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The day even started off pleasant.
Leone supposes, looking back, that it should have been her first sign, the first red flag; the universe was not kind to her, and it had to place being neither. She’d racked up enough bad karma for ten lifetimes. Peaceful mornings, routinely, felt like traps. Like someone was waiting to pull the rug.
“That’s anxiety,” Buccellati tells her, radiant in the morning light. Their coffee sits untouched, because they’re too busy staring at her, like a sap. “It’s a thing you struggle with.”
Leone grunts. “I’d argue it’s guilt.”
“I’d argue you’re sobering up and it’s a known side-effect — “
She rolls her eyes.
They nudge her foot under the table. “You’re allowed to have a good time.”
The thing about Buccellati is, it’s impossible to not believe them.
They go back to reading the paper. It becomes obvious they won’t eat their breakfast.
Sighing, Leone reaches over and taps at their plate. “Can I have this?”
“If course,” they slide it over. Leone eyes them, exasperated over their abysmal self-care — if she were any better at it herself, she’d have called them out — and starts cutting their sandwich up.
They look up as she brings a bite-sized piece to their mouth.
“What,” they are trying to sound indignant. They’re blushing. “— are you doing?”
Leone shrugs. Pokes the corner of their lips.
“What does it look like?”
They open their mouth to speak again — she takes the chance to feed them the mouthful, grins at their wide eyes.
“No speaking with your mouth full,” she warns.
They glare as they chew. Pull their plate back.
“I can feed myself.” They’re still blushing.
Leone wants to kiss them. “Well, that’s news to me.”
They make a show of taking the next bite (Leone really wants to kiss them).
They beat her to it, once they’re both done eating; they’ve covered the bill under the pretense of going to the restroom and kissed her when she tried to complain, right there on the street like they’re some love-struck teenagers. Leone’s heart feels light.
The day had been so pleasant.
They go find the rest of their team, which really only involves following the sounds of shouted death-threats into a cafe around the corner. Leone keeps sighing. Buccellati seems amused.
“How many places do you think those three would be allowed in?” they ask (they’re holding Leone’s hand). “If they weren’t mafia, I mean.”
Leone hums. “Zero.”
Buccellati nods. “Seems right.”
Their boys are at a table in the far corner of the terrace, with all other patrons keeping a safe distance. Fugo notices Leone and Buccellati approach first and raises an eyebrow at their linked hands (Leone flips him off).
“Oh, boss, Abba — “ Narancia notices second; his eyes widen at the public display of affection. “Awwwwww!”
“Aww what - oh!” Mista finally looks up from his book (Leone sighs). “Oh, that’s so cute.”
Buccellati looks flustered. “Are you done eating?”
“Soon,” Fugo frowns at the plate. There are four croissants left. “If someone restrains Mista.”
Mista huffs. “Your funeral.”
Leone grabs one and bites into it without a word. Mista startles.
Narancia is cackling.
“Okay,” Mista reaches for one of the remaining ones. “I guess she does like funerals.”
Narancia nods. “That’s because she’s a goth.”
Fugo is rolling his eyes.
“What an interesting exposé on the behaviours of a foreign social group,” Buccellati pulls out a chair, motions for Leone to sit down. “Didn’t know you were an expert, Narancia.”
Narancia beams with their mouth full. Sighing again, Leone takes her seat.
“I think it’s because he’s punkish,” Mista is saying. “That’s like, goth-adjacent.”
Bruno hums and nods along, like anything he said is making sense.
Fugo, who’s sometimes Leone’s favourite, keeps scowling. “What are you on about?”
Mista daintily peels his croissant. “Shut up, scene.”
Fugo looks torn between addressing the insult and pretending he doesn’t know what ‘scene’ means.
Leone decides to look at her girlfriend some more. “Hey.”
Buccellati beams down at her.
Leone holds the croissant up. “Want some?”
Buccellati’s cheeks darken. “What, not going to feed me this time?”
The boys start cooing again. Leone can’t even pretend to be bothered.
-
They finally make it to Chiaia by noon. It’s ridiculously later than they’d planned, but Buccellati insists they have time.
“Slow day,” they say. “Enjoy it.”
They pointedly look in Leone’s direction. Leone pretends to ignore them.
“Can we steal something?” Narancia asks, loud and unashamed, the moment they enter their target store. It’s bright and pristine in an aggressively rich way. Leone feels like breaking out in hives.
“No,” Buccellati says. “We’re here for work.”
“We’re the mob,” Narancia points out. “Why isn’t stealing our work?”
“You’re stealing years of my patience,” Fugo mutters.
