city other than you is Pericolo. And he told me at the rail station that he wouldn’t see me again.” 

“You came here by yourself, then?” 

“Not by myself,” Trish says. 

“Of course. Did you tell Pericolo about…you know?”

“No. We weren’t planning on telling you, either.” 

There’s something strange in the air, a kind of odd electricity. No one else in the ballroom seems to notice it, so maybe it’s just Bucciarati’s nerves. Are all of the guests Passione? Is the organization really this large? There must be well over three hundred in attendance. Bucciarati doesn’t want to dance, or to get food, or to even try and blend in. He can’t. It’s like there’s something physically stopping him from acting naturally. 

Then Trish does something unexpected. She slips her hand into his. It’s a gesture made with closed fingers, like a child holding the hand of her parent. He wonders if she used to hold Donatella’s hand like this, if she misses it. She must. She can hold her own hand now, but it’s not the same. 

“Excuse me,” someone says, approaching them once more. It’s a young man—or maybe an old boy—in a neatly tailored suit, similar to those worn by the waiters floating around the ballroom. His age is difficult to discern in the same way Trish-and-Donatella’s is. He could be an adolescent, younger than Trish and Giorno, or he could be well into his thirties, older than Bucciarati and Abbacchio. His hair is combed into a tightly curled braid at the back of his skull. “Bruno Bucciarati and Patricia Una?” he says. 

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t like to dance,” Trish says. 

The man laughs, high and sweet. “No, miss. I’m here to escort you upstairs. Follow me, please.” He leads them out of the ballroom, down a corridor, and to an elevator. An elevator. This place must have a lot of money behind it. The man pulls the lever, and with a ding the door opens. He pulls back the grate, then says, “Please, step inside.” 

Bucciarati looks over at Trish as they step into the elevator. She’s chewing on her thumbnail. There’s something off about all of this. The Boss is so secretive, not even revealing his name to his underlings. How could he have had a daughter all this time? One who clearly knows things about him. How could he want to see her? Wouldn’t she be a liability? 

A liability. 

He can’t leave. Even if this young man or the Boss asks him to, he won’t leave Trish’s side. 

They reach what must be the top floor of the building. The door opens again, and the man turns to Bucciarati and says, “Congratulations. Your job here is done. One of our associates will visit your residence with the money tomorrow. Good evening, sir.” Then he bows and motions for Trish to follow him. 

As Trish turns to go, she looks back at Bucciarati, her green eyes plaintive. He gives her a short nod, one he hopes is comforting. One he hopes says, I won’t leave here until you’re safe. Then the man closes the elevator grate behind her. 

-

We’re of two minds. It’s strange; we haven’t felt that way in a long time, even when Donatella was alive. We have always been in perfect sync: same body, same heart, same voice. Even when Donatella had her own body, Trish was merely an extension of her, of her desires and actions. Now Donatella flickers to the forefront of our shared consciousness. When she does, she has to cut her way through Trish’s fear. Trish lets her. Donatella is in charge of this part; that was already agreed upon. We feel the note Donatella left against our breast, where it rests above our tattoo, and it provides some faint comfort, as does the nod Bucciarati gave us. Trish needs that comfort more than Donatella, who feels more sure than ever. Donatella is the one who knew Solido, after all. Trish is on her way to meet a stranger. 

“Who are you?” we ask the man who brought us up here. Donatella doesn’t remember him, but he looks so much like Solido. Could he have relatives she never knew about?” 

“I’m no one important,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re here to see the Boss. I’m only one of his many underlings. Here we are.” He leads us to the end of a long hall, to an unassuming wooden door. “Step inside. The Boss will be right with you.” 

We step into an empty parlor, dimly lit, with the only source of light being a hearth roaring at the far end of the room. That must be why it’s so hot up here. A line of sweat forms along our hairline. The darkness seems to grow darker, impossibly darker, even as the light cast by the hearth grows brighter, making the window panes glow orange. The bright moonlight outside dims. Our hands begin to shake. We turn away from the fire, its heat at our back. There’s light seeping in from under the door. We both want the door to open, but Trish and Donatella hope for different people on the other side. 

But the door does not open. A burst of heat makes us whip around as a silhouette steps out of the flames. It’s the man from before—the underling Donatella didn’t recognize. And then his form changes, morphs, grows taller and broader, heat radiating off of him, his skin turning a deep, burning crimson, his eyes turning a bright, lush green. 

Trish would know those eyes anywhere. She sees them in the mirror every day. 

“Make this quick for me?” her father says. “Don’t scream. Don’t run. Don’t struggle.” 

-

Bucciarati has to move fast. He doesn’t know why; he just knows that he has to get back up there, and he has to bring backup. Luckily, back in the ballroom, he’s quickly able to find Giorno. “Where’s Abbacchio?” he asks. He’s sweating. 

“Still outside,” Giorno said. “We were able to steal one invitation, and he asked me to come in so that I can be here in case anyone gets hurt.” 

“We don’t have time. Follow me.” Then Bucciarati grabs Giorno by the wrist and yanks him down the hall at a rapid clip. The elevator is too risky. That young man might be watching it. They need to get as close to finding the room Trish is in without alerting any of the other attendees. There must be stairs around here somewhere. 

When they find the stairs, Bucciarati breaks into a run, pulling Giorno along behind him. 

“Is something going on?” Giorno asks. “Where’s Trish?”

“She’s with her father,” Bucciarati says. “I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Okay,” Giorno says. “I trust you.” 

They make it to the second floor, and Bucciarati’s side is killing him. It’s like there’s a knife wedged between his ribs. He doubles on the second floor landing, clutching his torso. “Fuck.” 

“I’ll go on ahead,” Giorno says, darting around Bucciarati. 

“Wait!” Bucciarati calls after him, but it’s too late. Giorno has already vanished farther up the stairs. 

-

“You’re a demon,” Donatella says. “You’ve always been a demon.”

“Yes and no,” the man in front of us says. We don’t know him. Who is—was Solido? Their eyes are the same, but the rest? This demon isn’t human, and Solido was. We thought he was. Donatella thought he was. “I’ve found it easier to share my existence with a human, at least for the time being. Doppio does a fine job hosting me, but I am not him.” All the while, he walks towards us, the temperature in the room steadily increasing. “It is my utmost regret that you exist at all,” he continues. “It seems my proximity to humankind has infected me with their desires—desires that go beyond the one that sits at the core of my being.” He clicks his tongue. “Alas. I’ll have to do something about that. But for you, I will try to make it quick.” 

He’s a meter in front of us now. His face is still invisible—the fire behind him is still too bright. It casts the front of him in deep shadow. All we can see are his eyes, those horrible eyes. The eyes Donatella fell in love with. He reaches for us, and we back up against the door, rattling the knob. Locked. Of course. “Then who was he? Who was the man I knew?” Donatella demands. It’s a question she genuinely wants answered, but she’s also buying time. Bucciarati wouldn’t just leave us, would he? That look in his eyes when he nodded to us, to Trish— please. Trish sends out a silent prayer. 

The demon’s hand stops just short of touching us. “Oh. You’re not Patricia. At least, not right now. You’re her. You’re that woman.” He spits out the word woman like it tastes bad. Trish is now fully a passenger in her own body, curling up against the back of her brain as her mother stalls, trying desperately to find a way out. The windows—no. We’re five stories up, and we’re too far from the canal to make a drop into water. Will the trick we pulled with Prosciutto work again? It’s unlikely, but it’s the best idea we have right now. 

“The woman you made a baby with,” Donatella snarls. “Or was that someone else? Who was Solido Naso?”

“He was the version of myself who made my greatest mistake,” the demon says. “And now I will remedy it.” 

“All I wanted was for us to be together again.” Donatella is pleading now. There is no escape, at least not for Trish. Donatella could abandon her, abandon us, but she won’t. Not now. Not when Trish refused to abandon Donatella. Not when Trish is the most precious thing on this broken planet. “We can be a family. We won’t tell anyone who you really are.”

“A family? A family?” The demon laughs. It’s a rich, menacing baritone, so unlike the laughter of the human hosting him. Is that human willing? Is he like us, or is he like the many other possessed of the world—being puppeted by a malevolent force he doesn’t understand? “I don’t have a family,” the demon says. “Demons do not have families. You are a woman I knew once, one who has the misfortune of having known my face, and her daughter. You should never have had her come here.”

“I—I just thought—I only wanted—what was best—“ 

In her corner of their shared mind, Trish can feel her mother’s guilt, regret, grief. She wants to comfort Donatella, but she’s too afraid. This isn’t what she wanted. This isn’t what I wanted, either. It never was. 

It’s over. Donatella has run out of things to say. She detaches from our body and lunges for him, but he catches her, takes hold of her spirit and shoves her back in. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I must destroy you both.” His hands reach out to curl around our throat. His skin burns, and we cry out in pain, kicking at his torso as he lifts us off the ground. 

“Don’t struggle,” he hisses. 

“Let go of us!” we cry. Or, we try to. We can’t speak. It’s over. It’s over. We scrabble against the door behind us, trying to wrench ourself free. We land a kick hard in his stomach, and his grip loosens. We pull ourself down by the doorknob, which is warm through our glove—almost. Because the door swings open, and we collapse to the floor in the doorway. Light spills in. Bucciarati. He came for us—for me. For Trish. 

But it’s not Bucciarati. Standing over us is the diminutive silhouette of Giorno Giovanna.

Oh no. We are so fucked. Bucciarati maybe could’ve gotten us out of this—could’ve done that thing where he turns into shadow and passes through walls. Giorno, though? Giorno is a healer, not a fighter. He can’t lift a finger against the demon. 

He can’t. But someone else can. Something else can. 

Before I can do anything, Donatella is back in control, all but tackling Giorno out of the doorway. 

-

You don’t listen to Bucciarati when he tells you to wait. Of course you don’t. If he’s panicking like this, something must be really wrong. You have to get to Trish as quickly as possible. Bucciarati will catch up when he’s able. Unfortunately, you don’t know which room Trish is in. You’re on the top floor, which is where you have to assume she went. This is where your gut is telling you to go, too. It’s a long corridor of identical doors, all shut. You try them all, flinging them open as you go. Empty. All empty. You pass by the elevator, jiggling the handle of the door next to it. Locked. It’s the first locked door you’ve encountered. 

All in all, there are three locked doors. You have a set of lockpicks with you, but you don’t have time to pick all three. 

That’s when you hear a scream. It’s coming from behind the locked door that’s farthest down the hall. You whip out your lockpicking tools and kneel down in front of the doorknob. The knob is hot to the touch, and you hiss and withdraw your fingers at first before diving back in. No time for that now. 

You don’t remember where it was you learned to pick locks. Did your parents teach you? Did you once have someone in your life like Bucciarati? You hope you did, but something tells you that you didn’t. Otherwise, how did you end up in the canal? Luckily, it’s a pretty simple lock. It takes you less than a minute to pick it. You stand and the door swings open. 

You don’t know what you should pay more attention to: Trish at your feet, handprint-shaped burns around her neck, the high collar of her dress singed, or the burning man in front of you. No. He’s not a man. A demon. You’re sure of it. The crimson skin and heat emanating from the room is a dead giveaway. You can’t see his face—it’s still obscured in shadow—but his green eyes are the same ones looking up at you from the floor, terrified. 

And then Trish’s green eyes flicker to blue, and you’re being tackled to the ground by her—by her mother. 

There’s something different about the way Donatella looks, and not just her blue eyes. The lines of her face are harsher, her affect fiercer, like some sort of wild animal. She digs her nails into your chest, and spit flies everywhere as she talks. “Protect her,” she says. “I swear on my life that if you do not protect her with everything in your power, then you will suffer until the day you die. I bind you with this, Giorno Giovanna.”

“Trish, Donatella,” the demon says. “There is no need to involve anyone else in this.”

“Say it!” Donatella shouts. “Say you’ll protect her!”

“I’ll protect her!” you say. 

“Good.” And then Trish-and-Donatella’s eyes roll back into their head and Trish’s body collapses on top of you. 

You see a flicker of white mist, smell a wisp of floral perfume, and then you feel something crawl into your mouth. 

Donatella. You can feel her, as surely as Trish must have been able to. You see her memories, her parents, her life as a Whisper, the man she loved, her daughter—her daughter who means more than anything to her. You feel it. That love. That betrayal, when the demon once known as Solido Naso said he had no family. The regret for sending Trish here at all. 

And then you feel a sharp pain at the back of your head. You see stars—the night sky. The moon shining overhead. Buy us time, she whispers into your mind. I will do the same. And tell her—tell her that I love her. I will always love her. And I will never be sorry enough. 

And then she’s gone, a whisper on the wind. 

The demon draws ever closer, but he seems reluctant to step into the full light of the hallway. “You,” he says to you. “I do not know you.” He clicks his tongue. “I had hoped to do this cleanly, but there is nothing to be done about it now.” 

You climb shakily to your feet, clutching Trish to your chest. She’s heavy. There’s no way you can make it out of here while carrying her. Nevertheless, you can’t find it in yourself to feel fear. Something tells you that you’ve faced far worse things than fire demons. “I made a promise.”

“So you did.” The demon takes another step towards you. 

Then Donatella attacks, taking form and pushing him by the face back into the room. She screams like a howling wind, and the demon stumbles, clearly not expecting this. 

It won’t be enough. He already has her. You can see her outline set ablaze, and she’s screaming again. 

Trish is awake. “Mama!” Her voice is hoarse. She lunges away from you, reaching for her mother. You barely manage to catch her. 

“We have to—“ You try to pull her down the hall, only for flames to erupt around you on all sides, boxing you in. 

Donatella is gone, her spirit burned away by the demon, and he trains his eyes on you and Trish once more. 

But you’re not looking at him anymore. At first, you’re glancing around, looking for a gap in the fire that now surrounds you. And then you’re looking behind the demon, into the dark room he emerges from. A beam of moonlight gleams through the window in the parlor. It hits the floor, creating a patch of silver on the red carpet. Dust swirls within, coalescing, thickening, darkening into a large shadow. 

All the while, the demon takes another step towards you and Trish. “Mama,” Trish whimpers. 

“Worry not,” the demon says. “You’ll join her soon enough.” 

The moonlight is blocked out completely, and something lands on the floor inside the parlor, shaking the building. “Well, what have we here?” someone new asks, and at once, everything is awash in silver light. 

It blinds you for a moment, and when your sight comes back the rest of your senses leave you. You feel sick. You can barely take in what’s happening. Your head spins, your ears ring, and you feel blood start to stream out of your nose. You slump against the wall behind you. Trish is shaking you, her lips silently forming your name. 

You can see, but you can’t quite make sense of what you’re seeing. Donatella, what have you done? 

The tether. The one connecting you to your demon. She must have pulled on it, and now—and now it’s here. It stands in the parlor: a mountainous humanoid figure with great dark wings instead of arms, brown skin threaded through with silver veins, long, wild hair, and two horns protruding from its forehead. 

The fire demon turns. “You,” he snarls. “What are you doing here?”

“I came because my proxy called me,” the moonlight demon says. “He must have done so because of you.” 

It wasn’t me, you want to say, but your mouth is filled with blood. Your vision swims. Your memories. You can feel some of them returning in a horrible torrent. 

“Giorno,” Trish is saying, her voice a harsh rasp. “The fire.”

That’s right. You promised to protect her, and now the fire that trapped you is somehow gone. “Go,” you manage to slur out, and then you take her by the wrist and lead her down the hall. You take two steps when you see them: Bucciarati and Abbacchio at the top of the stairs. “Protect…her…” you say, and that’s the last thing you manage before your consciousness fails you. 

Chapter Text

Whatever. They’ve already as good as declared war on motherfucking Passione, so who cares if they set up shop with the Red Sashes for a night or two while they figure out what to do? Giorno wakes up as Mista pilots their gondola into the canal that divides Charterhall and Crow’s Foot. He sits up and hacks blood onto the bottom of the boat. 

“Trish—“ he says, “where—“

“Right here,” Bucciarati says, putting his hand on her shoulder. The burns on her throat make it difficult for her to speak, so he doesn’t know exactly what happened. Not yet. Only that the top floor was scorched and bathed in moonlight, Trish couldn’t speak, and Giorno was experiencing some type of illness. Abbacchio had to Giorno out of the building to safety. None of the other guests seemed to be the wiser. 

Bucciarati can make guesses. It seems that Trish’s father did, in fact, try to kill her. Fire was involved. Giorno did something to buy them time to escape and succeeded. No one is pursuing them—yet. 

Giorno also seems to be uninjured, which is the strangest thing of all. He passed out, bleeding from his nose, but Fugo gave him a quick once over and said he looked fine. “He didn’t even take a punch,” Fugo said. “No bruises.” 

“Sometimes people just get nosebleeds and pass out,” Mista offered. But he knew it was more than that. They all did. They all do. 

Giorno remains shaky on his feet as they weave through the narrow alleyways of Crow’s Foot to a tenement hall across the road from the Red Sash Sword Academy. Maryam Ma’amoul rents a room on the third floor of the building. One room, with not even a full kitchen or a washroom. She comes to the door in her nightgown when Bucciarati knocks. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he says. “We’ll be out of your hair by the morning.” 

She knows better than to ask what happened. She just stands aside and lets them through. No one in the group asks her who she is either, at least not right away. 

“Let me—“ Giorno is saying. He takes out his leather satchel and puts it on the floor. Trish sits across from him. “I have ointment for burns.” He pulls out a tin, opens it, and dips his fingers inside, coating them in thick globs of the ointment, then rubbing them on Trish’s neck. Halfway through, his face scrunches up and he pulls away, clutching his forehead and smearing ointment on it. “I’m sorry.” 

Trish takes the tin from him and starts applying the ointment herself. 

“Take a rest,” Mista says, kneeling next to Giorno. “We’ve got this. We’re okay, okay?” 

“Come get some water,” Bucciarati says, leading Giorno to what passes for a kitchen—it’s really just a sink and some counter space. His mother stands by the door, eyeing them all the same way she watches her students practicing their swordplay techniques. Bucciarati pours two glasses of water. “Now tell me what happened.”

Giorno takes a long drink before saying anything. “I think I’m getting my memories back.”

“Oh.”

“Not all of them, but I remember why I was in Ironhook, and I think I know what we need to do next.” Giorno looks very serious, his eyes wide and ringed by dark circles, dried blood around his mouth and nose. “It was Donatella. She summoned the demon who was blocking my memories. And now she’s gone.” 

“Tell me what to do.”

“We need to find my father.” 

Bucciarati nods, then carries the other glass of water out to Trish. She’s weeping silently, tears streaming down her face. She takes the water and downs it all in one long gulp. Then she sets the glass aside, pulls off her gloves, and reaches down. She bunches up her skirts, hiking them up to her thighs, and then she yanks off both her socks: first one and then the other. It’s only now that Bucciarati realizes that he’s never seen her legs or feet before. He would know if he had: they aren’t the same color as the rest of her skin. They’re bright red, starting at her toes and going up her calves before fading back to cream-colored just below her knees. Her toenails are black like they’ve all been deeply bruised. 

“Are you Tycherosi?” Abbacchio asks. Her red legs are a characteristic demonkin “tell”. 

Trish shakes her head slowly. 

Giorno says, “Her father is a demon.” 

The room falls silent. It’s silent for a long moment. 

“I—how is that possible?” Fugo asks. “I mean, demons aren’t—they aren’t human. One couldn’t possibly reproduce with—“

“One could,” Trish rasps. “And one did.” She laughs hoarsely. “I should know. He had my eyes. He knew my mother. And now she’s gone, too.” She buries her face in her palms. “Mama.” 

“You’re going to be okay,” Giorno says, taking her wrists in his hands. “I promised your mother I would protect you. She told me that she loves you, and that she’s sorry.”

“I don’t care!” Trish shouts, looking up. “She told you that? Why couldn’t she tell me? Protect me all you want; I don’t care! I only want her back!” 

“Don’t yell,” Maryam says softly from her post by the door. “Your neck is wounded. You’ll hurt yourself.” 

Trish brushes her fingers against her burns and winces. “He tried to kill me. Why would she do that? Why would she bring me to a man who wanted to kill me?” She looks at Bucciarati. “Why would you bring me to a man who wanted to kill me?”

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I doubt she did either. She only wanted what was best for you.”

Trish puts her head in her hands again. “She didn’t know what was best for me. If she did, we would’ve stayed in the Capital. If she did, she would still be here.” 

None of them know what to say. At least, no one in Sticky Fingers does. “She was your mother, right?” Maryam asks. 

Trish nods. 

“Then I’m sorry you lost her, but that’s the nature of having parents, I’m afraid. Eventually you have to go on without them. Now try and keep it down so I can get some sleep.” Then Maryam goes to the bed in the corner and gets in it. 

“Now I know where he gets it from,” Abbacchio mutters under his breath. 

Turning away from his mother, Bucciarati sits down and motions for everyone to join him. “Circle up,” he says. 

Mista sighs as he sits down. “We’re not getting the rest of that money, are we?” 

“I knew this job was too good to be true,” Fugo grumbles. 

“We can’t go back to the deli without leading Passione there,” Bucciarati says. “But I want to give you all the option to walk away. It’s too late for Trish and Giorno, but it’s not too late for the rest of us. Find another gang to run with, and Passione probably won’t come after you.”

“No offense, Bucciarati, but you’re wrong,” Abbacchio says. “It’s too late for all of us. We all know that Passione’s Boss is a demon, even if we don’t know his name or what he looks like. Sure, we could go into hiding, but if the Boss is as dogged as his reputation suggests, he’ll chase us all down one by one. We can’t give him the time or the opportunity to do that. Passione is still weak. Their hitman team is in the wind, and likely still plotting against them. The time to strike is now. Whether or not we can kill the Boss, we can make his empire crumble under him like a house of cards.” 

Bucciarati could kiss him, if only they were bigger on public displays of affection. Bucciarati nods. “That said, if you want out, here’s the moment. If anyone here wants to lay low until this is all over and done with, you can. You have my blessing.” 

No one says anything. No one moves. 

“Good,” Bucciarati says. “Now, Giorno. Tell them what you told me.” 

Halfway through his explanation, Giorno’s nose starts bleeding again. “I don’t know what happened, exactly, but I think Donatella summoning the demon…loosened some of my memories,” he says, pressing Fugo’s handkerchief to his nose. “They’re fragmented, but I think I remember a little bit of why I ended up in Ironhook. I think it’s connected to Passione somehow—my father was involved with them.” 

“Who’s your father?” Fugo asks. 

“I don’t remember his name, but I remember he was important. Wealthy. And I don’t know—it’s strange. The demon attached to me didn’t seem to get along with Trish’s father—the Boss. And I get the feeling that my demon is connected to my father somehow, like it knows him. Maybe they’re enemies? I don’t know.”

“So what do you know?” Abbacchio asks. 

Giorno swallows hard. “There’s a demon attached to my brain by a spectral tether. It erased my memories. Donatella pulled on that tether and summoned the demon to us. It fought with the Boss, and the two recognized each other. My father is a very important man, and he’s involved with Passione somehow. And I—“ Giorno presses two fingers to his temple. “I went to Ironhook on purpose. I burnt my father’s house down and then got arrested on purpose, so I could—do something. Find someone. I’m not sure.” 

Before silence can even descend on the room, Narancia bursts out into cackling laughter. 

“Shh!” Fugo says, pressing his finger to Narancia’s lips. “You’ll wake his mom.” He points towards the bed where Maryam is sleeping. Maryam turns over and pulls the blankets over her head. 

Narancia’s eyes go wide. “Right. Sorry.” He glances at Maryam, clearly a little fearful. He lowers his voice. “It’s just—that’s incredible. If it’s true, it’s incredible. Arrested on purpose! And you burned your dad’s house down? I love it. I wish I could burn my dad’s house down.” He sighs wistfully. 

It is true. As far as Giorno knows it, it’s true.

“Where’s your dad live?” Mista asks. 

“On a boat,” Narancia grumbles. “That makes it harder to burn his house down.” 

“Where does your dad live?” Mista asks, turning to Giorno. 

“I don’t…remember,” Giorno says. “It was a big house on a wide, empty street. Everything was gray outside, like ashes. Inside everything was dark and—and warm. That was weird, I think. I remember thinking how weird it was that it was always so warm in the house.” 

Abbacchio clears his throat loudly, and everyone turns to look at him. He gives Bucciarati a meaningful look, and so everyone turns to look at Bucciarati. 

When explaining his ability to detect liars to Abbacchio, Bucciarati put it like this: “I simply cannot abide by liars. I have my eyes open for them at all times; I will not allow anyone to fool me.”

Naturally, he was lying when he said this. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s able to spot liars with such efficacy, but he figures that it’s largely because he himself has been lying for nearly thirty years. So, any time anyone lies to him, it’s plain and obvious on their face. He can read it as easily as he can his own expressions—like looking in a mirror. That’s the best part about being a seasoned liar. 

The worst part is definitely coming clean. 

So Bucciarati doesn’t come clean—at least not all the way. He says, “I think I might know who your father is, and where he lives. I’m not sure, but I keep my ear to the ground. Some time ago, Lord Brando’s manor in Six Towers caught fire. The timeline matches up.” 

Narancia, Fugo, and Mista exchange worried glances while Abbacchio rolls his eyes. Giorno’s brow furrows. “Who’s Lord Brando?” Trish asks. “Should we—should I be concerned?”

“You should already be concerned,” Fugo says. 

Now it’s Trish’s turn to roll her eyes. “Well, yeah. It was a figure of speech. Who’s Lord Brando?” she asks again. 

“Some nobleman,” Narancia says. “Giorno’s dad, I guess.”

