Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I'll be there for you, in the tomb they call a music box, dancing in circles forever.   

Don’t think you can take that from me because, even though I’m made of porcelain, I’m you.    

Spinning in that music box.    

Never understanding who I dance for. Only hoping I dance well enough for you, for me.   

Let me be enough.   

Let me dance for you, until the music stops.   

There are people who can tame horses, and people who are the horses that need taming. Which means Giorno has to be some kind of two-headed pegasus. 

Though––and Trish smiles at the memory of him in the horse stables last night, his eyes bright like a kid’s as he gently pet each and asked for their names––Giorno has been thoroughly enjoying his time out of the office, and she can’t begrudge him that.   

From inside the safety of the suite, Trish swings her empty champagne glass with her thumb and index finger, the crystal singing to her each time it passes her ear. Below is a broiling crowd of flags and loyalties, families with their kids all packed into an ancient square to watch Tuscany’s most anticipated and high-stakes event of the year—The Palio di Siena.  

The city of Siena hosts the horse race, has for hundreds of years, and since it began, it has only grown popularity and industry for the little town. From her high tower of a suite that she looks down on the earth from, she wonders if something so established had ever felt rickety and new like something that seven people had bled for, had put their hope into.  

Announcers introduce the horses and their riders, each a representative of a neighborhood that, if they win, would hold supremacy over all the others—until the next race, that is.   

As the first flag waves and the decorated horse trots out with its rider waving, a knock raps on the door, finally.  

Trish sets her glass down and calls, “Come in."   

A striped hat, Mista tall in a new bright sweater and gold-striped pants, strides in, “Signora.” Mista nods to her the way they were supposed to for formalities and intimidation. She stifles the snort of a giggle she always has at the sight of it.   

Burying his matching expression, Mista gestures back to the figure he escorts, “Luigi Chiesa.”   

In walks the gold-plated mayor of Siena, his leg and arm long ago broken and replaced with enough metal pieces that they’ve come to call him the Tin Man.  As he enters, his greying hair––face, eyes––all take stock of the suite. The assortment of small tables for guests to watch the race purposely done up in fine silk runners and luxurious bouquets all by Trish’s direction. The setup all for one guest. Apparently, the many hours of prep she put into the display proves enough in that one moment, the man’s gaze seeming sated and finally landing on her.   

She straightens up ever so slightly. Not like she needs to. As fucking fantastic as she looks.  

Loose mousy pink pants climb up to her mid waist. Floral lacing lines a structured bodice that leaves her sternum bare—except for a golden glass locket the shape of dew slipping off a tilted tulip. A blouse as thin as clouds rests pulled open and tucked in to frame her figure while lightly hanging off her shoulders. Her hair sits as a perfect swirl of tousle as she inclines her head, cascading gold earrings clinking like bell flowers that could sing.   

When she’d come downstairs this morning, she’d earned a wary statement from Fugo that said it was probably a tad unfitting for the occasion. Though, when Giorno rounded the corner, he’d stopped short to take her in. Clearing his throat, he’d asked if he could ‘speak with her out in the garden for a second.’  

Trish shoves down the memory, distracting as it is, and focuses back.  

The Tin Man seems to be lightly surprised by her outfit, but makes no comment as he limps his way over, at least smart enough to not insult the Don’s chosen representative. “Signora Una, I’m assuming,” he offers.  

She bows her head, “It’s a pleasure to have you meet with us, Signore Chiesa.” She gestures to the couch in front of the broadest window. 

With a harsh grunt, the Tin Man comes to settle himself on the offered couch, puts his cane aside before asking, “I was told I would be meeting with Don Giovanna personally.”   

Trish allows a glance over from under her bangs to see the knowing glint in those old eyes.   

She doesn’t break composure—doesn’t anymore really—despite the alarm bells that begin to sound off in her head.  

“Come on, move!”    

A hard shove and the blonde goes down. Pinned by an arm to stop him from trying to get back up.   

“Hurry up man!” The one pinning the struggling mafioso hisses, “I don’t want bugs sprouting out of my ears or some shit!”   

Hastily the other grunt opens the case from the car, a small syringe and vial of liquid inside.   

“Oh, the Don?” Trish assures, despite the nag in the back of her head, “He’ll be joining us shortly.”   

After the thin metal slips liquid into the blonde’s neck, the grunt shoves him up, now more at ease. “Alright, he’s ready for packaging.”  

Another grunt snorts as he bags the blond mafioso’s head and says, “Ready for shipping.”   

“In the meantime,” Trish walks to take her place on the facing loveseat, kicking the loose of her pant leg out to sit one leg over the other, “why don’t we pour the champagne? Or would you prefer a different drink before we toast?”  

The Tin Man grunts to himself in amusement, the kind that if he were a car engine she thinks he would’ve coughed black smoke like one of Mista’s workshop beaters. “I think I’ll wait until after the race to celebrate.”  

The blond stumbles a couple steps, muttering something incoherent through the bag as the grunt shoves him along, tells the driver, “Alright, when you get this one to the docks, there should be two guys there to lock him up tight in one of the guy’s yachts. Drug should last through the ride.”   

“Where’s the boat going?”   

“No idea. Guy paying for it just told us it was somewhere far the hell away from Siena.”   

Folding old hands over his gold-decorated belly, the Tin Man settles comfortably in his chair, says matter-of-factly, “It’s come to my attention that you’ve had your people watching my people.”  

“As does any business owner meaning to make deals these days,” Trish replies coolly. “We want to know who we deal with before the signatures.”  

“Of course,” the mayor waves, “and especially when it’s a deal as big as the handover of my city, I understand. But I hope you understand that means I’ve had eyes on your business’ actions as well.”  

Trish nods like that’s fair, settling in and pulling a small pin from her hair to spin over her fingers. “Whiskey then?”  

“I would love a glass.”  

Trish signals her suited soldato in the corner to come over. “A Moscato for me,” Trish says, before addressing the old man, “Scotch or Irish?”  

“Irish.”   

With a small flick of her hand, Trish waves her soldato on to his task.  

After the soldato fetches the two bottles and glasses, returns and begins pouring, the rickety old Tin Man grins with a smile made of silver, “You know, you’re far too young for this, Signorina. And too sweet. Like a tart fresh out of the oven.”   

“Oh, aren’t you kind.”  

With a quirk of the lip that she assumes used to look better in his younger years, the Tin Man says, “If you would rather take my warning as a formal frivolity, it’s just another mark of you and your Don’s naivete.”   

Trish hums a grin, flips the pin to her smallest finger before offering, “I wouldn’t worry about whether we’re experienced enough to make deals with you, Signore. Our age means nothing to the track record you’ve no doubt looked into.”  

The smirk slips for a more grievous look, “Yes, but, an angel isn’t so frightening if he stays up in Heaven,” the old man tilts his head, “Or if he flies too close to the sun on his way here.”   

Trish forces a calm breath through her nose, forces herself not to step on the blatant threat like the rabbit-trap it is.   

With a grunt, the Tin Man leans back in his couch to retrieve a cigar and a lighter. “As educated as you are in my habits, I’m sure you know I bet on the Civetta’s rider every few years.”   

“Yes, your son, Adrian.” Trish twirls her pin. “He's a good rider. It’s a sound investment to put money on him for the years he rides, even without your familial ties.”  

