Chapter Text
Bruno Bucciarati really needed a break.
He sighs, pressing into the gas pedal. The stolen car shudders and protests as Bruno urges it to accelerate without much luck. It wheezes a dying breath as it speeds down the road, bringing Bruno closer to his next victim. The final one for the night, he hopes.
He had been sent out to collect money from a low-level gangster. A middle-aged man by the name of Giovanna, if Bruno recalls correctly. Giovanna has a reputation for being a wild card when it comes to his drug trades. Some customers would report him to be hostile and brash, quick to use his fists at any back-talk or complaints. Others claimed that he was a friendly, relatable guy who would give them quality products for reasonable prices.
Bruno doesn’t know what to make of the guy.
In the grainy photo that was paperclipped to his file, he had an unkempt, rough appearance. Grime was caked in the wrinkles around his sunken eyes. His greasy hair was sloppily slicked back in a way that made Bruno want to grimace. The slightly smug expression tacked onto his face gave Bruno the impression that Giovanna would be one of those arrogant bastards that he loathed dealing with.
Bruno pulls into the man’s neighborhood, easing the car to a stop with one last agonizing rattle. He climbs out and hastily glances around the immediate area. The buildings are small and rickety, worn from time and lack of management; ivy and grass had started sprouting in the cracks of the plastered road and crumbling walls. In all honesty, Bruno doesn’t know what else he was expecting.
As he walks to the doorstep, Bruno collects himself. He eases into his best authoritative, somewhat intimidating persona. Usually, with the cocky ones, he’d have to use a bit of fear and force to finish what he came to do.
He curtly raps on the door before stepping back. Inside, there’s a small ruckus. Bruno hears a crash, a thump, and a subdued curse before stumbling footsteps approach. The door is forcefully flung open, and Bruno finds himself face-to-face with Giovanna.
The overwhelming stench of beer is what Bruno notices first, followed quickly by the sorry excuse of his outfit. A faded white shirt stretches over the man’s burly, muscular frame. Worn, loose pants ride low on his hips, barely held up by a gaudy belt. He's exactly as repulsive as his picture made him out to be, Bruno thinks to himself.
At first, the man regards Bruno with an accusatory glare before seeming to realize who he is. Giovanna's face falls. The man steps back a bit, gesturing lazily to the living room with a gruff “come in.”
“I assume you know why I’m here.” Bruno takes a seat and watches the man slump onto the couch across from him. He grunts before turning to nonchalantly face Bruno.
“Passione sent you, right?” Giovanna’s hand harshly drags down his face. “Look, I’m a bit short on cash right now, but I got some valuable antique shit. Family heirlooms from my wife’s side. It should be worth a hefty amount. What d'ya say?”
Bruno inspects him carefully, staring into the other’s beady eyes. He knows for a fact that Giovanna has enough money; Bruno is not oblivious to his plump wallet nor the abundance of white envelopes filled with cash, scattered across the tabletops. He tries not to think too hard about where the money came from.
“If you want to sell your drugs on Passione’s turf, you must be willing to pay for it. If you fail to do so, we can easily eliminate you. I’m sure you’re well aware of this,” Bruno says coolly. Giovanna scowls at him, heaving himself to his feet. He trudges over to a nearby cabinet, rummaging around for a second before retrieving a few objects. They appear to be a few ladybug-shaped brooches. They're dumped unceremoniously into Bruno’s lap before Giovanna collapses back onto the ratty couch behind him.
Bruno carefully traces the surface of one of the brooches, weighty in his hand as he inspects it. The body of the ladybug is made from a deep blue gemstone that Bruno suspects to be sapphire. It’s nestled in a frame of gold, and a delicate black arrow shape is set into the center of the ladybug. They were… beautiful.
Bruno considers the three brooches and their value. They seem to be authentic, at least. He wonders briefly why Giovanna would want to get rid of them when he blatantly has more than enough money to pay Bruno with cash. Besides, he hadn’t missed the way Giovanna quickly discarded the brooches onto Bruno’s legs, as if it physically pained him to be holding the objects.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” Giovanna’s restrained voice breaks the silence. Under normal circumstances, Bruno wouldn’t accept this form of payment without further interrogation, but he’s tired and irritable; he really doesn’t want to be around this sleazy man longer than he has to. It’s been a long day. Definitely too long to be dealing with a greasy bastard like Giovanna.