“He’s pretty powerful,” Mista says. “And mysterious.” 

“Rumor has it he’s a vampire,” Fugo says. “I don’t know if I believe that, but he’s definitely up to something. I don’t know how it is in the Capital, but all the nobles around here scheme like their lives depend on it.” 

“He has a manor in Six Towers, but he doesn’t live there anymore,” Abbacchio says. “It burned down earlier this year. Bucciarati is right; the timeline lines up.” 

Bucciarati gets to his feet, wincing and clutching his side as he does. Damnit. He’s definitely gonna have to take it easy for a little while. His ribs aren’t healing any faster. “We should be on our way. Passione knows about the deli—they don’t know about the manor. We’ll hole up there for the time being.”

“We’re hiding out in a halfway burnt down mansion?” Narancia says. “Gimme a break.”

Bucciarati grimaces. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“My kitchen!” Mista says. “I swear, if anything happens to Aiello’s while we’re gone…”

“What?” Fugo asks, folding his arms and looking unimpressed. “What’ll you do about it?” 

“I bet the mansion doesn’t even have running water,” Mista grumbles. “Or gas. Giorno, does it have water and gas?”

“I don’t…know?” Giorno says. 

Mista sighs. “Whatever. I’ll figure something out. Everyone has to eat.” 

And before Bucciarati knows it, they’re back in front of the Brando Manor in Six Towers, wind howling down the haunted streets. He allows himself, briefly, to wonder who the ghost they met was. That ghost is gone, long gone, disposed of by Abbacchio shortly after they returned from their initial reconnaissance mission to the manor, so there isn’t much point in wondering who it was in life—or death. 

“Is there anyone else here?” Bucciarati asks Giorno. “Did you live with any other family?”

“I don’t think so,” Giorno says. “I’m pretty sure I had other family, but in all my memories—I was always alone. Not even my father spent any time here.” 

“Well that’s depressing,” Mista says, voicing Bucciarati’s thoughts. Bucciarati has never in his life lived alone. He can’t bear the idea. And suddenly, he’s beginning to realize why Trish invited Donatella into her body. Trish is still wearing her dress from earlier, and even though it’s warmer than her usual garb—thicker, with more layers, covering more skin—she’s shivering. Shivering in the same way Giorno would after his nightmares. 

“We should get inside,” Bucciarati says. “Come. It should be easy to go in through the burnt section of the house.” 

Contrary to how Giorno described it, it isn’t warm in the house. It wasn’t warm in the house the last time they visited either—maybe it’s to do with the big hole in the side of it. Nothing inside has changed. No sign of any intruders—or of any other occupants. 

“This feel familiar?” Mista asks Giorno. 

“I guess,” Giorno says. “It’s hard to say. Ever since Bucciarati pulled me out of the canal, everything and nothing has felt familiar. It’s like I’m in a constant state of déjà vu.” 

“That sounds like it sucks,” Narancia says. 

“It’s okay,” Giorno says. 

“We need to rest for the night,” Bucciarati says. “We’ll take stock of our situation in the morning.” 

Mista looks around. “Where do we sleep? I don’t wanna sleep out here with that creepy painting of Giorno’s dad staring down at me all night.” He jerks his chin up towards the portrait of Lord Brando hanging on the foyer wall. “Besides, there’s a hell of a draft in here.” He tucks his hands under his arms. 

Fugo looks up at the portrait and gives a long, low whistle. “That’s Lord Brando? That’s quite a likeness,” he says. 

“I guess we have the same hair,” Giorno says, twisting a loose blond lock between two fingers. 

“Do you remember what he was like at all?” Fugo asks. 

Giorno shakes his head. “Not a bit. I wouldn’t even know what he looks like, if not for…” He gestures at the painting. 

Bucciarati still remembers his own father’s face, but it’s grown softer over the years, the clarity of the image worsening, the edges bleeding together like watercolors. He wonders if there will come a day when Paolo’s face is just a black and tan smudge on the walls of Bucciarati’s memory—or worse, if Paolo’s face will one day be supplanted by Bucciarati’s own. 

Bucciarati always did look more like his father. 

They bunker down for the night in a secluded parlor, the only one with unburnt curtains. Bucciarati doesn’t want anyone looking in on them. They keep watch. They should’ve been keeping watch this whole time, even back at Aiello’s, but Bucciarati got complacent. He hadn’t had a home in so long, and they—in spite of everything, he felt safe there. He should’ve known. There’s nowhere safe in the entire world. 

He wakes up early. He was already an early riser, but this time it’s the pain rousing him instead of his natural body rhythms. He stumbles down the hall, finding his way to the washroom. It’s dark—Giorno was right about that. The shadows in the manor seem deeper than those of the outside world, creating a strange, high contrast environment that never feels right or real when you look at it. Still, despite the darkness, Bucciarati is able to take a good look at himself in the mirror for the first time since they left Aiello’s the night prior. He looks like shit, to put it mildly. The makeup Abbacchio so carefully applied to cover his black eye is smudged and streaked with sweat. Even his lipstick is smeared and cracked, peeled off from him chewing on his lip. Everything hurts, and Bucciarati could just collapse on the spot. 

But he can’t. He’ll—he’ll explore the house or something. If he ever stops moving, that’ll be his last day on this mortal coil. Life in Duskwall is fast, electric, and relentless. If you give up or give in, it’ll chew you up and spit you out. 

On instinct, he reaches for the handle of the sink and turns it. To his surprise, water comes out. He cups his hands under the stream of the faucet and lets the water pool between his fingers. It’s icy cold, but seemingly clean, so he splashes it on his face, letting it run down his cheeks. It washes away what remains of the concealer, laying bare the sorry state of his good looks. 

Bucciarati is aware he’s generally considered handsome. He also has a decent amount of charisma, but none of it has ever really mattered. Before Abbacchio, he’d never been in a serious relationship. He hadn’t really wanted one. It had been more trouble than it was worth. In many ways, it still is. 

Footsteps down the hallway. The floors creak loud as anything. Abbacchio appears in the doorway, making eye contact with Bucciarati in the mirror. “What are you doing awake,” Bucciarati says. 

“I ought to ask you the same question. I won’t, though, because I already know,” Abbacchio says. “I wanted to take another look at your injuries, and Giorno isn’t awake yet. Sit down.” 

Bucciarati takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub and yanks open his shirt, buttons popping out of their holes. The bandages underneath are stained rust brown, and the bruise on his left shoulder blooms dark. “You ever think it’s strange how we have iron in our blood,” he muses. “Iron. Like what they make magnets and cannonballs out of.”

“No,” Abbacchio says, beginning to briskly unwind the bandages. “I don’t think about that kind of thing.” He stands between Bucciarati’s parted legs. “You ripped your stitches.” 

There’s a long gash on Bucciarati’s right side, wide but not deep, that had to be sewn shut. Indeed, the torn thread pokes out of either side of the wound like little hairs, or tiny fangs. 

Abbacchio sighs and sinks to his knees, plucking out the bits of thread one by one. 

Bucciarati curls his right hand around the lip of the bathtub and threads his left into Abbacchio’s hair, which is greasy from lack of washing. 

“I’m not sucking you off,” Abbacchio says, “so get your hand off of my head.” 

“Why not?” Bucciarati asks wryly. “We’ve got plenty of space to ourselves for once.”

“…Maybe later.” 

“I didn’t put my hand there because I expected you to go down on me. I just wanted to touch you.”

“My hair is gross.”

“It is,” Bucciarati agrees. He pets Abbacchio absentmindedly. “There’s running water here, it seems.” 

“Mista will be happy to hear that. Let’s make use of it.” Abbacchio stands, and Bucciarati’s hand slides off his head. Abbacchio grabs Bucciarati’s discarded shirt off the floor and runs it under the tap. Then he returns and dabs the wet cloth along the wound, cleaning the dried blood around it. 

Bucciarati grits his teeth and furrows his brow. 

“Does it hurt?” Abbacchio asks. 

“What do you think?” Bucciarati bites back. 

“I think I want you to tell me.”

“…I’ve had worse.” 

Abbacchio scoffs and sets aside the wet shirt. Then he runs his thumbnail along the edge of the wound. 

Bucciarati swallows a hiss of pain and leans his head back. He presses down on the back of Abbacchio’s hand, flattening his palm against the open wound. He smiles, letting his eyes flutter shut. 

“Of course you’re a masochist,” Abbacchio says.

“Surely you knew that about me already,” Bucciarati says, tipping his head forward and nuzzling his nose under Abbacchio’s chin. “I’m a sadist, too.” Then he punctuates that statement by sinking his teeth into the flesh of Abbacchio’s shoulder, right at the place where his neck connects to his torso. 

Abbacchio swears and digs his fingernails into Bucciarati’s back. 

They should find a bed. They have the luxury of finding a bed, even if that means having to go upstairs and risk crashing through the top floor. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing! Oh well. Bucciarati is far beyond embarrassment and shame at this point in his life, even if Abbacchio very much isn’t. They should, at the very least, close the door. 

But he’s not feeling patient right now. Not willing to wander around the mansion hunting for a bed. He doesn’t even want to close the door. Let them get walked in on—it wouldn’t be the first time. He grabs Abbacchio by both shoulders and pushes him down. 

Abbacchio goes without resistance, wrapping his arms around Bucciarati’s lower back and rubbing his cheek on the inside of his thigh. 

-

You listen to Bucciarati leave, and then Abbacchio. Neither of them return quickly, and neither of them notice that Trish has been missing for several hours. You heard her get up and leave the dining room where all of you have holed up for the night. No one else heard, though. Only you. You were likely the only one awake. You were afraid to go to sleep, afraid of what your dreams would bring you, now that your memories are returning. 

When Bucciarati and Abbacchio don’t return, you crawl out from under the dining table to go find Trish. Bucciarati wisely warned you all against going upstairs, citing that the structure of the house could be damaged, that you could fall through the floor. Everyone agreed that this was reasonable, and so no one went upstairs. So, that’s probably where Trish is, if she wanted to be alone.

The stairs creak under you as you climb them. You go on all fours to distribute your weight more evenly, just in case, but they hold up. You don’t go crashing through them. “Trish?” you call softly. No answer. You sigh. You could be looking for her for a while, if she doesn’t want to be found. This place is huge, and you don’t remember its layout well enough to navigate it with any confidence. 

What’s more, the longer you spend here, the greater the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve thought this for some time now, but you’ve only become more certain since Donatella yanked on that tether: you don’t want your memories back. Whoever you were before you ended up in the canal, he wasn’t happy. You can still feel the knots he was twisted into. You feel them on the edges of your consciousness, when you wake up from your nightmares, when you recoil from Abbacchio’s barbed words, when you feel the fear that you see in Trish’s eyes. 

But here? With Sticky Fingers? With Bucciarati and Narancia and Mista and Fugo and even Abbacchio? And Trish now, too? Here, you’re happy, or at least content. You’re fed. You’re clothed. Your skills are appreciated. Hell, they even like you as a person. Why would you want to go back to who you were before? Why would you even want to know? 

It’s better not knowing, sometimes. Donatella wanted to know what happened to her lover, and look where that got her. 

You find Trish in a walk-in closet attached to a hollow bedroom. The closet has clothes in it, which is a bit surprising—was this your bedroom? No time to think about that—Trish kneels on the floor, staring at herself in a cracked mirror, a pair of scissors in one hand. She’s still wearing her dress from earlier—or she’s wearing parts of it. Shreds of mauve silk litter the ground, and her pale arms and red feet are visible amidst the tatters. Her hair, too, has been shorn—unevenly, in chunks. 

You approach slowly, so as not to startle her. “Hey,” you say softly. 

She doesn’t respond, she just raises the scissors up and jams them point-first into the floor. 

You sit in silence with her for a long moment, your eyes meeting in the mirror. You watch her, and she watches you watching her. 

Finally, she says, “You don’t remember her, do you? Your mother.”

You shake your head. “No. As far as I know I don’t even have one.”

Trish snorts. “Don’t be stupid. Everyone has a mother. Even Bucciarati.”

Yes, that was an interesting development. You weren’t prepared to meet the woman partly responsible for Bruno Bucciarati, but if you had any expectations of her, she met them all. 

Anyway, even if there are people out there without mothers, you aren’t one of them. You don’t remember yours at all, but you’re certain she exists. Or existed, once upon a time. She feels very far away from you, across a vast ocean. What kind of ocean, though, you don’t know. “I think something terrible happened to me,” you say. “That’s why I don’t have a mother anymore.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah. Obviously something terrible happened to you. You have no memories and you burned your father’s house down. Besides, we live in hell.” 

You grip your knees, your knuckles white as you dig your fingers into your legs. “No, I mean—I mean something really terrible. I don’t mean to compare our situations, but I think someone…hurt me. In a way I can’t recover from. I think someone took something from me that I can’t get back.”

At last, Trish turns around, looking in your eyes. “Who was it? Was it your father?”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t think so. If he had, I would’ve done much worse than burn his house down.” You laugh bitterly. 

In spite of it all, she laughs too. 

“I can fix your hair, if you like. I can try, anyway,” you say. 

She reaches behind her and pulls the scissors out of this floor. She hands them to you.

“We’ll find something new for you to wear,” you say. “I don’t know if there are any women’s clothes around here, but we’re about the same size, so if I still have any clothes in this house, they’re yours.” You get up onto your knees and begin to trim her hair. 

“I really don’t like this dress,” she says. “It’s uncomfortable.” 

“Maybe it’s good if you get a new look now, if people are looking for you.” 

“They’re looking for you, too.”

“I dare them to find me.” 

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Was it in prison? You have that look about you—no offense.”

“None taken,” you say, even though you did take some. “No. Before that. My innocence has been gone for a long time.” 

“How old are you?” Trish asks. 

“Bucciarati says that his best guess is eighteen.”

“Oh.” Trish looks downward as you clean up the hair at the nape of her neck. “That’s how old I am. I’m really sorry, Giorno.”

“I’m sorry too.” 

Chapter Text

The next time they all see Trish, she has a new haircut—much closer cropped than it was before, almost a buzzcut. Only Giorno doesn’t react with surprise. Narancia asks to rub it, and Trish lets him. She’s wearing new clothes, too—a loose-fitting pair of trousers and a heavy sweater. Why didn’t they pack her clothes for her? Even though they hadn’t known they’d be on the run, they should’ve brought the outfit she came in. Now it’s back at Aiello’s. Bucciarati will have to send someone to go get it—Mista or Narancia. 

Bucciarati notices Trish’s new look, but doesn’t remark upon it. Instead, he accompanies Mista to the kitchen to see what they can do about breakfast. Bucciarati is a hopeless cook, but he can chop a mushroom or debone an eel. 

The kitchen is stocked with cookware and cutlery, but no food. “I can go out,” Mista says, looking in the icebox one last time, as if something will appear in there if he checks again. 

“Just get something from a pub,” Bucciarati says. “We’ll figure out long-term food later.” 

“Okay,” Mista says, but when he comes back a few hours later, he has fresh produce with him. “Gotta spend that Passione money on something. And we all have to eat.”

Bucciarati’s nervous about the money. It’s all liquid, so it’s not like Passione can trace their accounts, but still. He has half a mind to examine each and every bill and coin for some kind of tracker—be it a dye powder bomb like the kind banks use in case of robberies or some sort of ritual inscription. 

“You went all the way to Barrowcleft?” Narancia says, peeking in Mista’s bag. “You got bread?”

“Yeah I got bread,” Mista says. “I’m gonna make toast.” And then he makes toast. He takes the loaf of bread out of the bag and slices it with a bread knife that looks like it’s never been used. Then he takes some goat butter out of the bag and butters each slice—seven slices, one for each of them. Then he puts those slices on a baking sheet and puts them in the oven. “I wonder where the electricity comes from,” he says as he turns the oven on. “Yo, Giorno, is this place hooked up to the grid?” 

“My memory isn’t completely back yet, you know,” Giorno says. “That smells good.” 

“Can’t beat fresh bread,” Mista says. 

“Is it still coming back then?” Fugo asks. “Your memory?”

“I don’t know,” Giorno says. “I doubt it’ll be all the way back until my tie with the demon is severed.” 

Fugo looks to Bucciarati. “So, what’s the plan now?” 

Good question. Great fucking question. “We have a new resource,” Bucciarati says. “Let’s exploit it.” 

“The money?” Narancia says. “‘Cause Mista’s already spending it.”

Bucciarati shakes his head. He steps back and gestures around them, at the kitchen, which is as white as the house’s exterior. Blank as a sheet of paper. Dusty. Barely used. “This whole house is a resource. If what Giorno says is accurate, and Trish’s father is connected to Giorno’s demon is connected to Giorno’s father, then this place is an excellent starting point to look for clues. We’ll scour it from top to bottom—just be careful if you go upstairs.” 

The only remaining problem is that of the basement—and how Bucciarati knows about it. The solution to this problem is naturally that Bucciarati doesn’t know about the basement. He could pretend to find it, but that’s beneath him, he thinks. He’ll let the boys and Trish have at it. They’re clever. They’ll find the basement soon enough. 

While they wait, Giorno redresses Bucciarati’s wounds, and when breakfast is ready, they eat all together in the kitchen, munching on toast with butter. It’s been a while since Bucciarati has had bread. It’s good every time. It makes him wonder what it was like, in ages past, before the Cataclysm—when wheat could be grown in any open field, awash in sunlight. 

“You know,” Mista says, “there’s a pretty famous restaurant around here. Maybe that’s where you got all your food when you were living here, Giorno.”

“Around here?” Narancia says. “Why would you open a restaurant in Six Towers? Isn’t that asking to go out of business?” 

Mista shrugs with one shoulder. “Beats me. But they say it has the best food in the city.” 

After breakfast, the crew scatters. Bucciarati goes upstairs. He wants to be as far away from the basement as possible. 

Upstairs isn’t as unstable as he’d feared. The floors creak, but as long as he stays away from the burnt wing, everything seems fairly solid. Abbacchio joins him shortly afterwards, appearing at the top of one of the enormous flights of stairs that lead up from the foyer. “So you aren’t going to tell them?”

“And why would I?” Bucciarati asks. He’s examining a painting on the upper landing. It’s a nondescript and inoffensive piece of artwork: a depiction of a lavish building, the kind found in Brightstone and Whitecrown. He runs his fingers along the frame, and they come away dusty. The paint has been discolored by the ambient heat from the fire. 

Abbacchio sighs and pulls up next to Bucciarati. “Anything interesting?”

“Not so far, but I have faith there’s more to be found.” 

They would cover more ground if they split up, but they choose not to. They have time, after all. They’ll be hiding out here indefinitely. 

Upstairs contains a mixture of bedrooms, offices, and parlors. Bucciarati has always wondered what the wealthy do with all their space, and the excess of it has never been more apparent. Bucciarati counts ten bedrooms, all of them able to sleep multiple people. He thinks back to their crowded apartment above the deli, to the cottage his parents rented on the shore, to his mother’s single-room tenement and clicks his tongue. What a waste. 

The decor is slightly more intriguing than the layout. Paintings are few and far between in the manor. Other than the portrait of Lord Brando, they’re all landscapes or still lifes. There are no photographs to be found. It seems the most common form of decoration in the manor are mirrors. They’re everywhere—there’s at least one in every room, several in every hallway. 

At the far end of the hallway is the only bedroom with an unmade bed. The room is as sparse and unlived-in as the rest, but the duvet has been pulled back and the curtains have been drawn. The closet door is open too, and inside is a dress—or the remains of a dress, Trish’s mauve dress, sliced to shreds and left on the closet floor, a pair of scissors placed neatly on top of the pile of disemboweled fabric. 

Bucciarati’s brow furrows, and he kneels down to pick up the scissors. No blood, which is good. Trish must have done this herself. He doesn’t quite know why, but he has a few good guesses. Hair, too. A little bit of pink hair clinging to the silk. The rest must have been cleaned up. He makes a mental note: Trish does not like mauve, or silk dresses, or high collars, or some combination thereof. 

“Bucciarati, come look at this,” Abbacchio says from the main bedroom. “Something isn’t right with the wallpaper.” 

The wallpaper is a pearly off-white color, decorated with lacy designs. It’s nothing special or notable, except in the way the overhead light hits one particular section of it. It’s not flat against the wall behind it; it’s ever so slightly raised. 

“Hm,” Bucciarati says. He’s still holding the scissors. Who even knows where Trish found these. He tucks them under his arm and runs his hand over the raised bit of wallpaper. It buckles and warps under his touch. “Huh.” 

“Gimme those,” Abbacchio says, holding out his hand. Bucciarati passes him the scissors, and Abbacchio opens them, sliding one blade along an almost invisible edge. The wallpaper peels away, revealing the brick underneath. Brick. Huh. From the way it burned, Bucciarati assumed this house was mostly wood. 

Abbacchio is one step ahead of him, feeling around the edges of each individual brick until one comes free, sliding out from its place with a scraping sound. Behind the brick is a folded piece of paper wedged against the wood of the house’s exterior. Abbacchio grabs it and unfolds it, and another scrap of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. 

Bucciarati picks it up. It’s a list of six names, all scrawled in pen, two of which Bucciarati recognizes: 

1. LETTO POLPO 
2. AMATORE VELENO 
3. LUCREZIA VELENO 
4. CARLO DEPERO   
5. MAYA SHIOBANA 
6. DIO BRANDO 

Polpo? What the hell does Polpo have to do with this? Sure, he was involved with Passione, but he was a relatively low-ranking member. Not even anyone who knew the Boss. And yet, he’s at the top of this list. Whatever this list is. 

Hang on. Polpo was in prison. Giorno said he got himself arrested on purpose to try and find someone. Polpo turned up dead not long before Giorno’s escape. Did Giorno kill Polpo? And if so, is this some kind of…grudge list? Was burning Lord Brando’s house down part of some sort of revenge scheme? Then, who are these other people? Two of the names, those of Amatore and Lucrezia Veleno, are also crossed out with a neat black strikethrough. 

The plot only thickens when Bucciarati and Abbacchio exchange papers. The folded full-sized sheet of paper turns out to be some sort of custody agreement—one between Lord Brando and this Amatore Veleno fellow, the one whose name has been crossed off the list. Bucciarati doesn’t recognize it, nor does he recognize the name of the person whose custody is being transferred: one Haruno Shiobana. Haruno Shiobana, aged sixteen when this was drafted, is not described any further by the bare-bones document. 

Maya Shiobana. Haruno Shiobana. Amatore Veleno. Who are these people? There’s only one thing to do: he has to talk to Giorno. 

“The fuck is this?” Abbacchio asks, looking at the list. “What’s this list for?”

Bucciarati frowns. “I have a hunch, but I don’t know how to confirm it. We should ask Giorno about this, though.” He holds up the custody agreement. It’s an official-looking document, if one lacking the legalese that usually comes along with such things. It reads, simply: “This document exists to demonstrate the transferral of custody of Haruno Shiobana, aged sixteen, from Mr Amatore Veleno to Lord Dio Brando. Lord Brando accepts full responsibility for the minor’s care until he comes of age. This is an official document from the City of Doskvol, Ministry of Childcare.” Then it’s stamped with the Imperial Seal of Akoros. 

“Okay,” Bucciarati says. He takes the list from Abbacchio, folds it up, and puts it in his pocket. Then he goes downstairs and looks for Giorno. 

Giorno is in the library, surrounded by books, all pulled off of shelves. Bucciarati has half a mind to ask him about the ghost they encountered, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he sits down next to the boy and asks, “What are you reading?”

Giorno flashes him the cover. The Prince in the Tower. “It’s a novel,” Giorno says. 

“Right. Um. We found this upstairs. In one of the bedrooms.” He hands Giorno the custody agreement. 

Giorno looks at it. “What is this?” he asks. 

“I was hoping you could tell me. Do you have any siblings? Do you know anyone by the name of Haruno Shiobana?”

Giorno stares at the paper. He holds it in both hands. He begins to shake all over, vibrations traveling down his arms. He blinks rapidly. 

“Giorno?” Bucciarati says. 

All at once, the trembling stops. Giorno hands the paper back to Bucciarati. “No,” he says. “That name isn’t familiar to me.”

The lie is big and obvious enough as to be visible from Iruvia. Any member of their group would be able to spot it in an instant. But Bucciarati doesn’t call him out on it. This is the first time Giorno has lied to him, which makes it notable. He’ll have to investigate further. The kid is likely a dead end for now, but maybe this Veleno character is findable. 

Assuming he’s still alive. The fact that his name had been crossed out on the list doesn’t bode well for him. 

Giorno picks his book back up and resumes reading, as though nothing happened. 

“How is it?” Bucciarati asks. 

“I’m not that far in yet,” Giorno says. “I’ll let you know, though.” 

“This is dangerous,” Abbacchio is saying as they walk into the modest building that houses the Ministry of Childcare. “We’re completely out in the open. Need I remind you that Passione is actively after us?” 

“No, you needn’t,” Bucciarati says dryly. “And you can go home if you’d like.”

“You asked me to come.”

“It’s more official-looking if there are two of us.” What a weird trick of human psychology that is. 

“So we’re just going to walk into some case worker’s office and lie? That’s the whole plan?” 

“Say that a little louder, why don’t you,” Bucciarati hisses. “Sometimes less is more,” he says, lowering his voice. 

The Ministry looks more like a shrunken tumor attached to City Hall than a structure in its own right. It cowers in the shadows of the other buildings, its façade dilapidated and decrepit. It doesn’t look like it belongs on the gleaming streets of Charterhall, but nevertheless, here it is. 

Inside, a tired-looking Severosi woman staffs the front desk. She sits up a bit when they walk in. She flicks a bit of schmutz off her lower eyelid and says, “How can I help you?” 

