Chapter Text
Jotaro Kujo didn’t typically dread meetings this way.
While meetings for work were often boring or enraging, he rarely found himself wishing to skip them. He usually viewed them as a necessary evil, neither good nor bad. Just another thing that life threw his way.
But not this meeting.
This meeting made his gut roll with anxiety, the pressure building and tightening his throat. Even Josuke picked up on his edginess earlier on in the day. To be fair, Jotaro had done nothing but sit in their hotel’s wicker chair. All day. WIthout eating. The teen had tried his best to coax Jotaro out of his shell, but it hadn’t done much. Rohan, fascinated, had just sat on the bed across from Jotaro and watched. It was rare to see the man lose his composure completely, and Rohan made sure he had front row seats.
What an asshole…
But, Jotaro admitted glumly, it had taken too much time and effort to arrange this meeting for cold feet. So here he was, standing in front of a stained oak door, staring blankly at the ornate knocker, willing himself to get on with it already.
His grandfather’s favorite method of confrontation, being running away as fast as possible, was looking extremely enticing.
“On with it, if you will, Dr. Kujo. I’ve never entered a mafioso lair, and I refuse to miss this opportunity to see one.”
Jotaro turned his gaze over to one Kishibe Rohan, who had finally ripped his fascinated eyes from Jotaro’s fantastic freeze response in favor of examining the rest of the hallway, and huffed. Give him stands, soldiers, and crazed lunatics. He could handle it.
Anything other than Dio’s son.
After approximately one month of contact and preparation, two months of radio silence, and a few weeks scrambling to secure a date and time, Jotaro Kujo now found himself at the door of the most powerful men in Italy.
And good grief, was he dreading this conversation.
Feeling the eyes of both Josuke and Rohan burning at his back, he steeled himself and lifted the knocker, issuing two sharp clangs onto the door.
The door creaked open, and narrowed brown eyes peered at them for a few seconds before the door widened enough for them to get through. The young man who opened the door went to his position behind an impressive wooden desk, where, presumably, the Don of Passione sat. Jotaro vaguely took notice of another guard behind the opposite side of the desk as well.
Jotaro’s gaze traveled from the young guardsman, to his companion, down finally to the Don himself.
Jotaro recognized the young man who opened the door immediately as one Guido Mista. While he had seemingly abandoned his signature atrocious hat for this particular meeting, his curly hair was covered in a red beanie. It seemed someone had coaxed him into some more formal wear that day; Jotaro hadn’t seen any photos with him wearing a full shirt before, much less a dress one, even if it was completely undone. He still wore his favorite eye bleeding red pants, though. Jotaro could see Rohan eyeing the tiger stripes on them with distaste.
His companion, Leone Abbacchio, stared at the incoming trio as if they were maggots found in his food. His eyes and lips were tinged with black, silver hair pulled out of his face with a low tie, and his strong frame covered in a leathery black suit. His appearance would’ve been crisp if it wasn’t for the dark purple button-down that was left wide open, exposing a good chunk of his torso. Despite the light hair and the harsh lines that marred his face, he was clearly still a young man. Speedwagon had a particularly interesting file on him that Jotaro had poured over for some time. Though Giorno was officially Bucciarati’s second-in-command, Speedwagon had observed that Abbacchio called the shots just as often, most likely due to the younger man’s lacking experience.
Which left the Don himself, sitting between the two gangsters. Don Bucciaratti hadn’t changed much at all since Jotaro last read his file; his hair was neatly cut and braided, if a little shorter than usual. His suit was still decorated with zippers, but he had traded in his standard white suit for a sleek blue pinstripe. While intimidating, he had a warm presence that couldn’t quite be shaken off. Jotaro hoped that his warm side would be more prominent in this meeting; but that was likely a tactical ruse. It was easy to manipulate people if they thought you had a good heart.
It was common in organized crime, wasn’t it, for older men to act as guides to the troubled youth, pulling them down into the depths of society’s underbelly. Jotaro found himself studying young Mista intently, wondering how Bucciarati managed to pull him into passione’s fold. Was it money, or power? Did Mista believe the Don actually cared about him? Or was he forced into service as recompense for a failed repayment? The thought left a sour taste in Jotaro’s mouth, and his chest burned with regret for the young man in front of him.