The Tin Man grins, “And," he reaches for his whiskey, grunting contently as he settles back into his seat, “Your people have no doubt told you that this year I bet enough of my fortune to bankrupt me. There’s no other reason to make this your first time attending one of our races here in Siena. And there’s no need to feign surprise, Signorina. I can see it. ‘The Palio, a perfect opportunity to lose this man all his money and he will have to come crawling to us.’” He puffs his cigar long and thoughtfully, “Your hubris going so far as to meet my son at the airport.”  

With flimsy hope that the action looks a little more subtle than it feels, Trish takes a hard shot of her Moscato.  

“I’ll let you in on a trade secret, Signorina.” The Tin Man points with his glass, “Luck doesn’t win you the day. Experience does.”  

Trish lets the Moscato burn in her throat, not clearing it promptly, focusing on the pinch and particularly how it subsides before she swallows and says calmly, “And your young son is the experienced one now, is he?”   

Chiesa grunts amused noises into his drink like a crocodile, swirling the amber liquid for a moment before grumbling, “Faith is the same as luck. You’ll find that out soon enough, Signorina. In fact,” he checks his watch, “I believe it will be as soon as the horses line up.”  

The van finishes its drive from the airport and pulls into the agreed unloading area at the docks, the two guys hauling the fence gate open for them. One with a snake tattoo over the bridge of his nose, the other with a bright orange denim jacket.   

When they swing the van doors open, snake tattoo greets them and their bagged catch with a look over. “Well, he’s definitely dressed as shit-crazy as they say.”    

Orange denim jumps into the van, moving closer slowly like some skittish cat before poking the blond in the fancy suit’s heart cutout. A giddy laugh breaks out on his carved teeth, “This guy was the guy gonna kidnap our Adrian?! Looks like that didn’t go so fucking well for ya, did it now?!” With a shit-eating grin, orange denim whacks the blond through the bag.   

Trish comes to stand by the ceiling to floor windows with the Tin Man, watching the announcer begin introducing the horses.   

It wasn’t that Trish was worried about him. And of course not. She just would’ve liked to be on the mission to snatch up the Civetta rider with him instead of up here on an island waiting and watching the horizon like a fucking barnacle stuck on a dock.  

Though, she doesn’t have to wait long, apparently.  

From out of the shadows of the archway, waving and doing his signature flexes while standing up in the stirrups of his horse is the Civetta’s rider.  

Trish breaks the pin between her fingers. Can practically sense the tension radiate off Mista behind her.  

While the man rides out tall—like nothing even remotely bizarre could have happened on his trip to the racetrack— every shit scenario scores through her head like a blunt razor blade on skin. The last thought hiccupping enough to draw blood.   

Failure isn't an option for him, never has been, so...?   

Out of the corner of her eye, Trish notices the Tin Man sending a satisfied leer in her direction, so she schools her expression.  

There’s always a plan B. Always has been with him. Even if he never fucking shares it.  

After a pleased sip of his drink, the old mayor says, “I think we can toast a little early, don’t you?”  

Trish gives a singular nod—lets her soldato be told to bring another whiskey—when her gaze snags on the last horse that trots out onto the field.   

“Oi, lay off,” Snake tattoo orders the two younger grunts to step back. “Guy paying wanted him with only a couple bruises, said something about wanting to do the honors himself.”   

The two obey with short mutters of disappointment, backing off as the blond coughs and spits some dark stains onto the inside of the bag.  

Before snake tattoo moves to pull the Don up and out of the van, a nag starts in the back of his head.   

“What?” One of them asks.  

“Did, did the guy ever attack you with his stand?” snake tattoo says.   

“...No?”   

Like chains break, the blonde moves.    

A fast swing of handcuffed fists decks orange denim. The blond kicks another grunt in the side of the knee to down him, landing a hard hit across the jaw. Dodging a throw from behind, the blond elbows the third grunt in the ribs enough for an audible crack of bone before slamming a second elbow in the guy’s neck to down him. Snake tattoo rears on him with a knife, the noise of it unsheathing something the blonde seems to notice even under the bag, dodging the first swing and stilling to listen for the next.  

Snake tattoo bares his teeth and jabs inward, the blonde stepping out of the way just in time with arms raised. Fast, he slams his fists down on the tattooed arm, sliding down to the wrist where he catches the handle in the handcuff’s chain and yanks the knife free, the blade clanging on the floor of the van. Snake tattoo stands stunned a split-second too long as the blonde ducks behind and throws his chained wrists around the tattooed throat, and heaves the full of his weight backward. Downing both of them.   

Seconds pass filled with grunting and the flailing of a man losing oxygen, until finally, the body goes limp.   

With a tired exhale, he shoves the dead weight aside to get up. Finally ripping the nauseating bag off his face, Fugo says, “You bastards are so fucked.”   

The final rider that’s snagged Trish’s eye is a handsome build with braided blonde hair bundled at the neck. A flashy figure that riles the crowd–– before taking a second to address her and only her, touching his fingertips to his lips before lifting the kiss up to her, followed by that knowing grin.  

“That son of a bitch,” Trish mutters under her breath.  

The crowd roars at the last horse. It’s a stunning glimmer of a being, a river rock left out in the sun to turn cloud-white, bearing the flag with a unicorn brazen on it. Like a mass of birds, the crowd caws curses and sings praises down at it. The blonde rider playing the part, riling up the audience like the perfect actor he always has been.  

Trish sends a small glance to Mista, only to find him equally as relieved, though making sure to offer her a subtle shake of his head as if to say ‘Hell if I knew.’   

Of course she's relieved, the soaring her heart does at seeing him okay is a thing she welcomes—but she also thinks of rock candy. The sugars always there, always planning on forming a sugar crystal, but you don’t see it all together until the damn thing decides you can and...  

Though, it’s then an idea forms in her head, and she grins internally, realizing it wasn’t her idea to start with. With a bite of her lip she puts a pin in her earlier frustration. Thinks how, if she believed in voodoo, his little doll would be a porcupine by now.  

Pulling her gaze from the stadium below, Trish asks, “You’re a gambling man, Signore, are you not?”  

The Tin Man, handed his fresh whiskey, drums his fingers on his cane before responding, “Signorina,” he makes his way back to her, “I’m afraid you misunderstand your position. There’s no deal you can make that I will find appealing. I have double my fortune waiting for me once my son crosses that finish line.”  

“In sixty seconds,” Trish says steadily. “Alot can happen in a sixty-second race.”  

The Tin Man seems to notice the glint in her eye, the call for danger and excitement. And it catches him hook line and sinker. “A friendly wager, then?”   

“We match double your payout.”  

The old man slides the taste of that around in his mouth like cheese and grapes. “And, if hell freezes over and my Civetta loses?”  

“Every ledger in this city goes through our eyes before yours. Including your off-book routes.”  

Chiesa bites on it sourly like an unexpected piece of stem, “It’s not what I’ve discussed with your Don in the past.”   

Trish half-shrugs, “Gambling requires stakes. Are you saying they’re too risky for your liking?”   

It’s a harsh grunt, closer to a sound like chomping on rocks, before the Tin Man points at her meaningfully and says, “Naivety.”   