Bucciarati places the custody agreement in front of her. “We’re looking for information on the person described here.” He taps the paper with his index finger. “Haruno Shiobana.”

She raises her eyebrows at them skeptically. “And who are you?”

“Inspectors,” Abbacchio supplies helpfully. “We’re looking into a missing persons case.” 

She tilts her head to one side, her skepticism remaining unwavering. “Sure. In that case, can I see some identification?”

Bucciarati sighs and digs into his pocket. He pulls out a wad of bills and places them in front of her. Usually, random bureaucrats are some of the easiest people to bribe. “Will this suffice, Miss…” He glances at the nameplate on her desk. “…Dinera?” 

“Thank you, this is perfect,” she says, taking the money. She picks up the paper. “Haruno Shiobana, hm? Well, I haven’t been working here that long, but the name doesn’t sound familiar.” She squints at the page. “Lord Brando?”

“It’s a long story,” Abbacchio says. 

“I can only imagine,” Dinera says. “This is dated two years ago—Shiobana is likely of age by now, and therefore no longer our responsibility. And besides, there’s—this doesn’t look like an official document.” She reaches into a drawer beneath the desk and pulls out another sheet of paper. “This is an agreement for use between two adults concerning the exchange of a child’s custody.” 

Bucciarati examines it. Indeed, it does look quite different. It’s a lot denser, more of the expected legalese. There’s a field for a notary’s signature as well. 

“This document,” she holds up the one Bucciarati brought, “has our seal, but we didn’t print it. Haruno Shiobana may not even have a file here.” 

“Then, it’s a fake?” Abbacchio asks. 

“Most likely,” Dinera says. “If two parents were involved in a custody battle, one of them might draw up something like this and, ahem, trick someone around here into stamping it. But it is strange that no one listed here has the same surname.” 

“Will you look for anyone by the name Shiobana for us?” Bucciarati asks. 

“I could be persuaded,” Dinera says, holding out her palm. 

With a sigh, Bucciarati forks over more cash. 

Dinera stands. “Just a moment if you would, sirs.” When she returns, she shakes her head. “No, there’s no one in our records by that name. No one with the name ‘Shiobana’ at all.” 

Abbacchio scoffs. “Great.” 

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance,” Dinera says. “Feel free to come back any time.”

“Wait,” Bucciarati says. “What about Amatore Veleno? He probably isn’t a child, but do you have anything on him?” It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. 

Dinera frowns, rubbing her chin. “Veleno. That name does sound familiar. Let me ask my superior.” Then she disappears into the back again. She returns once more, this time with a grin on her face. She snaps her fingers. “I knew I recognized it. Amatore Veleno and his wife Lucrezia were frequent donors—philanthropists. But they passed away about a year ago—their house burned down with them in it. It was very tragic and sudden.”

Bucciarati and Abbacchio glance at one another. 

“It’s a hit list,” Bucciarati says as they depart the Ministry of Childcare. “It has to be.”

“How’s the saying go? Once is chance, two is coincidence, but three is a pattern?” Abbacchio says. “Who knew that fire was his MO?” 

“We don’t know that this was Giorno,” Bucciarati says. 

“The list was inside the wall in his house with his father’s name on it,” Abbacchio says. “And besides, Polpo died not long before Giorno’s escape from prison. I’ll eat my words if I’m wrong, but I really doubt that I am.” 

Bucciarati doesn’t think Abbacchio is wrong, either. 

“Where to now?” Abbacchio asks. “Back to the mansion?”

“Not yet. I want to swing by Aiello’s and pick up our stuff.”

Abbacchio releases a haggard sigh. “You really do have a death wish.”

“You first,” Bucciarati says. 

“You know that place is probably crawling with Passione by now?”

“That’s why it’s better to go about it stealthily. You can go home if you want.”

“Not a chance.” 

Bucciarati flashes his partner a small smile. “That’s what I thought.”  

Chapter Text

But the person they see when they arrive back at Aiello’s is not a Passione goon, but a Spirit Warden. Shit. Bucciarati has no way of knowing whether this one is the same one he encountered at the Watch station, but he’s willing to bet it’s related. He swears under his breath, then says, “It’s fine. We were being sneaky about it anyway.”  

“Back window?” Abbacchio asks. 

“Back window,” Bucciarati confirms. If Abbacchio boosts Bucciarati up, the latter can climb right into the upstairs apartment. They’ll be in and out before the Spirit Warden can even notice anything amiss. 

They creep around the side of the building, keeping low and within the shadows. When they’re below the apartment window, Abbacchio laces his fingers together, making a stirrup for Bucciarati to step into, then from there onto Abbacchio’s shoulders, then onto his hands once more, this time above his head, and then in through the window. He shifts briefly into the ghost field, and then he’s on the other side. He’ll be out in just a moment, just as soon as he gets the clothes and the food—the interloping Spirit Warden will be none the wiser. 

Except there’s another Spirit Warden inside, staring right at him. It’s jarring—for lack of a better word—like he’s been cracked over the head with a cinderblock. It’s violating, too. This person should not be here. Not in his apartment over his deli picking through his stuff like they own the place. He feels the person’s presence in this room like a foreign object lodged in his chest cavity. 

They look right at him, their eyes glinting behind their bronze mask. “I was wondering if you’d be stupid enough to show up,” they say. 

It’s not the same one. Not the same one from the Watch station. Bucciarati would recognize that voice anywhere. But this voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s deeper, more masculine. 

He takes stock of the situation. Abbacchio is outside, but it’s better to keep things contained to this room. If this spills out into the street, that’s even more heat on them. Heat they can’t afford right now. 

“Are you here alone, or will Tiziano have work to do?” the Spirit Warden asks. 

Tiziano? Is he referring to the guy outside? Spirit Wardens have perfect anonymity—they never use each other’s names. They don’t even know them. Maybe this is an alias of some sort? It must be, unless…Bucciarati eyes the man in front of him closely. The collar of the man’s shirt isn’t high enough, his sleeves aren’t long enough, and there’s a dent in his bronze mask. This isn’t a real Spirit Warden, which means there’s only one other group he could be a part of. 

This is bad. Who knows how many people Passione sent here? Bucciarati and Abbacchio could be sorely outnumbered. They wouldn’t have come in had they known that it was Passione and not the Spirit Wardens who were here—Spirit Wardens tend to travel light, in small groups, at least when it comes to situations like these. 

And yet, Bucciarati can’t find it in himself to be anything but relieved. The Spirit Wardens either found what they were looking for, or gave up. They have other business to attend to. At least Sticky Fingers is only at war with one powerful faction right now. 

There’s a gun in Mista’s hammock. Bucciarati isn’t as good of a shot as their Cutter, but having a gun is better than having a knife, or however the saying goes. The apartment isn’t any messier than usual, which suggests that either this man hasn’t been here for very long, or he didn’t bother searching the place. Good either way. 

“You’re not a Spirit Warden,” Bucciarati says. 

“I’m not?” the man says, sounding offended. “I have the mask and cloak, don’t I?” 

“Are you just playing dumb right now, or are you actually living the reality?” Bucciarati asks. “Your cuffs.” He gestures to the man’s arms. “And your collar. Real Spirit Wardens never show any skin, save their eyes. And your mask has a dent in it. I’ve never met a Spirit Warden whose mask wasn’t pristine.”

“The game is up, then,” the man says, reaching up and removing his mask. He has a flat face, wide Skovlan features, rust-colored hair, and freckles. Utterly average looking. Bucciarati couldn’t have picked him out in a crowd to save his life. “That’s fine. It doesn’t matter. You’re dead either way. The disguise was Tiz’s idea anyway.”

“Tiz? I suppose you mean your friend outside?”

“You’re smarter than you look.” The man reaches into his cloak and pulls out a revolver, pointing it at Bucciarati. “Say goodbye to your pretty face.”

Bucciarati smirks, projecting a confidence he doesn’t feel. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Nah. It was just an expression. I’m monogamous. Only have eyes for one.” 

Interesting. Bucciarati is confident in his ability to dodge the first shot, but the one after that is much dicier. A revolver holds six shots—he can’t avoid all of them, not in as tight a space as this. He could also try to get back out the window, but he risks injuring himself if Abbacchio isn’t prepared to catch him. 

The final option is to dodge the first shot and use that opportunity to get in closer to the man, try and take him on hand-to-hand. The man’s musculature is hidden by his Spirit Warden cloak, but he’s not that much larger than Bucciarati. He can probably take him—at least get the gun away from him. 

It’s the highest risk, highest reward of the three options, which means it’s the option he’ll take. 

“Goodbye, Bucciarati,” the man says. “Your friends will be joining you soon, I assure you.” Then he levels the gun at Bucciarati’s head and fires. 

Time slows to a crawl. Bucciarati slips into the ghost field, the bullet whizzing through his shadowy form and embedding itself in the wall behind him. He leaps towards the man, slipping back onto the material plane and tackling him to the ground. 

Or, he tries to, but the man is one step ahead of him. He takes a step back and catches Bucciarati in his arms, almost hugging him as the two wrestle one another to the ground. Bucciarati elbows the man in the stomach with his right elbow and twists the gun out of his hand with his left hand, sending the firearm skittering across the floor. Bucciarati lunges for it, but the man is on top of him, pinning him down. 

“Good thing I brought another gun,” the man says, retrieving said gun from within his cloak. It’s a derringer this time. Damn it all. The man presses the derringer under Bucciarati’s chin, its barrel digging into the place where Bucciarati’s jaw meets his neck.

“Stop,” someone else says. 

Bucciarati cranes his head around to see Abbacchio, gripping the other quote-unquote “Spirit Warden” from outside, the one this one called “Tiziano.” Tiziano is a handsome Iruvian fellow, darker than Bucciarati, with blond hair spilling over his shoulder. He doesn’t look scared, even with Abbacchio’s switchblade pressed against his carotid artery. 

“Don’t move,” Abbacchio says. “Or I cut his throat faster than you can blink.”

“Do it,” the man on top of Bucciarati spits. “I’ll shoot your friend here, too.”

It’s a classic Dagger Isles standoff. The man who flinches first loses. 

“Just shoot him, Squalo,” Tiziano says. “I can handle myself.”

The gun twitches against Bucciarati’s skin. It seems like Abbacchio made the right call. These two actually care about each other. How sweet—and how strange, for a pair of Passione goons. 

“Bucciarati?” Abbacchio says, looking to his leader for guidance. That’s the one thing that Bucciarati and Abbacchio have over Tiziano and his partner—Squalo: Bucciarati is in charge. He can make the call, whereas neither of their assailants have the authority. 

Bucciarati nods. “You know what to do.” Then he watches with pride and affection in his heart as, in one fluid motion, Abbacchio swings the knife downwards and slashes it across the inside of Tiziano’s thigh. 

Tiziano cries out and falls to his knees, blood spurting across the floor. 

“That’s the femoral artery,” Abbacchio says. “Better stop the bleeding quick.” 

But Squalo doesn’t hear him. “Tiziano!” he cries, his grip on Bucciarati loosening just slightly. Bucciarati wriggles his hand free and chops Squalo’s wrist, the one holding the gun. The derringer clatters to the floor and Bucciarati scoops it up, pointing it up at Squalo. But Squalo is already gone, darting across the room to his partner’s side and ripping his cloak into strips to try and staunch the bleeding. 

Abbacchio is similarly at Bucciarati’s side, helping him to his feet. “We gotta get out of here.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Bucciarati says, and they race down the stairs. On the bottom floor, Bucciarati darts into the washroom and grabs Trish’s old dress off the drying line, and then they’re out the door. 

The dress nearly gets forgotten several times on the way back. Two blocks away from Aiello’s, Abbacchio gives Bucciarati a look, and suddenly they’re all over each other. Bucciarati shoves Abbacchio into an alleyway, kissing him like he might never get to kiss him again. “Beautiful,” Bucciarati murmurs against his skin. “You were just beautiful. I love the way you look when you get like that. Hard as iron.” 

“That’s not the only thing that—never mind. I just—I was—“

Bucciarati covers Abbacchio’s mouth with his hand. “You don’t need to say it. Let me do the talking. I wish you’d been there when those Bluecoats got me.”

“I would’ve torn them apart,” Abbacchio says as Bucciarati uncovers his mouth to curl both hands around the back of his neck. “I would’ve—“

“I know.” The funny thing is, Abbacchio isn’t much of a fighter. Within their group, the bulk of the hand-to-hand combat has always been done by either Mista or Bucciarati himself, when there’s any combat at all. Yet Abbacchio’s attack dog instincts are potent, and Bucciarati encourages them because, frankly, it gets him off. It gets Abbacchio off, too. Bucciarati can feel Abbacchio’s length against his leg, and Bucciarati has half a mind to suck him off right here in this alley, halfway between Aiello’s and the edge of Six Towers. 

“Will you look at me like that again, right now, Bruno?”

“Like what?” Bruno asks, pulling back. 

“The way you looked at me when I asked if I should kill that Passione guy.”

“Like this?” Bruno asks, then gives him a look of approval mixed with a dose of pride and a dash of desire.

Leone’s mouth goes slack and a little moan catches in his throat. “Y-yeah. That’s it.”

Leone’s job, most of the time, is to question Bruno. No one else will, not regularly. Giorno and Trish are too new, Mista is too much of a follower, and Narancia is too, well, Narancia. Fugo will, occasionally, speak up when he disagrees with his leader, but his disagreements are too often rooted in emotion and not in logic. They aren’t so much disagreements as excuses to argue. 

Leone is different. Leone sees things differently, and he’s never afraid to say so. It’s one of the things Bruno loves about him. 

This does not extend to the bedroom. When they’re having sex, Leone is happiest being bossed around—Bruno’s lapdog, his tamed lion. 

“You did so well today, Leone,” Bruno says. 

Leone bows his head bashfully, eyelashes fluttering. It’s like he’s a whole different person from the man who was arguing with Bruno just a few hours ago. “Yes, capo. Thank you, capo.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s get home before I start stripping you in the middle of the street.”

Leone shivers, even though Bruno knows for a fact that exhibitionism is a turn-off for him. 

They don’t see anyone on the way into the manor, so they’re free to fumble their collective way upstairs. Bruno is free to push Leone down on top of a vaguely dusty duvet and take him apart, piece by piece, nice and slow. Trish’s dress lies forgotten on the floor for a while. 

When they’re done, Bruno flops onto his back and says, “You take such good care of me.”

Leone grunts. “No, I don’t.” He turns onto his side, his back to Bruno. 

Bruno sighs. The dream is over; he has to wake up. He clutches his side. He’s lucky he didn’t pop his stitches again today. Giorno wouldn’t have been pleased. Still, his ribs ache regardless. He wonders how long the pain will last. 

In the morning, Abbacchio is gone, which means that Bucciarati has no excuse to continue putting off the hard things. He goes downstairs. He takes Trish’s dress with him, and gives it to her. The fabric is stiff, the way clothing gets sometimes after you wash it and don’t dry it someplace warm. 

“I got this for you,” Bucciarati says. “If you wanted it back.”

They’re in the kitchen. Mista is cooking again. Seems like that’s all he does these days. He’s got some jellied eel and is cooking it in boiling salted water. “You went back to the deli?” he says. “And you didn’t bring our food? I had a dozen eggs in the icebox! Those don’t come cheap, you know.” 

“You didn’t just go back for the dress, did you?” Fugo asks from the kitchen table, slurping down a cup of warm goat’s milk. 

“No,” Bucciarati says. “But we ran into trouble, so the dress is all we have.”

Fugo rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Thank you,” Trish says quietly. She tucks the dress under her arm and exits the kitchen. 

“Where’s Giorno?” Bucciarati asks. 

“Library,” Fugo says. 

“Again,” Mista adds.

Lo and behold, Giorno is in the library, reading The Prince in the Tower again. “You like it in here, do you?” Bucciarati asks him. At least he’s in a chair this time, not sitting on the floor. It’s a cracked leather armchair, and Giorno has his legs crossed up on the seat. 

“Not really,” Giorno says, blinking his wide, pale eyes up at Bucciarati. “It’s just that there’s nothing else to do around here except read. This is the most comfortable place to do that. I like it better down here than upstairs.”

“Okay.” Bucciarati sucks in a breath and sits down in the armchair across from Giorno. “I have something I need to say to you.”

“Go ahead.” Giorno looks at him expectantly. Fuck the kid is hard to read. It’s weird that he’s a bad liar, and yet impenetrable in every other way. Or maybe he’s not a bad liar, it was just in that instance—never mind. Bucciarati shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He needs to focus. 

“I’m going to tell you the truth, Giorno, and then I want you to tell the truth to me. How does that sound?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. From one liar to another, you do.”

Giorno’s face twitches, a microexpression flitting across it. “Fine then,” he says. “Say your piece.” 

“I already knew who your father was, even before you told me,” Bucciarati says. “I came here a couple of weeks ago, with Abbacchio. We searched the place.”

“Oh. I see,” is all Giorno says. 

“That’s the truth. I kept it from you because I was—well, it doesn’t matter why I kept it from you. Now, I need you to tell me who Haruno Shiobana is.”

Giorno hesitates before speaking. “Haruno Shiobana is—was—he’s me. He was me when I was born, up until—until. That used to be my name. It isn’t my name anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't want to be that person any longer.” 

“And your memories?”

“They’re continuing to come back, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’ve been trying not to think about them.” 

“Is that why you’ve been reading so much?”

“What are you, my psychotherapist?” Giorno asks, his tone uncharacteristically biting. It sounds like something Narancia or Fugo would say, and Bucciarati’s heart warms a little. “I don’t know, okay?” He doesn’t say fuck you, also, but he looks like he’s thinking it. 

“One more thing,” Bucciarati says. “We know about the basement, too. Do you know how to get into any of the locked rooms?”

Giorno nods. “I can get into all of them.” He stands up and goes to one of the bookshelves. The book he takes off of it is called Slaves and Dogs, and he opens it to the middle. A square has been cut out of the pages, and inside is a key. “When you go in from the cellar door outside, the brick is at shoulder height, roughly, third out from the corner, right hand wall before the first door. This key will open the panel behind it. Flip the lever, and all the doors will open. I won’t go down with you, so you’ll have to find it on your own.” He puts the key back in the book and then leaves it on the table. 

“I have something else,” Bucciarati says, pulling out the list of names from his pocket. “Polpo is dead. The Velenos are both dead. Did you write this?” He shows it to Giorno.

“I don’t—this is my handwriting.” Giorno looks at it, and he starts shaking. “This is—I must have—I killed them. I don’t remember doing it, but I remember wanting to. And, this here, Maya Shiobana. That’s my mother’s name. Ugh.” He closes his eyes and massages his temple with two fingers. Giorno opens his eyes and stands up sharply. “I’m going for a walk,” he announces, almost not speaking to Bucciarati. Almost not speaking to anyone at all. “I need to clear my head.” He snatches the list off the table between himself and Bucciarati and marches off. 

Bucciarati sighs. He ought to go find Abbacchio now. If he tries to come home drunk, he might go to Aiello’s, and that won’t go well. 

Chapter Text

Abbacchio isn’t at the Greasy Snifter this time, which means Bucciarati has to go looking for him. And what a pain in the ass that is. He asks around the Snifter, but no one has seen Abbacchio. He flags down a few passing Gondoliers, asking if they’d given a ride to a very drunk man with long, white hair, but they all shake their heads. “Sorry, sir,” one says. “I’ve seen him around here before, but not today.” Bucciarati even hails a cab back to Aiello’s, but no one is there—not even any sign of Passione. He sighs. This isn’t the first time Abbacchio has up and vanished, but it’s certainly the least convenient and most worrying instance of this particular habit. Bucciarati knows that he should trust Abbacchio to handle himself—he’s smart, even when he’s drunk—but despite himself, he doesn’t. 

Bucciarati makes his way back to Six Towers, the weight of the district pressing down upon him. He needs to be methodical about this. If Abbacchio chose to go somewhere new, then he would likely choose somewhere nearby, especially if he was sober when he was making this decision. He also hasn’t had a haunt in Six Towers before. There aren’t that many bars here. It won’t take Bucciarati that long to check them all. Then, if Abbacchio is still nowhere to be found, Bucciarati can begin expanding his search. 

Luckily, his third bar contains his wayward companion. If you can even call the Little Pearl a bar—it’s more like a hole in the wall, nestled within a partially collapsed building on the corner of the wide streets of Six Towers. A faded tarp hangs over the entryway, and Abbacchio is its only occupant, other than the aged bartender, asleep on his stool with his head on the bar. 

“He yours?” the bartender asks, nodding towards Abbacchio. 

Bucciarati nods. 

“I thought he were with those other two who came by, but they just up and left him here.” 

…Other two? No matter. Bucciarati just needs to get Abbacchio home before Passione comes calling. 

Bucciarati sits down on the cold metal stool next to his partner. “Leone,” he murmurs. “It’s time to go back.”

Abbacchio comes to slowly, eyelashes fluttering. “You’re not…” he says softly. “Bucciarati?”

“I’ve been looking for you for hours. I thought you’d gotten yourself killed.” 

“I wouldn’t—“ Abbacchio lets out a desolate laugh. “Yes, I would. But look at you. I wouldn’t get myself killed, as long as I get to open my eyes and see you.”

Bucciarati scoffs and stands up. Drunk Abbacchio is so nice, so tender, buttering up Bucciarati like he’s a piece of fresh bread. Bucciarati doesn’t care for it, doesn’t care for this sickeningly sweet version of his beloved. He prefers the version of Abbacchio that isn’t so pliant—the version that bites back. He digs his hands under Abbacchio’s arms and hefts the other man to his feet. “Come on. I’m done humoring you. We’re going home.”

“Humoring me?” Abbacchio says good-naturedly. “If you were done humoring me, you would just leave me here to rot. The fact that you’re taking me back to that haunted house I’m forced to call a hideout proves you a liar, Bruno.”

“You already knew that I’m a liar. Now come on. I know you’re not so drunk that you can’t stand.” 

And so they begin their death march back to the haunted house, as Abbacchio put it. Abbacchio can stand and even walk, but not very well. He keeps bumping shoulders with Bucciarati and giving him slow, syrupy, sad smiles. He keeps almost falling over, forcing Bucciarati to catch him. The journey is one of the longest of Bucciarati’s life. But at last they make it back to the manor. 

As soon as they stumble through the hole in the south wing, Mista is there, a panicked look on his face. “Boss, thank fuck you’re back,” he says. “Have you seen Giorno?”

Ice curls around Bucciarati’s heart. “He said he was going for a walk before I left. Are you saying he isn’t back yet?”

Mista shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him. Not even Trish knows where he is.”

Next to Bucciarati, Abbacchio stiffens. 

Bucciarati rounds on him. “What? Do you have something to say?” 

The blood has drained out of Abbacchio’s face. “I’m so sorry Bruno. I said something I shouldn’t have.”

-

You go for a walk. The list is clenched in your hand. Letto Polpo. Amatore Veleno. Lucrezia Veleno. Carlo Depero. Maya Shiobana. Dio Brando. Only two of the names sound familiar, and yet they all feel familiar. You feel their weight like chains wrapped around your heart. You remember faces, names, but the moment-to-moment action of your fucking life is all a blank. That should be a good thing. You remember enough to know what happened to you. You remember enough to know that you don’t want to remember any more. And yet the pain lingers. Why does the pain linger if you can’t remember any of the moments that caused it? 

You stop in the middle of the road and look down at the piece of paper in your hand. The sweat from your palm has smeared the ink a little, but the names are still legible. You don’t remember writing this. You don’t remember killing Polpo or the Velenos. You don’t remember if their deaths were satisfying. It doesn’t feel like they were. Your stomach still twists, looking at their names. 

You think of The Prince in the Tower. It’s a terrible book. You don’t know why you keep reading it. The prose is so purple as to be poisonous, the characters are thin, and the plot is borderline nonsensical. The story is that of the titular Prince. A Witch demands the Prince’s sister, the Princess, as payment for services rendered to the King and Queen. The Prince takes his sister’s place and goes to live with the Witch in her Tower, where eventually, the Prince and the Witch fall in love, and when the Prince grows up, they marry. 

It’s a sickening story, but something about it speaks to you, particularly the parts where the Prince languishes alone in the Tower, prior to falling in love with the Witch. He sits there, staring out the window, waiting for the day when he’ll get to go home. 

You know that home isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. 

“Hey, kid,” someone says. “You going somewhere?”

You look up. It’s a man and a woman in dusty gray cloaks, standing in the middle of the road. “Just out for a walk,” you say cautiously. “I live here.”

The woman, who was the one who called out to you, eyes you appraisingly. “You look awful out of place around here.”

“So do you. So does everyone living.”

The woman chuckles. “You got me there.”

The man elbows her in the arm. “Abby was right. He’s got a smart mouth.”

“Enough, Frico,” the woman says. “I apologize for this, Giorno Giovanna. Know that it isn’t anything personal.”

Then someone grabs you from behind, locking your torso within their arms. Your fight-or-flight response kicks in, and you start to writhe in their grasp, all while the person begs you not to struggle.

You struggle. You spent long enough not struggling to know that it’s better to struggle. Even if it doesn’t help, even if it makes things worse, even if it hurts, at least you can say to yourself afterwards, “I fought. I did everything I could.” You reach up and dig your fingers into their face, your nails biting into their skin, drawing blood. You can feel it seep down your arm, hot and sticky. 

It doesn’t matter that you drew blood, because there’s a handkerchief over your mouth, forcing powder in as you gasp for breath. You choke and sputter and your vision goes foggy, softening around the edges. The powder tastes bitter as it coats your mouth. You feel the damp cobblestone street under your hands and knees, but you can’t see it. You can only see colors, swirling. Colors so vibrant they could never exist in extant reality. 