Gathering the brooches and zipping them into a pocket in his jacket, Bruno stands to leave. He can’t help but notice Giovanna’s apparent relief at his departure, so he pauses and turns back around, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Just a small reminder. If you sell outside of your designated areas or fail to pay, there will be consequences, Giovanna.”
Bruno sees himself out the door before the man can realize that his wallet—which had previously been securely tucked into his back pocket—was now lying innocently on the coffee table.
Franco Giovanna practically deflates with relief as soon as Bucciarati leaves. He tries to ignore the small jolt of dread at the sight of his wallet on the table—how had Bucciarati gotten hold of it?!—and reaches for his half-empty bottle of beer instead. The man had unnerved him to hell and back, and Franco could only pray that he hadn’t let it show. Now that Bucciarati is gone, the ache of unease in his stomach slowly begins to recede. Fucking Passione bastards and their creepy aura.
Franco has heard the rumors about Bucciarati; he was incredibly observant and strong, and he had a mysterious, horrifying ability to move things in ways that shouldn't be possible. Groaning slightly, Franco snatches the wallet off the table and shoves it back into his pocket. Bucciarati was undoubtedly a force to be reckoned with, and Franco can only pray that he won’t have to deal with that prestigious prick again.
“Who was that?” Franco’s head snaps up to find his wife, Simona, entering the room. She’s in a form-fitting dress, face painted with heavy makeup and hair twisted into an elegant up-do. Franco scowls, answering the question with his own.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” Simona returns his glare while sliding on a pair of bright red high heels. She makes a big show out of it as if to punctuate her point. Spiteful bitch. “You didn’t answer my question. Who was that?”
Franco bites back a sharp reply, instead opting to toss back the remainder of his beer before responding. “Some bitch from Passione. Came to take the payment.”
Simone scoffs. “Franco, you know how I feel about collectors coming to our house—”
“I got rid of the brooches.” He smirks, watching as Simone whirls around and finally gives him her full attention.
“You what ?”
“I gave him the brooches as the payment. They’re gone.” Franco pauses. “He’s gone.”
Simone’s face is a storm of emotions. There’s a hint of relief with an underlying note of something Franco can’t quite place—if he didn’t know any better, he might think it was akin to remorse.
She stands still for a moment longer before straightening and draping a fur coat across her shoulders. Simone slings her purse over her shoulder and reaches for the door.
“I’m going with some friends for a couple of drinks. Don’t wait up for me.” Her eyes bore into Franco’s, daring him to stop her from leaving. He doesn't move an inch, refuses to give in to her pettiness. There’s a pregnant pause before she steps outside and slams the door behind her.
Franco has half a mind to go after her and slap that pretentious look right off her pretty little face. How dare she act like that?! Franco provides everything for her, and that little bitch acts like she can come and go as she pleases—as if she hadn’t walked into his life, dumped a sniveling little brat on him, and stolen half his income. Sure, he wasn’t stupid. He knew that she was only using him for his bank account and status, but at least in the beginning, she had given him a run for his money.
Whatever, he won’t let her ruin his good mood. After all, tonight was a night for celebration! Bucciarati had just taken care of the little... problem that Franco and Simona had been trying to get rid of for five whole years. Franco chuckles to himself and gets up to retrieve another alcoholic beverage.
The Giovannas had finally disposed of the wandering soul of Haruno Shiobana.
“I’m home!” As soon as Bruno steps into the entryway of his gang’s current safe-house, he’s met with the mouth-watering scent of whatever Mista had cooked for dinner. The group had decided that living together would be the safest and most convenient option. Not only were they able to communicate about missions more easily, but it was great for bonding as well.
Bruno smiles to himself as he slips off his shoes, placing them neatly among the messy pile by the door. When he comes home, it feels like his team of misfits has become a nice little family.
He walks into the kitchen, where the rest of the gang was gathered. Fugo and Narancia are quarreling over something—a science question, Bruno assumes, as he glances at the open textbooks littering the worn kitchen counter. Mista is scooping food into mismatched serving dishes and taking them to the table where Abbacchio is already sitting. Abbacchio takes another sip of tea before noticing Bruno. One side of his purple mouth quirks up into a small smile, endearing in that unique way that never fails to make Bruno's stomach feel fuzzy.
By now, the others have noticed him.