At that, Trish offers a light smile, “I thought we were calling it faith.”  

In the broil of the stadium, the crowds shout high and spout gossip and secrets on the riders and their horses below. “ Which rider is good?” “That one this year, definitely.” “What about that one?” “Haven’t seen him before!” Bet money passes between hands. A few choice men pushing through the crowds. A coal-haired man in a purple suit pockets another few big bills of lira, taking note before nodding on two other men to make rounds on the east side.  

The horses claw at the ground in anticipation, a few crying out as their riders reign them in to stay behind the starting line. The announcer hollering that the race is about to begin.  

Riders sit proud in their neighborhood’s attire, tensely, tightening knuckles on their reins. The horses’ hooves clop and dig at the fresh dirt shoveled and plodded perfectly across the Piazza for this one minute. So much work gone into placing something as simple as dirt just to be shoved around by beasts bred just for this sixty-second stretch of a race.  

The stadium noise dims, a deep collected breath as the starting gun raises steadily. After a reverent second passes, the gun fires into the air. In an explosion of movement, the horses take off.  

Rounding the first corner has defined many of the past winners, and the current riders on the inside maintain the lead as they take it.  

Standing in front of the broad window, Trish rubs her glass with her thumb, trying to put the anxious energy somewhere.   

Beside her, Chiesa hisses at the second turn. The Civetta slammed hard by the Drago. The Civetta’s rider barely recovers and whoops at his horse to make up the lost distance.   

Showing his true colors, the old mayor shifts to talking down her rider, “Looks like your Leocorno is falling behind, and just on the second lap.”   

Yes, her Leocorno. That asshole in the stupid pink racing outfit with a unicorn on it. As he rounds the first corner in nearly last place, Trish catches the glance he sends up from under his hat to her. She likes to think he saw her glare and understood every word of it, seeing how Giorno shoots her a quick grin before shifting back to spur his horse on. The one all her money rides on.  

Why she seems to always be blindly dragged into his insane plans, she doesn’t think she’ll ever understand.  

Exhaling through her nose, Trish offers the mayor, “The race is still young. Alot can happen in half a minute.”   

Rounding for the last two corners, Giorno makes out the Civetta and Drago two horses ahead of him. He’d wanted to have been closer by now, but that’s a quick fix.   

As they take the second-to-last turn, he summons with a murmur, “Gold Experience.”    

The gold form shimmers out of him as he reaches and wills the saddle of the horse in front of him to breathe.  

Dust already kicked up from the many horse hooves obscures the struggle of the Lupa’s rider as the man fights to hold on to a saddle made of slimy eels.  

Lupa goes down, the body of the horse slamming into one, tangling into the legs of another and that one pulling another— the tumble dragging in total three horses to the ground.   

Right in front of Giorno.  

In that split second without thought, Gold injects his horse with adrenaline, and Giorno bends close and wills that the horse jumps high.   

Leocorno vanishes into the cloud of dust, and the stadium holds its breath. The dust obscuring anything and everything for that horrible second too long.   

In the booth, Trish bites her lip, holds it tightly and thinks about the too many tapes she’d watched with Fugo where horses break their rider’s bones just by how they fall.  

But—in a burst of airborne legs—the Leocorno’s horse emerges from the cloud, landing and miraculously regaining its footing and sprinting hard for the last corner, earning an uproar of emotion from the stands.  

Trish releases her lip along with the air she hadn’t realized she’d pent up, sharing a quick look of relief with Mista, before noticing Chiesa watching her reaction. She clears her throat and turns back to the race, internally cursing Giorno and his bad habit of kicking her pulse up.   

The asshole on the pretty horse picks up speed. Though, by the way his shoulders hike up and he bounces on the balls of his feet, Trish can tell he’s smiling. And some rebellious part of her warms at that.  

The mayor swears under his breath and begs the Civetta’s horse to sprint faster as Leocorno gains on the two in the lead, the Civetta and Drago.   

The last corner comes, and Giorno takes it as best he can on the inside, needing to be quick and half-invisible for what he does next.  

Beside the Drago horse and rider, he swears loud and spits on the man.  

The rider wipes his face and returns the gesture in kind—by slamming his horse into the Leocorno’s. But when some force keeps the Leocorno’s damn horse from budging, the rider goes to kick the blond only to have his saddle slip loose from under him.   

In one second, the Drago rider crashes to the ground face-first and rolls to the side. Leaving the horse to veer in the way of the second-place Civetta.   

In the next second, the unicorn crest of Leocorno thunders across the finish line—in first place.  

The stadium absolutely loses it .   

Trish exhales relief and exasperation and glances to see a matching feeling on Mista. Thank God.  

She turns her attention to Chiesa. The man still as an old oak and twice as knotted.   

Burying a smug look, Trish retrieves the manilla folder from its place by the whiskey cart, bringing it back to the window-view table and chairs with a polite smile, “I believe we had a bet.”  

Frustration streaks across Chiesa like a muddy smear when he snarls, “I want nothing to do with your fucking despicable lemonade stand.”   

Trish’s smile doesn’t dip as she places the folder down, opens it to where his signature is needed. “All the same, a deal’s a deal. There’s no need to discuss it further.”  

Raising the glass to her painted lips, Trish sips her wine as the man pulls a gun to hold a breath from her eyes.   

The wine freezes in her throat. Spice Girl appears and whacks the gun to the side without orders. 

The man’s face flashes surprise and confusion as Mista yanks the man back to hold him in a headlock.   

“You son of a bitch,” Mista mutters. “What do you want us to do with him, Trish?”  

Despite the years she’s spent doing this, it still gets her heart rate up, her fingers clenched as she forces herself to swallow down the image of the gun barrel so close. Some tragic part of her clings to that fact. Setting her glass down, Trish schools her expression back to calm, “Release him. He’s our business partner, after all.”  

Chiesa’s surprise subsides for a heavy bewilderment as Mista lets him go. He starts, “You would—? But—”  

“You don’t have the authority to cancel a business deal with me, and especially not with a bullet,” she tells the mayor.  

A snarl forms on Chiesa, but one that shortly leaves as he clenches his jaw, apparently noticing the horse’s bit Passione has already placed in his mouth.  

“Besides,” Trish says, nodding to Mista to get the champagne, “Today is a happy day for you.”   

Chiesa huffs, “Happy?”  

“Yes, happy.”   

Several openings burst in the fencing, and the crowd pours onto the track like spilled coffee grinds to swarm the horses, winner and losers alike.  

The cork pops, Mista taking care to wipe the foam before pouring two glasses. Coming over to hold both out on a tray for them.  

Trish plucks hers, says, “In the spirit of our new partnership, we’ve decided to present a gift to you, Signore. And I think you’re going to really like it.”  

As the crowd fills in around the winded white horse decorated with the Leocorno crest, the mass of people shouting congratulations and praise as well as barking shame at the other neighborhoods. The losers. With a goading smile, Giorno joins them, getting the horse to move through the crowd as he stands in his stirrups and calls shame on the Drago’s rider, that he in particular behaved horribly and should suffer for it.  

It’s then that someone—a purple suit with slicked coal-black hair—calls for blood, then another on the other side of the track, and another, and soon a large part of the mass moves towards the downed Drago rider. The man getting up with a new fear speared through him. But escape now is useless, not when he’s been marked scarlet by the roving ocean of angry bodies closing in around him.  