You’re back in your dreams, the ones your brain won’t let you remember no matter what. 

Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman—or rather, a Father and a Mother. The Father was a man of great importance in his city of origin, and the Mother was a woman of no importance and originated in no city at all. They spent a week together in a place between their two homelands, and then never saw one another again. 

Nine months later, the Mother gave birth to the Prince, a baby as beautiful as the full moon. The Mother married again, and the Stepfather loathed her son for reasons the Prince never fully understood. The Prince always thought that maybe it was about the Father, the wealth that people thought lived in the blood, and the fact that the Uncanny Isle of Tycheros was not a place people should live. As dirty and ugly as Duskwall was and is, Tycheros was a place torn by civil war, devoured by beasts, ravaged by ghosts. The Prince was another mouth to feed. Moreover, he was representative of a better life that the Stepfather would never have access to. 

Enter the Trader, stage left. In addition to being far-flung and fearful, Tycheros was exotic. The Trader thought to capitalize upon this. 

First, some statistics. Duskwall is a city of 500,000. Of that number, there are around 500 Tycherosi. Of that number, around half came to the city willingly. The rest were victims of people like the Trader—sought after for their black eyes, their feathered skin, their sharp teeth. 

The Stepfather saw his chance, and sold the Prince away. The Prince begged him to let him stay—begged the Mother too. But it didn’t work. He was stuffed in the hold of a steam ship, surrounded by black iron on all sides. The Trader took him across the sea, to the Dark Jewel of Akoros, the onyx city on the water: Duskwall, or Doskvol. 

There, the Prince was bought by the Buyer. The Buyer was a slender fellow, tall and willowy, with green eyes like serpentine ore. The Prince cried and cried, crying so much that the tears stopped coming and he just lay there and shook. The Buyer’s Wife was there too, and she hated the Prince more than anyone. The Prince has not cried since his first night with the Buyer. There was never any use to it. 

There was one ray of light in the dark life the Prince had found himself in: the Buyer’s son, the Doctor. The Doctor would bring his patients to the house, let the Prince watch the procedures. He was the only person to touch the Prince with any kindness in years—maybe ever. 

But more than what he did, what he said was what mattered. The Doctor rarely spoke to the Prince, and it was even rarer that he said anything that did not relate to the task immediately at hand. But the Prince will always remember this: It was a cold day in winter, snow falling outside the window. The Prince was watching the Doctor prepare a poultice when the Doctor said, for no reason in particular, “You have to know that you don’t deserve any of what’s happening to you. It isn’t right.”

And then he never said anything else. 

The rest of the story proceeded as would a fairy tale: the Father came to rescue the Prince from the Tower, and after that—the rest can be inferred. 

That’s what the Prince has been doing this whole time, after all. Inferring. 

-

The worst part about being stuck at home with Abbacchio is that we’re—I’m stuck at home with Abbacchio. The second worst part is that he’s in the process of sobering up, which means he’s all weird and mushy. He keeps crying, and it’s always upsetting to see a grown man cry, especially when that grown man is as big and generally stoic as Abbacchio. And he keeps having to run to the washroom to throw up. The third worst part is that I’m getting the sense that Bucciarati doesn’t trust me—he doesn’t trust me to handle myself, to pull my weight. 

But there’s time for that yet. Right now I’m trying to deal with a sloshed man in his…thirties? Forties? It’s hard to tell. The drink and/or stress and/or whatever he and Bucciarati have going on has aged him terribly. And Giorno is missing. We should’ve been keeping a closer eye on him, we know, but how was I supposed to know that Abbacchio would open his big stupid mouth and blab to the Gray Cloaks about Giorno? 

We barely know who the Gray Cloaks are. 

“This isn’t like you,” Bucciarati said before he left, and he was madder than we’d ever seen him. I was a little afraid of him, which I haven’t really been before. I know he and the others should scare me more than they do, but they never really have. Especially not now that we’ve faced down a demon. Two demons, even, one of whom was—is my father. 

Then Abbacchio looked at Bucciarati and said quietly, “Yes. It is.” 

Now I’m alone with him, barefoot in the foyer, looking down at my crimson legs. I’m wearing my old dress again, the one Bucciarati brought for me from the old hideout. I put it on and it didn’t feel the same anymore, didn’t sit right on my skin. Maybe it was just stiff from drying, but I had half a mind to cut it up like I did the other dress, and then just keep wearing Giorno’s clothes. But then I figured Bucciarati went through a lot of trouble to get it for me, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, even though I kind of am. 

I’m definitely not grateful to be stuck babysitting a man twice my age. I wanted to help look for Giorno, but none of the others wanted to take me along. Fugo scoffed and said, “What would you even do to help?”

We—I really hate that guy. Almost as much as I hate the fact that I’m not a ‘we’ anymore. 

I make some tea for Abbacchio in the kitchen. Mista showed me how to do it. Mista’s growing on me. At first I thought he was just a smelly, sweaty… guy, but it turns out he’s decent enough. I bring the tea back out to Abbacchio in the foyer. He’s sitting on the stairs with his head between his knees. “I really screwed up, didn’t I, Trish?”

“No kidding.” I set the mug down next to him. “Do you need to throw up again? Because I’m not cleaning it.”

“No. I don’t think so.” He lifts his head to look up at me. “Will he ever forgive me?”

“How would I know that? You know him better than I do. You’ve known him for like, forever. I’ve known him for a few weeks.”

Abbacchio leans back on his hands. “Sometimes I know him better than anyone. Better than my own heart. And sometimes it’s like I barely know him at all. Like these past years have been nothing but a distant dream.”

“Uh-huh.” He must still be drunk because there’s no way he would ever say any of this to me sober. 

“You had the most important person to you inside your head. Sometimes I wish I could do that with Bruno. Then we would be in perfect sync.”

“Uh-huh.” Somehow I doubt that. Mama and I were always a special case. I don’t bother to contradict him, though. “You should go upstairs and sleep it off,” I say instead, tugging on his arm. “You can talk things out when he gets back.” 

Chapter Text

You awaken in a dark room. For a moment, you think you’re back in the Tower, but the Buyer—Veleno—never bothered binding you like this. Your shoulders are stiff from how your arms have been wrenched behind your back, and your wrists are chafed from the manacles around them. You cough twice. Hack. Hack. Everything hurts, especially your head, but you don’t think you’re too injured. You don’t feel any wounds, but you could be mistaken. 

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. He stands by the room’s only exit, a set of concrete stairs leading upwards. He’s all yellow, the color of sunlight—or the color you imagine sunlight to have been, once. 

“What trouble you’ve found yourself in, my son,” he says. 

You cough again. “Not my fault,” you rasp. “Trouble finds me.” You don’t know if it’s really him, or if the drugs haven’t worn off yet. It doesn’t matter either way. Either way, you don’t want to see him. 

He chuckles. “Hmm, so it does. Would you like me to save you once more?”

“Save me? Once more? No, Father. You didn’t save me then. You bought me and then used me for tax write offs.” It was so stupid and mundane. You remember being so angry, your vision turning crimson. You stuffed the document you found into the wall of your bedroom. 

“You’ll get out of this on your own then, will you?” he asks, bemused. 

“Not on my own. I have new friends now. Real friends. They’ll come for me.”

“Very well then. I won’t help you.”

You raise your head to look him in the eye. Your hair is coming out of its curls, falling over your face. You taste blood. “You’re on my list, you know. You’re the last name on it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Your list?”

“Six names on it. I’ve already scratched off three. All that’re left are you. And Carlo. And Mama.”

“Your poor mother too?” He laughs. “You are my son after all. Good. I’m glad I’m on your list, as you put it. I eagerly await the next time I see you. Farewell, Giorno.” And then he’s gone, and you’re left alone, waiting. But for once, for once in your sorry, stupid, pitch black life, you have faith that someone will come for you. And that someone won’t be your father, or his stupid pet demon—whatever that thing is. 

The demon is new. You’re certain you never knew about it, even before you lost your memory. 

-

Bucciarati left his best detective halfway between drunk and hungover back at home, so it’s up to him to figure out where the Gray Cloaks took Giorno. Assuming it was the Gray Cloaks, which is a big assumption, even taking Abbacchio’s confession into account. 

Leaving the manor, Bucciarati felt as though he’d been punched, but he ignores the twisting in his gut to focus on the task at hand. As long as Giorno is okay, everything can be smoothed over. All can be forgiven. 

Now he, Fugo, Mista, and Narancia are standing in the middle of one of Six Towers’s wide, windswept avenues, looking for any sign of their missing comrade. All of a sudden, Narancia cries out, “Bucciarati! I found somethin’!” 

“What are you—that’s just a stupid piece of paper,” Fugo says, snatching the piece of paper in question out of Narancia’s hands.

“You’re stupid,” Narancia says, snatching the paper back. “It’s got words on it. Look here.” He offers it to Bucciarati. “You know I can’t read Akorosi, so take a look.”

“You could if you just tried,” Fugo says. 

“Shut up! My Akorosi is better than your Islander!” Narancia sticks his tongue out.

“Enough,” Bucciarati snaps. “Let me see what you found.” He takes the paper from Narancia. 

It’s Giorno’s list. The paper has been all crumpled up, the ink smeared. “Giorno had this,” Bucciarati says. “He took it from me before he went on his walk. He wouldn’t drop it, or leave it behind purposefully.” 

“Then he must have been abducted, and from somewhere nearby,” Mista says. 

“Not necessarily,” Fugo says, examining the paper. “I agree that it’s likely he was kidnapped, but it’s so windy out. This note could’ve blown here from anywhere. But there’s no blood on it, so that’s something.”

“It’s unlikely that this paper would’ve blown here from another district,” Bucciarati says. “And it’s even more unlikely that Giorno would’ve left Six Towers on his walk. What’s more, Abbacchio was drinking at a dive around here.” He rubs his chin. “Change of plans. We’re not looking for Giorno—we’re looking for the Gray Cloaks.” 

So Bucciarati takes himself back to the Little Pearl for the second time that day, and finds himself once again face to face with the gaunt old man working the bar. The old man chuckles. “You lose him again? Sorry to say, but he’s not here this time.” 

“I’m not looking for him,” Bucciarati says. “I’m looking for his drinking companions.”

The man’s expression turns cold. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. You complained about them leaving him here. Who were they?”

“I don’t know. They’re not from around here.”

He’s lying. “I think they are. Otherwise, why would they be drinking in a shithole like this?”  

The man picks up an empty bottle and shakes it at Bucciarati. “You can’t just come in here and insult my bar! Get out! Get out, I say!”

Mista whips out his gun and levels it at the man’s head. “Tell us where the Gray Cloaks are, or else.”

“I won’t be threatened in my own place of business, not by miscreants like you!”

“Miscreants like us?” Fugo scoffs. “The people you’re protecting are washed up cops who kidnapped our friend.”

“Stand down, both of you,” Bucciarati says. “If honor dictates that he won’t say anything to us, then there’s no use troubling him further. Let’s go.” They could try bribing him, but he doesn’t seem the type to talk, even with the promise of a reward. It would be a waste of money. 

Instead, Bucciarati stands outside of the Little Pearl, thinking. What do they know about the Gray Cloaks? Abbacchio was briefly one of their number before leaving and then being scouted by Bucciarati and his burgeoning outfit. They’re a group of ex-Bluecoats whose Watch station burnt to the ground. Abbacchio’s beloved partner lost his life trying to save important records from the flames. Their turf is located in this district, within the remains of their station, although Bucciarati doesn’t know exactly where. 

So what does he know about Six Towers? It’s an old district, made mostly of wood, sparsely inhabited, not wealthy any longer. The wind would’ve made the fire spread, and Bucciarati would bet anything that nothing’s been rebuilt. “Narancia,” he says. “Send out Li’l Bomber and look for any areas that are burnt down—other than the mansion.”

“On it,” Narancia says, and with that, Li’l Bomber lifts off of his shoulder and takes to the sky. 

-

Time doesn’t pass down here. There are no windows in the basement where they keep you, so you don’t know how long it’s been when the woman arrives. It’s the woman you met on the street, the one who told you it was nothing personal. The lines on her face make her look tired, but her eyes are steely with resolve. She puts her hand on your shoulder, and you wrench backwards, making the chair scrape across the concrete floor. You remember everything now, right down to the way the Buyer touched you. No one is ever going to touch you again. You won’t let them. 

“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “Will you at least let me undo your cuffs? I know those things are uncomfortable.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run? Or attack you?” you ask. 

“No offense, kid, but you look like you’re fifty kilograms soaking wet. I’m not that afraid of you.”

“You know who I am, don’t you? Maybe you should be.”

The woman bursts into laughter as she circles around the back of the chair to unlock Giorno’s handcuffs. “You’re funny. Cute and funny, like a little dog. You’re too good to be here right now, I’ll tell you that much. Giorno Giovanna, is it? I have you at a disadvantage. I’m Nessa.” 

“So is this a good cop routine you’re doing? You know you need a partner for that, right?”

“No routine,” Nessa says. “Just building rapport. That’s the best way to get information outta someone, you know?” She releases the cuffs and you double over, rubbing your chafed wrists. 

“What do you want from me?”

“From you? Very little. How attached are you to your father?”

“Not very,” you say. “I almost never saw him. I don’t know what he’s up to.”

Nessa nods. “Do you want him to come for you? To rescue you?”

You bark out a hollow laugh. “No.” 

She sits down on the floor in front of your chair, in the dirt and the ashes. Then she says, “Tell me why.”

-

The plan, like all of the best plans, is a simple one. Bucciarati hangs back while Narancia and Mista burst forward, distracting the pair of Gray Cloaks out front with suppressing fire. Meanwhile, Fugo sneaks around the side of the building. A thrown jar of drown powder will incapacitate most of the people inside. Bucciarati has his pistol loaded. He kicks down the door with the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth. Even so, the remnants of the drown powder stings his eyes, making them well up. Several Gray Cloaks writhe on the floor, deep in the throes of the hell Fugo’s concoction is currently putting them through. Drown powder is easily the nastiest weapon in Fugo’s arsenal, so naturally it’s the one he figured out how to exhale as a mist and excrete through his sweat. 

“Giorno?” Bucciarati calls, his voice muffled. “Are you here?” This is definitely the Gray Cloaks’ hideout. Bucciarati wouldn’t go in like this without triple checking. There’s a concrete stairwell that leads down into a dim basement, ashes collected in the corners. The hideout isn’t so much a hideout as it is the burnt out shell of a building. Even the door Bucciarati kicked down was hardly on any hinges in the first place. 

Bucciarati descends the stairs, gun out. At the bottom in a windowless, mostly empty room are two people. One is Giorno, looking haggard, his hair falling in front of his face in pale, lank chunks. The other is a woman, blonde and severe-looking. She looks familiar—Bucciarati must have seen her around before. 

“Giorno,” she says. “Your friends are here.”

“Hey Bucciarati,” Giorno says. “Good to see you.” 

“Are you injured?” Bucciarati asks.

“My head hurts a bit.” 

“Nessa Grigio,” the woman says, extending her hand. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Bruno Bucciarati. I’m acquainted with your…partner. I see you made quick work of my people.” 

Bucciarati scoffs. “I’m always telling him to stay away from you and your people.”

“And why is that?” Nessa asks, withdrawing her hand when Bucciarati doesn’t shake it. She sounds almost hurt by his scorn. “We want the same things. I’ve been talking to Giorno here—he’s a very polite young man.”

“She wants revenge on my dad,” Giorno says. The same as me goes unsaid. 

“I know,” Bucciarati says. “That’s why I want Abbacchio to stay away from her. She’s playing a very dangerous game, one with very high stakes.” 

“That’s what Abby always says,” Nessa says. “He must’ve gotten it from you. But Giorno tells me that he’s gotten entangled with a demon—I can tell you as much as I know about that demon.”

“No thanks,” Bucciarati says. “We don’t need your help.”

“I don’t bite,” Nessa says. “Abby tells me you’re always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Hypocritical, to mistrust us for doing the same thing.”

“The pursuit of revenge is the mark of a person stuck in the past. I look to the future.”

Nessa laughs. “What future? What future do we have? Look around us.” She gestures at the room they stand in. “We have no jobs, no respect, no standing. We lost good friends that night, as I’m sure you know. We may never be kings of this city, but we will tear Lord Brando down with our nails and teeth if we have to.” 

“Our only target is the boss of Passione.”

“We can give you information on him, too. Or on someone who knows about him. Come now, Bucciarati. You take what you can get.”

“You kidnapped one of my crew. That’s the end of the discussion. Come on, Giorno. Let’s go.” Then Bucciarati grabs Giorno by the arm and drags him up the stairs and out of the burned out Watch station. 

Chapter Text

Giorno is angry with Bucciarati for cutting them off from the Gray Cloaks, Bucciarati is angry with Abbacchio for getting Giorno kidnapped in the first place, and Abbacchio is (presumably) angry with Giorno just for existing. And they’re running out of time. Even if La Squadra yet lives, they’ll be replaced before long. Their window of opportunity is closing, and more Passione hitmen will be on their tails soon. It’s only a matter of time before their current whereabouts are discovered. 

Giorno isn’t the type of person to express his anger aloud, but Bucciarati can feel it radiating off of him like heat. “I know you’re…unhappy with me,” Bucciarati says. “But I can’t sanction working with them—not when they’re so careless. And I can’t sanction revenge for its own sake. It’ll only get you killed. Keep in mind, I lead this crew. My word is final.” 

“I understand,” Giorno says, but his gaze is still boring holes into Bucciarati’s back.

This little speech is as much for the benefit of Fugo, Narancia, and Mista as it is for Giorno. Bucciarati doesn’t want Giorno roping the others into getting themselves entangled with the Gray Cloaks. Now they’ll know that such actions go against what he says. “I trust you not to do anything rash,” Bucciarati says to everyone, even though he doesn’t. 

“I won’t,” Giorno says. 

“Heard, boss,” Mista says. 

“Good,” Bucciarati says. “Then we understand one another.” Then he approaches Giorno and presses the list back into his hands. “This is yours. You dropped it.”

“Thank you,” Giorno says, stuffing the scrap of paper in his pocket. 

They retreat back to the mansion and Giorno swiftly disappears into its winding passageways. Probably the library again, or the dining room, which is where he’s been sleeping since the first night. “Is he like…okay?” Narancia asks, referring to Giorno.

Fugo snorts. “Doubt it.”

“Is anyone?” Mista asks. 

Whatever. As long as Giorno doesn’t make any hasty decisions or get kidnapped again, it’s not Bucciarati’s problem. Bucciarati’s current problem is Abbacchio, who’s lying on the bed upstairs. 

“Giorno is safe, for now,” Bucciarati says to him. 

Abbacchio grunts in response. 

“I’m still unhappy with you, you know.”

“You’re always unhappy with me.”

“That’s not true.” It isn’t true. Of course it’s not true. Sometimes Bucciarati is so in love with his partner it hurts. He can’t imagine being with anyone else. Of course there’s joy in those feelings. 

“No. It’s not,” Abbacchio agrees. “You’re such a kind person. I’m sure that you’ll end up forgiving me again.” 

That, at least, is true. Bucciarati doesn’t often feel like he’s kind, and he never feels like he’s nice, but he knows in his heart of hearts that he is a kind person. And he forgives Abbacchio as often as Abbacchio does something that needs forgiving—which is often. 

“You’re not allowed to go to that pub anymore,” Bucciarati says. “And I don’t want you to spend any time with the Gray Cloaks.”

“You’re such a hypocrite. What, are you the only one who’s allowed to court trouble?” 

“I do it thoughtfully. And besides, if I didn’t court trouble, I wouldn’t be climbing into bed beside you right now.” 

“Do you ever feel like we have the same argument over and over again?” Abbacchio asks. 

Bucciarati sighs and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He leaves his shoes by the side of the bed and climbs in next to Abbacchio, stroking his hair. “An apology would be nice. To Giorno, and to the rest of us for the trouble.”

There’s a long pause. “Sorry.”

“Tell me you won’t do it again.”

“I didn’t mean to do it the first time,” Abbacchio says. 

“It’s strange,” Bucciarati says. “You’re so careful and cautious so much of the time. You’re planful and mindful and you don’t want trouble and you make smart decisions and you always think ahead. It’s like you become a different person when you’re drunk.” 

“And you’re a different person when you’re in Dunslough. You’re never that nice to us.” 

Bucciarati laughs softly. “That’s true. But I haven’t been there since the party, you know. We all have to make sacrifices so that we don’t get ourselves killed. So I ask that you don’t go out until this all blows over.”

“All right,” Abbacchio says. “All right.” 

-

It’s easy to get lost in the corridors of Lord Brando’s mansion. There are so many mirrors, and so many corners, and the hallways seem designed to pull you in deeper and deeper. After putting Abbacchio to bed—like he’s some kind of sick child—I wander around for a little while, just staring at myself in various mirrors. Lord Brando must love to look at his own face—and maybe he’s right to, if he looks anything like his portrait. 

I see Giorno in the mirror behind me, looking haggard and drawn, his golden hair a much paler yellow than usual in the wan light of the hall. 

“You’re back,” I say, turning around. “Are you okay?” 

And then he’s there, holding me by both shoulders, a wild look in his eyes. “I need you to know that I don’t blame you at all, but I remember everything now.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“I’m so sorry, Giorno.”

“It’s okay—it’s not okay, but it—I need your help. I’ve got this—this list, right here.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and shows it to me. It has six names on it, three of which are crossed out. 

“What is this?” I ask. 

“My list!” he says. 

“You’re not making sense.” 

“Listen. I just need you to help me kill my dad. Then I’ll help you kill yours. Or the other way around. The order doesn’t matter.”

“Giorno—I—I don’t know that I want to kill my dad! I mean, I might have to, since he’s trying to kill me, but I barely know the guy. I certainly don’t wanna do him in personally. There’s no vendetta.” 

“Right.” He hangs his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“I don’t even know how to kill your father. I don’t even know how to try. Isn’t he powerful?”

“Yes. Very much so.” 

“I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“I’ve killed three people—no. Four. There was a guard when I escaped from prison. I killed him too.” 

“Oh.” 

“I promised your mother I would protect you, though. I intend to keep my promise,” Giorno says. “I think we have to kill your father in order to keep you safe. Even if he is a demon. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know how to kill him either.”

“We’re going to find out.” He sounds so confident. So sure. Like he’s never been more sure of anything in his entire life. “I have something to show you.” He reaches for my hand, like he’s about to take it, but then he stops. “Wait,” he says. “I should ask you first. It’s um. Upsetting.”

“Will it help?”

“It might.” 

“Show me.”

He leads me down the hall into the library. I know he spends a lot of time here. I don’t. I don’t read much. Mama didn’t, so I didn’t either. He picks a book up off the table and opens it. There’s a key inside. “This will get us into the basement.” He doesn’t reach for my hand again, only jerks his head in a motion to indicate to me to follow him. 

I do. He leads me back through the house. He clearly knows its layout well, but he doesn’t look like he belongs here. I can’t put my finger on why. He looks like a beam of light where there shouldn’t be one, coming in through a high and narrow window, illuminating an otherwise darkened floor. 

He leads me out the back door, or a back door. There might be more than one. Then to a cellar door, then down some stone steps into a long hallway lined with heavy wooden doors. The hallway is illuminated by electroplasmic lights along the ceiling, yellow and sour and buzzing. He pulls a brick free from the wall and uses the key to unlock a hatch behind it. Behind the hatch is a lever. He pulls it and every door in the hallway flies open at once. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is the hard part.” He leads me to the first door on the right. Inside is a metal table with leather straps, a writing desk, a shelf full of books and bottles, and a metal side table with surgical implements. Giorno goes to the table with the surgical implements, runs his fingers over them, silver and gleaming. “I don’t know which is worse,” he says. “Living in the Tower with the Buyer, or dying down here in the dark under my father’s knife.”

“What happened here?” I ask. I’m shivering, even though I’m not cold. 

“He used to buy people too. People like me, from across the sea. Not for the same reasons Veleno did, but for this. For his experiments. I don’t even know what he was—or is looking for. It might be just for the fun of it. Not even looking for anything. That’s how he found out about me, you see. He used to purchase from the same man who traded me.” Giorno laughs darkly. “Not anymore. That Trader is dead. I made sure of it.”

I’m so afraid. I’ve never been more afraid in my life. Not even when my own father had his burning hands wrapped around our neck. Not for the first time, I wish Mama was here. I wish I could just sink into the back of my mind and let her deal with all of this for me. 

But I can’t. She’s not here anymore. I have a plan forming in my mind, but I don’t know how to voice it. Not yet. 

Giorno isn’t looking at me. Thankfully, he’s not looking at me. It’s not that I don’t want to help him. I pity him. I pity him even more than I pity myself. Who wouldn’t? But I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid of what he’s capable of doing, when he’s like this. He’s not the same boy I met after leaving the rail station that day. He continues, “I have names. Names of contacts. My father knew an information broker in Nightmarket. Knew—they were enemies. My father wanted him dead badly. But the broker survived—barely. My father was livid that night. Furious the man got away. The Gray Cloak leader told me where to find him, so we’re going to go see him. Tonight.”

“To ask about your father?”

“And yours,” Giorno says. “If he knows anything. He is an information broker after all.” 

“Do we have money to pay him with?” I ask. 

“No,” Giorno says. “But Lord Brando does.” Then he goes to the writing desk and pulls open the drawer. Inside are wads and wads of cash—more money than I’ve seen in one place in my life. “More money than he even cares to know the location of.” 