It was his worst fear realized, seeing a kid being used as an attack dog because of their stand. It never lead to anything good.
Speaking of impressionable young men, where was Giorno?
Joatro glanced at the surrounding walls, noting the impressive collection of books and files that sat behind glass shelving doors. There was no one else in the room; the small sofa behind them remained empty, and there was nothing on the table that indicated the presence of another.
Jotaro’s frown deepened, giving his whole face a thunderous visage. The boy was nowhere to be found. Unusual, considering this meeting was set up for his sake. A way to atone, to apologize for an action that Jotaro never regretted once.
Jotaro didn’t regret killing Dio. He knew that his offenses were a heavy thing to carry, and an impossible thing to ask forgiveness for. He himself knew the stinging betrayal of an absent father; of a table half empty, guidance never given, and misdeeds never noticed. Giovanna had every right to seek vengeance for a half-empty childhood, even if Dio was the worst father figure to idolize.
Giorno deserved to know what happened
So no matter how unpleasant the following conversation was going to be, Jotaro would never know peace unless the truth was told.
Giorno isn’t Dio, Jotaro chided himself, And if he follows in Dio’s footsteps, we can take care of him.
Just like old times
“Good evening, Signor Bucciarati. I am Dr. Kujo. I have arrived to speak with you and Giorno Giovanna, on behalf of the Speedwagon Foundation. Is he currently available?”
Don Bucciaratti’s gaze slowly slid up from the papers he was examining. Sluggishly, as if moving through gelatin, his face pinched, making his expression slightly lost.
Jotaro glanced at Josuke, who also seemed to pick up on the bizarrely slow reaction time. Not a response expected of a mafia don. Even ignoring the sheer effort it seemed to take Bucciarati to react, showing such confusion in front of strangers didn’t seem like the optimal strategy for a mafia leader. What was going on?
“Who is Giorno Giovanna?”
If Jotaro was a less stoik man, he might’ve gasped, or sighed with exasperation. Why would the Don feel the need to hide his young charge now? It would’ve been more convincing to say that he had outright left Passione than to pretend he didn’t exist. Both of Joatro’s companions seemed to understand this as well. He could feel Josuke’s confused eyes on him, and saw Rohan shoot the don a withering look.
Abbacchio bristled like a rabid dog, noticing the frustration on Rohan’s face. The man could kill plants with those glares. Such open hostility towards Passione members would get them nowhere. Jotaro felt a small tug on his coat and turned his head towards Josuke, who was nervously having a staredown with Mista.
“His eyes are completely unfocused,” Josuke whispered. “It’s almost like he’s seeing nothing. Happened as soon as Giorno was mentioned.”
“An explanation, gentlemen, if you please.” Josuke stiffened when Bucciarati’s voice cut through the room. Jotaro turned to fully face them, planning how to navigate this complex scenario they found themselves in. Rohan beat him to it, loudly scoffing into the tense silence.
Jotaro sucked in a low breath and closed his eyes, begging for a decent outcome after Rohan opened his mouth. He had been brought along to help with communication and in case of a probable investigation, and had been moaning about missed due dates for the whole week. Jotaro enticed him to come on the account of watching mafia business firsthand. Now he was regretting that decision. Out of the corner of his eye, Jotaro saw Josuke make a swiping motion with his hand, frantically mouthing what looked like an emphatic warning. The manga artist ignored Josuke’s silent plea.
“Look, my dear Don Bucciaratti,” Rohan declared, the statement dripping in contempt, “We understand your rather…protective nature, when it comes to your gang members. We’re just here to check up on him and leave. No harm done. So you don’t need to hide him from us.”
The Don’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. Abbacchio’s dark lips pulled back into a jeer, a low, aggressive laugh emanating from his chest. A small click echoed through the room, coming from Mista’s hand. He had paused cleaning his pistol in favor of fixing Rohan with an unimpressed stare. The buzz of stand energy was thick in the air, although a stand had yet to make a full appearance. Jotaro continued his staredown with Bucciaratti, mentally cursing Rohan’s short patience.
Something was not right.
The moment that Giorno’s name was mentioned, the three gangsters in front of them had stiffened, with their eyes glazing and faces blank. The slightly glassy look hadn’t quite left the Don, who now looked from Jotaro to Rohan searchingly, as if they were the ones withholding information. He then opened his mouth and replied:
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve never met this Giorno in my life.”