The rider is shoved down, kicked over and over, and no amount of crying out for mercy can be heard over the crash and broil of the mob hungrily raining down frustration and frenzy on him.  

“The backstreet razor gang that has been a thorn in your side for nearly two decades. Your rival,” Trish says as they watch the carnage through the window, “his successor likes to ride the Palio for them, am I wrong?”  

“Drago. He rides for Drago.” The man nods numbly, eyes searching the ground before he tells the rug low, “You’ve put me in an untenable position.”  

Trish nods, “Accept our flag and carry it proudly, or face your rival’s revenge and hatred at the trampling of his son at the Palio you rig and own.” Trish smiles at it. Thinks she can see Giorno rubbing his ear with that small smile he does as he dreams up some wild plan—and knows it will work.   

She leans on the edge of the window-side table and assures, “Believe me, Signore, it’s far from an unfair deal. With Passione, you will only see prosperity and peace in your city from now on. Not to mention because we’ll have an actually good use for your abandoned mines in the south, which you’ll greatly benefit from, of course.”  

Above the writhing mass taking turns wailing on the man, Giorno floats on his horse like seafoam, drifting through the angry sea of humanity as he brings his gaze up to the suite. After slipping his hat from his braided-up golden hair, Giorno puts his hand over his heart to bow at the Tin Man watching from the booth. 

“All things considered,” Trish says, “I think you’ll find our terms more than agreeable, Signore Chiesa.” She presents a ballpoint pen to the man, waits for him to take it.  

Though, Chiesa simply gawks at her, words seemingly stuck in the back of his throat.  

Relenting with a knowing nod, Trish takes a last sip of her Moscato before setting it and the pen down, “But why don’t we go out to meet the Don first? Give you a chance to congratulate him on his winnings.”  

Mista prompts Chiesa with a hand on his shoulder, and the man grunts a swear, downs a last shot of whiskey before obeying.  

After they leave the booth—Mista leading the group with Chiesa in tow backed by two soldatos—it’s a matter of descending the stairs, walking the thin hallway, and popping out to a shaded backalley used to smuggle the winner out of the Piazza for a brief reprieve.   

Leaving the men behind a couple paces, Trish rounds a corner and reaches the awning first—an old bakery storefront being utilized as the Leocorno’s storage room for the event—where she finds Fugo leaned against the exposed brick by the door. A couple men to his right busy cleaning up the pretty white horse.  

The moment she sees Fugo, she hurries over and engulfs him in a hug. It startles him roughly— and she feels bad, thinking she can guess at least part of what he’s been through by the dirty van smell and the mess of hair. She pulls away to get a good look at him. Fugo tries to look like he fits in one of Giorno’s iconic heart-shape cutout suits, a couple of the little jewels knocked off to pair with the bruise on his cheek.   

“God,” she says, “he used you as a body-double?!”  

Fugo half-chuckles, half-huffs as he gently removes her hands, “It’s ok. It wasn’t his idea.”  

Trish’s shoulders slump in exasperation, “He actually went with a Mista plan?!” 

“Regardless of whose idea it was,” Fugo waves dismissively, “I agreed to the role and it worked. That’s all that matters.”   

“How much?”  

“What?”   

“How much did Mista bet you wouldn’t do it?”   

Fugo shifts a bit against the wall, allows, “A couple thousand lira.”   

Trish shakes her head, hands going to her hips. “You guys are such assholes to each other. Are you at least alright?” 

“Well,” he shifts again on his bruised back, “I’ve got a generic stand-suppressant in my system that should wear off in a couple hours. But beyond that, yes, I’m fine.”  

“Fine?” She raises an eyebrow and gestures to his cheek’s bruise.  

Fugo sighs with a tired smile, “I’m just as fine as you, Trish. A boatload of stress being rewarded with another somewhat restful night’s sleep knowing we’ve made more enemies. Though, we did win another city for Passione. So, I can’t exactly complain too much, can I?”   

Trish huffs with a light smile, “Yeah, I suppose not.”  

A pause ensues, one where Fugo’s gaze stays on her, then drops to the floor before he clears his throat. “Go on then.”  

“What?”  

“Inside. He should be in the back getting cleaned up. You were going to congratulate him on winning his horse race, right?”  

Returning to herself, Trish nods, “Right,” before moving to push the door open. “I’ll tell him to piss off for you, then? As usual.”  

“Just get inside.” Fugo gives her an amused look as she slips through the door.  

It’s an adorably cozy establishment, a beloved family heirloom that someone’s grandma bought new chairs for recently. The wallpaper a striped white and baby blue with painted croissants here and there.  

As the door swings, the old bakery clinks its bell and it earns the acknowledging glances of several soldatos being fed cinnamon rolls in some cafe chairs—one of them in a purple suit with slick coal-black hair—, as well as a glance from the grandma in question.   

“Ah! Il fiore!” The sweet greying curls bounce as recognition dawns, the old woman hurrying over, “Come in, come in! Can I get you anything at all?”  

“Nothing for me, thanks. Is he...?”   

“In the next room, sweetheart. I’ll show you there.” The old baker gestures and Trish follows as she goes on, “He’s just come back. And what a race that was!”   

“It was something, wasn’t it?” Trish mutters as they walk, absorbing herself in the cast irons decorating the left wall. “Thanks again for being our base of operations for it all, Signora.”  

“Of course, sweetheart!” The old woman stops to take Trish’s hand warmly. “After what your Don has done to clean up the slums my son lives in, it’s the least I can do.” After a kind smile, the old woman continues in until they reach the second room.  

On the far side, they’d put aside a number of the cafe tables to set up a room divider for changing. Giorno currently stands in front of it, talking to one of the soldatos that escorted him.   

“Signore, a visitor,” the baker calls.  

Giorno’s attention turns to them, his face lighting up at the sight of her. “Trish!” He starts over, eager in that way that rocks a couple chairs almost to falling, “It all went perfectly! The race, the horse! Somehow he was so gentle— I’ll have to show you. But—” miraculously Giorno doesn’t knock anything over before he lands in front of her “—how did it go on your end?”   

Trish slaps him. Earning a startled gasp out of the sweet old grandma beside them.  

“That’s for not telling me.” Trish says before she yanks his dirty riding collar close and plants a long kiss on his mouth, startling a gasp out of Giorno.   

The sweet old baker, getting the social cue, takes the pause to excuse herself quietly.  

He’s just started warming to the kiss when she separates as soft as a cloud to tell him, “And that’s for not needing to tell me.”  

For a second, Giorno’s look drifts like he’s lost in a dream, though the next moment he’s returned with a grin, “I’m assuming you bet the ports on me?”  

“And the mayor’s failing personal accounts. And the warehouses. The whole stupid folder, Giogio.”  

With an impish glint in his eye, he turns back into the makeshift changing room, dismissing the soldato before throwing a tease back to her, “Good to know you’re capable of putting such faith in me.”   

“Not exactly the way I’d like to put it.” Trish mutters as the soldato slides past her with a nod.  

Giorno disappears behind the dressing divider. “You trusted me to finish a job, then?” He asks, unzipping and tossing the riding outfit to hang on the top of the divider.  