The fear does not leave me the whole evening. I wait in the kitchen for everyone to go to sleep, wait for Giorno to come find me so we can go meet the information broker. I pick at the mushrooms and rice left over from dinner, because there’s nothing else to do. Mista made them. He’s a good cook. Better than Mama was, certainly. Mama was never much for domestic tasks. 

When Giorno comes in, he’s so pale he looks like a ghost in the moonlight. Ghosts. This mansion feels haunted, but I haven’t seen or felt any ghosts around. Maybe Giorno is the ghost. Moonlight. I think about Giorno’s demon every time I see the moon hanging low over the city, its face wide and white. I wonder where the demon is right now, what it’s doing. Giorno has taken to wearing white and other pale colors—an unusual choice in this city. Most people wear black. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. 

“Yes,” I lie, standing up. I wish I had something else to wear. I’m wearing my old dress from the Capital. I wish I had something to wear that I felt comfortable in, but it’s my skin that makes me uncomfortable. 

I follow him to the front door, and he’s about to open it when someone says, “Where are you two going?”

It’s Mista. He stands at the bottom of the stairs with his arms folded. 

“I noticed you staying up late,” he says to me. “Bucciarati told me you might try something stupid,” he says to Giorno. 

“I’m not,” Giorno says. He leaves the door behind, walking over to stand a few feet away from Mista. “I’m taking Trish to meet with someone I trust.”

“Someone you trust.” Mista looks at him skeptically. “You don’t trust us, do you? Even after everything?”

Of course not. How can he? How can he trust anyone after what he’s been through? 

“Of course I trust you,” Giorno says, approaching Mista and placing his hands on Mista’s chest. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I just need to do this. And I can’t tell Bucciarati yet.”

“You’re bringing Trish along,” Mista says, but his face is already softening. What charm has Giorno worked on him? On all of them, on all of us, myself included? 

“I promised to protect her,” Giorno says. “I won’t leave her side.” 

“But you’ll drag her to—wherever it is you’re going at this time of night.”

“We’re not safe here, either.”

“I know but—I don’t wanna lie to the boss.”

“Then don’t. Don’t say anything. We’ll be back in a few hours. He won’t even notice we’re gone.” Giorno pulls away. “Good night Mista. Sleep well.” 

“Like I’m gonna sleep tonight,” Mista mutters. But he lets us go, drawing back in on himself and sinking down onto the stairs. 

I don’t like Nightmarket as much as Six Towers. Six Towers, at least, reminds me a little of home. The Imperial Capital contains a smaller population spread out over a larger area: wide streets, evenly spaced houses. Mama and I weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but we had our own home. We weren’t crammed into a single tiny upstairs apartment with five other people. There’s just less space here. 

And then there are Six Towers’ ghosts, which I can feel hovering around every street corner. I’ve always been at home among the company of the dead, more so than the living. The ghosts of Nightmarket get scared away by all the light and noise. 

There’s so much light and noise. I did not see much of the ‘market’ part of Nightmarket before, but it’s obvious now. Stalls line the avenues, people milling between them. There’s so much color, more color than I thought possible in this city, in this world. The color, at least, is nice. 

“Don’t lose me,” Giorno says. 

“That should be my line,” I say. “You know this place better than I do.”

“I hardly know this place at all.”

Great. Why did we come alone then? “I don’t get you, Giorno.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t get me either.”

“It doesn’t.” 

Somehow, I don’t lose Giorno in the throng of the Nightmarket crowd. It’s like all of the people around us blur together, until he’s the only person that’s real. The rest is all watercolor, a wash of golden and red light. 

Then I sense something, a twitch in the ghost field. A fingerprint press. I turn my head. It’s the first spirit I’ve sensed since we left Six Towers. 

He’s operating a stall. He’s a man, a young man—Severosi, I think. Maybe Iruvian. Dark skin. Red cloak. A necklace around his neck that looks like it’s made of large golden coins. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Oh good,” he says as I approach. “A customer. I was beginning to think tonight would be a wash.” He’s sitting on the ground with a low wooden table in front of him. 

“You’re dead,” I say. 

He laughs. “Very astute, miss. Not everyone can tell what I am by sight alone.”

“Your mind hasn’t left you.” I am more comfortable with ghosts than most, but I am no fool either. Ghosts can be dangerous, especially those who have been dead a long time. Unbound from a corporeal form, their minds leave them, and they go mad, chasing the living for their warmth. 

“I am one of the Reconciled,” the man says. 

“I don’t know what that means.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t really matter. Would you like a reading?” He places his spectral hand on top of a deck of cards on the table. 

“I used to do this,” I say. “I used to read cards for people.”

“Used to?” The man raises an eyebrow. “You’re awfully young to have a former profession.”

“You don’t look that much older than me.”

“Rest assured, I am. The dead don’t age, you know.”

“Of course.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” the man says. “Would you like a reading?”

We probably don’t have time for this. “Yes, please,” I say anyway. 

Giorno appears behind me. “I told you not to lose me,” he says. 

“I told you the same thing,” I say. 

He sits down next to me. “And you?” he asks the ghost. 

“Muhammad Avdol,” the ghost says, shuffling his cards. “Fortune teller by trade. The spirits used to Whisper to me; now they shout. Three cards. Mind, body, and soul. Pick three and place them in front of you.”

I do. Then I turn the first card over. 

“The Two of Swords,” Avdol announces. “Would you do the honors, or should I?”

“It’s your reading,” I say. 

“The Two of Swords. Blocked passage. Indecision. Hesitation. Your mind is at odds with itself. Turn over the next card.”

I do. 

“The Fool. You are young. Your life lies ahead of you. Your body knows this.”

I turn over the final card in the spread. 

“The Eight of Cups, inverted,” Avdol says. “Your soul fears change. You cling onto things that buoyed you in the past, but no longer. You are in a new place. You are young. You must learn to walk away.” 

“I…see,” I say. “How much for the reading?”

“Free of charge,” Avdol says. “Consider it a discount, for being in the same industry.” He smiles. “And your friend? Would he like a reading as well?”

Giorno’s eyes are boring into and through Avdol’s spectral form. “Does this really work? Can you truly see the future through these cards?” He gestures towards the deck on the table. 

“The future?” Avdol laughs. “Hardly. The tarot, in addition to being playing cards, is a reflective tool used to examine one’s past and present. They can help plan for the future, but they do not anticipate it.”

“Are there any other spreads you do?” Giorno asks. 

“Several. The Skovlan Cross is a ten card spread. I can do a six card spread, one for each month of the year. I have spreads for love, careers, advice on problems. Would you like to ask the cards for advice?”

“If you don’t mind,” Giorno says. 

“Not at all.” Avdol shuffles the cards. 

“But I’m wondering if Trish would do my reading. No offense,” Giorno says. “If she used to do this, I wonder if she would interpret the cards for me. I’m curious.”

“Um. Okay,” I say. 

“Be my guest,” Avdol says, passing the cards across the table. 

“I know a three card spread for the situation at hand, a possible action you could take, and the most likely outcome,” I say. “So pull three cards for me, then flip them at once. I prefer to read all three as a story.”

“Of course,” Giorno says, and he pulls three cards from the deck, flipping them over one at a time: the Nine of Swords, the Seven of Swords, and the Eight of Swords, in that order. 

“All Swords,” Avdol remarks. “The cards have something to say to you.”

“Trish?” Giorno prompts. 

I swallow hard and lick my lips. “The Nine of Swords represents trauma and hardship. There is no easy way out of its labyrinth. The Seven of Swords is the card of deception. You are deceiving, or you’re being deceived as a way to escape from, or deal with the Nine. The Eight of Swords represents the feeling of being trapped. No matter what you do, who you talk to or fool, the one binding you is you. There is no escape from yourself.” 

Giorno is silent. I can’t look him in the eye. “Thank you, Trish,” he says quietly. “We should be going, but it was good to meet you, Mr Avdol.”

“Likewise,” Avdol says. 

Then someone else says, “Making friends, Muhammad?” 

I turn and see a man in a wheelchair wheeling himself down the thoroughfare. He’s very broad, with a great shock of white hair on top of his head. 

“This is my partner, Jean-Pierre Polnareff,” Avdol says. 

“Charmed,” the man says. 

Giorno’s eyes go wide, and my heart skips a beat. “You—you’re the information broker we’re looking for,” Giorno says. 

Polnareff’s face hardens. “I see. Then we had better talk somewhere private.” 

-

Watching Muhammad Avdol walk alongside his partner (business or romantic or both, you don’t know), you would never know he was a ghost. He looks as solid as anyone around him, including the ostensibly alive Jean-Pierre Polnareff. Maybe even more so, given Polnareff’s pale skin and aged features. The two exchange a barbed, yet affectionate banter that reveals a rapport that has been building for years. The only thing that gives him away is that he doesn’t push Polnareff’s wheelchair—too heavy, most likely. You know from your experiences with your brother that most ghosts can’t move things around that are too heavy. A deck of cards is fine, but a wheelchair with a person in it? Not so much. 

What happened to Donnie? You can’t—don’t know. He was there when you burned the house down, screaming at the top of his spectral lungs but unable to do anything about it. And now he’s not at the mansion anymore. Maybe the Spirit Wardens finally got him. You would know if he was still around—Donnie didn’t enjoy sharing the house with anyone other than his father, and he wasn’t afraid to say so. 

You don’t miss him. But you are curious.

The information broker and the fortune teller lead you and Trish up to a quiet building proclaiming itself the Concordia Tavern. “One moment,” Avdol says before disappearing into shadow, the way you’ve seen Bucciarati do a few times. He doesn’t reappear. 

“The landlady thinks there’s only one of us,” Polnareff says by way of explanation. 

“What about us?” Trish asks. 

“Clients,” Polnareff says, flashing her a wry smile. “Gone in an hour or two. But if Miss Nelvino knew about Avdol, she’d charge him rent as well. Or kick me out. And it’s difficult to find a room when you’re in a wheelchair.” 

The only person inside the tavern is the woman behind the bar, silently cleaning glasses. She says, “Polnareff.” 

“Nelvino,” he responds in kind. 

“No trouble,” Nelvino says. 

“When have I ever made trouble for you, madame?” 

She grunts, and then Polnareff leads you and Trish into a bedroom at the back, where Avdol is already waiting. The room is small, but mostly tidy, illuminated a gas lamp on the nightstand. The low light casts long shadows to every corner of the room. “I hope you can pay,” Avdol says. “I may not always charge for my services, but Jean-Pierre does.” 

“We can pay,” you say, retrieving a wad of bills from your jacket pocket and dropping them on top of the dresser. 

“This is some cash you have here,” Polnareff says, wheeling over to the dresser and eyeing the bills. “But my prices depend upon the information you’re looking for.”

You hesitate before speaking. “My name is Giorno Giovanna. You may not know me, but I have reason to believe that you have encountered my father, Lord Brando.”

The atmosphere in the room changes in an instant. Polnareff stumbles to his feet, propping himself up on the dresser, and grabs you by the collar. “That man took everything from me. His agents murdered my sister, my lover, and very nearly killed me, too,” he growls. 

“I am still here,” Avdol says, his words distant and wistful. “Sit down. You’re going to injure yourself.” 

“Tell me you do not represent him,” Polnareff demands regardless, shaking you. 

“I don’t,” you say. “I hate him.” 

“Good,” Polnareff says, letting go of your collar and sinking back down into his wheelchair. “Good.” 

Avdol comes up behind him and places both hands on his partner’s shoulders. “You should stop doing that.” 

“I know, I know,” Polnareff says, waving him away. “It’s been years, and I am still not used to this.”

“Did Lord Brando do this to you?” Trish asks. 

“Funnily enough, no,” Polnareff says. “This was done to me by someone else—someone equally despicable. The leader of Passione.”

You and Trish exchange glances. Jackpot. You clear your throat. “Him, too. Perhaps more immediately. This is Trish Una. She’s his daughter. He wants her dead. We hope to kill him before he kills us.”

Polnareff laughs. “What a pair you two are. You have two very powerful enemies, especially for people so young. You seek the deaths of a vampire and a demon—perhaps even two demons.”

“Two demons?” you ask. 

“Yes. I take it you do not know all of your father’s dealings. In his…escapades, he has found himself bound to such a creature, in a cycle of mutual debt. The demon uses him just as he uses it. I do not know what the demon desires from him right now, but I can tell you now this demon’s name.” 

“Maybe—“ Avdol says.  

“Ah, right,” Polnareff says. “Maybe I should write it down instead. Do you have a pen? Paper?” 

“There’s a pen in the drawer,” Avdol says. 

“I have paper,” you say, pulling from your pocket your list. “Put the name at the bottom. Write a ‘seven’ next to it.”

Polnareff’s brow furrows. “Very well.” He does as he’s told, sliding the list back across the dresser to you. There, at the bottom, in an unfamiliar hand, reads: 7. KARS. “I can’t tell you how to deal with this creature, but knowing its name will help.” 

“And what of my father?” Trish asks. “Do you know his name?” 

“I do. He’s a demon of fire,” Polnareff says. “Muhammad, dear, extinguish the lamp. We don’t want him listening in.” 

Avdol goes over to the lamp on the nightstand and douses it, leaving the room in almost total darkness. The only light comes in from the crack under the door. 

“Demons can listen or even travel via their associated element,” Polnareff explains. “And saying their name too loudly carries its own risk.” 

“Then, every time I’ve lit a candle—“ Trish says. 

“We’ll be more careful from now on,” you say. 

“Pass the paper back,” Polnareff says, and you do. He scratches down another name and passes it back to you. 

You squint at it in the dim light, the only illumination coming from the sliver of moonlight creeping through the curtains. The paper reads: 8. DIAVOLO. 

You can’t stop looking up at the moon as you and Trish walk back to Six Towers. If what Polnareff said about demons is true, and if Kars is indeed a demon of moonlight, then any time the moon is visible, you are vulnerable to its meddling. Still, it hasn’t made an appearance since Donatella summoned it, so maybe it’s done with you, at least for now. 

Which isn’t to say you’re done with it. 

“I’m sorry Giorno,” Trish says suddenly. “But I can’t help you.” She’s standing behind you, and her voice wavers. “This…stuff with your father. I don’t—I can’t get involved. I’m sorry all that happened to you, but I’m not—I can’t. I just can’t.”

“I understand,” you say, and you do. 

“Wait, you didn’t let me finish,” Trish continues. “I can't help you take your revenge, but after—or before, whichever—whichever you prefer. If you want, I can try and undo what my mother did. I can try and remove your memories, if you want me to. If you want to be the way you were before—the way you were when I met you.” 

You feel yourself start to shake. You don’t cry. You never cry, but you can feel an odd pressure building up behind your eyes. You swallow hard. “You can do that for me?” 

She says, “I can try.” 

Chapter Text

I’m not getting anywhere. Oh yes, there are plenty of ways to erase memories, both alchemical and arcane, but nothing targeted. Any of the options I find will leave Giorno as little more than a blank slate—sure, he won’t remember his dad or Kars or anything else he went through, but he also won’t remember Bucciarati or Sticky Fingers. Or me. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want him to remember me. The thought of him looking at me like a stranger scares me more than the way he looked at me when he grabbed my shoulders and begged me to help him kill Lord Brando—which is saying something, because that was scary. 

My fear of him has abated somewhat, but my fear for him has increased tenfold. I’m relatively sure he won’t hurt me, but he’ll end up hurting himself, or someone else—and not someone he intends to hurt, either. A bystander, or maybe another member of Sticky Fingers. I’ve seen the way he’s cut himself off from them. 

It won’t be on purpose. But it seems more inevitable as the days pass, as Giorno works on his revenge scheme and I work on erasing his memories—hopefully for good this time. 

Maybe if I found a ghost to possess him? One of those who haven’t lost their minds to time and the void. Then maybe that person’s memories could overwrite some of his less pleasant ones. No. That can’t be it. That strategy is just as likely to traumatize him further. 

He comes to me in the middle of the week. We’re still biding our time, waiting for someone, anyone, to come up with a plan. Fugo, Narancia, and Mista are looking to Abbacchio, Abbacchio is looking to Bucciarati, Bucciarati is looking to Giorno, and Giorno is looking to me. 

And I don’t have a plan. 

“I’m still working on it,” I tell him hurriedly. I don’t tell him about the blank slate option, because I’m afraid he’ll ask me to go through with it. And in an unspoken agreement, neither of us have told Bucciarati anything. 

“I have an idea,” he says. “I was wondering how I would get back to Tycheros, since two of the people on my list are there.” 

“I asked you not to involve me,” I say. 

“You don’t have to help,” he says. “All I’m doing is telling you what I want to do. When we get rid of your father, dissolve Passione, and replace it with something better, we’ll have plenty of money. And we’ll have allies. Lots of enemies, but allies too. There are a lot of people who hate Passione, even former members of the organization.”

I swallow hard. “La Squadra?”

He nods. “Exactly. Once we kill the Boss, they’ll owe us a favor. My mother and stepfather aren’t fighters—they shouldn’t be hard to kill for a group of seasoned assassins.” 

“And what about your father?” I ask tentatively. “And the other demon?”

He sighs and leans back on his hands on the counter. “I’m still working that out.”

And for that matter, what about my father? We still have nothing even approaching a plan when it comes to dealing with him, and the longer we wait, the more opportunity he’ll have to strike. 

I need help. The longer I wait, the more likely it is that Giorno will do something drastic—if he isn’t already there. Most people would call siccing a group of assassins on your mother and stepfather drastic, no matter how badly those family members have it coming. 

I weigh my options for who to turn to. Fugo doesn’t like me; he’s made that much clear as a wine glass. Mista and Narancia, as fond as I’ve become of them, are far too immature to know anything about what we’re dealing with, and there’s a good chance that either one of them might blab to Bucciarati. Abbacchio is a fucking mess, so he’s off the table. And of course I can’t go to Bucciarati—he’ll never let me and Giorno go through with any step of our plan. Worst case scenario, he might even eject either or both of us from Sticky Fingers. Probably just me, though. Giorno was here first and everyone loves him. Me, though, I’m just cargo. Cargo that they should’ve long been rid of by now. 

I want Mama. She would know what to do. Not for the first time, I want to hand over control of my body to her, or to someone else. Anyone else. 

But I can’t. There’s only me left in here. 

Then I remember. I’ll have to go on my own, for all the previously stated reasons, but I know someone else in this city. Two someones, even. 

-

Mista and Narancia come to him in the morning. “Uh, boss, we need to talk to you about something,” Mista starts with. 

Oh boy. Bucciarati is in the kitchen, drinking hot water and pretending it’s tea or coffee. Both boys look a bit nervous. Narancia keeps sending shifty glances towards the kitchen door, like he’s afraid someone is going to walk in and catch him in the middle of doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing. “Did anything break?”

“No,” Mista says, rubbing his left arm with his right hand. 

“Is someone dead?”

“No,” Mista says again. 

“It’s Trish and Giorno!” Narancia blurts. “They’re acting super weird.”

Bucciarati bites back a sigh. “They never acted normally in the first place. For that matter, neither do you. Nor do any of us.” 

“I know,” Narancia says. “But they’ve been acting weirder than usual ever since, well. Ever since the ball. And then even weirder since Giorno got kidnapped. I mean, what happened? Giorno was barely even hurt when we got back. And Trish is, I dunno. She’s still herself, basically.”

Bucciarati doesn’t want to break Giorno’s trust by telling Narancia and Mista that the boy’s memories have fully returned, with all that entails. “What exactly are they doing that’s so weird?”

“Just hanging out together a lot,” Narancia says. “And not with us. I didn’t even notice until Fugo pointed it out, but then he didn’t wanna say anything. Mista said that maybe they were…y’know—“

“Fucking,” Mista supplies helpfully, rotating his pinky in his ear, doing his best to look nonchalant. 

“But I’ve been spyin’ on ‘em,” Narancia continues, “and I’ve never even seen them kiss. They just stay up late at night talking. Or not even talking, just sitting together.”

Well. Bucciarati has much bigger problems than…whatever this is. Still, he asks, “What do they talk about?”

“I dunno,” Narancia says. “They’re pretty quiet, and I haven’t tried too hard to eavesdrop. Yet. I think last night I heard them mention La Squadra, though.” 

Bucciarati worries about Giorno and Trish. Of course he does. As much as his team has gone through, Giorno and Trish have arguably gone through the most out of anyone, especially recently. So La Squadra came up in their conversation. What could that mean? Were they discussing the attack, or considering teaming up with them to take down the Boss? 

The Boss. Bucciarati almost sighs again. He can worry more about the wellbeing of his team when the Boss is dead. A demon. How can you kill a demon? They can be killed, but unlike ghosts, they’re flesh and blood, and thus can’t be exorcised or imprisoned in the same way. And yet…this one had a host. He was possessing someone—the young man from the elevator. Why did he have a host? Giorno’s demon seemingly doesn’t have or need one. 

Bucciarati stands up, his chair scraping across the tile floor of the kitchen. 

“Boss?” Mista says. 

“The Boss,” Bucciarati says. “The demon that runs Passione.” He snaps his fingers. “Why does he share a body with a human man?” 

Mista and Narancia look at each other, clearly bewildered. “Was that a rhetorical question, or…?” Mista says. 

Bucciarati begins to pace. “Demons don’t need hosts. They’re physical. They have bodies of their own. They may make contracts with humans, but they don’t possess them. They don’t need to. So why would this one need a host? He wouldn’t have one unless he had no other choice.”

“Uhhh,” Mista says. “He needs a host because…he doesn’t have a body?”

“And why doesn’t he have a body?”

Narancia and Mista stare blankly at Bucciarati. 

“Because he’s dead,” Fugo says from the kitchen doorway. 

Bucciarati turns. Fugo’s expression is somewhere between fear and realization and despair, but Bucciarati can feel his heart lifting as if someone filled it with hot air. “Exactly. The Boss can reproduce with a human woman because he’s inhabiting a human body, likely multiple human bodies over the course of time, and he’s inhabiting a human body because he’s a ghost. The ghost of a demon.” 

“It’s not possible,” Fugo says. 

“Why not?” Bucciarati asks. “If a demon has an animating spirit, and can be killed, then why couldn’t one become a ghost?” 

“Demons don’t have souls,” Mista says with certainty.

“Is a ghost a soul?” Narancia asks. 

“A human ghost is a human soul,” Bucciarati says, “but a demon ghost could be something else. Elemental energy, or—or—desire given form.” 

Fugo exhales sharply through his nose. “Then how do we kill him if he’s already dead? Even if we kill the host, the demon will just find another.”

“This actually makes dealing with him much easier,” Bucciarati says. “He’s a ghost—a powerful ghost, but still a ghost. He can be dealt with in the same way as any other.” His face falls. His heart sinks, all the air let out of it at once. The kitchen suddenly seems much dimmer than before. “But we’re not the people to do that. We need expert assistance.”

“Trish is a Whisper, isn’t she?” Narancia offers. 

Bucciarati shakes his head. “Trish is talented, but she doesn’t have the experience necessary here. At least, she doesn’t have the tools.”

“Then where do we get the tools? Or the experience?” Mista asks. 

“There’s one group of people in Duskwall that’s best equipped to deal with wayward spirits.”

“Bucciarati,” Fugo says warningly. “Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

“We need to contact the Spirit Wardens,” Bucciarati says, hating the words even as they leave his mouth. 

-

Evading Giorno is harder than evading any other member of Sticky Fingers, even Bucciarati. I have myself partly to blame; we’ve been glued to one another’s sides ever since Giorno was rescued from the Gray Cloaks. I haven’t minded before now—clinging to one another was how Mama and I spent our entire shared life. Giorno is just filling in for her for the time being. 

I admit that it’s a bit weird, though. I’m pretty sure the other boys think we’re hooking up or something—and maybe it’d be better if we were, or at least simpler, but I doubt Giorno is interested in…anything like that, with me or anyone. Not that I’ve asked, but he’s only a few years out from being trafficked, so it feels like a safe assumption. 

No, instead, we’re—platonic. It feels weird to call it that. It’s like saying that I have a platonic relationship with an organ transplant. 

And it’s hard to sneak out of your house without your heart or lungs noticing. 

I still don’t know how I managed it. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe Giorno noticed me leaving and decided not to intercept me. Maybe he’s following me right now—but probably not. His tangles with the demon Kars have changed the impression he leaves on the ghost field, and now I can usually sense him when he’s nearby. 

I’ve always found the ghost field fascinating. As much as one can slip in and out of it—as I’ve seen Bucciarati do a few times—it’s not really a place. It’s more like a piece of fabric stretched taut over top of physical space. The living who can enter it leave the perception of most who live beneath it, walking unnoticed above their heads. The dead who appear among us, on the other hand, do not so much pass through the field as weigh so heavily on it that their feet touch the ground. Spirit wells and the like are places where the fabric is loose or thin, drawing in ghosts and sinking down to street level, allowing the ghosts to cast darker shadows. Only when possession occurs does the fabric fully tear, and even then, just briefly. And me, I’m just someone who’s been trained to look upward now and again, to see the weights that hang above me. 

This weight is not above me. Muhammad Avdol is nearly as real as life, one of the most substantive spirits I’ve ever encountered. Those who don’t know what to look for wouldn’t even recognize him for what he is. Even I can only barely tell by comparison, as he sits next to Polnareff the information broker, who is as mundane as they come. 

“Trish,” Avdol says, smiling. As one of the dead, he radiates no body heat, but his smile is so warm that I can almost imagine that it’s there. “It’s good to see you again. Would you like another reading?” 

I sit down across from him and Polnareff at the stall. “Not tonight.” I’m still mulling over the last reading I got. 