Jotaro’s mouth straightened to a grim line. The way Bucciaratti had replied was stilted and wrong; it sounded like a parrot imitating a phrase, not a cohesive thought being expressed. Something was forcing him to act this way. The other two gangsters looked at the three intruders strangely, their faces stiff and expressionless.
“Uh, sir? I think you kinda do know him. He’s been working with you for a while, we’ve got pictures and everything.”
Abbacchio snapped to attention the moment the photos were mentioned. Jotaro internally cursed Josuke’s stupidity. The gangsters in front of them were already on edge; telling them that they’d been under surveillance wasn’t going to help ease the room’s rising tension.
“How long have you been watching us?” The man demanded, looking from person to person. “Show us these pictures! You had no right to take them.”
Jotaro shared a look with Josuke. The moment the topic had shifted from Giorno directly, Abbacchio’s state became more expressive.
“Gladly. We have no intention of hiding anything from you.” Jotaro said flatly. Their best bet was to appease the men in front of them before they started to seem too untrustworthy. Jotaro reached into his pocket. Immediately, the click of a gun was heard. Mista had pulled out his firearm at the movement. Josuke gulped, feeling the tension in the air, and giving Jotaro a panicked look.
“I have the photos in my left breast pocket,” He said. “I have pictures of you with Giorno in here. I won't lie to you, these are from Speedwagon’s scouting missions. We have been watching Passione for a long time.”
Unsurprisingly, none of the men behind the desk enjoyed that proposition. However, attempting to lie about the surveillance on Passione could’ve made the situation even worse. Joatro had to run some kind of damage control.
“You can take them out and place them on the desk.” Bucciarati said sharply.
Jotaro nodded and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a small pack of photos, each showing different members of the gang, and slowly placed them down on the table, keeping his eyes lowered. The three mafiosos waited until he had backed up again to examine the photos before them.
Bucciaratti shakily picked one up. It was a picture of Giorno and the gunman from behind, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Bucciaratti himself could be seen smiling in the background.
“What is this?” The gunman muttered. He was looking at a photo of five teenagers, all standing on a dock. “This is from that drug bust that we did three months ago! How did you get this?”
“They obviously edited some photos to have this kid in them.” Snarled Abbacchio. “Trying to get close to us or some shit.”
“And why would we do that, Mr. Abbacchio?” Jotaro replied flatly. “We speak the truth. We only came here to speak with Giorno Giovanna, whom you were known to be acquainted with. We have no interest in fighting you.”
“If you had no interest in fighting us, why would you have us under surveillance?” Abbacchio shot back. Bucciarati didn’t reprimand Abbacchio for his sharp tone, enraptured by the photos on his desk. He stared, unseeing, down at Giorno’s blurred face in the photograph.
Enough was enough.
Jotaro took a deep breath, hoping that Rohan had caught onto the situation at hand.
“Gentleman, I have reason to believe that you have been attacked by an enemy stand user.”
“THAT doesn’t answer why you’ve been watching us,” hissed Abbacchio. “If you were so concerned for our health, and this Giorno, why didn’t you come sooner? I may not have the best nose in the world, but I know horeshit when I smell it!”
Everyone except for the Don and Jotaro began to bristle and fume. The aggression in the room reached an agonizing peak, and still the Don didn’t respond. He was now chewing on his lip in deep concentration, as if he was recalling a difficult math equation.
“We’re not your enemies, you fool. Quit throwing around accusations when you barely understand while we’re here.” Leave it to Rohan to insult an angry mob grunt. The manga artist was going to get himself killed.
“What the hell, man!” Mista yelled. “The only enemy I see right now is you, with all your cryptic bullshit. Do you honestly expect us to trust you? After you admitted to stalking us? We’ve killed men for less!” Abbacchio seemed to agree, as his already thunderous expression had turned downright murderous.
Jotaro has had enough.
“I don’t need you to trust me,” Jotaro replied, eternally calm.
And time stopped.
***
The utter pandemonium that occurred once time started again was a sight to behold.
Rohan had made it over to the Don and managed to find a memory block in place. However, Star Platinum’s five-second time limit didn’t allow him the time to fully remove said block with Heaven’s Door and leave. Which meant that he now had a very angry gangster rapidly approaching.
