Chapter Text
Giorno watched as Mista and Narancia shoved the last of the crates into the zippered portal Bucciarati had made in the bottom of the boat so they could dispose of the cargo.
"That's the last of it," Mista said with satisfaction, straightening up and dusting off his hands.
Abbacchio kicked an empty crate onto its side and nodded to Bucciarati.
"Well done, let's go home," the Capo said.
Giorno looked up at the stars in the sky, letting the cool breeze wash over his face with the satisfied feeling of a job well done. Ever since their defeat of Diavolo, after Giorno had taken over the Mafia, they'd been weeding out the city's underbelly, systematically putting a stop to all of the big drug rings. They'd just launched a big attack to Manicotti's gang tonight by intercepting their recent shipment, which should put him out of business for a long time, if not permanently. Giorno was determined to be the one to drive a nail into that coffin either way.
Bucciarati came over to the bow of the boat where Giorno was standing, a proud smile on his face. "You did good on this one, Giorno. You're becoming quite the leader."
Giorno ducked his head slightly. He was certainly trying—it was harder than it looked, but he had Bucciarati at his side, the capo guiding him and teaching him how to be a leader. Giorno still considered himself part of Bucciarati's gang even now, if he were being honest, but it didn't really matter either way. They had joined on this venture originally because they had wanted the same thing. Giorno still didn't know Bucciarati's reasons behind his drive, and out of respect for his mentor, he hadn't asked about his past, but he knew he could trust all these men with his life.
"I'm trying," was what he finally replied to Bucciarati.
The older man clasped his shoulder. "It will take time, Giorno. But like I've said before, I have every faith in you becoming a great boss. You've already made a good start cleaning up this city."
"While getting multiple targets slapped onto your back in the process," Abbacchio said blandly as he came over, hands in pockets.
Bucciarati sighed. "It's part of the job."
"We knew it would be like this," Giorno said. "I don't mind—I have plenty of you to watch my back."
Abbacchio rolled his eyes, but not nearly with the same vinegar he had when they'd first met. Giorno hid a smirk. He thought he had earned Abbacchio's respect finally when he had defeated Diavolo, even if the other man still wasn't quite willing to admit it.
"Miiistaaa! We're hungry!" came the high-pitched whine, breaking through the night.
"Calm down! We're on our way home!" Mista growled at Sex Pistols who were hovering around him.
"I'm hungry too," Narancia said, sitting down on an empty crate.
"We're on our way home," Fugo quipped, folding his arms across his chest. He'd come back to join them soon after Giorno had taken over, seeming lost and even somewhat apologetic. Bucciarati had taken him back into the fold and Giorno had seconded that, never having blamed Fugo for his need for self-preservation—he respected someone knowing their limitations as opposed to finding out in the heat of battle. He still seemed a little wary, but he was fitting in with the group again as if nothing had happened.
Bucciarati chuckled. "Don't worry, we'll have supper when we get back."
"Can we get pizza?" Narancia asked hopefully, grinning with wide eyes at Bucciarati.
"That sounds fine with me. I think we all deserve it," Bucciarati told him,
Giorno looked back out at the moonlight washing over the water in the canal as he listened to the friendly chatter of his friends, his familia. For the first time since he'd defeated Diavolo, he began to feel like things truly were looking up again.
~~~~~~~
The next few days went by far too quickly for Giorno. He hadn't fully appreciated just how much work went into being a mafioso, let alone the boss. There were so many problems both important and petty that had to be dealt with, and on top of that, he was still really learning how everything worked to begin with. Because of that, he got mostly resent from the lower level members and capos, most of whom were furious that a fifteen-year-old had taken over from the Boss and Bucciarati had moved up instantly in the ranks with his band of misfits. So, on top of everything else, Giorno also had a target on his back, as did everyone in his circle. Cracking down on the drug-dealing didn't help either, since that was the only thing some of the less creative capos could muster as a business option.
Giorno couldn't have accomplished any of this without Bucciarati, who was always there, a calming, steady support, when he was about to lose his mind.
Giorno was currently sitting up in his study long after midnight, the light still on as he poured over all the letters he had received that week, having neglected them due to their missions. His head was aching, and his eyes felt like sandpaper, but he knew he wouldn't have time to do this tomorrow.
There was a soft knock on the door and it startled him so much he whipped around, summoning Gold Experience.
But it was just Bucciarati, coming in with two cups of tea.
"You're up late," he commented, setting one of the cups next to Giorno's hand. "You really should rest."
Giorno sighed, setting down his pen and gratefully taking up the cup of tea. "There's still too much to do."
"Why didn't you ask me for help, then?" Bucciarati inquired.
Giorno felt the tea warm his body, actually working to relax him a little. "Because I need to learn how to do this for myself."
Bucciarati silently slid the next stack of letters over to himself and started going through them. "It will get easier, but you never have to be afraid to ask for help. We're all here for you."
Giorno glanced over at the older man and saw he was still fully dressed, like he hadn't even been to bed. His brow was slightly pinched and he had dark shadows under his eyes as if he'd slept even less in the last few days than Giorno had. "What are you doing up, anyway?"
Bucciarati sighed, but didn't look up from the letter. "There were a few things I had to see to."
Giorno frowned. "Anything I need to know about?"
Bucciarati gave him a small smile. "It's nothing relating to Stand users or our current campaign. Sometimes I help people in the city. People who have no one else to turn to."