“More information then?” Polnareff offers. 

“Something like that,” I say. “From you. Both of you. I’ll happily pay whatever you want.” I took more money from the basement before I left. 

“Ask away,” Avdol says. 

Right. This is the hard part—how do I even begin to explain my situation, let alone Giorno’s? How much do I tell them? They’re practically strangers, even if they have been kind to me. I take a deep breath. Keep it short and sweet. Okay. “Um, so basically—how do I erase memories? Like, I want to cause amnesia on purpose.” 

Avdol and Polnareff stare at me, their expressions somewhere between incredulous and deeply concerned. Yeah. That’s about what I expected. They’re silent for just long enough for it to get awkward before Avdol says, “Might I ask why?”

“I offered to erase someone’s um. Painful memories. In a targeted way. I thought it might help h—them. They’ve had amnesia before, but then their memories came back and it um, hasn’t really been pleasant. For me or them. And it was kinda my fault that the memories came back in the first place—indirectly my fault.” 

There’s another awkward pause. 

“And you said you wanted something that provides targeted amnesia?” Polnareff asks. 

Avdol shoots him a sharp look. “This person has agreed to go through with this?”

I nod. 

Avdol sighs. “You have a kind heart, Trish. I understand the need to right what is wrong, in whatever way you can. But surely there is another option, for both of you. Everyone has things they would rather forget, but most don’t pursue this line of action.”

“We’re not most,” I say bitterly. “And if I thought there was another way, I would do it! But there isn’t, and if I leave him like this, he’s going to do something terrible.”

“Like what?” Polnareff asks. 

“He wants to take bloody revenge on everyone who’s hurt him, and it’s—he’s going to get himself killed!” I bunch my hands into my skirt, fighting back tears. “And even if he does live, he’ll be miserable forever, and I—“ I start to lose my composure. “He’s my only friend. The only friend I’ve ever had. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. 

“Miserable? Forever?” Polnareff says. 

“No one is miserable forever,” Avdol says. “That’s simply not how life works.” He shuffles through his tarot deck, and pulls out the Two of Swords, placing it on the table between us. “You’re stuck, trapped between two options, neither of which are very appealing. You think that your friend can’t heal from his wounds, but he can. He may need your support, but he can recover.” 

Polnareff cocks his head. “And just because he’s your friend doesn’t make him your responsibility. You’re both young. You’re not his mother.”

Polnareff could’ve punched me in the sternum and it would’ve shocked and hurt me less. He’s right. I’m not Giorno’s mother. I’m not anyone’s mother—nor have I wanted to be. But because the only person I’ve ever known was Mama… 

“Don’t you have adults who can help you?” Polnareff asks. 

“I’m eighteen,” I say, a little defensively. 

“Older adults,” Avdol clarifies. 

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” I say. 

Avdol swears under his breath. Then he looks at me and says, “Let me put it this way, Trish. What do you want?”

What do I want? I don’t want anything. I wanted to have a family, a mother and father, but then it turned out that was just what Mama wanted all along. A family. My role as a Whisper. My work at the shop in the Capital. My journey to Doskvol. Even down to the way I dressed and did my hair—all of it was for Mama. Even before she was in my head, her desires were, chains weighing down upon my own. I can’t get what I want. Is there even anything that I want? 

I bury my face in my hands. I have no idea how to be a person, and not just a body for someone else to walk around in. I wonder if Giorno feels the same way, or similarly, at least. He was never possessed like I was, but he, too, was reduced down to a tool for someone else’s desires. 

I look up. My palms and face are soaked. My lips taste salty. I can’t get what I want, but he can. “I want to erase Giorno’s memories, and I want you to tell me how. What I don’t want is to be fucking—preached to. I’m not a child. I know what I’m doing, okay?” Who are they to talk down to me like this? I stand up, my hands balled into fists. “If you can’t tell me, then fine, but in that case, I’m leaving.” 

“Trish—” Avdol starts, but Polnareff cuts him off. “How did he lose his memories the first time?” 

My muscles untense, just a little. “He was tethered to a demon. The one you told us about—K—“ I stop myself just short of saying its name. I don’t know much about demons, but Polnareff said that their names carry power. So I shouldn’t speak its name aloud—at least, I shouldn’t do it in full view of the moon, which glares down at me from overhead. 

“Jean-Pierre,” Avdol scolds. “We shouldn’t be abetting this.”

“She’s right,” Polnareff says. “She and Giorno aren’t children. I won’t interfere with their decision making.”

Avdol huffs, and then disappears without another word. 

“It won’t be safe, and it won’t be easy,” Polnareff says, “but your best bet is likely to ask the demon. It has far more power than any human, but you have to be willing to pay the price. Because there will be a price.”

I nod. “I understand. One more question: how do I contact the demon?”

“You already know its name. You shouldn’t need much more than that, especially if it already has its eyes on you—which I expect it does.” 

I nod again. “Thank you, Polnareff. What do I owe you?”

“Five hundred kil and an apology to my partner,” Polnareff says, holding out his hand for the money. “It’s rare to make him storm off like that.”

“How long have you two been together?” I ask, counting out coins and bills to hand over. 

“Nearly twenty-five years.”

“And how long has he been…y’know?”

“A little less than that.” 

“You’re lucky,” I say. 

“I suppose we are,” he says. “I often don’t feel lucky, given what I’ve lost, but I guess I could’ve lost a lot more. If I hadn’t kept his body from the Spirit Wardens, or if he hadn’t figured out how to become Reconciled, I could have lost him for good.” 

“Do you ever worry about him going insane? Losing himself like most ghosts do?” Twenty-five years is a long time for a disembodied ghost to be as put together as Avdol. Most crack within a year or two, if not sooner. 

“Worry?” Polnareff laughs. “Why would I worry? It’s too late for me to worry about him any longer—he’s already dead, and he’s held onto his mind for this long. No, he worries more about me far more than the other way around. That’s the nice thing about loving the dead.” 

“But what if—never mind.” I sigh. I don’t want to tell him about Mama, about how the dead can slip through your fingers just as easily as the living. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“Happy is a strong word, my dear,” Polnareff says, ironically sounding rather jovial as he does. “Content may be more suitable. I am not happy, but what I have—my profession, my apartment, and my love; they’re enough for me. They must be.” 

-

It’s been getting harder and harder to slip out of the mansion without anyone noticing, especially since you and Trish have been spending so much time together. But you have an errand to run, and, as luck would have it, so does Trish. You watch her slip away down the streets of Six Towers from an upstairs window in the dead of night and seize your chance, sparing only a brief moment to wonder where she’s going. Hopefully nowhere too dangerous—not that you have any room to talk about going dangerous places. 

On the other hand, it’s not hard at all to find La Squadra Esecuzione. Unlike Passione’s Boss—Diavolo—they make no secret of who they are, what they want, or what they’re capable of. They’re only one step shy of writing their hideout’s address on fliers and posting them around the city. Indeed, their hideout along the Ease canal of Silkshore has a brilliant red banner flying from it, advertising La Galleria d’Arte di Doskvol, golden lanterns glimmering off the black water. 

You’ve never been to Silkshore before. It’s a good place to indulge one’s vice, if one’s vice is sex or drugs or alcohol, but that sort of thing has never been an escape for you. What’s more, the Buyer’s Wife, Lucrezia, used to threaten to sell you off to one of the purveyors here when you misbehaved. So it went that you were a bit afraid of the place when you were younger—less so now. You know now what you refused to acknowledge then: the worst has already happened. There is nowhere lower left for you to go. 

La Galleria d’Arte di Doskvol isn’t so much a Galleria d’Arte as a Galleria d’Garbage. The art is almost entirely unconvincing replicas of more expensive pieces or cheap tourist souvenirs. Only the most rank amateur would mistake any of this for art. It’s a front only in the most literal sense, and wouldn’t fool even the stupidest, lowest-ranking Bluecoat schmuck. 

Yet, somehow, there’s something compelling about it. It’s a much more populated locale than a front has any right to be, with people lounging around drinking and smoking and talking and laughing between the ugliest pieces of quote-unquote “art” you’ve ever seen in your life. The colors sear your retinas as your eyes skim over them, losing yourself in the haze of hue and noise. It’s too much to take in all at once. 

Then something pulls your gaze. It’s a miracle that anything managed to capture your attention amidst the sensory nightmare that is this place. Maybe it grabs you because it’s solemn. It’s not bright or loud or colorful—it’s gray. It’s three photos hung on the back wall, next to the stairs leading up to the second floor. They’re framed simply, with white silk flowers pinned beneath each portrait. The first two portraits are of men you don’t recognize, but the third you do. It’s the man Trish-and-Donatella killed, back at Aiello’s, what feels like a lifetime ago. You were a different person then; so was she. 

You feel someone’s eyes on you. You look up. At the top of the stairs is La Squadra Esecuzione’s leader, leaning over the bannister, staring down at you. His face is unreadable, and his sclera are pitch black. He doesn’t say anything, just moves away from the railing. Come up here and talk to me, he tells you without saying a word. Or don’t. The choice is yours. Former Passione members that they are, you reserve some disdain for La Squadra and its leader, but you at least appreciate being given a choice here. You always appreciate it when someone offers you a choice. 

Your decision has always been inevitable, though. You peel away from the portraits, dragging your hand along the wall as you scale the stairs towards the much darker, more cramped second story of the gallery. 

On the landing are a couch and a set of worn armchairs clustered around a low table. The leader sits on the couch, halfway through smoking a cigarette. He offers the package to you. “No, thank you,” you say. 

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Suit yourself.” You and he are silent for a long time before he says, “Remind me of your name.”

“Giorno Giovanna. And you?”

“Risotto Nero.” He takes a long drag. “You’re from the deli, right? You were with that possessed girl. The Boss’s daughter.”

“Her name is Trish,” you say. 

“Sure,” he says, folding one leg over the other and leaning back. His strange eyes meet yours, and they’re not the only ones watching you. You can feel several other pairs from the shadows, even if you can’t see their owners. 

“Are you still going after the Boss?” you ask. 

Risotto breaks eye contact, gaze darting around the room. You follow where he looks. To his left, a man is peering out from behind a standing mirror. A little bit up another narrow stairway, a lanky figure is draped around a railing. To Risotto’s right, a man with a shaved head has sat down on the arm of the couch. Leaning on the balcony railing is a bigger man, glaring at you with such venom it’s a wonder anyone can withstand it. And then, behind you, a final, bespectacled man stands on the stairs, his eyes boring into your back. “Good question,” Risotto says. 

It takes you a moment to puzzle out what’s going on here, but when the answer comes to you, it’s obvious. They’re in disagreement. Some of them want to continue their pursuit of Diavolo, while others want to leave well enough alone. 

“Why do you care?” the man behind you snarls. “The girl is already out of your hands, isn’t she? We missed our window.” 

“Shut up, Ghiaccio,” the man on the couch says, rolling his eyes. “You botched that as much as the rest of us. Shot in the arm by a teenager? Gimme a break.”

“At least I didn’t get taken out of commission by drown powder,” Ghiaccio snaps back. 

“Quiet, both of you,” Risotto says, silencing his subordinates. “Sit down, Giorno.” He gestures to the armchair across from him. 

You sit. “You ought to make a decision soon,” you say, leaning forward. “Or else we’ll beat you to the punch.”

“You?” the man behind the mirror scoffs. “How old are you, even? Twelve?” 

The man on the couch laughs, then sticks out his lower lip and knits his eyebrows together. “Aw, the widdle boy and his scwappy band of misfits are gonna take on big bad Passione. How cute.” 

“Doing exactly that got Sorbet sent back to us in thirty-two pieces,” Ghiaccio says. “And he was twice your age and a trained assassin.”

Sorbet. That must be one of the men in the portraits on the wall downstairs. 

“I’m interested in knowing how he thinks he’ll pull this off,” the man on the spiral stairs muses, tapping his heel against the floor.

“I am not,” Risotto says, slowly, deliberately. “What I want to know is why.”

“Why?” the man on the couch next to him asks. “Ain’t it obvious? Gold. Guns. Girls.” He glances at Giorno. “Or guys. Whatever. The Boss is one of the most powerful men in the city. Control of Passione could give this little crew of upstarts anything they want.” 

“Formaggio.” Risotto shoots him a glare, and Formaggio withers, recoiling. “Let him speak.” Risotto turns back to you, putting his cigarette out on the wood of the table and leaning forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. 

You look around at the remaining members of La Squadra, all staring at you. “Two reasons. One: you were wrong when you said we don’t have the girl anymore. She’s still with us—and not at Aiello’s, so don’t come looking for us there. The Boss wants her dead, alongside the rest of us. He won’t leave us in peace as long as he lives. Two…” You trail off, eyeing Risotto closely. “You’re Tycherosi, aren’t you? Like me. So how did you come to Duskwall?”

Risotto’s eyes narrow. “Bit of a personal question, but I’ll humor you. I was born here.”

Oh. Never mind then. 

But then, Risotto continues, “My mother was a different story.” He doesn’t elaborate. 

Silence descends on the room. Risotto’s gang members aren’t looking at you anymore; they’re all looking at him. He pulls another cigarette out of his package and lights it. 

“Have you ever been to Tycheros?” you ask. 

“I scattered my mother’s ashes there,” Risotto says. 

“Would you like to go back?” 

“Where are you going with this?” Risotto asks, eyes narrowing further. 

“A man and a woman live there, one Maya Shiobana and Carlo Depero. I would like you to kill them for me. You can call it a favor in kind, should we manage to kill the Boss.” 

“Who are they?” Risotto asks. 

“No one special. Scavengers trying to survive a war. And you know how Tycheros is—you could kill them in the middle of the street and no one would care.” 

Risotto falls silent, apparently mulling this over. But before he can say anything else, the big man by the balcony speaks up for the first time. “No way, Risotto. No way are we letting them kill Prosciutto and then kill the Boss too! That’s like—insult to damn injury!” 

“A ghost killed—“ the man on the stairway starts. 

“Shut up, Melone!” the big man exclaims. “You never even cared about getting justice for Sorbet and Gelato in the first place!” 

“It was an accident,” you say softly. 

“Shut the fuck up!” the big man yells, loud enough that the hubbub downstairs quiets momentarily in response. “I don’t care if it was an accident! I don’t like your funny words, demon boy. That girl, or whatever she was, killed Prosciutto, and we won’t forgive you!”

“Enough, Pesci,” Risotto growls. 

“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I would never ask for that,” you say. “I’m asking for a bargain.” What do they call it around here? A devil’s bargain? Yeah, that sounds about right. You tilt your chin upwards, your eyes catching off the dim light. You smile, letting one of your uniquely pointed canines show. Pesci called you demon boy. You might as well lean into it. “We can even make a game out of it. Whoever gets to the Boss first wins.” Most of La Squadra visibly, audibly perk up at that. Bingo. “If we win, you carry out the hit, and then leave us alone forever.”

“And what do we get if we win?” Risotto asks. 

“You can take my life,” you say, “in place of Trish’s.” You turn to Pesci. “Does this satisfy you?” 

“Tsk.” Pesci turns his head away, but doesn’t argue. 

Melone stands, emerging from the shadows at last. “Now, now,” he says, eyeing you in a way that makes you want to squirm. Out of everyone here, he’s the one you like the least, despite knowing almost nothing about any of them. “This doesn’t quite seem fair to me. You have a head start; you have the girl.”

Managing to maintain your composure, you say, “That’s true. But I’ll tell you some things about the Boss that we’ve learned since she joined our team. First, Trish is demonkin, like me. Like us.” You nod towards Risotto. “But she’s not from Tycheros. Her father—the Boss—is a demon. Specifically, a demon of fire. He’s disembodied, though, and is thus tied spiritually to a human man—purple hair, brown eyes. Petite, but it’s hard to tell how old he is. Goes by Doppio.” That’s how Trish described her father’s host, at least. You think about revealing Diavolo’s name too, but decide against it. You don’t want to give them too much of an advantage. “Is that enough? I don’t want to make it too easy for you—you all do have much greater experience than us.”

Behind you, Ghiaccio scoffs. 

“Risotto?” Formaggio asks, looking to his boss. “You make the final call.” 

“Very well,” Risotto says, flicking a bit of ash off his cigarette. “You want to play with us, Giorno Giovanna? Then let’s play.” 

Chapter Text

Bucciarati only needs one thing in order to face down the Spirit Wardens. He isn’t armed—there isn’t any use to that. He could bring his entire crew, and have them all carrying every weapon in their arsenal, and it wouldn’t matter. He’s not going for a fight. He’s going to go there and get on his knees and grovel like a dog until they tell him how to get rid of a demon’s ghost. 

There’s only one person he’ll ever let see that. Bruno Bucciarati, powerless, at the mercy of a group of people he hates more than anyone, one who left him to be tortured by the Bluecoats—and for what? For nothing. A lie he managed to tell them. A lie they seemingly didn’t even bother to verify. He’ll never let Trish or the boys see it. They know he’s going, but they’re not coming with him. 

Bucciarati would go alone, but there’s a horrible cowardice in him that won’t let him. He needs someone else there with him. Bucciarati is a charismatic leader. He’s intelligent, talented, athletic, steadfast, and determined, but what he isn’t is self-reliant. There’s a reason he never ran solo, a reason he’s never lived alone. There has always needed to be someone else. 

Right now, that someone is Abbacchio. Abbacchio isn’t half the leader Bucciarati is—he’s cautious and caustic and careless and canny all at once. He’s too much for most, too little for most others, but just enough for Bucciarati, who has never loved anyone else quite as savagely. 

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Abbacchio says once Bucciarati makes the ask. “We’re gonna be right in the mouth of the devil. Worse comes to worst, I can’t fight my way outta that, even if I was a better fighter.” 

“I didn’t ask you to fight,” Bucciarati says. “I asked you to come with me.”

“Is this about tricking people into thinking we’re a pair of officials again? ‘Cause I don’t think that’ll work on the Spirit Wardens the way it does on underpaid bureaucrats.” 

“No. This time, I’m planning on telling the truth. Most of it, anyway. The Spirit Wardens have a vested interest in disposing of a ghost as powerful as the Boss. If we offer to do their dirty work, they may give us what we need to get the job done.” 

“And what’s my role in this?” Abbacchio asks. 

Bucciarati reaches over and takes his hand. Their eyes meet. “Just be there. I’m most at ease when I’m with you.” 

Abbacchio scoffs and looks away, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. 

“I love you,” Bucciarati says. “Thank you for staying with me, all this time.”

Now Abbacchio pulls his hand away. “Why are you talking like we’re walking into a death trap? We’re just going to the crematorium to ask some questions. It’s not like they’ll shoot us on sight.”

“I’m just saying, if they recognize me—“

“I know your run in with them was bad,” Abbacchio says. “I know. But neither of us are going to die today. I’m not going to entertain the possibility until I see your spirit leave your body with my own eyes. And maybe not even then.” 

Bucciarati can’t help but smile. “Well, in that case, I promise not to die on you.”

Abbacchio grunts. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.” 

Bellweather Crematorium is in Charterhall, not far from the University. You can spot the smoke rising from the building a mile off, a dense, sickly green cloud spiraling towards the sky. As for the building itself, you’ll smell it long before you see it. Burning electroplasm doesn’t smell like anything else that burns—not wood, not coal, not oil. It smells closest to ozone: clean and fresh, but with a chemical edge to it that makes you not want to inhale too deeply. 

There was a period of time, multiple years, when Bucciarati would come here every single day. He would go to the front desk and ask if they had anyone by the name of Paolo Bucciarati, and when they inevitably didn’t, he would walk through the forest of gurneys bearing the corpses of the unknown dead. Paolo was never there. The Deathlands Scavengers never saw him, and he never made it back inside the city. 

It took far too long for Bucciarati to accept that he would never see his father again, and even then, even now, there’s a hole in the back of his head. A Paolo-shaped space, created by the years he’s spent not knowing exactly what happened. 

Inside the crematorium is always busy, but never disorderly. The Wardens carry themselves with grim solemnity, and they don’t suffer fools. Even the person working the front desk is absorbed in their work, scratching down markings on a notepad in a crisp, even shorthand that Bucciarati can’t read. Maybe it’s not actually shorthand—maybe it’s a cipher. 

Bucciarati and Abbacchio stop in front of the desk, and the person looks up. “May I help you two?”

Bucciarati takes the liberty of sitting down at the desk across from them, making eye contact. “I have a bit of information that I think might interest the Wardens. In exchange, my partner and I would like your assistance with a problem we’ve been dealing with. Are you in charge here today?”

“I am not,” the Warden says. “But I can let the Lieutenant Warden on duty know that you’re here. What is your name?” 

“Bruno Bucciarati.” It might not be wise to use his real name here, but if he lies, and then someone recognizes him, that will be far worse. Better to stick to the truth for as long as he can. 

The Warden writes his name down, in longhand this time, before standing up and taking their notebook with them. “I’ll be back shortly,” they say. It’s not the same Warden from the Watch station—while this one is almost certainly not a Passione pretender, they have a much higher voice than the one from before. There are dozens of Wardens in Doskvol, maybe even hundreds. It’s unlikely that they’ll be here. 

True to their word, the secretary Warden returns roughly two minutes later. “Bucciarati? The Lieutenant has agreed to speak with you.” 

Bucciarati stands up, and he and Abbacchio begin to follow the secretary, only for them to stop short and hold their gloved hand out. “I apologize, but the Lieutenant wishes to speak with you alone, Bucciarati.”

Bucciarati bristles. “In that case, I refuse. Where I go, he goes.” 

“Bucciarati,” Abbacchio murmurs. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be right here.” 

Bucciarati is unmoved. He folds his arms. 

The secretary heaves a deep sigh, like they’ve already had a long day even though it’s still morning. “I’ll ask. What is your name, sir?”

“Leone Abbacchio.” 

“Right.” The secretary scribbles down the name on their notepad before leaving again. 

Bucciarati scoffs. The crematorium and everyone in it are spotless. Squeaky clean. The bureaucracy is thorough but never slow, the Wardens dedicated and precise, their dealings upstanding and just. And yet it’s a veneer. A façade. One that runs so deep that everyone involved believes it. The reality is, for all their polish, the Wardens are just as ruthless and cruel as any gang—as Sticky Fingers, as the Bluecoats, as Passione. 

The secretary returns again, just as swiftly. They motion with their hand for Bucciarati and Abbacchio to follow. They lead the pair to an office at the back of the crematorium, the stench of electroplasm becoming nearly overpowering as they near the furnaces. Most everyone in Duskwall ends up here eventually, but at least the dead don’t have to smell it. 

The secretary pushes the door open and ushers them inside the office before shutting the door, leaving Bucciarati and Abbacchio alone with the Lieutenant Warden on duty for the day. The Warden turns to greet them. Their uniform is immaculate—black cowl wrapped tightly around their head and neck under their black hood, no skin visible whatsoever. Their mask gleams in the harsh office lighting, blue-green eyes glinting beneath it, sharp as shards of glass. “Bruno Bucciarati,” they say. “What a coincidence. I never got the opportunity to thank you for your assistance.” 

Bucciarati has to physically prevent himself from taking a step back. No way. What are the odds? It’s the same one. The one from the Watch station—the one he sold the Fog Hounds out to. The one who slapped him. 

The Warden continues. Bucciarati expects—something from them. Some kind of emotion. Malice? Disdain? Anger? But no. They maintain an air of affability that certainly wasn’t present the last time Bucciarati encountered them. “So thank you,” the Warden says. “I wondered why you weren’t more forthcoming when I asked you what became of the body, but—no matter. We found what we were looking for and then some.”

Bucciarati is—utterly bewildered. He lied through his teeth to this person, and they’re thanking him? What did they find at the Fog Hound hideout? 

“What can I do for you today?” they ask pleasantly. 

Right. He has to regain his composure, and quickly. Now that he’s standing up, on a level plane with the Warden, he almost laughs. They’re…pretty short. A good head and a half shorter than himself, and of fairly slight build. Even in spite of their uniform and their position of power, it’s almost a wonder that a person as little as them could make him feel so small. He remembers how badly he wanted them dead as he watched them walk out of the interrogation room. He could probably kill them right now. Not without alerting the rest of the crematorium, but he has a knife in his inner breast pocket. Their uniform provides no protection of any sort, at least not from physical attacks. He also has Abbacchio backing him up. He could use the ghost field to dart in close and slit their throat before they could even move. 

It wouldn’t be worth it, though. Any joy it would bring him would quickly be drowned out by all the trouble that would ensue. Anyway, he has to do what he came here for. “Have you ever heard of demons having ghosts?” 

“I’ve heard rumors of such things,” the Warden says slowly. “But nothing I could verify. Why?”

“I believe my team and I have run afoul of one such entity,” Bucciarati says. “I came to ask for assistance in dealing with it.” 

“Diverting personnel resources is above my station, and I cannot bring this to the Master Warden without more concrete proof, but as a gesture of gratitude for your assistance in uncovering the Fog Hounds’ little operation, I can give you some advice, and potentially a useful tool or two.” The Warden steps over to a tall bookcase in the corner of the room, withdrawing a slender black volume from its shelves. They leaf through the book’s pages, rubbing their chin. “This is a collection of recountings of abnormal occult phenomena, including a few tales of non-human ghosts. Hmm.”

The room falls silent as the Warden continues to flip through the book, eventually setting it aside and beginning to open up drawers in their desk, pulling out notepads and flipping through those as well. They eventually sit at their desk, steepling their fingers. “I can’t say for certain the best way to go about this, but all demons have a name, and they respond to its usage. All demonic rituals revolve around the demon’s name. That shouldn’t change just because this one is dead.”