Trish huffs a chuckle, bites her lip and walks further in.  

He’s slipped into dress pants by the time she comes to lean on the wall beside him. She watches as he pushes his arms through one of his darker custom suits, the heart-shape cutout lined with gold and she finds she’s smiling at him.   

“What?” He asks.  

“You’re just...” Trish shakes her head as though the answer might come to her like how a magic eight ball just needs to be shook around a bit.   

“Unbearable?” Giorno offers up with a small grin, sits on a chair to slip his loafers on.  

“Reckless,” Trish corrects. “Like one of those horses.”   

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”  

“You would.”  

When he stands up to situate his collar, Trish pushes off the wall towards him. Dusts off the fabric on his shoulders as she tells him softly, “You know, this whole not-trusting-me thing?” While she slips a hand inside his open suit—the warmth of his abdomen firm and inviting—her other hand takes the heart-shaped zipper and she snags his eyes with hers. “One of these days that attitude is going to get you hurt.”  

“And you’re going to be there holding the smoking gun?” Giorno asks. 

After a pop of her eyebrows, she clicks the zipper in place, and with a quick snap up, the suit is closed. “If not me,” she says, “then I'll just be there, forced to watch.”  

Giorno gives her a wry smile, plucks up one of the ladybug pins to put on. “Well, we all know how much you like to say ‘I told you so.’”  

“This is me asking for it to not get to that point, Gio.”  

“Is this Trish the negotiator I’m talking to? Because you haven’t given me a proper threat yet.”  

After pursing her lips, Trish sticks her fingers in his hair to shake the pins out of his updo. He pulls away with a laugh, “Hey!”   

Before she can escape, Giorno snatches her up by the waist, spinning her around as she giggles and threatens bleach in his shampoo bottles.  

“You wouldn’t!”  

“I would!”   

He plops her down to plant a kiss on her lips. Lovely and lasting and warm like the dawn on spring morning dew, and she sighs into him.  

“Forgive me?” Giorno breathes into her lips.   

After a second more of the kiss, Trish separates enough to smile at him and brush hair from his face, to nod, “Sure. Sure, Giogio, but you can make it up to me later.”  

“Not now?” He closes in to trail kisses down her neck.  

“Not now!” Trish giggles, squirms as he reaches her shoulder. “We’ve got Chiesa to deal with!”   

Stilling, Giorno sighs down the back of her blouse, “Well, in that case, you're going to have to at least help me redo my hair.”  

“Oh,” Trish says, “Yeah, I can fix that.” 

Needless to say, when Mista returned to the bakery after checking the perimeter for the second time, Fugo and the old baker stopped him at the front, said the couple would come out when they were ready, and not before.  

Light hazes into the alleyway from the sky above and the street on the lighter end, the beginning festivities for after the race loud and boisterous beyond that, leaving the alleyway as a strange limbo between light and dark. The River Styx, with the sunlit earth on one end, and the other descending a small hill into the dark of the leaning buildings—a doorway up from the darker pits of the underworld.   

It’s from there the Don of Passione enters. His consigliere on his right, a flare of pink atop a dreamlike beauty with a face of rosey marble, like one of Michaelangelo’s finest was lightly on fire. The Don’s two closest men on his left, two knives sharpened from years of cutting and carving now striding with bored expressions. The blonde one purpling with a recent bruise smeared on his face, but seemingly cleaned up despite being in a forest-green suit punched with holes.  

Luigi Chiesa fights to keep his expression clean of apprehension, wiping it of the ‘Mio Dio, what kind of deal with the fucking devil have I just made?’ feeling he’s getting from the sight of the four bizarrely dressed figures headed for him and his lone cafe table.  

Once they’re within a few paces, the soldato posted behind him taps his shoulder to say it’s time to get up, and Chiesa rises with a grunt.   

When the Don comes to a comfortable stop, the others follow suit.  

Sunlight brushes through the Don’s meticulously done up hair, curls in front that somehow flare into devilish horns in the back, all falling into a braid woven with silver thread down his shoulder, tied with a green ribbon.  

“Luigi,” the Don nods, “A pleasure to have you visit us.”  

“The pleasure is mine, of course, Don Giovanna.” After catching the smug look the Don’s woman sends his way, Chiesa swallows the shiver in his throat to say mechanically, “A congratulations on your win.”  

“Oh, well, thank you,” the Don says, slips his hands into his pockets as though it was an art piece and not a cheated race. “Although, I believe I should be congratulating you on your recent decision to support our cause.”   

“My—?” Chiesa clears his throat, “All due respect, Signore Giovanna, but you didn’t give me much of a choice.”   

“No, but your cooperation is still valuable,” the Don says. “If you had refused us, we would have left you to rot at the hands of your rivals, rolled in afterwards to sweep the slate clean and start over with the bare dirt. What mattered was if you were going to allow your people to die when they didn’t have to. This was about your pride, Chiesa, and if you could grow past it.” The Don inclines his head meaningfully, “I only protect those with actions born from virtue and justice. Anything less, and they’re useless to me. Remember that as we move forward.”  

Chiesa swallows before nodding solemnly. Mechanically, he takes a step, dropping to one knee in front of the Don—the young man not even half his age— and takes the presented ring to kiss it and force out the words, “Here and now, I swear my fealty to you, my Don.”  

Giorno gazes down at the mayor, the man who had spent the past couple years sitting on a pile of rotting bodies he refused to smell, boasting that this grand peace around him was all his doing—all while Giorno still went to bed at night with the dirt and blood stained under his fingertips. Even then, Giorno still used their roads and docks under the stubborn man’s nose. But now, the spoils of Siena’s territory would be visibly theirs, and the mayor a tool he’d recently found a use for.  

“Rise, Luigi Chiesa.”   

The man does, and Giorno eyes him for a moment before saying almost kindly, “I’ve heard you lost a bet or two today. While I will do my best to cover your losses of one, I can’t in good conscious reimburse you on the other.” With a knowing smile, Giorno pulls out his wallet, “So, seeing how your new wife might not be too happy about her dowry being lost...” He slips a couple hundred lira into the man’s breast pocket. “Have a couple drinks on me, hm?” As he turns to leave, he pats the mayor on the cheek, earning a barely stifled snort from Mista as the four of them follow their Don’s exit out the alleyway, leaving Chiesa standing alone and stunned and disgruntled and needing that drink.   

“...Mio Dio.”   

“Ok, ok, ok— only one more fucking story and then you’re shutting the hell up, ok?” Fugo says with a haphazard sway nearly off the bakery chair.   

The place lies empty except for their soldatos posted at the awning exit outside, not counting the old grandma sweeping up in the backroom—the kind grandma who left the four of them in the secondary room with the divider to laugh loud around a few bottles of wine and some pastries.   

Mista obliges happily, planting a knee on their table to be higher up. Trish pulls her plate away, sending a disgusted look at his dirty pants that serves to distract Mista for all of one second before he plunges into his story.  

“Alright so, today see, Giorno, end of the race he flies by me with that stupid horse, and I yell at him to stop, right, that he’s gotta come back because the bakery is off the other way and so—“ Mista snorts messily, “He yanks the horse around real hard and the thing swings fast enough that he slips off the side and plops to the ground like a fucking ragdoll! And the horse just drags Giorno away with his leg stuck in the stirrup. And I hear this distant ‘Mistaaa, stop this damn horse!’ —God!”  