What a good story this will be, Joatro thought dryly, watching Abbacchio throw Rohan bodily from the desk and slam him into the wall. Under Jotaro’s firm grip, Mista wriggled incessantly, trying to get a better look at the fight. Rohan was lucky he decided to snag the gunman in case things went south.
“What the fuck was that?” Mista yelled. “What the fuck was that! Abbacchio, you felt that, right?” Abbacchio turned his head minutely, looking at the gunman. He was currently pinned against the wall by Jotaro’s impressive stature, his gun lying uselessly on the floor.
Stands were ripped from their users’ bodies in a flash, towering menacingly in the air. Mista’s stand whirled angrily around Jotaro’s head, berating him for the capture of their user.
The Don remained motionless, head laid on his desk.
“What did you do to him?!” Abbacchio demanded. “What did you do?”
“Calm down, Abbacchio, Mista.” Jotaro replied. “We didn’t hurt him. You all have had your memories attacked. Heaven’s Door did not harm your don; it merely replaced what should’ve been there.”
“Yeah, fat chance we’d believe you after you attacked our Boss. Who are you, Andre the Giant? Let me go!” Screamed Mista, writhing in Jotaro’s grip. His stand wailed in agreement. Jotaro took no notice of them.
“Josuke, go wake up Don Bucciaratti. I’m sure it’ll put his friends’ minds at ease.”
“You touch him, I’ll gut this man in front of me!” yelled Abbacchio.
Rohan laughed. Abbacchio turned his rage towards him. “And I’m sure Dr. Kujo would be happy to repay the favor, starting with that young man over there.” Rohan wheezed.
“Face it, man. You’re between a rock and a hard place. I’m not gonna hurt him, I swear. Once he’s awake he can explain everything to you.” Josuke stepped forward. Abbacchio tensed with each step taken towards the don, until Jotaro thought he would simply shatter from the pressure of his posture. If his and Mista’s faces had been murderous before, they were downright genocidal now.
Abbacchio kept glancing from Rohan to Mista to the Don, panic bleeding into his features. He was struggling with what his next move should be.
Josuke gently shook the Don's shoulder. “Hey man, uh, Mr. Bucciarati. Can you hear me?”
He began to stir. Abbacchio dropped Rohan and moved over to him. Jotaro did the same, dropping Mista, who let out an undignified grunt and tried to dash for his gun across the room. Jotaro snagged him by the collar, tossing him towards the desk instead. He let Star Platinum hover menacingly over the weapon to deter any attempts to take it. Mista begrudgingly left the weapon and turned to his boss. Josuke stepped back to make room for the two gangsters, keeping a respectful distance.
“Bruno?” Abbacchio said. He shook the man again. “Bruno, are you alright?” Bucciratti’s eyes squeezed shut, and the man muttered something under his breath before shooting up with a frantic gasp.
“Where… who…” The man’s eyes flew around the room before they settled on Jotaro. “Dr. Kujo, what are you…” His expression cleared. “Was it already time for our meeting? I thought it was weeks away. I apologize for any inconvenience, I know my correspondence has not been the most consistent as of late.”
Mista and Abbacchio both gaped at their Don. The sudden friendliness and familiarity were a stark contrast to what they had just seen. Abbacchio quickly shifted his gaze to Rohan, eyeing him dangerously. Rohan pulled a smug look back. It was clear he wasn't trusted, even though he just helped their Don a great deal.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little… confused.” Bucciarati continued. “I’ll go retrieve Giorno, and we can have a chat, and…” He slowly got up from his desk and made for the door. His hand grasped the handle and froze.
There was a beat.
Then two.
“Uhh, Boss?” Mista asked. “You okay? You’ve been standing there for a bit.”
Bucciarati wheeled around like a man shot. He lurched towards Mista, gripping his shoulders tightly. His confused demeanor had given way to panicky desperation.
“Mista,” He said urgently, tightening his grip, “Where is Giorno? Did I send him out on a mission this week?”
Mista’s bamboozled expression would’ve been funny if it wasn’t for the terror currently rolling off of Bucciarati.
“Who are you talking about, Boss? I think those guys messed with your brain.”
Bruno shook his head emphatically.