Bucciarati nods. “I see.”

“As for its state of undeath, dealing with a stronger ghost is more difficult than dealing with a weaker one, but the methodology shouldn’t change overmuch. You’ll need an enclosed, warded space, protection against possession, a spirit bottle—maybe…” They trail off. “I’ll tell you what: allow me to offer you a deal. If this entity you’re facing truly is what you suspect it to be, then it may not be the only one of its kind. As Wardens, we’ve been working to develop new methods of dealing with occult phenomena. I will lend you one such piece of experimental technology, and in return, should you manage to capture the entity, you will bring it to me for study.” 

“Then, if we turn him—it over to you, you don’t plan on destroying it?” Abbacchio asks. “That seems rash.”

“I assure you, nothing we do is rash,” the Warden says. “We are the best equipped group in Duskwall to take care of this, bar none. I only regret that I cannot assist personally.” 

Bucciarati turns to look at Abbacchio, wondering if these words will satisfy his implacable partner. Abbacchio narrows his eyes. Clearly not, then. “Are we handing over the spirit to the Wardens, or to you?” 

“What’s the difference?” the Warden asks placidly. “We act as one.” 

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s close. An elision of the truth. Bucciarati bites back a sigh. What does it matter? They need their help. “When we come back here with the entity, who do we ask for? I imagine you aren’t always the Lieutenant Warden on duty.”

“True,” the Warden says. “For the next few weeks, you may ask for Armane. If I’m not here, come back another time.” 

“What happens if we go back on our word?” Abbacchio asks. 

“Are you planning on keeping the entity in a bottle indefinitely? I wouldn’t recommend it,” the Warden—Armane says. “We have the only means of destroying such a creature, and keeping it is asking for more than I suspect you’re able to handle. And rest assured, should you set foot in this building again, I will know about it, whether you speak to me or not.” 

“And if we fail to capture the entity?” 

Armane laughs. “In that case, you’ll have a much larger problem on your hands than any bargain you make with me. Now, do we have a deal?” 

Bucciarati and Abbacchio exchange glances. “Yes,” Bucciarati says. 

“Good. Now, let me get the bottle. There’s only one prototype right now, so use it carefully.” Armane steps out, shutting the office door behind them. 

Bucciarati’s chest tightens. They have a plan now, which means it’s real. They’re doing this. They’re going to take down the Boss. Only one problem, though—Armane said that they need to know the demon’s name. How the hell are they going to find out his name? He wants to reach out and take Abbacchio’s hand again, but he can’t. Not here. Not when Armane could walk in at any moment. 

They return soon after that, carrying a little parcel wrapped in black cloth and tied with a piece of twine. They press it into Bucciarati’s hands. It’s not any bigger than a normal spirit bottle. He’ll have to get Trish to take a look at it later. 

“Good luck,” Armane says as they usher Bucciarati and Abbacchio from the office. “You’re certainly going to need it.” 

Outside the crematorium, Bucciarati dares to open the parcel and inspect its contents. Inside is a spirit bottle—albeit one wrought from purple-tinted glass, with a unique sigil etched into the surface, one more complex than those usually inscribed onto regular spirit bottles. Abbacchio peers at it, wrinkling his nose. “That’s it? Did we just get scammed?”

Bucciarati purses his lips. “Maybe. We won’t know for sure until we use it, unless Trish can say one way or the other.” 

They arrive home seemingly around the same time as Trish—wait, where was Trish? Only, it’s immediately obvious where she was, because she’s wearing a new outfit: a cropped vest, arm warmers, a bright crimson sarong over dark leggings and knee high boots, and a handkerchief covering her shorn hair. She seems to have taken a page from Narancia’s book, looking like a Dagger Isles pirate. 

Narancia himself strides out of the kitchen, Mista and Fugo close behind, and he gasps when he sees her. “What!” he exclaims. “Trish! We match!” 

“Digging the new look,” Mista agrees. 

Bucciarati has to concur that the outfit suits her in a way her old dress and her gala gown didn’t. 

Narancia sashays over to her and takes her hand, twirling her around. She laughs. “Thanks, guys.” 

“What made you decide on a change?” Bucciarati asks. 

“I dunno,” Trish says as she and Narancia dance arrhythmically together around the foyer, their fingers interlocked. She barely looks at Bucciarati. “Just felt like going clothes shopping, I guess.” 

Whatever. Her outfits are her business. Bucciarati glances around. “Where’s Giorno? We need to have a team meeting.” 

“Napping,” Narancia says, letting go of Trish’s hands and bowing to her like a proper nobleman. “He got back late last night.” 

Trish giggles and returns the bow. 

A chill runs up Bucciarati’s spine. “Back late? Where the hell was he?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Narancia says. 

“Trish probably knows,” Fugo mutters. 

Bucciarati looks at Trish, but she looks just as surprised as he feels. “Why would I know where he went?” she asks. 

“Because you’re a pair of conjoined fucking twins, that’s why,” Fugo snaps. 

“Well, I don’t,” Trish says. “I’m his friend; I’m not his mom.” She’s telling the truth, which is all the more concerning. 

Bucciarati closes his eyes and rubs his temple with two fingers. Later. That’s a problem for later, for after the Boss is dealt with and they can all go home. Then he can worry about whatever Giorno and Trish have been getting up to in their downtime. He opens his eyes and produces the parcel Armane gave him. “Trish, would you mind taking a look at this? One of you—“ He looks over at Narancia, Mista, and Fugo. “—rouse Giorno. Abbacchio and I have learned a few things, and we all need to talk.” 

Trish steps towards him, taking the bundle of glass and velvet in her palms. She examines the bottle. “This is a spirit bottle?”

“Allegedly a more powerful one,” Bucciarati says. “We’ve deduced that the Boss is the ghost of a demon, and so we needed something that can contain such a creature.” 

“Oh.” Trish holds the bottle up to the light. “Where did you get this?”

“The Spirit Wardens,” Bucciarati explains. “According to the one we spoke to, this should contain the spirit of the Boss, so long as we can force him out of his host.”

Trish looks up at Bucciarati, her face a sketch of concern. “The Spirit Wardens? Aren’t those the guys who beat you up?” 

“We need to know,” Abbacchio says, cutting in, “does it work?” 

Trish looks back down at the bottle, running her thumb over the sigil. “Well, it’s very well-made. I’ve handled fake spirit bottles before, and with those, the glass isn’t usually this thick, since fakes need to be made on the cheap. And this sigil—it’s legitimate. I’m not sure exactly what it does, but it’s similar to ones engraved on most regular spirit bottles. It’s robust in terms of its occult mechanics. If it’s in any way counterfeit, it’s an impressive fake. As for if it’ll actually work to contain Di—my father, I have no idea. I’ve never heard of a demonic ghost before.” 

Yeah. That’s about what he expected her to say. Not a scam, but no guarantee that it’ll work regardless. It’s not like they have a better plan, though. 

Mista and Fugo descend the stairs with Giorno in tow, in the process of pinning his hair behind his head. He doesn’t look hurt at the very least, but Bucciarati would’ve been informed if he was. “Sorry again,” Giorno is saying to Mista. 

“‘S fine,” Mista says, rubbing his cheek. 

“What happened?” Bucciarati asks. 

“He hit me,” Mista says. 

“He startled me,” Giorno says by way of explanation, looking appropriately embarrassed. “I really am sorry, Mista.” 

“Grow up,” Fugo says to Mista. “Put some ice on it, you big baby.” 

“Next time I’ll wake you up from a safe distance,” Mista says. “You’ve got a solid right hook, Giorno.” 

“He punched you?” Abbacchio says. 

“I didn’t mean to!” Giorno stresses.

Bucciarati can feel the beginnings of a migraine creep up on him. His vision swims. “Enough. Mista, go get some ice from the kitchen. Everyone else, circle up. We need to talk about the plan.”

“The plan?” Narancia says. “Which plan?”

“The plan to kill the Boss for good.” 

Mista swears under his breath. “Damn it, Bucciarati. Fuck the ice. Tell us what’s going on right now.” 

They sit on the floor of the foyer in an uneven circle, the same way they had in Maryam’s apartment after the ball. “I have the beginnings of a plan,” Bucciarati starts. “We have something that should, hopefully, contain the Boss’s spirit should we manage to kill his host. But that’s the problem—the boy is no one. We know his name, but he’s one person in a city of hundreds of thousands. And he’s likely just as reclusive as the Boss. The other option is to summon him, since he is a demon. But in order to do that, we need to know his name. The Boss’s name.” 

Trish and Giorno glance at each other, and Giorno nods. Trish clears her throat. “Um, well, speaking of his name—I know it. Giorno and I got it from an information broker.” 

The migraine is creeping up the back of Bucciarati’s skull. The circle falls silent. “So that’s where you’ve been sneaking off to?” Bucciarati finally says. “An information broker?”

“Yes,” Giorno says. He’s lying. At the very least, he isn’t telling the whole truth. But Trish was telling the truth—they do have the Boss’s name. Best to stay focused on that for now. 

“Where’d you get the money?” Mista asks. “I’ve known some info brokers in my time—they don’t come cheap. And I know you haven’t been pilfering from the crew’s collective coin stash. I definitely woulda noticed.” 

“My father has money hidden all over the house,” Giorno explains. “You just have to look for it.”

“You mean this house is full of buried treasure? We’ve been frickin’ rich this whole time and you’re only telling us now?!” Narancia exclaims, fisting his hands in his hair. 

“What does it matter?” Fugo says. “We can’t exactly live large when we’re in hiding.” 

“Still,” Narancia grumbles. 

“I don’t wanna say the name out loud,” Trish says. “I can write it down for you, but—that can’t be all we need. We need to kill the host—Doppio. At minimum. We also need to make sure you all don’t get possessed in his place.”

Bucciarati wonders, briefly, if the Boss-and-Doppio are like Trish-and-Donatella were—harmonious, like a father and his son. Or is Doppio more like Paolo, being shuffled around at the behest of occult forces he doesn’t understand and can’t fight back against? Either way—Doppio will have to be put down either way. 

“Don’t you also have to worry about not getting possessed?” Fugo asks pointedly. “Just because your mom asked first doesn’t mean the Boss will.”

“My father can’t come in here without asking,” Trish says indignantly. “No one can.” She pushes aside the collar of her new vest, revealing the tattoo that Bucciarati noticed upon first meeting her, and then never gave much thought to. It’s his first time getting an unobstructed look at it—it’s a strange symbol, seven overlapping circles with dots in the middle, like a cluster of eyes. “If you want to face down a demon, everyone here is going to need one of these. It prevents any kind of non-consensual possession, but allows you to harmlessly carry a ghost in your body, should you choose. Mostly harmlessly,” she adds. “The longer you share a body with someone else, anyone else—well, there’s no guaranteeing what’ll happen to your ego.” 

Trish is admitting something, something Bucciarati didn’t think she ever would, even in as coded language as she’s using right now. 

“Yours seems intact,” Fugo mutters, scowling at her. She glares back at him, but doesn’t engage otherwise. 

“And how do we get tattoos like yours?” Mista asks. 

Narancia shucks off his boot and one of his socks, showing off the amateurly drawn skull and crossbones he’s had on the top of his foot for as long as Bucciarati has known him. “You gotta find a Dagger Isles parlor—down at the Docks. We’re the best at tattoos.” 

“Then why is yours so ugly?” Mista asks, sounding skeptical. 

Narancia doesn’t hesitate, just tackling Mista from the side with no warning. 

Bucciarati sighs, but doesn’t bother to break up the tussle. It’s not like it’s anything out of the ordinary. 

“Narancia’s right, actually,” Trish says. 

Narancia, kneeling on Mista’s back, sits up. “I am? I mean—of course I am!”

“Get off of me, doofus,” Mista says, but he’s not struggling under the boy’s weight. 

“Half right,” Trish amends. “You can’t go to just any parlor to get this kinda tattoo, but if the Docks are where most of the tattooists in this city are located, there’s likely someone there who’ll have the right kind of ink.” 

“It’ll definitely be an Islander,” Narancia says, sliding off of Mista. 

“Put your damn shoe back on,” Mista says, sitting up. “Get your crusty toes outta my face.” 

“That leaves one more thing to take care of,” Abbacchio says. “How do we trap the Boss here long enough to kill him? Once we summon him, what’s stopping him from just leaving again the way he came?”

The room is silent. Even Trish doesn’t seem to have any ideas. She looks at Giorno, who’s looking down at his hands where they rest on his knees. 

Bucciarati’s eyes flutter shut. “I have an idea. But you won’t like it.” None of them will, but especially not Abbacchio. Bucciarati inhales sharply through his teeth. “If we kill the boy, that will force the Boss from his host, correct? In that case, he’ll jump to the closest available new host.” 

Abbacchio is staring at him. “Where are you going with this?”

“I shouldn’t get the tattoo. I’ll be the closest available vessel, and thus we can predict where he goes and catch him in transit.” 

“Absolutely not,” Abbacchio says. His tone leaves no room for argument. 

“I’ll have the spirit bottle,” Bucciarati says, arguing anyway. “I’ll catch him before he gets to me.” 

“No,” Abbacchio says again. 

“Sorry, boss,” Mista says, sitting up. “I’m with Abbacchio on this one. We’re not gonna let you put your life on the line like that.” 

“For once, I’m in agreement with these two chucklefucks,” Fugo says. “You’re too valuable to put at risk needlessly.”

“It’s not needless,” Bucciarati says. “Unless you can think of a better way to trap him, this is our only plan.”

“There isn’t a better way,” Giorno says. All eyes snap to him. “But it doesn’t have to be you. I can do it. I have—experience with these things.”

Mista sighs. “C’mon, Giorno, not you too. I swear, everyone in this stupid crew is lining up to get himself killed. Do you all have death wishes or something?”

Bucciarati makes eye contact with Giorno. Bucciarati doesn’t have a death wish; he just wants to protect his team. But Giorno? Giorno might. At least, he might have something like a death wish. 

“It’ll be dangerous no matter what,” Giorno says. “It just has to be slightly more dangerous for one person.” Giorno rises to his feet. “Let’s draw straws. Whoever draws the short straw doesn’t get the tattoo, and is thus in charge of trapping the Boss when it comes down to it. That way, we all have an equal share of the danger.” 

Giorno is so—he thinks in a way that Bucciarati has never been able to. To Bucciarati, there is one solution per problem. No more. To Giorno, though, a solution is a destination to which many roads lead. 

“There’s a box of matches in the kitchen,” Bucciarati says, standing up. “Who wants in?” 

“I do,” Abbacchio says.

“Sure, why not?” Mista says. 

Narancia sighs and puts his head in his hands. “Fuck me. I’ll take my chances, too.” 

Bucciarati looks at Fugo. 

Fugo’s eyes narrow. “What about her?” 

“I can’t play,” Trish says. “I already have the tattoo. It can’t be me he possesses.” 

“Then no,” Fugo says. “Call me a coward if you like, but I’m not throwing myself in the fire here. Not anymore than I have to.”

Bucciarati nods. “Fine, then. You can hold the matches.” 

Fugo leaves and returns with five matches, one broken halfway down. They stick out evenly from his hand, red tips bright against his pale skin. He holds out his hand, and the other five members of Sticky Fingers encircle him. Bucciarati draws first, then Abbacchio, then Narancia, then Mista, and then—Giorno. Bucciarati looks down. The match in his hands is unbroken. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. 

Bucciarati looks up. Giorno is staring at him with those luminous eyes of his, a broken match pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Guess it’ll be me after all,” Giorno says, and again—is he relieved or disappointed? 

It doesn’t matter. Giorno agreed to this. 

-

Trish tells them what to look for: an occult tattooist who uses thaumaturgic ink, and then they leave—but not before Bucciarati sits the two of you down and gives you what you have to imagine is a parental talking-to. You’ve never experienced something like this before—unless you count the Stepfather’s frequent beratements, which you don’t. Unlike the Stepfather, it’s clear that Bucciarati speaks from a place of concern. It’s sweet, even if Bucciarati clearly has no experience being any kind of parent. Sure, most of his subordinates are his juniors, but Sticky Fingers feels more like a squad of kid brothers than a gaggle of actual, biological children. 

It’s almost cute how bad he is at this. He pulls the two of you into the library as the others get ready to leave, sitting in an armchair across from you. “I need you to stop running off,” he’s saying. “It’s not safe. Passione is after you—you specifically. Both of you got to actually see the Boss’s face, which is more than the rest of us can say.” 

“‘Thank you,’” Trish says. 

“Huh?”

“‘Thank you Trish. Thank you Giorno. Thank you both so much for finding out the Boss’s name for us,’” Trish says, her lip curling. “‘We never would’ve figured it out without your help.’” 

“Trish—“

“Would it kill you to be just a little bit nicer?” she snarls. Now this is unexpected. No one talks to Bucciarati like this—not even Fugo. Not even Abbacchio. 

To his credit, Bucciarati doesn’t take the bait. He leans his forehead on his hand like he’s getting a headache. His eyes scrunch shut and his mouth presses into a thin, colorless line. “Tell me, Trish, Giorno—when did I ask you to find out the Boss’s name? When did I ask you to leave here in the dead of night and visit an information broker I’ve never met before? When did I ask you to put your lives on the line any more than you already have? Because if I did ask you to do any of that—I would thank you. But I don’t think that I did.” He opens his eyes and looks at you both, and his gaze is paralyzing. “You’re the newest here, so I’m extending you some grace, but the other boys know that what I say goes. End of story.”

“You didn’t tell us not to—“ Trish starts. 

“You’re right; I didn’t,” Bucciarati says. “I apologize for not being clearer with you—I mistakenly thought you would be using your best judgment.” 

Trish’s mouth hangs open. She looks like she’s been smacked. 

“As for how nice I am—you are correct.” Bucciarati continues. “I am not nice. I have never had to be; I have never desired to be, and in many cases, being nice works at odds with my purposes. I am not your mother, Trish, and if you want me to be, then—well. I can only apologize for failing to meet your expectations. Now, your instructions for today are to stay here. You are not to leave the manor grounds until our return. In fact, you may not leave the grounds without accompaniment from one of the rest of us. Am I understood?”

“Yes, capo,” you say evenly, all too aware of the rage radiating off of Trish where she sits next to you. 

“Good.” Bucciarati stands, dusts off his trousers, and departs. 

Trish turns to watch him leave, before, for some reason, rounding on you. “Why did you do that?”

“Me?” You point to yourself. “What did I do?”

“You should’ve let him die. Why the hell did you get everyone to draw straws when he was perfectly willing to take the risk himself? And I know you picked the broken match on purpose.”

You didn’t. At least, you don’t think you did. You were the last one to pick—you just got lucky—or unlucky, rather. You’re not sure why she’s mad at you. Does she really hate Bucciarati that much? “We need him,” you say quietly. 

She looks at you. “Do you? Or have you just convinced yourself—“ She cuts herself off, then says, “Yes, I suppose you do need him. You need him, the other boys need him, and Abbacchio definitely needs him. Sticky Fingers needs him. But I’m not a part of Sticky Fingers, am I?”

“Huh? Of course you are.” 

“No. I’m not a part of the crew like you are. I’m just—I’m just a girl.” She turns away from you, lacing her fingers together around the back of her neck. 

Woah. Where is this coming from? It’s never felt like Trish’s gender mattered, at least not to you, and probably not to the others either. But maybe it matters to her? You make a mental note to ask Bucciarati about adding another girl to the crew. “You’re my friend,” you say. You don’t know what else to say. 

She turns back to look at you again. This seems to be the right thing to have said, at least for now, because she says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you to leave me here alone.” 

“Okay,” you say. 

She swallows thickly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I have something to tell you. I spoke to Polnareff again—about how to erase your memory. He said—and you probably won’t like this, but—he said we should ask the demon who took it from you in the first place.” 

Kars. Kars is the biggest hole left in this entire sorry, sordid tale. Why did it save your life the night you escaped from Ironhook? Why did it erase your memories? Why does it know your father, and everything about you besides, and what is this cycle of debt Polnareff spoke about? You asked Polnareff to put Kars’s name on your list, but if you’re being honest, you don’t bear the same hatred for it that you do towards the other names. It never really did anything to you. How odd—aren’t demons meant to always be irrevocably evil? Diavolo certainly is, but Kars—Kars is something stranger. Maybe only humans are truly capable of evil—maybe Kars isn’t evil; it’s simply obeying its nature. Like a wild animal. And maybe that nature is dark and destructive, but you can’t see through its machinations. Not yet. 

“I’d like to speak to it,” you say. 

Trish’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yes. Bucciarati and the others ought to be gone for a good long while.”

“But didn’t you promise…?”

“I promised we wouldn’t leave the manor. You know how to bring the demon to us, don’t you? We needn’t set foot out the door.” 

You post up in the conservatory, a room with mostly glass walls and burnt out radiant lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The walls allow the moonlight to flood in and pool around you. You kneel across from her, your hands interlocked. The ritual is barely a ritual to speak of. All you have to do is think about the demon, try and feel how it feels when it’s around you, and speak its name aloud. Your arms and Trish’s arms form a circle. “A circle is the most powerful shape,” she explains. “It’s the shape of birth, of death, of the sun and moon, of the mouth and throat and eyes. It’s a prison and it’s freedom all in one.” She lets go of your hand and briefly places her hand over the tattoo on her chest. “That’s part of the reason why this symbol is able to prevent possession.”

“What is that symbol?” you ask. Sure, it features circles heavily, but it’s clearly more than that. 

“The many-eyed angel,” she says. 

“Angel?” You’ve never heard the word before. 

“Beings of pure light tasked with protecting humanity. Their eyes see all. It’s an old legend—pre-Cataclysm. They were supposed to have come from a place of eternal paradise called heaven, which was the opposite of hell.”

“Oh. There’s no such place.”

Trish smiles sadly. “Of course not, but just because something isn’t strictly real doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have power. Anyway, we should get started. Would you like me to call it?”

“No,” you say. “I’ll do it.” You clear your throat. “Kars,” you say, feeling a little silly. “It’s Giorno. Giorno Giovanna, Haruno Shiobana. Dio Brando’s son—the fresh thing from across the sea. The dhampir.” Dhampir. You looked up the word in your father’s library. It means half vampire. “Kars, my friend and I wish to speak with you.” 

Kars does not arrive slowly this time. It does not trickle in with the moonlight through the windows. No, instead it comes at once, like a sudden storm, a wave of shadows followed by a flash of light. It lands in the middle of the room, towering over you and Trish. You see it clearly for the first time—its figure is undeniably masculine, but the demon Kars is less a man than a marble statue wrapped in a cloak of coal feathers. “Giorno,” it says, sounding almost pleased to see you. “I was wondering when you would cry out for me.” 

You don’t like its phrasing, but you don’t protest. You cut straight to the point. “How did you erase my memories?”

“Erase your memories?” Kars says. “I did no such thing. If I had erased your memories, you would not remember everything now, would you? I blocked your memories—temporarily.”

“Why?” you ask. You’re more concerned with how, but if you don’t ask why now, you may never find out. 

“It was an unexpected opportunity that I gladly seized. Your possession opened you up to my tampering and I feared that if I didn’t aid you, either you would interfere with my plans, or your father would go back on his word—as he has done so frustratingly frequently.” This is the first bit of emotion Kars has displayed—its upper lip curling into a sneer or a snarl. “So, it was a way of…setting you aside for a moment.” 

“And what are your plans?” you demand. 

Kars blinks rapidly, looking a little…offended? Amused? It’s difficult to tell, between its inhuman facial features and the dim light. “No concern of yours, little Giorno. You have years to go before you can even come close to understanding the game Dio and I have been playing for centuries—assuming you want to understand at all. No—you are, at your core, a human boy. You want to live a human life with your human friends. You want to solve human problems and heal human wounds. I admire this, even as I do not understand it myself. This is why you summoned me, yes? To get that human life back—the one the smuggler gave you when he pulled you out of the water, reborn. Fresh. New. Clean.” 

It’s as if Kars has seen right through you. It’s as if you’re transparent, made of the thinnest blown glass, the moonlight illuminating your insides, bones and all. You can’t look at Trish; you know she’s staring through you too. 

“I can do this for you,” Kars says, continuing on as if nothing you’ve said or done matters. “On two conditions: first, destroy the fire demon that leads Passione. That should be simple, of course. You were planning on doing that anyway, yes? Second, abandon your silly revenge scheme. It’s useless anyway, isn’t it? You have no way of killing Dio—and I think, deep down, you don’t want to.”

“Do not presume what I do or do not want to do,” you say, voice low, staring at your hands where they clasp Trish’s. 

Kars sighs, just this side of patronizing. “Oh yes, he’s done terrible things. But did he ever harm you, personally? And besides, will his death really change anything in this city, or in this world? There will always be more men like him, like Depero, like Polpo, like Veleno. There will always be more children like you. Your ambition is great, little Giorno, and I respect that, but one boy can only do so much. I offer you a chance to be happy, or at the very least content. You can stay here with your little crew and the new friends you’ve become so fond of—you will be as safe and as loved as anyone can be in this world. And this time, I can erase your memories for good. No matter what happens, the pain you carry with you will never return. No more nightmares. No more shivering. Even I will leave you in peace. As soon as you kill the fire demon, I will come, I will take your pain away, and then I will never see you or speak to you again. Have we a deal, Giorno Giovanna?”

You don’t look at Kars. You look at Trish. Her eyes are so green—burning green, like a forest on fire. “I can’t make this decision for you, Giorno,” she says softly. 

“Will you stay with me?” you ask her. “No matter what I choose?”

She nods. “I’ll always be right here.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. “I accept your deal, Kars.” 