Giorno watched him thoughtfully. He had known Bucciarati was well-liked around Neapolis, and wasn't surprised he tried to help out as much as he could. Still, he worried Bucciarati was stretching himself too thin. But then again, they all were. That was part of the job.
They worked together in silence for a while, and the stack of letters dissipated, being sorted into piles according to their importance and nature.
By the time Giorno's tea was finished, Bucciarati set the last letter down.
"That's enough for tonight, please get some sleep. You don't want to be nodding off during the meetings you have tomorrow."
Giorno nodded in agreement, bone weary. He switched the light off and went to bed, hoping Bucciarati was doing the same. He barely managed to undress before he fell face-first into bed, asleep almost before he hit the pillow.
~~~~~~~
The next day started off as normally as it usually did. Breakfast was always chaotic, and Narancia and Mista were very loud morning people. Fugo tried to read at the table, but didn't look like he was getting anywhere, a deepening scowl on his face. Giorno's head was aching slightly, and he began to understand why Abbacchio usually wore his headphones when he came down for breakfast. Maybe he would just take his food up to his office that day.
Bucciarati came in, not at all looking like he had been up half the night. "Giorno, the meeting with Cotoletta has been moved up, we'll have to meet with him in an hour."
Giorno groaned inwardly, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was not ready to meet with the capo period, let alone earlier than expected. He'd had a lot of resistance from him and he hoped they could finally resolve their issues that day, though he wasn't entirely confident in that.
"Mista, your Pistols are eating my pancakes!" Narancia cried.
"Guys, stop!" Mista recalled his Stand.
Fugo glowered across the table at them. "Hurry up, Narancia, we're doing school after breakfast."
Narancia groaned and slammed his head down on the table.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes and finished his cup of tea, standing up. "Mista, we're going to the meeting with Giorno, come on."
Giorno finished his breakfast in the chaos that ensued, and then went to prepare for the meeting.
It went better than he had expected, though still without much resolution, but at least now he had several hours until his next scheduled meeting.
The others helped him with some stuff, Bucciarati helping him go through letters and paperwork again, when the phone rang and Bucciarati answered it.
"Yes…what?...No, it's fine, I'll be there. Just stay where you are."
Giorno had only half been paying attention, but looked up as Bucciarati suddenly stood.
"Giorno, I have to run out for a little while, I may not be back in time for the meeting, but it won't be a difficult one, Mista and Abbacchio will be here with you."
"Um, okay," Giorno said, and watched Bruno leave before he could ask any other questions. He supposed it was another one of the Capo's side jobs.
Looked like he would have to complete all this paperwork by himself though.
~~~~~~~
Bucciarati hurried through the streets, somewhat worried. Antonio had sounded very distressed when he'd called him.
He'd been helping Antonio and his family for a while. The boy was supporting his mother who was in poor health and two younger sisters. In the old days, Bruno might have accepted him into Passione, but now his position allowed him to help those who needed it, without forcing them into the life. Not that they wouldn't still ask Antonio for favors if they were needed, but until that time, Bucciarati was content with building his network and helping those in need—what he'd always wanted to do in the first place.
He slipped down the side street, and saw the figure waiting in the shadows of the alley.
"Antonio?" he called.
"Bucciarati?" the voice returned.
The capo strode closer. "I'm here. What's wrong? You sounded bad over the phone."
"I need some help," the boy stepped out of the shadows. He was shivering, almost twitching, and as he turned his gaze to Bucciarati, the older man saw that his pupils were dilated.
Bucciarati frowned. "Are you…"
"I didn't mean for it to happen!" the boy snapped, wrapping his arms around himself. "But I'm in too deep now, and I didn't have any other choice."
Bruno pressed his lips into a thin line. "What do you want me to do? You know I won't sell you what you want."
"I know," Antonio said, almost whimpering. He looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry. I didn't have any other choice. I'm sorry."
"What are you talking about?" Bucciarati demanded, reaching out for the boy's shoulder. "Why did you ask me here, Antonio?"
"Because the boss wants a private audience."
Bucciarati spun around and saw several men he knew were from Manicotti's gang standing there in the alley, hemming him in.
"I'm sorry, Bucciarati," Antonio said, crying now. One of the men walked over to him and pressed something into his hand, giving him a shove.
"Get out of here, kid." He turned back to Bucciarati who was clenching his hands in preparation. "You're coming with us."
"Am I?" Bruno asked blandly. "Sticky—"
Something slammed into the back of his head and he dropped to the ground, dazed, before he could summon his Stand. Bucciarati tried to push himself back up, but barely got his hands under him before another blow to the head completely sent him into blackness.
~~~~~~~
A slosh of cold water brought him to with a gasp. Bucciarati started up, but found himself completely immobile, sitting in a chair and wrapped in restraints. He tugged at them experimentally, but they were tight, so tight, he knew calling his stand would do little good. Sticky Fingers was bound as tightly as he was in this position.
His aching head lolled toward his chest as he panted, before someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up.
"Glad to see you awake, Bucciarati," someone said mockingly. "Like we said before, the boss wants a word with you."
Bruno growled, struggling again before a door opened and sounds of footsteps echoed behind him. Bucciarati stayed still, eyes steely, as Manicotti came into view.
The man was wearing a garish designer suit, his dark hair slicked back from his face, hands in his pockets. "Well, if it isn't Bruno Bucciarati. It's so nice of you to join us, we've got a lot to talk about."