Fugo’s laugh hisses from him before joining Mista’s as billowing loose and loud into the ceiling. A free and flying thing that’s rarely ever heard. Fugo wheezes across the table, “You did?”  

“I did,” Giorno allows. 

Trish tries to breathe through a giggle, “How long did he let you just...“ when her laugh fights her, she mimics a dragging motion with her hand on the table.  

“He left me like that for at least two minutes.”  

“I did not!” Mista bursts.  

“You so did!” Giorno points, “I’ve got the skid marks to prove it!”  

“He’s got the—!” At that, Mista truly loses it, almost knocking over his glass of cabernet by shoving his face into his arms on the table.  

“What are you— five?!” Trish says. 

“Twenty-seven,” Giorno annunciates into his glass. Trish mouthing the number in awe.  

“He’s the oldest fucking person here!” Fugo piles on, “And he can’t handle his alcohol!”  

“ He can’t handle his alcohol?!” Trish jeers, “Look at you!”  

“I’m fine!”   

“You’re wasted, Fugo,” Giorno says.  

“I never get wasted,” Fugo slurs. “Not in my repertoire and not in my... music binder. Jesus, is it hot in here?”  

“It's the warmth in your gut, shitbrain!” Mista says with a hard slap on the other’s back, “Letting loose for once feels good, doesn’t it? Look, look—” The taller practically topples both of them over as he slings an arm on Fugo’s shoulders to point, “—Even the great Don Giovanna is drinking!”   

“I fell off my horse three times total today. I deserve a drink.” Giorno says. “Thanks for telling everyone by the way.”   

“Somebody has to!” Mista spills a bit of wine onto Fugo’s suit draped over the back of the chair and Fugo shoves him away. Not caring in the slightest, Mista goes on, “This kid— this kid, am I right Trish?— This kid, needs to be reminded sometimes that he’s not all that!” Abruptly he slams his glass down and points at Giorno like it’s the wisest thing he’s ever said, “You listen to me, yeah?”  

“I’m listening,” Giorno grins.  

“You’re not all that. You suck.”  

“Wait, he sucks?” Fugo asks.  

“Sometimes,” Trish nods sagely.  

“Sometimes,” Fugo nods, evidently being swayed despite the confusion still plain on his face.  

“Sometimes you suck,” Mista continues. “But usually you don’t suck. So you need to be reminded.” With a reach across the table, Mista pokes a finger at his chest, “You’re human, Giogio, just like the rest of us. And that’s just fine.”   

Giorno lets the statement float in the air for a second, before raising his glass, “I can drink to that.”  

Trish, a comfortable warmth to her eyes that leaves plenty of room for that sweet caring smile, raises her glass to toast, “To not being all that.”   

A second passes where Mista seems to want it to stick, before he slides back into his chair, nearly tipping it as he gets his glass and joins, “To not being all that.”  

“To not being all that,” Fugo matches them.  

A chorus of clinking sounds before they all drink.   

In no time at all, Mista finishes his entirely and moves for another. Fugo watches with an annoyed look as the gunman reaches over him for it, the taller making to grab for it but failing clumsily. Fugo mutters some choice words that Mista half-hears and asks to have repeated. Fugo happily obliges with a bite in his tone that starts up their usual bickering.  

Trish snorts, putting her wineglass down and sliding a look to Giorno that says ‘they’ll be asleep in five minutes and, well...’ A small flick of her eyes points behind him, towards the backroom.  

Giorno swallows the last of the wine in his mouth, thinks of sweeter wines he knows she’s stashed in the back and how open and welcoming the roof and the sky of stars above them would be right now.   

“It’s a bit cold outside,” Giorno says before he realizes it was said outloud. Though, a small glance to the two guys across the table shows both are in their own world at this point.  

Beside him, Trish pushes a loose curl from his forehead, says softly, “I don't think that’ll be a problem for you.”  

Her lips part for a slight pout as she leans closer, and, like every time she does it, he finds he’s utterly and totally ensnared—even as a gunshot spears through her shoulder.  

Hot fear shoots through Giorno as he calls her name, grabs her before she falls off her chair to bury her shock-struck expression into his chest. Looking up, Giorno sees a man with a crying theater mask emerging from the safety of the kitchen, gun raised.   

“You—” a fire flares up in his gut and Giorno moves to get up, “You son of a bitch!”   

“Giorno!”   

Before he can so much as take a step, Fugo heaves weight on Giorno’s shoulder, downing him and Trish to the ground in time to miss the barrage of gunfire. The Pistols soar overhead to take out the first gunman, the intruder’s gun firing off into the wall as he falls.   

A part of Giorno aches at the sight. Like the new fire in him had just been robbed a chimney, and he finds it hard to breathe with the smoke building in his chest.  

Though, two more men appear out of the kitchen, aiming, and Mista—revolver steady and expression now sharp as a coffin nail— takes them out, only to have more follow.    

Fugo throws the wood table down in front of them as a temporary barrier, before kneeling by Trish still clutched tight to Giorno. “There’s no exit wound,” Fugo says fast, “Looks like the bullet is lodged by her clavicle, but it’s bleeding a decent amount. Here.” Hurriedly Fugo retrieves a pen from his pocket to give to Giorno, “For healing her.”  

The words hit Giorno distantly, falling off ears already deaf to it, the fire there now roaring too loud.  

How dare they? After today’s victory that took back-breaking effort–– How fucking dare they?  

Three more gunshots explode from Mista before he ducks back behind the counter to reload and calls to them, “Oi, these guys keep pouring in! We can get out the alleyway so let’s go!”   

Fugo nods forcefully before turning to his Boss and a new worry comes over him, “Giorno?”  

“Take her,” Giorno clips.   

“What?!” Fugo barely catches as his Boss shoves her into his arms.   

With eyes like brittle stone, Giorno says, “Stay here,” and hops the table.   

“Giorno?!” Fugo calls.  

After landing, Giorno rises and takes in the number of intruders. Shock reverberates through them at the sight of him and they take aim. Gunfire sounds, Gold Experience appearing to block the bullets that fly at him, and he walks. 

The image of fear splitting through her smile eats at him. The utter terror as pain exploded from her chest and she’d looked at him in confusion — wide eyes asking how he had let it happen. 

Giorno decks one body, the mask shattering from the force of his fist mixed with Gold’s. He blocks a bundle of bullets thrown at him. Grabs the smoking barrel— heat sizzling there despite how he hardly feels it. 

The terror in the man’s eyes, the fact that this scum can even think to hope for mercy—it’s enough to broil his insides.  

Giorno bends the barrel upward, surprise flashing through the eyes of the mask before he punches the man’s throat, ribs. Hearing them crack as the man falls. He doesn’t need Gold now, not for this.   

Another lunges at him with a knife and he grabs the man’s wrist, twists it and snatches the dropped knife to slice the man’s throat before swinging at another’s, then the arm of another, a jaw, ear. Skin tears open. Blood smears on fabric, flesh. And Giorno moves through them, not thinking of the years of fighting skills he’s honed and practiced for close encounters he usually tries to avoid—but instead, he moves like he has always known this dance. A new kind of movement to this, a new feeling like slipping on a silk glove that would have always fit him if only he had tried it on like he does now, finally.  

