Chapter Text
It was curious how midafternoon in Libeccio with a full house of patrons, managed to maintain a peaceful quiet hum throughout the dining hall when Bucciarati dined in his private alcove alone. The soft ring of the bell above the front entrance did nothing to stir the Capo’s attention from his reports. A small stack of papers took over the seating to his right. A fresh cup of tea to his left, steam slowly fading as a warning to drink it before going cold as the last two cups prior.
Yet, Bucciarati paid it no mind. His focus remained on his work, familiarizing himself with the network of men and resources his predecessor had left behind. His death was sudden, and as much as it pained both the Boss to promote Bucciarati, effectively throwing him to the wolves of an organization entering a period of restructuring and presumably, expansion by the bits and pieces he’d picked up on in the talks between peers.
Out of Polpo’s most highly regarded men, there were next to none as qualified or well-connected as Bucciarati built himself to be in his years serving the man who chose a life behind bars. Working as Polpo’s mouthpiece had made Bucciarati the face soldatos and citizens alike associated with the dark dealings that went on behind closed doors, as well as an instrument of change to turn to when all other legal avenues were exhausted.
This promotion was earned, even if Bucciarati's age left some weary of his ability to live up to the expectations his reputation has fostered. There was no good reason to start slacking now when there was so much to do.
“You have an actual office now, and yet I have to track you down all the way here?”
Bucciarati looked up to find Abbacchio standing on the other side of the table with a frustrated hand on his hip, genuine irritation picked up in his voice.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but I needed a temporary change of scenery.”
The office, while a wonderful addition to doing his work in a more official capacity, felt far too removed for Bucciarati’s needs. His desk was foreign to him in that cramped space with no bustling ambiance to fill the air. Working in Libeccio… felt right.
“Hmph.” It was all Abbacchio said as he took his seat by Bucciarati’s side, waving off the server who had been told by the owner to prioritize their orders over the other patrons.
“And where’d those three brats run off to?”
“According to Fugo, Mista and Narancia have dragged him along on a manhunt. The Boss put out a bounty on some man’s head, though I confess that I have yet to read over the finer details given the multitude of other things that require my attention.” Bucciarati lifted the paper in his hand to emphasize his point. “Apparently, the bounty is worth five billion lira.”
“What would those three do with five billion lira?” The raised eyebrow on Abbacchio’s face matched his confusion. The obvious answer to Bucciarati was frivolous spending of some variety, but that wasn’t the point of Abbacchio’s question. “We have more than enough cash to know what to do with after retrieving Polpo’s fortune.”
Now it was Bucciarati’s turn to be confused.
“While being promoted to Capo gave me access to Polpo’s accounts, the hidden fortune was handed over to the Boss by his orders.”
“Wait, we didn’t get to keep any of it? That was almost ten billion lira.”
“It was the famiglia’s money that Polpo had stashed away. It is only natural to return it. And as I already said, we inherited the late Capo’s financial estate, which is why I don’t see this as a loss considering we still gained quite a large sum.” Bucciarati’s explanation appeared to fall off deaf ears, looking up to find his soldato staring off across the room in thought. “Is something the matter, Abbacchio?”
“No, it’s… I must be misremembering, that’s all.”
“Ah.”
Bucciarati didn’t press further, opting to use the opportunity to put down the list of Polpo’s physical possessions, once again coming up empty with the location of where that arrow of his had fled after his death. The Boss had been rather dismissive about uncovering its whereabouts despite the object's importance in their organization's recruitment, which has since been put on hold. How new trials were to be conducted remained unclear. This was a problem Bucciarati had pushed aside as his Don had given the current circumstances, but it could not go unacknowledged forever.
Thankful to find his tea hadn’t cooled completely, Bucciarati allowed himself a generous sip before Abbacchio shifted the conversation. The man’s expression expressed dissatisfaction, his mind unable to find peace just yet.
“Polpo had more than just our team under his command, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And that included the hitman team?”
Bucciarati set down the remainder of his drink. “If you are asking if the hitman now follows my orders, the least complicated answer is yes. Risotto and his team are to report to me going forward.”
Abbacchio’s sudden interest in that team, in particular, perplexed him, but the Capo assumed the reason would present itself as they continued.
Except, Abbacchio went quiet after that. Indecision prevented him from pursuing this line of questioning further, which had tugged on Bucciarati’s own curiosity to a pervasive degree. Unable to return to work devoid of any interest he once had, the Capo spared himself a few more minutes to settle this inner conflict.
“Why the sudden interest in the hitman team’s affairs? This wouldn’t have anything to do with your business with Capo Pericolo, would it?” There it was. A small jolt. Abbacchio’s eyes widened just enough to show surprise at his guess, leading Bucciarati to believe he was right in his assumption. “I had given Pericolo my word that you would keep whatever transpired to yourself. However…”
The Capo leaned closer, his voice hidden from all other ears that could be listening in, voluntarily or otherwise. This line of questioning was precarious, one that Bucciarati would not push much further if circumstances wouldn’t allow it. There was more than one way to gather information within this organization.
“If there is something I should know, I never promised to inform Pericolo if you disobeyed his orders.”
Abbacchio looked toward the dining hall, holding his breath until convinced that it was safe to disclose what Bucciarati had been purposefully kept from knowing.
“Last night, two members of the hitman team kidnapped the Boss’s daughter.”
Abbacchio’s words took time to settle in.
There was deluding himself to ask Abbacchio to repeat what he’d said as if that would change the news to something any less undesirable.
Every sense Bucciarati could name faded into the background, combating the restaurant's ambiance which had gone from comforting to irritating, almost distracting, as he repeated the sentence over to ingrain this report in his mind.