“No, Mista. Giorno. He’s lived with us for months. His room was across from yours, you were teaching him how to cook. Blonde hair, blue eyes, he was part of our Famiglia!”
Mista shook his head and grimaced. The foggy look that had once clouded his eyes was back.
“The room… the room across from mine is empty!” He yelled, seeming unsure of himself all the same. “Besides, it’s locked, and we’ve lost the key.”
The excuse was a poor one at best, and stated robotically. It did nothing to ease the frantic don’s distress.
“Oh please,” Bruno snarled venomously, turning away. He looked to Abbacchio, and back at Mista. “With a stand like mine, we had no reason to avoid that room. I could’ve gotten in and out easily! Something was actively preventing us from entering it. You know this to be true.”
Mista and Abbacchio stared at each other doubtfully, before looking to Rohan.
“What are you looking at me for?” Rohan said petulantly. “Your friend is missing, and you still suspect me of foul play? Do you doubt me so much?”
Mista was the first to respond, his gun wavering in Rohan’s direction.
“But you did just alter his memories right in front of us. Do you blame us for being suspicious?”
“Ungrateful bastards! I-”
Bruno huffed loudly, drawing the attention back to himself.
“If you need proof, you can ask me. If you don’t trust my account, then trust your unusual behavior. Mista, why can’t you think of a proper reason for not going into that room? You two even speak differently when you’re trying to lie.”
“I- uh…”
“Enough. These men are speaking the truth, even if they are not trustworthy. We have no time to waste. They’ll have to fix your memory later.”
With that, he strode out of the room, disappearing down the hall. Rohan was left with the two gangsters eying him with suspicion, before running after their leader. The manga artist sighed, before turning to the two Joestars behind him.
“Shall we follow them, then?”
***
Bruno had known something was off for a while.
It wasn’t anything in particular that set him off; it was more like a tidal wave of small things that had begun to haunt him. It had gotten to the point where he had started to make a list of these small irregularities as he came across them.
One, the strange feeling of emptiness when the team was together. The extra chair at the table that felt out of place. The small section of the sofa that nobody could quite bring themselves to occupy, even if there was no other space open. It was like something- or someone -had been ripped from their lives unexpectedly.
Two, the strange accommodations that everyone made. There was always an extra plate set up. Always an empty shower slot that no one felt comfortable using. When he was at the store, Bruno found himself itching to pick up something special for a team member; but he couldn’t place who, and no one he could think of felt right. It was like a ghost haunted them in those moments.
Three, the garden outside. None of the men (or Trish, for that matter) ever had much of a green thumb. Naranica had tried, but he managed to kill cactus plants. The boy just didn’t have the patience for the upkeep a garden that size would have. It was bright, overgrown, and contained many plants that Bruno didn’t even recognize. Some of them were completely foreign. However, when he stared at the orange petals that littered the garden, he could almost hear the echo of a voice explaining what flower they came from. He got a migraine soon after and had to retire for the day.
Finally, the door. The biggest mystery, and the only thing that seemed to bother his teammates as much as it bothered him. No one used the room across from Mista’s. It was locked, and although he easily could’ve gone in himself, something always seemed to stop him from doing so. He would suddenly get lightheaded, or just get a strong foreboding feeling whenever he got close. His throat froze up of its own volition when he tried to discuss any of these irregularities with his team, but he could see the uncomfortable looks the others shot at the door. As if there was something horrid to be discovered there.
Bruno finally understood the awful feeling that the door gave him. Standing in front of it now, looking at the neglected, dusty surface, he finally found a word for the pressure in his chest, the heaviness behind his eyes, and the distinct sensation of his stomach dropping to the floor.
It was anguish.
His heart positively ached with it.
He has abandoned his youngest team member. Lord knows if he was alive or dead, suffering or slowly decaying. And Bruno had dared to forget about Giorno. Not only that, he brushed off every single red flag sent his way. It didn’t matter if a stand was preventing him from remembering Giorno; if the teen was dead, he would never forgive himself. It was as if the door was taunting him now.
“Bucciarati, wait!” Mista yelled, panting. He had needed to run to keep up with the Don. Abbacchio was hot on his tail, along with Dr. Kujo’s entourage. “Wait for one of us to go in there! It could be something bad!”