Narancia elbows him.
Mista snickers. “Wait, what patience?”
Leone eyes a cropped leather jacket, lined with zippers and a glitzy monochrome pattern. Wonders if Buccellati would like it.
“Hush now,” Buccellati whispers, and then straightens up to approach the register. The lady working there pales slightly at their name, but ducks out to get the manager nonetheless; Bruno turns around, motions for Leone to come closer.
“Stay here,” Leone calls out at the boys (they’re being non-conspicuous and busying themselves around the store. Fugo is checking out a sickly green tie. Mista is in the hat section. Narancia already brought his stand out, and is currently having Aerosmith do cartwheels around the unsuspecting cashiers.
They stand out like a sore thumb) —
she walks over to Buccellati’s side, and sighs; Buccellati just beams.
“Once we do the transaction,” they whisper. “Have the boys cause some ruckus.”
Leone cocks an eyebrow, but nods along.
“Bold of you to assume they can wait until the transaction is complete.”
Buccellati just laughs.
“Did the store piss you off?”
“Their boss did,” Buccellati makes a face. “They’re a drug front.”
“Ah.”
“Also, I liked a jacket,” they bounce back. “So I’m getting myself a jacket. Want something?”
Buccellati glances around. The place feels way too nice for her.
She turns back to Buccellati. “To see you in that jacket?”
Buccellati blushes. “You — “
The manager appears, cutting her off. Leone side-steps away, continues standing there like some sort of an impromptu bodyguard. She guesses that is what she is, in a way. Presently.
The manager also leaves, to get something. Buccellati turns around again.
“Money extortion is oddly boring,” she complains.
Leone shrugs. “Why are we extorting them?”
“Because Polpo wants profit,” Buccellati shrugs back. “Anyways. As soon as he comes back, get the kids to do something weird.”
“Narancia already has his stand out.”
They beam. “Good kid.”
Leone rolls her eyes. She agrees. “Are you getting that ugly jacket by the door?”
Buccellati nods. “It’s hideous, right?”
“It’s perfect,” Leone agrees. “It’ll go well with those low-cut pants you stole in August.”
Their eyes widen. “Oh, it will.”
“You’re welcome,” Leone fights back a smile.
They press a quick kiss to her lips. “My personal stylist.”
Then the manager is back, and Leone is getting the rest of their team.
“We saw you kissing by the register,” Mista informs her as soon as she’s within earshot.
“We weren’t hiding,” she retorts. “Buccellati wants a distraction.”
“They seemed pretty distracted by you — shit, fine!” he dodges out of her half-assed throw for him, scrambles after Fugo. “Hey, dickhead, catch.”
Leone doesn’t hang around to see what Mista throws at Fugo; she slides further into the store, picks out some warm socks to gift the boys for Easter. Socks are the perfect gift, she thinks, because no teenage boy actually wants socks, and also they’ll stay warm. It’s foolproof.
Then the shouting behind her becomes too loud to ignore, so she goes back and makes sure Mista doesn’t get arrested again.
Bruno is nowhere to be seen. Neither is that ugly jacket.
Leone can’t help but smile to herself as she guides the team out of the store.
__
“I want ice-cream,” Narancia says.
“Go get it, then.” Leone is already thinking up the closest gelaterias.
“I think Mista stole a hat.”
Mista, who is indeed wearing a new hat, flips him off.
“Where’s Buccellati?” Fugo asks Leone.
Leone is wondering too. “On their way.”
“Oh my god,” Mista suddenly speaks up. “Booccellati.”
Leone gives him her best death-glare.
Mista just cooes. “Cause they’re your —”
“We get it, Mista.”
Then the wall next to them zips open, and Buccellati peaks out — Narancia nearly loses his balance and falls into the Adriatic, but Fugo catches him.
“Hey boss,” he greets. “Everything okay?”
Buccellati nods. “Thank you for asking.” They throw a bag at Leone, and she catches it; Buccellati climbs all the way out, dusts off their blazer.
“Polpo called me,” they say.
Leone is looking down at the bag in her hands. The patterned sleeve of Buccellati’s new jacket is clearly visible, but it doesn’t seem to be only thing in there. She frowns.
Buccellati is still talking. “Leaky-Eye Luca was killed.”
Leone’s head snaps up at that. “He was?”
“Eye, he was.”
“Oh my god, Mista.”
Buccellati leans into the wall. “I need to take care of that — you can do what you want for the rest of the day, but have your phones on.”
“We always have our phones on,” Mista says. “Boss, we’re not retired.”
“Noted,” Buccellati smiles. Looks over to Leone. “I’ll drop by your apartment later, for my things?”