Within this pause, a wave of deep anger rose from a place the Capo couldn’t describe. It was not betrayal, even if his position had expected those feelings from him. His only contact with the hitman team after his promotion was a single message to inform Risotto of his new status. Anything else had been a while before, unresolved instances he’d left to the wayside that held no bearing on what he felt now. No, this was something else, something possessive.
Dare he say personal.
It was as if the hitman team had stolen from him directly, insulting his very ability as a Capo to do his job. Such odd feelings left Bucciarati as confused as he was angry, left to stir in morbid self-reflection as he could not pin down where this reaction came from. It was not his daughter that was taken, but his Don’s.
Was this what it meant when referring to a crime organization as a famiglia, to see the harm of one of its member’s family as your own?
Even then, that explanation was not good enough to settle Bucciarati’s heart. He wasn’t loyal enough to see the Boss’s plights as his own. Setting aside the fact Bucciarati hadn’t been aware that the man had a daughter to begin with, the Capo’s sympathy for that man had shriveled up past the point of rejuvenation, but he could at least find an answer in his distaste for bringing children into such heinous affairs against their will.
“Which members?”
“Formaggio was the one who appeared on my stand’s recording. His partner is unknown. I was escorted out before anything else could be uncovered.” Abbacchio shifted in his chair, shaking his head before adding, “It was their conversation that revealed who the girl was. I assumed the Boss would have me trail further in hopes of finding her location, but instead, I got sent home with a threat to keep my mouth shut. It’s bizarre.”
That decision didn’t sit right with Bucciarati, even as he forced himself to rationalize it.
“I could only guess the Boss has some other means to track her whereabouts. Despite his recent appearance at our meetings, the man is still far from open about anything that does not strictly relate to Passione’s affairs. He wasn’t able to get this far with the nuances of his identity hidden from view if he did not keep a tight hold on those involved in his personal affairs.”
“I figured, but… given that Trish—I mean, the girl went with them willingly. Maybe the Boss is teaching her a lesson in teenage rebellion. Even so, none of this is sitting right with me.” Abbacchio folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, leaving Bucciarati to ponder further.
To go with her kidnappers willingly… Either she was very cunning or naïve. Benefit of the doubt and personal preference lead the Capo to the former, though in either case, this meant the girl was quite bold.
“Her name is Trish?”
“Yes—No. Maybe?” Unsatisfied, Abbacchio elaborated further. “The recording didn’t reveal it, and Pericolo sure as hell wouldn’t tell me, but… it was the first name to come to mind. Honestly, this is going to sound strange, but I felt like I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“In what context would you have come across her? During your time on the force—?”
“—No, she would have been shorter. It’s uncanny. Maybe this brat has a doppelgänger running around…”
Bucciarati followed Abbacchio’s suggestion with one of his own, hoping to alleviate the concern still coursing through the man’s veins. “Or maybe our Don has a larger family than we thought. I never would have pictured that man to have children—”
“Signore Bucciarati.”
Both men jolted up in their chairs, turning to find a server had approached their table. His apron twisted and stained from navigating the dining hall to reach them in haste if his rapid breathing was anything to go by.
“Can I help you?”
“There is a phone call for you. Urgent.”
Bucciarati turned to Abbacchio as if he’d have any more insight into whom this called could be before excusing himself from their conversion. A passing thought suggested it was one of his colleagues, with fear going so far that Pericolo had already found out about Abbacchio’s insubordination, however illogical that would be.
As such, the Capo crossed the dining room with grace, thanking today’s host for holding his call. He picked up the phone to hold by his ear, putting as much distance between himself and the front door as he could to maintain a sense of privacy, the front desk acting as a barrier to discourage customers from standing too close. The staff needed no reminders.
“This is Bucciarati. To whom am I speaking with?”
“We need to talk.”
Bucciarati recognized that voice. Demanding, short-tempered, and straight to the point. The smell of smoke and ash manifested itself from the memory alone, leaving the Capo pressed for air.
“We’re talking right now.”
“Not on the phone. In-person. Face to face.”
“I do believe that, as your superior, I decide how we discuss our business.” Careful in how he chose his words, Bucciarati navigated his way through these treacherous waters. “Unless you deem that fact no longer the case, given recent… actions as of late.”
A brisk pause.
“You already know.”
“My position requires me to know. Tell Risotto your team’s actions are beyond forgivable. The Boss won’t hold back this time. There is nothing I can do to interfere—”
“Risotto’s dead.”
The news didn’t have time to sink in, the Capo’s mouth already speaking on instinct on how to respond.
“I’m sorry—”
“Pesci is too. We have two unconfirmed— Listen to me, Bucciarati. We still have the girl with us, if you could hear what she has to say, understand what I’m asking—” The man on the other end cut himself off. Perhaps to take a breath, to combat the fatigue and stress now lacing his voice. “I’ve never once asked anything of you. Having to now pisses me off to no end but—just hear us out. If you don’t like what we have to say, we’ll go our separate ways without a fight.”
Bucciarati turned to the clock on the wall, counting through the hours still left in the day.
This would-be meeting was dangerous to even consider. If caught having relations with the hitman team now, even conversation would brand him as an ally in their treachery. His team may even share the same fate to wipe out the plague of dissent sweeping through the Naples branch.
However, one could also look at this as an opportunity. To assess the state of the Boss’s renegade daughter. To determine what role she plays in this affair. Perhaps even bring her home if the situation demanded it. Yet, as selfish as this was, Bucciarati was equally interested in what this girl had to say about her own father. Knowledge that could prove invaluable to the future of Bucciarati’s own plans that have lain dormant for so long. This was an opportunity not to be taken likely, nor one he’d dive into without caution.
“Name a time and place, Prosciutto.”