Mista has long stopped firing. Coming to stand by Fugo and watch with shared bewilderment as their Boss... takes care of everything. Laying behind the upturned table, Trish breathes shallowly, pressing Fugo’s suit to her wound as she listens to the mangled screams of a dozen people failing to escape.  

A final smiling mask charges Giorno, and he ducks to grab the man by the waist and hoist him up and over his shoulder, landing the mask hard on the top of his neck, a horrible crack sounding. Giorno releases the body to slump to the ground with a hard hiccupping in the scum's lungs that says it won’t have long left.  

Giorno heaves a hand on its throat and rips the mask off to bark, “Who sent you?!”  

The worm says nothing, just shakes and murmurs a plea, so Giorno rams its neck on the hard of the floor. “Answer me!” he roars, “Who was it?!”   

“I don’t know!” The man manages in a bloodied gargle.  

It’s the truth, Giorno can tell. But it’s the wrong answer.   

The fire in his gut sears a hole in him and Giorno grits his teeth just to try to pool the frustration somewhere, anywhere, but it boils over. With a shout he begins landing hits on the face below. Over and over until his knuckles are too slippery to continue so he uses his mouth. Snapping downward, he tears but with blunt grip that slides, though it does satisfy the need in him to shred. There’s ripping until finally he hits bone—the trachea he realizes distantly—which he rips out in one pleasing yank, before spitting it out to the side.       

In the silence that isn’t really silence—the fire roaring between his ears finally dying enough for him to think of who needs to be next—Giorno sits back on his heels, his mind clawing through possibilities. The theater masks were no doubt from Il Sangue, the razor gang that could easily be lashing out over the results of the race—but there was someone a step farther than that. There’s too many bodies around him, too many shells rolling on the ground like they knew they were going up against more than just a Siena neighborhood’s horse-riding team... and...  

Well, maybe they were.  

With his eyes widening on the mutilated body below, Giorno mutters, “Oh my God.” He puts a hand to his mouth but immediately pulls it away, as it’s smeared with fresh blood that he got from doing what again?!   

“Giorno?”   

He jerks away at the touch on his shoulder, not realizing his breathing was unsteady until it tumbles out of him and he has to catch it to say, “Mista?”  

His friend flinches back, seeming to recover before saying, “W-We’ve got to go.”   

Giorno swallows and thinks he might throw up from the hefty iron clump that drops into his gut from the action, “Mista, I... I don’t know what happened, I swear I didn’t...”   

“You didn’t know what you were doing?”  

Giorno shakes his head forcefully, “No, I didn’t."  

Mista drops to one knee and puts hands on his shoulders, “Then it was probably an enemy stand user or some shit making you do it. What matters is you’re back now, and we’ve got to get out of here before we’re attacked again possibly by more or something worse.”  

Gradually the idea of leaving sinks in, a new purpose and thing to focus on. Nodding, he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, before his eyes land on Fugo still beside her by the table and he remembers.  

“Trish!” When he gets up, he finds his legs shakier than he’d like, though he makes it back to the upturned table without completely falling.   

“Trish, Jesus, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs as he kneels beside her, accepting the pen Fugo again offers him. “Hold her up so I can get to her back,” Giorno says. After a split-second hesitation, Fugo obeys, gently removing the suit wrapped around her shoulder.  

At the release of pressure from her wound, Trish hisses. Giorno matches her wince, but he forces himself to calm, puts a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been paying more attention.”  

Her eyelashes flutter, twin butterflies still long with mascara and rimmed with delicate eyeliner and she groans, “It’s ok. Are you ok?”  

The question takes Giorno by surprise. “Yes, I’m fine. Here,” he takes her hand. “Ready?”  

Trish’s breath shudders, but she sucks it in, nods for him to start the healing process.  

So Giorno wills for Gold to appear... and heal her... but...  

“...Giorno?” Fugo asks warily.  

Terror pierces Giorno with bleeding barbs and he shuts his eyes tight, blocking everything out to focus on manifesting that part of him that has always been there...  

But nothing happens.  

He exhales unsteadily, not realizing he’d been holding in his breath.  

“Oh my God,” Mista mutters, “You really can’t—?”  

“I don’t know, I—” He looks at his hands, but they’re just his, and still stained ruddy red. “Gold was just here, and...” and it’s not an absence of that part of his soul but... Fog shifts in his mind enough that he thinks he glimpses a sort of sarcophagus of Gold Experience, with its eyes closed. The sight alone spikes panic in his gut.   

“An enemy stand user nearby. That has to be it.” Fugo goes to get up, “We could find the user and—” but Giorno grabs his arm.  

“No,” he says, thinking how Mista was right, be it the enemy stand user he wishes it was or–– “whatever it is, it’s gone now, and we need to get her out of here.” He goes to press the suit back on her shoulder. “Fugo, bring the car around. Mista, there should be a box of gauze plugs in my suitcase by the divider. We’ll wrap her up and go home early.”  

As the guys get up with new purpose pushing them on, Trish huffs a weak laugh, “Gauze? And yet you forgot to pack more than one pair of socks.”  

Giorno smiles wryly, worriedly, as he takes a nearby table runner to fold into a pillow, “Don’t try to talk right now.”   

Her gaze finds him, and she squints in thought, “Are you sure... you’re ok?”  

“I’ll be better when we're home and you’re in bed.” Delicately Giorno lifts her head, sliding the makeshift pillow under her.   

“No, I meant, you... your eyes. It’s mostly gone away now but...”  

His brows pinch, and he puts a hand to her forehead. “Trish, you really should rest. I’ll have you better soon and you can make fun of me all day tomorrow.” He grabs one of the disheveled napkins to wet with Fugo’s glass of water, using it clean up the drying blood smeared on her chest.   

“It’s not... making fun...” Trish pushes, “it’s like... you’ve got bits of rubies stuck in your eyes.”  

The thought stills him, a crawling uncertainty moleing a home in his chest. Though, he tells himself the unsettling feeling is just confusion and concern over her and he goes back to cleaning her up. “You just need rest, bella.”   

The thought lays soft in her mouth before she parts her lips, like she’s releasing a butterfly, “You were really upset, weren’t you?”  

And it’s the way her voice breaks on it a little, that small crackle solidifying how much that bizarre behavior had been new but still him. That his acting out had come from the inner of his bones that he couldn’t see. It makes him swallow thickly, offering himself and her the thought quietly, “Well, I... You’ve been a part of all this for years, but it’s the first time you’ve been shot.”   

“Mista gets shot all the time.” Trish smiles weakly.  

Giorno tries to match her warm look, but it’s weighted. “Mista gets shot by his own bullets. You don’t.”  

At that, Trish hums and shifts her gaze back to the ceiling. “I do like... being special. Hey, today’s been long though so, do you mind if... if I close my eyes for a little bit?”   

Giorno pulls a hand over her forehead under her bangs, fear tremoring through him before he schools it back to calm. She hasn’t lost that much blood. It’s a wound high enough on her shoulder that it missed her brachial artery and she’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine. “Alright,” he relents.   

“I know... your sewing job is just... going to wake me back up again,” Trish murmurs.  