“It would be better to find something bad than to find nothing at all.” Bruno spat.
Without further ado, He summoned his stand and formed a zipper on the door. He disappeared through the newly-made gap, and everyone else followed suit.
***
“Ugh, it’s musty as balls in here. Smells like your closet, Abba.”
“Shut it, faceache.”
“Make me, bitch!”
Abbacchio and Mista continued their squabble as Josuke tripped through the strange zipper portal. Mista was right. It was extremely musty; dust particles floated lazily in the air, and a delicate sickly stench flooded his nose. The only source of light was a small sliver of brightness peeking out from behind a curtain. It wasn’t nearly enough to see what was in the room. A loud clapping noise sounded from nearby, making Josuke jolt. An undignified squawk from Mista followed. It seemed Abbacchio had been groping around in the dark so that he could slap Mista for that last comment.
“OW! What gives, man? I’m already on edge here!”
“Abbacchio. Mista. Behave yourselves.” Bruno snapped. Josuke hoped this new, prickly Bucciaratti was a result of worry for his missing underboss and not a permanent personality shift. It set his teeth on edge. He could see Bucciaratti’s silhouette from the small sliver of light, and soon the curtains were thrown open, leaving everyone blinking spots out of their eyes.
The room that they were left with was a sad sight.
Not because it was a bad room. It was because of the feeling that Josuke got as he looked around. It was the same feeling he got when visiting battlefields or graveyards. A sense of loss for someone he didn’t even know. Knowing that, without a doubt, someone who was once there was not anymore. Their traces stuck to the walls and floor around him, but try as he might, Josuke would never know who they truly were. It made Josuke ache, knowing that someone who was loved had been ripped away from this place. Wondering if Giorno’s previous teammates were feeling the same, he glanced at their faces.
Mista seemed to be feeling the same as he was. His eyes roved around the room madly, fixing on things periodically. Once in a while, his eyes would tighten, as if he was struggling to remember something painful. He probably was.
Abbacchio was silent. His normally stony expression had changed to something else. It hadn’t exactly softened, but there was a raw look deep in his eyes. He kept his upset hidden better than Mista, anyhow. It was hard to get a read on him.
The room was a decent size, with hardwood floors and blue walls. A bed was neatly made, with the dust settled on its carefully folded sheets. Numerous vases lined every surface. Impressive flower arrangements sat inside each vase.
Each and every one of them was rotten and dead.
A desk scattered with papers sat in front of the light-giving window. It looked like whoever had been there last had nearly completed his paperwork. An elaborate signature decorated the larger pile; Abbacchio had reached out to touch it with a shaking hand.
Giorno Giovanna
Bucciratti stared back at Abbacchio, worrying his lip. His brows had slammed down into an angry line, his eyes scrunching up with worry. Josuke doubted they’d need more convincing. The evidence was almost damning.
“What’s that?” Rohan pointed to the bedside table. He had previously been eyeing the vibrant wardrobe. Abbacchio’s eyes followed his finger to a bright spot in the dreary room.
It was a flower.
A living, pulsating flower.
Its bright orange color matched the ones that grew in the garden outside. It laid there innocently, next to a glass of water that was filled with dead flies. They were floating like buoys in the sea. It made Josuke feel vaguely sick.
Abbacchio walked over hesitantly. He reached out and picked it up, looking back at the others incredulously.
“No one’s been in here for months.” He gasped. “How is this still alive?” He reached out and gently touched one of the petals. The flower seemed to lurch, and a faint jingling noise could be heard emanating from it. A golden glow overtook it, and then with a strange Schwoop! sound, the flower popped into a filthy piece of paper. Abbacchio gave the paper in his hand a bewildered look.
He looked at Bruno, begging for an answer.
“That was Golden Wind, Giorno’s stand. It can change non-living things into animals and plants.” Bruno confirmed, voice raw. “Does the paper say anything?”
Abbacchio opened it and looked. His eyebrows shot down, dark lips thinning to a small, displeased line.
“It’s all horribly cryptic.” He said, looking back up.
“Show it to me.”
Abbacchio obliged. Everyone else gathered behind Bucciarati, peering at the short message.
You took mine,
Now I take Yours.
“Well, Fuck.” Mista said cheerfully. “That sounds encouraging, doesn’t it?”