Leone doesn’t miss the implication.
Neither do the kids. Fugo rubs at his face and groans, Mista covers Narancia’s ears, and Narancia starts wiggling his eyebrows so violently Leone fears they’ll fall off.
“Oh, they’ll be dropping by —”
“Scram,” Leone tells them. “Go sit down at Casa Infante. I’m paying.”
“Oh, sweet.” Mista removes his hands from Narancia’s head, starts pulling him away. “Have fun, boss!”
Fugo follows them silently.
Leone feels red. Buccellati looks red.
“I’m glad they’re supportive,” they say.
Leone just grunts.
They turn around, latch onto her hand then; their smile keeps throwing Leone off.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Leone’s voice cracks.
They bring her hand to their lips, and she makes a wheezing sound.
“God,” they laugh. “You’re adorable.”
“Fuck you," Leone is melting. "I’m a cold-hearted bitch."
“Yeah, you are.” They press another kiss to her knuckles. “These hands could kill a man.”
“M-hm.”
They pull her closer. “Really wish Leaky-Eye didn’t have to die.”
Leone hums.
“Could’ve had such a relaxing day,” they sigh. “Well.”
“If it’s any consolation," they smell really nice. "I’m sure his day was worse.”
They laugh. “I guess.”
Leone smiles into their shoulder.
“So,” she pulls away slightly. “Need any assistance?”
They shake their head. “Not yet — he was last seen hunting down some kid that infringed on his territory, so I’ll go see where that leads.”
Leone tilts her head.
“I’ll call you if there’s trouble,” they add. “Promise.”
Leone is the one to press a kiss to their hand now. “Good.”
They blush.
“Also, a kid?” Leone adds. “Hm.”
They frown. “‘Hm’ what?”
“Nothing,” Leone stares at them. “Just. You know how you are with kids.”
Buccellati has the nerve to look offended.
“Don’t give me that face,” Leone is fighting back a grin. “Just don’t adopt this one too.”
“I’ve adopted none on them.”
“Not legally, no.”
Buccellati does an exaggerated eye-roll. There’s a smile tugging at her lips.
“I’m not the one buying them expensive ice-cream,” they add.
“Busted,” Leone presses another kiss to their knuckles. “Takes one to know one?”
Buccellati keeps smiling at her.
“Seriously, though” Leone adds. “We don’t need any more.”
Buccellati bats their eyelashes. “I can’t promise anything.”
__
Leone was right, she realizes later that day. There was another thing in the bag Buccellati threw her — it’s a sheer black blouse, with a low-cut back and lacy sleeves. It’s in her size.
She sits on the floor for half an hour after finding it, mind reeling. A goofy smile won’t leave her face.
__
Buccellati slips into the apartment later that evening; they look a little roughed up, and Leone snaps into alertness immediately.
They wave her off. “It’s all good.”
“All — “ there is a cut on their lower lip. Leone is ready to kill someone. “What happened?”
“The kid was a stand user,” they explain. “Threw some hands.” They snort. “Literally.”
Leone is already in the kitchen, getting ice. Trying to think of something else to offer them. All she has are half-empty wine bottles, and some bread. “So, you got your ass handed back to you by a kid?”
“A kid with a stand.”
“How old were they?”
There’s no response. Leone wraps the ice in a clean mop, goes back to the living room.
Buccellati is looking at the ceiling. “Fifteen.”
Leone snorts.
“With a stand!”
“Sure,” she sits down at their side, presses the ice-pack gently to their face. They still flinch, because they’re secretly delicate. “So, when are they joining the team?”
She’s joking. She was joking.
Buccellati looks away again.
Leone knows what that look means.
“Oh my god, babe —”
Buccellati moves to press against her side, all faux-apologetic smiles. “It’s not my fault,” they say.
“It never is,” Leone groans. She gets to be melodramatic.
“Leone, she ripped her arm off to hit me.”
“Well, you had no choice then.”
Buccellati swats at her shoulder. “She’s a delight.”
Leone eyes them.
“Really,” Buccellati stares into her soul. “Leone. Trust me.”
Leone sighs. “You know I do.”
Buccellati kisses her forehead.
“I’m still not happy about this.”
Buccellati sighs. “I know.” She curls up against their side more comfortably, picks the ice-pack again. “I’m not either.”
Leone squeezes their knee.
“But this one — she’s determined,” Buccellati shrugs. “It was only a question of time before we ran into her, I think.”
Leone frowns. Who the fuck is this fifteen year old.
“She’s doing the test today,” Buccellati keeps talking. “I think she’ll do well.”