“Oi, Bucciarati’s home! Welcome back!” Mista’s loud greeting catches Narancia’s attention. The small teen ignores Fugo’s latest retort and slams into Bruno with a giant hug, leaping at him with such speed that Bruno almost loses his balance. Bruno chuckles and ruffles Narancia’s hair.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you for making dinner, Mista.” After prying the kid off his side, Bruno helps the gunslinger take the rest of the plates to the table while everyone sits down. The swell of chatter resumes after they’ve all gotten situated, now joined by the Sex Pistols’ earsplitting squealing as they fight over food.
It’s delicious. After everyone has finished, the three younger gangsters drift into the living room, while Bruno and Abbacchio stay in the kitchen to wash up. It's like clockwork, the kids booking it after the meal to avoid doing dishes. Not that Bruno is complaining; it allows him an opportunity to debrief with Abbacchio in semi-private. Like a well-oiled machine, Abbachio washes the dishes while Bruno dries them.
As he finishes with the plates, Bruno’s mind drifts back to the brooches. He still has them, tucked safely in one of his many hidden zippers; he wanted to check their credibility before sending them in as payment. Unconsciously, his brows lightly furrow. If the brooches turn out to be imitations, Giovanna would have absolute hell to pay.
“Bruno? Is everything alright?” Abbacchio’s voice carries a worried note to it, though anyone who didn’t know him as well wouldn’t notice on account of his usual gruff tone. Bruno is shaken out of his thoughts and turns to Abbacchio with a gentle expression.
“Yes, I’m alright.” He pauses for a moment to place the last glass in the crowded cupboard. “Hey, Leone, are you good at distinguishing real gemstones from imitations?”
Abbacchio hangs up the damp towel before turning to Bruno. “Yeah, I’m not too bad at it, had to do it sometimes back in the force. Why?”
“I got some ‘valuable’ brooches as a form of payment today. The man was acting a bit strange, so I wanted to make sure that the gems were legitimate. Come with me.”
Abbacchio nods. Bruno leads him upstairs, into his study, and places the brooches onto his desk. Abbacchio procures a small kit with magnifying glasses, a small UV flashlight, and other testing utensils, setting it down on the wooden tabletop. After a thorough inspection, the two conclude that the brooches are, in fact, authentic.
Stepping away from the table, Bruno regards the jewelry with furrowed brows. He still doesn't feel like he could trust the brooches...
Abbacchio studies his face but says nothing as he waits for Bruno to speak first.
“Why would he pay with the brooches instead of money? He’d obviously had enough in cash… Something isn’t adding up.”
Abbacchio hums thoughtfully and tucks a straying strand of pale lilac hair behind his ear. “This is indeed an odd form of payment, but I think you’re reading too much into this. People do unpredictable things while under the influence of drugs. Besides, there may be a bad memory associated with the brooches.”
Bruno considers this for a moment, then slowly nods. The room settles into a contemplative silence. After Abbacchio realizes Bruno isn't going to elaborate, he starts to move to the door.
“I’m going to do some reading in the living room. Get some sleep, you worry too much. Goodnight, Bruno.” He reaches for the doorknob.
“Goodnight,” Bruno says, watching the other open the door. “And… Leone?”
Abbacchio pauses in the doorway, turning his head to look at Bruno.
“Thank you.”
A shy smile dances across Abbacchio’s lips before he disappears down the hallway, closing the door behind himself.
Bruno is getting ready for bed when he first feels... it. The back of his neck tingles with the sensation of eyes on him; it causes his stomach to sink in the way that it does when a mission starts to go south. It’s unsettling, but the gaze doesn’t feel hostile. This leads Bruno to assume it’s one of the younger team members searching for comfort.
He turns to the door, expecting to see Narancia or Fugo trembling in the hallway, ready to console either boy after a nightmare, only to be met with…
Nothing.
Bruno freezes in place, standing by the dresser. What the hell? He still feels like he’s being watched, potentially from a corner, or even from outside, so he slowly scans the room. It doesn’t seem like anything is out of place, but this wouldn’t be the first time a threat wasn’t initially apparent. His stand itches under his skin, ready to manifest at the first sign of danger.
He cautiously moves to check any potential hiding spots. Bruno even pokes his head into the hallway, only to find it dark and quiet, eerily so. Finally, he steps back into his room and shuts the door behind him, feeling... unnerved. A sigh escapes his chest. Perhaps it was one of those days where the accumulating stress caught up to him, stealing his breath away and rattling his sound mind with an unexplainable onslaught of anxiety.
It’s probably nothing. As Leone said, I worry too much. I suppose I’m more tired from today than I thought.
Bruno lies down and tries to ignore the sensation of those same eyes boring into him as he attempts to fall asleep.