Chapter Text

Bucciarati watches Trish draw a sigil in charcoal on the warped floorboards of the manor foyer. There are black smears on her fingers and sarong. The sigil is a bit wonky, its lines set at odd angles by the uneven floor and Trish’s shaky hand, but according to her, it shouldn’t matter. “The sigil is just a failsafe,” she says. “Just in case my father figures out he’s walking into an obvious trap and doesn’t come when we call—but he’s been looking for us, desperately so, and as far as I can tell, he’s not the sharpest blade in the dark.” 

Sticky Fingers arranges itself around the room. Narancia positions at the top of the stairs, his rifle aimed directly at the sigil below. Li’l Bomber perches on the chandelier high above the room. Bucciarati and Abbacchio pile furniture in front of the room’s every exit, Bucciarati standing by the front doors and Abbacchio by the entrance to the west wing hallway. Mista stands closer, by the doorway that leads towards the kitchen, Fugo crouching beside him, his eyes steely. Trish lurks at the bottom of the stairs, draped over the bannister. Giorno stands closest, directly between Bucciarati and the sigil, less than a meter from its edge. 

Trish stands up. She rubs her neck. The angry red of her burns there have faded under Giorno’s ministrations, leaving behind shirred silver scarring. She opens the book of matches in her hands and lights one before stepping barefoot into the middle of the sigil and lighting the pile of tinder in its center. Her bare feet are bright red against the ashen gray of the floor. She steps out of the sigil, back to her place by the bannister, clears her throat, and says, “Diavolo. Ancient creature of fire and ashes. Father. Diavolo. I name you. Come and kill me this time—kill us all. If you can.” She flicks the burnt out match aside. 

They wait. The fire in the center of the room burns small, but fiercely, its orange coalescing into yellow and then white as it devours the tinder. Embers waft through the air, and the mansion begins to smell even more intensely of smoke than usual. 

They wait. No one moves. 

They wait. Bucciarati begins to wonder if Diavolo will really come—if maybe this ritual didn’t work after all, in spite of the sigil. 

Then the tiny campfire erupts into a column of flame that nearly reaches the ceiling, sending Li’l Bomber fluttering away from her perch with a squawk. The heat rivals that of the crematorium furnaces, but this does not burn clean. No—this fire does not smell of ozone, but of blackest coal and burning rubber and melting wax and curdling flesh. It smells like it could consume everything you hold dear and still be hungry. Bucciarati closes his eyes against the blast, shielding his face. 

When he opens them, the stain of fire seared onto his retinas, a boy stands there. That young man or old boy from the ball, just as Trish said. Diavolo’s stunted young host. 

He looks different now than he did then. He is not dressed in a fine suit, his hair pinned neatly behind his head. He does not smile brightly and blink his wet eyes. He wears a shredded undershirt, and burns crawl up his arms, his fingers curled and stiffened by them. His hair, patchy now, hangs limply in front of his blank face. His chest heaves with ragged breaths—the only sign that he’s alive at all, and not just a walking corpse. He looks as though he can barely hold himself upright, his legs bowed and his toes pointed inwards. 

The voice that comes out of him isn’t his own. It says, “Finally,” in a hoarse baritone. He takes an unsteady step forward. 

“Narancia,” Bucciarati calls out, his voice firm, loud, and even. “Now.” 

A shot rings through the otherwise silent manor. Thick blood explodes out of the front of Doppio’s skull, and the boy collapses to the floor. 

-

You look at the boy Doppio and see yourself. He looks nothing like you, not in his face, but in his slouched frame and hollow eyes you see a person that has been devoured from the inside out. An empty puppet, a doll, a corpse still shambling at the behest of a deep well of animus. But in your case, your resolve is your own. Doppio’s is borrowed—borrowed from the very thing that ate him alive. 

It takes very little to end his life. A single round from Narancia’s rifle pierces what remains of his gray matter, splattering his blood and brains and fragments of his skull at your feet. The boy slumps to his knees, and then to the floor, a dark pool flowing across the charcoal sigil Trish drew there. 

Still, your muscles tense. It is not over. This is only the beginning. 

Doppio’s head jerks upwards from where it was face down on the ground, so suddenly and violently that you hear the vertebrae in his neck snap. His eyes aren’t brown anymore, but vibrant green—Trish’s eyes. For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, between Doppio’s pink hair and round face, and Diavolo’s green eyes, it’s Trish staring up at you, a bullet hole in her forehead, blood smeared across her cheeks. 

Doppio’s mouth falls slack, far wider than it should, like his jaw has become unhinged, and a howling noise is ripped from his throat as you’re hit with another wave of supernatural heat. Diavolo erupts from the open mouth of his deceased host, a ball of fire and wrath hovering in the air. 

You wait. You clutch the Spirit Bottle in one hand. You have this alone in common with your father: you are both possessed of a vast and deadly patience. You can wait. For however long it takes. 

But Diavolo isn’t even looking at you. Why isn’t he looking at you? Why is he looking behind you? Why is he looking at—  

You turn, following Diavolo’s verdant gaze. Bucciarati. 

-

Diavolo is across the room an instant, his eyes mere centimeters from Bucciarati’s—so close he can see his reflection in them. Why? Why is this happening? He got the tattoo—they all did. The same one Trish has. She checked it for them, too—said the artist knew what they were doing. So why is Diavolo ignoring the bait they laid for him? 

Bucciarati’s questions fly through his brain at a kilometer per second, only for them to be answered by knife-like claws digging into his chest, shredding the tattoo to pieces. 

It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt—far beyond any beating he’s taken, any bullet that’s pierced him, any poison he’s ever inhaled. The wounds instantly cauterize and his flesh sizzles. He wants to scream, but all the air has been stolen from his lungs. He can make no noise. His vision goes foggy, the room beginning to tilt. Time slows to the viscous drip of tar. 

Diavolo laughs, deep and menacing. You’re handsome, he says, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at all. You will make a fine replacement—not least because your crew will be unable to end the life of their beloved capo. My first act once I have you will be to slaughter them all. 

No. No, no, no! Bucciarati won’t let him. Something! Anything! Everything hurts. He struggles, and every point of contact he makes with the demon is agony. His vision is orange. His hearing is a dull roar. 

Something cuts through the pain and light and noise. Giorno. “Bucciarati, catch!”

A glint pierces the haze—purple glass in the moonlight. Bucciarati’s arm extends, almost on its own. Giorno’s throw is perfect. The glass of the spirit bottle is cool on Bucciarati’s palm. Now all he has to do is use it. 

Easier said than done. Diavolo is in the process of crawling down his throat—it feels as though his entire body has been set aflame. He can feel his teeth and tongue turning to ashes in his mouth. Even worse is Diavolo’s presence pressing in on Bucciarati’s mind, crowding out his own thoughts and drowning out his personhood. Who is Bruno Bucciarati? The child of a fisherman and a swordstress, both Iruvian expatriates. He’s a smuggler of luxury goods, a Lurk, a sneak thief, a capo, an honorable scoundrel—a man about to die. 

Even if he keeps breathing, Diavolo will never let him speak his own thoughts again. The demon will contract and relax his muscles, speak in his voice, see with his eyes. Use him up and discard him like trash before moving on to his next unfortunate host. 

Mama. Papa. He’ll never see them again—either of them. He’ll never introduce Leone to his mother, never find out what happened to his father, never help Giorno and Trish find their places in this world, never see to it that Narancia and Fugo finish their schooling, never fully set up the deli the way Mista likes, never watch Leone kick his worst habit for good and finally heal. 

They’ll have to kill him. Narancia will have to put a bullet between his eyes the same as he did to Doppio. Will he be able to? No. There’s no way. Narancia’s hands will shake; he won’t pull the trigger. He’ll drop the gun. Mista? No—he can’t do it either. He’ll shoot to injure, but that won’t be enough to slow Diavolo down. Fugo will try something, but how effective will his chemical weapons be? Giorno and Trish—Trish will try to exorcise him; Giorno will help. It won’t work. Then—Abbacchio. Leone. Bucciarati can almost hear him: “Fight him, Bruno! You’re strong! You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known. Fight him!”

It’s the only way. It’s the only way any of them will make it out of this. 

With everything in him, Bruno Ma’amoul Bucciarati pushes. Fights. Struggles. 

I am me. I am me. I am me. This body belongs only to me. 

-

I can’t move. Why can’t I move? Diavolo—my father is forcing his way into Bucciarati’s mouth and I can’t move. I have to help him, have to—they need him! Giorno needs him. Bucciarati is barely upright, his skin flushed and burning, his hands tangled in his hair, his head tilted back as Diavolo pushes his way in. 

Giorno is faster than me. “Bucciarati, catch!”

For a moment, I think he won’t. I watch the spirit bottle fly through the air, expecting it to shatter on the ground—destroying our last chance with it. 

I never should’ve doubted him—either of them. Bucciarati’s hand darts out and catches the bottle. His thumb flicks open the stopper, and then—nothing. For far too long of a moment, nothing. 

And then Bucciarati’s chest explodes outwards. Jets of flame burst from his mouth and eyes, only to be sucked wholly into the spirit bottle. The stopper snaps shut and Bucciarati’s burned shell of a body hits the ground, the bottle still clasped in his hand, the fiery essence of Diavolo swirling around within. 

The hall is silent, still. No one moves. No one speaks. 

Abbacchio is the first to break the stillness. His voice is so small—the smallest I’ve ever heard. He sounds like a child, or a scrawny kitten. “Bruno?”

Bucciarati is dead. That much is obvious. And if his unmoving, charred body isn’t enough, the crematorium bells ring. I know that sound now—all too well. 

Abbacchio rounds on Giorno. “Fix him! Help him! Help him now! Right now, Giovanna, I swear—“

But Giorno isn’t listening. He isn’t looking at Abbacchio or Bucciarati, but at the window above the front door where the moonlight streams in. Then he falls over, topples over onto his back as if tackled by an unseen force. Oh no. 

Not now. Too soon—too soon! 

My legs fail me and I sink down to the floor. 

-

Not now. Too soon. It’s too soon. You aren’t ready. You need to help Bucciarati, and Abbacchio, and Trish, but you can’t. You’re helpless all over again. Kars tackles you to the floor, and you push back against its invisible weight. You struggle. Maybe you shouldn’t, but it’s instinct at this point. You push at Kars’s face with both hands, and in one swift motion, it takes your wrists and pins both your arms above your head. You can feel it pressing down on your chest, almost suffocating you. You’re drowning. Drowning again. 

Hush now, Kars says, forcing your mouth open with its free hand. Its fingers are thick and freezing on your tongue. Remember Giorno, you asked for this. 

You did. Nevertheless, all you can think is, Stop it. Stop it. Stop it, please. I’ll do anything, if only you’ll let me go. 

Kars either can’t hear you, or doesn’t care. It’ll be over soon. Your jaw aches. You can feel its hands at the back of your brain. There’s a spike of agony, and then—nothing. 

-

I feel Kars leave, even if I don’t see it. Giorno lies supine on the floor, passed out and unmoving. 

“What’s happening?” Narancia asks. He hasn’t moved from the top of the stairs. “Is he dead? Are they both dead?”

“What happened?!” Fugo demands of me. “What did you do to Giorno?”

Nothing, I—I didn’t do anything. He asked for this. My mouth opens and closes several times, but I can’t seem to say anything. My throat is dry. Sweat seeps down my temple. 

Mista’s legs have collapsed under him. His head is buried between his knees. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.” 

“Wake him up!” Abbacchio shouts. He’s clinging onto Bucciarati’s lifeless body. “I don’t care what happened to him—wake him up and get him over here!” 

I stand. My legs walk me towards Abbacchio and Bucciarati. I don’t choose to—I move on impulse, like a wind-up toy or a zombie. “He’s dead,” I hear myself say. “There’s nothing Giorno could do for him, even if he was awake.” 

“Stop it!” Fugo calls distantly. “Get away from him, both of you!” 

I ignore him. I walk until I’m standing over the dead capo and his still living partner. 

“But you…” Abbacchio says. “You can do something, can’t you?”

I nod. “You have to ask me to do it, first.”

“Do it,” Abbacchio says without hesitation. 

I can see Bucciarati’s spirit, still tethered to his body, but only barely. It shakes, trembling alongside his unmoving corpse. It can’t see me—can’t see anything. I don’t need quicksilver to tamper with it, to loosen it just a bit. “You have to take it,” I say to Abbacchio. “You have to take him back for yourself.” 

“Stooooooop!” Fugo crashes into my back, tackling me to the floor. “Stop it! Leave him alone!” Purple liquid oozes from his pale skin, dripping onto me. He breathes out a purple haze and yes—I know the name of this thing. I’ve never seen him use it the way he’s able to now, but this is drown powder. My suspicions are confirmed when I begin to choke, my eyes bulging in their sockets

Abbacchio draws back. “Fugo, stop. We’re going to save him. She’s going to help me save him.”

“She’s—you’re both monsters,” he snarls, and he lunges towards Abbacchio. 

But he stops halfway, because Li’l Bomber is in his face, wings out, talons gleaming. She squawks, beak peppering his cheeks and forehead with lacerations. He throws up his hands, stumbling backwards. “Narancia! Narancia, make her stop!”

“You have to stop,” Narancia says. He’s at the bottom of the stairs now, rifle in hand. “We have to get him back. Fugo, we need him.” 

Click. Mista is standing now, too, his pistol leveled at Fugo’s body. “I don’t wanna shoot you, but I will.”

Still leaking poison from every pore, Fugo clutches his forehead. “You’re insane. You’re all insane. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” Then he bursts out of the front doors and into the quiet streets of Duskwall. 

I cough purple powder out onto the floor. “Do it,” I rasp. I can’t stand up anymore, but I don’t need to. Bucciarati’s ghost hovers just above us, still inert, but free from his mortal form. “Do it, Abbacchio.” 

Abbacchio does—albeit in an unexpected way. He kneels next to Bucciarati’s corpse and leans over him, pressing their open mouths together. Bucciarati’s mouth is charred, frozen agape in a horrible cry. Even though it’s not a secret that they’re together, I’ve never seen them kiss before—only, no, this isn’t a kiss. It’s more like mouth-to-mouth. It’s too intimate to watch, so I look away. I do not look back until I hear Abbacchio slump over and say, “It’s done. He’s not awake yet, but I can feel him. He’s here with me.” 

I lean over and pry the spirit bottle out of Bucciarati’s hand. It’s warm to the touch, and fire swirls within. What do I do with this? I’m overwhelmed with a feeling similar to the one you get when you’re standing someplace high: the urge to jump. In this case, the urge to shatter the bottle and release Diavolo. I don’t, though. “Hi, Dad,” I whisper to him. I have no idea if he can hear me. 

The doors to the manor stand open, moonlight flooding in. I don’t notice the figures approaching until they’re in the doorway, blocking the light. 

“Well, well, well,” one of them says. “I guess you underestimated him.”

I look up. Three figures stand there, all men, towering black silhouettes. I don’t recognize two, but I’ll never forget the eyes of the third: black sclera, silver irises. The leader of La Squadra Esecuzione. 

“Me?” the one on the left snaps. “You were the one who didn’t get us here quick enough to kill the Boss.” 

“Enough,” the leader says, holding up a hand to silence his two subordinates. He eyes the scene with a distant gaze. 

Narancia raises his rifle. “Stay back,” he says. “Stay away from us.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man says. “I only want to know where the Boss is. Did you send him back to hell where he belongs?”

“I have him,” I say, my voice sounding very small and distant. 

“A spirit bottle,” the subordinate on the right says, rubbing his chin. “That is a very unique piece of technology you have right there, little lady. Where did you get it?”

“The Spirit Wardens.” I can’t think of a reason to lie, nor do I have the energy to come up with something believable. 

“I see Giorno Giovanna has—is he dead?” the leader asks. 

“No. But I don’t know when he’ll wake up.” Through the haze that clouds my brain, I wonder why the leader of La Squadra knows Giorno’s name. 

“Then I ask that you fulfill his end of the bargain for him,” the leader says smoothly. “He promised us the Boss, as recompense for the death of Prosciutto at your hands.”

Prosciutto. The man Mama and I killed. Did Giorno do that? Say that? It seems like an awfully rash thing to have done, but Giorno hasn’t been thinking straight, these last few days. He said he was going to contract with La Squadra—is this what he offered them? “I can’t—“

“We’re not going to let him go, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the right hand subordinate says. 

“The opposite,” the left hand says. 

“He will never know peace,” the leader agrees. “He’ll wish he’d been obliterated. He’ll wish he never left hell.”

I would be a fool to trust them, to take them at their word, but we’re in no state to fend them off, even if they aren’t telling the truth. 

“Trish, I—“ Narancia says, his grip tightening on his gun. Then he lowers it, turns his back to them, and clutches the gun to his chest. Li’l Bomber flutters down to rest on his shoulder. “Do whatever you want.”

I look at Mista. He looks back at me, and uncharacteristically, says nothing at all. 

Abbacchio lies on his side, his back to me, his face tucked between his arms. “Abbacchio?” I say. 

“I—we—Bruno and I—“ He swallows thickly. “We had a—the Spirit Wardens—“ He lets out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t make this decision.” 

Okay. Okay. I extend my arm with the spirit bottle in hand. “Just take it. I never wanna see him again.”

The leader takes the bottle. “Your cooperation is much appreciated. I wish you and yours the best. Arrivederci.” And then he and the others are gone. 

Chapter Text

He wakes up in his bed. He knows it’s his bed—no, their bed. The one he shares with Abbacchio, even though it’s too small. He knows it’s their bed because it smells like Abbacchio—the smell is all around him: wine and sweat and cheap makeup. It’s objectively not a good smell, but he curls inward and presses his nose to the pillow anyway. It’s been so long since he smelled it; he could almost burst into tears. Why has it been so long? He lives with Abbacchio, this is their bed—their bed in their deli. Their home. 

It comes crashing back to him all at once. The manor. The Boss. Trish, Giorno—Diavolo. The burning so intense it progressed past pain and destroyed all sensation. Where is he? He sits up and looks around. The room is dim, but not dark, and even without any semblance of light, he’d recognize it. It’s the apartment above Aiello’s, just as he left it. He’s home. They’re home. 

He manages to wobble to his feet. He’s a bit dizzy—the floor looks farther away than normal. He props himself up on the wall, and his hand looks different. Did he paint his nails recently? He doesn’t remember doing so. And his skin—why is it so pale? Bucciarati examines his hand more closely, except—this isn’t his hand. This isn’t his hand, this isn’t his arm, the robe he’s wearing is Abbacchio’s—he’s moving before he can think twice about it, stumbling towards the stairs and down them into the restaurant. 

Trish meets him at the bottom of the stairs. “You’re awake,” she says, catching him around the torso before he can stumble into the deli proper. “Holy shit, you’re awake. You’re awake, and you’re—”

“What did you do?” Bucciarati demands of her. His voice startles him—it’s not his voice at all. Still, he presses onwards. “What did you do with me?”

“I saved you. We saved you. Abbacchio asked me to—he needed me to. You were dead. This was the only way.” She looks down at her feet. “I’m sorry.”

It’s all too much. Everything is loud and his head hurts like crazy. He should be mad. He ought to be furious with her—with both of them. Yes, he died, but—people die, don’t they? To live on in Abbacchio’s body—it doesn’t feel good. Not for him, and likely not for Abbacchio. Bucciarati feels like a thief—no, worse, like a kidnapper. This body isn’t his. It doesn’t belong to him. 

And yet, he isn’t angry at all. Not with either of them; not even with himself. He’s just tired. 

He pushes past Trish and slumps down in one of the deli booths. It seems like she’s the only one around right now. “Where is my body?” he asks numbly. 

“The icebox,” she says. She laughs grimly. “Mista wasn’t happy about that. We have no way to repair it, though, um—it’s pretty messed up.” 

“How long has it been?”

“Three days. That’s about how long it took my mom to wake up too, after I transferred her.” 

“Where are the others?”

“Mista’s buying food and medicine. Narancia took Giorno to see that doctor you all know—the one who runs the free clinic. Giorno, um. He pacted with the demon of moonlight to erase his memories again. He remembers us, but nothing from before he escaped from prison.” 

Is that good? Is that bad? Bucciarati has no idea. Part of him wishes Giorno hadn’t done it, but another part suspects it was probably inevitable. “And Fugo?”

Trish shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Right. Um. He left. He didn’t like what Abbacchio and I did—to you. Narancia thinks he’ll come back on his own but I—I don’t know.”

Bucciarati sighs. “We’ll find him,” he says. “He won’t have gone far.” 

“Oh,” Trish says. “Abbacchio asked me to give this to you.” She passes Bucciarati a folded up piece of paper. 

He unfolds it. Inside is a note written in Abbacchio’s crisp hand. That’s odd—he hasn’t thought about handwriting before. When he writes, will he write in his own handwriting, or Abbacchio’s, or a strange mix of both? He blinks rapidly. His hands—Abbacchio’s hands shake so much that he has to put the note down on the table to even read it. It says:

Bruno,

 

I’m sorry. I will never, ever be sorry enough. I’m sorry I let you die, and I’m sorry I went to such extreme measures to keep you with me. The thing is, we need you. I need you. You may not be happy with me, but I’ll live with your unhappiness for as long as I have to, even if that’s forever. I only ask that you not blame Trish for any of this—she was only doing as I asked. Tell her I’m sorry, too, for putting her in this position. And if you manage to find Fugo, I’m sorry to him as well, for driving him away. I’m sorry to Giorno for being so unkind, to Narancia for making him choose between me and his best friend, and to Mista for making him into the glue that binds us all together in your absence.

 

I love you. You’re the love of my life, and the thing I’m most sorry about is never being sober enough to tell you that and have you know that I mean it. 

 

Yours, always, 

Leone. 

Bruno takes the note in Leone’s shaking hands, folds it up, and holds it for a long moment. Then he stands up. “I’m getting dressed,” he announces. “There’s someone I need to see.” 

He has to wear Abbacchio’s clothes—their size difference is just enough that Bucciarati’s don’t quite fit the way he wants them to. He strings Abbacchio’s cloak around his shoulders, tucking the note into an inside pocket. He can feel the other man stirring in the back of their shared consciousness, but Abbacchio is clearly not awake, at least not yet, so Bucciarati heads back downstairs just as the bell above the deli door rings and Giorno and Narancia come striding in. 

The two boys stop and stare at him for a long moment before Bucciarati finally says, “Hi.”

“You’re awake,” Giorno says. “And it’s—you’re you.” 

Narancia doesn’t say anything. He just crashes bodily into Bucciarati, squeezing him in a tight hug, his strength belied by his small size. Then, even more surprisingly, Giorno joins him. Last Bucciarati remembers, Giorno would barely let anyone touch him. Whatever pact he made with the demon—it worked. At the very least, it did something. Li’l Bomber flutters off of her master’s shoulder to settle on Bucciarati’s—Abbacchio’s, rubbing her beak against his ear. 

“It’s good to see you,” Bucciarati says. “But I have somewhere to be. We’ll talk later.” 

“Um, one more thing,” Trish says. “We don’t have the Boss anymore.” She then proceeds to fill him in on their encounter with La Squadra. 

“I’m really very sorry,” Giorno says. “If I did seek them out, if I did promise them the Boss, I—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“And you don’t remember doing this?” Bucciarati asks. 

Giorno shakes his head. 

Bucciarati can’t find it in himself to be angry with the boy, in the same way he can’t be angry with Trish or Abbacchio. And in all honesty, he’d rather they have the Boss than hand him over to Armane of the Spirit Wardens. He can only hope that the latter doesn’t come after them for breaking their promise. 

And then Mista comes in, two giant bags of groceries in each arm. “Abbacchio?” Then his eyes light up. “Boss—Bucciarati!” He doesn’t go in for a hug, but sets down the grocery bags and extends his hand. 

Bucciarati shakes it. 

“Glad to see you up and about even if it is a—never mind.”

“It’s weird,” Bucciarati agrees. “It’ll feel weird for a while. But um—I have to go now. I’ll be back soon, hopefully. We can talk when I get back—I want to—I apologize for the ice box, Mista.”

“Pssh,” Mista says. “It’s not your fault. Where are you headed to?”

“Crow’s Foot.” 

What day of the week is it? What time is it? It doesn’t matter. Maryam Ma’amoul will be in one of two places, one right across the road from the other, and since she isn’t at the Academy, she’s in her apartment. 

It feels like a lifetime ago that he led his crew up these steep and narrow stairways to his mother’s apartment. He trips and falls over twice, not used to the difference in length between his and Abbacchio’s legs—it’s not a huge difference, but it’s just enough to throw him off, to turn him from a graceful Lurk into a bumbling toddler. He knocks on the door, and it’s not long before it swings open. 

“Can I—“ Maryam’s eyes go wide. “Bruno.”

“You—you recognize me,” he says, and to his dismay he has to speak around a lump forming in his throat. 

“Of course I recognize you,” she says. “I’m your mother. I will always know you.” Then, in the most surprising thing he’s experienced all day, she hugs him. She hasn’t hugged him since Paolo died. 

He wraps his arms around her back, presses his nose into her shoulder, and cries. She’s crying too, silently, her body shaking in his arms. They stand in the tenement hallway for what feels like hours, just holding each other and weeping, not saying a word. 

“You will always be my boy,” she finally says, “my and Paolo’s beautiful, clever, resolute boy. He and I will always love you exactly as you are.” She pulls back and clutches Abbacchio’s tear-stained face, rubbing his cheekbone with her thumb. “But please tell me, what happened to you? Who—who is this?”

“Mama,” he says, wiping away the tears, “I—I’d like you to meet my—my partner. My other half, Leone Abbacchio.”