__
She does do well.
Buccellati brings her to brunch — she’s all angelic features and curly hair and dumb ass fifteen year old. Running solo-criminal actions and killing mafia members. At fifteen. Can no kid in Naples stay in school.
Leone scowls a hole in her forehead as she does her introductions — Giorno Giovanna, huh — and decides to piss in her teacup.
__
“So,” Leone regards the deckfull of deflated children. “Do we just….wait?”
Buccellati nods. “I think so?”
Leone chews on the inside of her cheek. “...How long?”
Buccellati shrugs. Kicks the beheaded body, also on the deck.
“You can ask him.”
His mouth, located on the head that’s rolling around some few feet away, is zipped up. Leone squints.
“I’ll pass.”
Buccellati’s fingers brush against hers. Feeling emboldened with having nearly just died, Leone reaches out and takes it.
“Good job solving the mystery,” she says.
Buccellati beams at her. “Couldn’t do it without you.”
They kiss. The muffled screaming from the disembodied head just adds to the atmosphere.
The kids are slowly starting to come to; they kind of look like rising bread. Leone leans against the boat-fence, squints at the sun; wonders how badly sunburnt she’ll wake up tomorrow.
“Hey, sweetest?” Buccellati tugs on her coat.
Leone looks down. “Babe?”
Buccellati is squinting at her. “What did you do to Giovanna’s tea?”
Leone bites down on her lip. Tries not to laugh.
Buccellati frowns.
“Maybe,” Leone starts. “Maybe I pissed in it.”
Buccellati’s mouth drops open. They look a little grossed out.
Leone snorts.
They look so distraught. “Leone!”
She starts laughing.
“Leone!”
She can't stop laughing.
“I didn’t expect her to actually drink it!”
Buccellati turns to stare at Giovanna’s slowly de-deflating shape. “Oh my god.”
Leone has to clutch onto the fence to stay upright.
“Oh my god,” Buccellati's face is so funny. “I'm requesting a new team.”
__
“What are you doing?”
Mista looks at her like she’s deranged. Giorno Giovanna tries not to fume.
“It’s way past lunchtime,” he says.
Giorno is a little stressed out.
“Right,” she says. Tries to keep her voice level. “When I said we have twenty minutes, I was being optimistic — “
“I was going to go to the restaurant, but I think I’d get recognized — “
“We really have five minutes, if that many— “
He starts shoving salami into his pistol. Giorno is ready to scream.
(It turns out he has his stand in there — stands? Giorno, who’s very new to this, watches the six little person-shapes fight over sliced meat and wonders, in the back of her mind, if she was supposed to be feeding her Gold Experience.)
“Hey,” she speaks up, since they’re already wasting time. “May I ask you something?”
Mista has his mouth full — he swallows, nods.
“Uh,” she’s not sure how to ask it. “Are…”
He cocks an eyebrow. She feels her ears burn.
“Are Buccellati and Abbacchio —” she gestures, vaguely.
He snorts. “Dating?”
She nods.
“Yeah,” he confirms. She’s so good at this. “Sort of a new development but, like, it’s been long time coming.”
Giorno nods again.
One of the pistols is crying by the salt-shaker. Mista picks it up on his palm, starts cooing.
Giorno feels light-headed. This day has been a lot. Where did Mista get so many stands?
There’s another question digging at her mind, though, and she knows she might not get another chance to speak freely soon.
“Is this normal behavior?" Her voice comes out quieter than she'd have liked. "For Abbacchio?”
Mista looks up. Studies her.
She blinks at him.
He snorts.
“Well, she didn’t make anyone else drink her piss, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Giorno fights the urge to claw her teeth out. “But?”
“But.” He shrugs. “She takes time to warm up to people, yeah.”
Giorno nods. She can work with that.
“If you’re wondering what Buccellati sees in her, I have no idea,” Mista goes on talking. “Like, they’re way friendlier.”
Giorno, who routinely develops crushes on girls she sees be mean to weird guys on public transport, think Mista doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“But Buccellati always did have a weird taste,” he adds. “I mean. Look at their suit.”
Buccellati’s suit is perfect. Mista definitely doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“Thank you for the insider info,” she tells him instead. Draws a breath. “Would you mind finishing your meal now?”
Mista just continues feeding his stand.
That’s alright, Giorno convinces herself. She can work around this.
“You hungry?” Mista asks.
Giorno thinks about having a jellyfish for a tooth, and shakes her head.
“Thank you,” she adds. Mista waves her off.
Giorno pulls up a chair by the table, and continues thinking calming thoughts.