It earns a small smile from Giorno before he looks up, seeing Mista finally rounding with the first aid kit.  

As they shift through the kit and patch her up—Mista holding her hand while Giorno stitches up the back of her shoulder, then they move on to decorating the wound in crisp gauze and linen—Giorno’s mind races. Trish’s words in his mind. He had been upset—but he’d had every right to be. And he’d been angry before, obviously. Righteous anger was a tool he’d used many times, especially back in that horrific week against the likes of Ciocolatta and Diavolo. That anger had saved him then. Though, despite all that righteousness and unyielding heroic behavior that he was supposed to be... this wasn’t the first time he’d doubted himself. 

After Rome, when everything was calming down and Giorno was digging his hands in the mud of the underworld, working it like clay, he’d started to see a sort of... something in himself (he still isn't sure what) that made him fear his heart would blacken, and Polnareff had cooled him by mentioning something about his family. It didn’t make sense at the time, and... felt vague for good reason. But Polnareff had said he had an unwavering faith in him, that he’d proven to have a heart of gold like the rest of his family. The whole of the statement sealed with a smile at him, all of it genuine and warm in Giorno’s chest then, devoid of any true context and sickly-sweet because of it.  

But this... Giorno swallows to think about where this part of himself came from.  

His stand, the part of his soul that manifests to deal out that righteous anger—how that piece of himself abandoned him is ice enough in his veins.   

Applying the last dressing on Trish’s shoulder earns a grimace from her, and Giorno apologizes, explains solemnly how he had to keep the bullet in to minimize how much blood she would lose before they got home. But, just the way she swallows and nods in understanding... God.   

“Giorno,” Mista jars him back, “he’s got the car around front.”  

Nodding, Giorno slips touch under her to lift her up in his arms—keeping another apology down, not wanting Trish to expend energy telling him it’s fine.   

Gently he carries her out of the bakery as Mista brings their essential bags, other hand firm on his revolver.  

Police cars block the alleyway, warding off onlookers and ‘concerned citizens.’ After thanking the officer on hand, Giorno leaves Mista to pass instructions on what to do with the crime scene, moving to settle Trish into the car.  

After they all get in—with Trish held close to Giorno’s chest—Fugo drives off, passing the police cars and taking backroads to avoid the crowds from the races. When they hit the highway, Trish shifts and buries her face deeper under Giorno’s chin.  

She shakes for a moment before stopping. And it takes too long for Giorno to call it a shiver, that some abrupt part of him had started worrying that she would just keep shaking, and he’d had to silence it.  

The realization strikes him then, how he hadn’t registered that she’d been shivering intermittently until now. And that it took the fire in his chest chilling finally to heavy embers for him to notice. 

Cradling Trish closer, Giorno kisses her forehead. Marking her with the promise that he will never let that dark anger blind him to her pain again.  

But––and his throat clenches at the thought–– would he be able to stop himself next time?   

Glass crinkles under thick work boots. The old bakery a wreck of shells and bodies. The hour they’ve sat unattended has left the air stale with rigor mortis. Like the bodies were just old baguettes. Pulling a cigarette out, he grunts in dark amusement to himself.   

“Sir?”   

He turns to see the policeman he paid off. “Officer.”  

“I’ve kept my men out of the crime scene, as you ordered.”  

Cigarette in his mouth, he retrieves the custom lighter from his long coat, “And the mafiosos, when they left, did they suspect you?”   

“No, I’m certain they didn’t. But...” The cop trails off.  

“But?” He stills, sends the cop a questioning look.  

“Well, if I could ask, why use this little masked gang to try to kill an established mafia head? They had no chance of winning, clearly.”  

He eyes the officer for a moment, before lighting his cigarette, pocketing his lighter shaped like a falcon. He puffs pensively a moment before relenting, “Officer, there’s no need to worry about your men. I would never ask you to send your honest people to do an earthworm’s work.” He walks to one of the bodies. With the mask broken, half the young face slacks in fear, with a fluff of loose black hair framing it. “These kids have chosen their paths, and pretty early, unfortunately.” He kneels to close the kid’s eyes. “They’ve chosen what kind of uses they have. And well,” Standing, he gets his handkerchief out to wipe his hands, “I’m merely grabbing the tools by the handle and using them to build something worth a shit, as it were.”  

Slowly, the policeman nods in understanding.   

He waves the younger man on, “Go tell your forensics team they can have the scene in ten minutes.”  

“Ten minutes, thank you.” With that, the policeman leaves the bakery.  

Watching the man go, he drops the dirtied handkerchief on the kid’s eyes. Sizes up a particularly disfigured body before calling one of his ‘scientist men’ over.   

“Under the lapel there is one of our bodycams. Pick it up for me, will you?”   

The lab coat bends to retrieve the small camera off the dead kid, and another is signaled to bring the laptop.   

One minute in, and they’ve got the bodycam footage up on the computer. A small group forming to watch what they came for. 

Easily, like butter, the blond on camera tears through the assailants with an odd sort of grace that would be captivating if it wasn’t riddled with blood and gargled cries. Finally, the blonde makes it to their planted bodycam with a furious swing and leap, knocking the body down and shouting before proceeding to tear above the camera at what one could only assume was the victim’s throat—  

“Pause it.”  

The man operating the computer does.  

“Go back about a half-second... There.”  

Behind his thick glasses, the scientist man’s eyes widen. Another lab coat beside him covers his mouth in disbelief while a third walks away to pull out a rosary.   

“That,” he taps the screen, “that’s our money shot.”  

The man at the computer gulps, “With all due respect, sir, we weren’t sent out here to fight a... well...”   

“No, you weren’t.” He straightens up to take a long pull from his cigarette. “Did I tell you all I used to hunt rabbits?”  

“You didn’t, sir.”  

“Well, I had land, see, and in the backyard my wife planted a garden that would be nothing but scraps in the morning. So, I taught myself how to trap the little devils.” He taps the ash from his cigarette. “Just to wake up and find my traps utterly destroyed.”  

“You didn’t set them up correctly?”  

He takes a long puff from his cigarette, before sighing smoke from his nose. “I want some print outs of this tonight, the original burned on a CD for my own pockets, and any other copies of the footage neatly stashed in my desk through our secure channels by tomorrow morning. Can’t have too many eyes seeing it if we’re to get the planned use out of it.”   

The man nods, “Yes, Signore Warwick.”  

With a final nod, Warwick turns to leave, but stops, thinking he can practically hear the man’s shaking. “I got better at it, you know.”   

“Sir?”  

Warwick faces the younger man, a scientist among others just the same, bred to be practical and horribly practiced in all their movements. Including emotion, supposedly. He asks, “Do you know what the first rule of trapping is?”  

“No,” the man shakes his head, “I don’t.”  

Warwick points with his cigarette, “Know what you're hunting.”   

The man seems to think for a moment before asking, “And what were you hunting, sir?”  

Warwick sighs the last of the smoke from his nostrils, “A bear.” He drops his cigarette, “And for how much crying it caused my wife, I made that beast fucking howl.” With a harsh stomp of his boot, the embers sizzle out into the bakery’s ruined hardwood, and he takes his leave.  

“Get the car,” Warwick calls over the shoulder on his way out. “We’re making a house call.”