Chapter Text
Giorno Giovanna is, in general, a busy man. An empire does not run by itself; even with a thousand busy workers and subordinates beneath him, Giorno needs to ensure he stays on top of things. He is often told that he is doing too much; that he can relax and let some other people take care of all of the duties he so worries about, but relaxation is not really in Giorno’s nature. He likes his work, as unpleasant as it may seem to others. He likes knowing he is making a difference to the people in Italy whose lives have improved so dramatically since his takeover of Passione some five years ago. He likes, as a whole, the people he comes into contact with; likes all of his subordinates, or he wouldn’t deign to work with them.
More than most bosses, too, he worries about them.
And some of them, he worries about more than others.
“Buccellati has put in a lot of paperwork in the last few days,” Giorno says to Mista. It’s true; Buccellati does more work than most in Passione, and has an especial affinity for the paper trail that used to be so badly kept when Diavolo was in charge. Giorno knows, too, that he often goes out into the streets and that all of the passers-by and residents of Naples know him by name and by sight and are pleased to see him. “When has he had time to sleep?”
Guido Mista, bodyguard to the Don of Passione, shrugs wide shoulders.
“You know Buccellati,” he says, “always finding something to do with his day. He can’t bear anything being left unfinished.”
Giorno glances back down at the last sheet meticulously filled out in Buccellati’s cramped handwriting - well, actually, it’s not so meticulously filled out as normal. Buccellati’s script veers off wildly to the left as it goes on, and if Giorno didn’t know better he’d say the smudge of the ink is a place Buccellati has fallen asleep on whilst writing it out. Oh, this isn’t going to do at all.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, lightly, “that Buccellati deserves a break.”
Mista perks up. All of those original five members of Buccellati’s gang still have a special place in their heart for their Capo; all of them have tried, in various unsuccessful ways, to try and Buccellati see that he overworks himself. An idea or a request from Giorno, though, is different; after all, Buccellati can’t laugh off something said to him by his Don.
“Oh yeah?” Mista asks. “D’you think it will go better this time?”
Giorno smiles serenely. He always looks serene, really; no matter what’s going on around him, Giorno Giovanna seems to be perfectly in control. His voice, whilst not quite so warm as Buccellati’s, seems to soothe people around him. It’s hard not to look at the steely set of his blue eyes and the determination glinting in them and not feel reassured.
“I’ve been working on it for a while,” he says. “I think, actually, it might even kill two birds with one stone. Mista?”
Mista inclines his head.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Can you get someone to call in Buccellati and Abbacchio? I have an assignment for them.”
Mista wrinkles his nose.
“You sure you want Abbacchio?” He asks, sounding doubtful. “Y’know what the last reports we got from that guy who went with him on that bakery mission said. He’s not always--” Mista’s twists his mouth, as if he’s trying to think of a way to word what he’s trying to say to Giorno tactfully. In the end, Mista’s lack of tact wins out; he’s smart, yes, but he doesn’t always engage his brain all the way. “I mean, y’know Abbacchio’s a total asshole, right?”
Giorno allows himself to smile. Trash-talking his employees is, usually, not a good way to appeal to Giorno; but Mista and all of the rest of the ‘original gang’ (as he thinks of them to himself) occupy a special place in Giorno’s pantheon. Besides, Mista’s hardly wrong - Abbacchio is a total asshole.
“Yes,” he says, “but there’s no way that Abbacchio would engage his full asshole behaviour when Buccellati’s around. And besides,” Giorno’s smile is all grim satisfaction, “he’ll be there to make sure Buccellati isn’t doing paperwork when I give them this assignment.” Mista grins; Giorno is right, as always, and Abbacchio definitely will not be an asshole to Buccellati. “Plus,” Giorno says, “it will get Abbacchio out of action for a few weeks. We might get a rest from the complaints.”
Abbacchio has been sent on three fieldwork missions in the past months. Each time, he has had a new partner; and each time, although none of them have come directly to Giorno with them, there have been murmurings of complaints. Abbacchio is rude and sharp and unwelcoming - Giorno is, of course, not expecting Abbacchio to be a beacon of warmth and comfort, but he also doesn’t want him sowing dissent among the ranks. Favouritism is no stranger to the structure of organised crime, but Giorno thinks of himself as a benevolent leader; something needs to change, and perhaps Buccellati and Abbacchio working together away from everyone else for a while might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
And, too, perhaps it will make Abbacchio face up to his feelings. Giorno can only hope.
If nothing else, Giorno hopes Buccellati will take lots of hilarious photographs.
-
Buccellati emerges from his office, hair tousled and eyes tired, and runs into Abbacchio on his way to Giorno’s. It takes Abbacchio a moment to get his breath back, just like it always does when he sees Buccellati without warning; even with ink on his fingers and hairclips slightly asymmetrical (Abbacchio can only assume he’s been running his fingers through his hair whilst he thinks, which is painfully sweet and does not help him breathe), Bruno is like a painting come to life.
“Ah! You’ve been summoned too!” he says, “I suppose we may as well go down together than, right?” Buccellati falls into step beside Abbacchio, expensive shoes clicking on expensive floors. He does not fill up the air with mindless chatter. That’s one of the things Abbacchio likes about him; Narancia and Mista never stop talking. Fugo talks sometimes, until you say something that sets him off. Giorno doesn’t talk, but Abbacchio has always considered Giorno’s silence to be smarmy. Fucking brat.
Buccellati, though, makes silence feel warm and comfortable. Abbacchio feels at peace by his side; he’d said it once, before they knew what would be theirs, and he’d swear by it now. Nothing has changed, and Bruno Buccellati is still an anchor in Abbacchio’s sea. Thank God, really, because sometimes Abbacchio has trouble acquainting with himself that Giorno Giovanna is honestly, actually in charge of him now. If Buccellati were not there, Abbacchio might think it a terrible nightmare brought on by eating too much cheese before bed.
Ah. Speaking of nightmares.
Mista lets the two of them in and there he is, in the flesh; Giorno Giovanna, gained about a foot in height since the first time Abbacchio saw him and more muscle than he seems to know what to do with. Despite the fact that Giorno probably would beat Abbacchio in a show of strength these days, Abbacchio refuses to see him as anything other than the skinny fifteen year old runt who had looked him in the eye as he downed Abbacchio’s specially brewed tea.
Giorno motions to the two chairs in front of him as Mista closes the door behind them, and Abbacchio’s paranoia kicks in for a moment before he remembers that even an ungrateful shit like Giorno would not try and hurt Buccellati. Mista comes to stand at the side of the desk like an obedient lap dog, and Abbacchio notices, too, that Coco Jumbo is perched on the table. Originally, the role of consigliere to Don Giovanna had been offered to Buccellati too; the man had rejected it outright, wanting to remain among the people as much as he could. Abbacchio respects Bruno’s decision, of course, but he can’t help but feel a little bitter that Polnareff doesn’t deserve it as much as Buccellati does. Still, it appears that Giorno’s consigliere will be present for whatever this meeting is to be about, and Abbacchio still has more respect for the Frenchman than he does for Giorno, so he’ll try to keep a civil tongue in his head.
“Ah,” Giorno says, that smile on his face. “I’m glad you both came so quickly.”
Abbacchio grunts in response, and Buccellati smiles, as the two of them take the motioned-to seats. Polnareff springs into view, smile on his face too; Abbacchio does not really like where this seems to be going. He hopes that Buccellati hasn’t been called in to watch and support Giorno as Abbacchio gets a dressing-down about all of the mission partners he’s gone through recently. Giorno might think that Buccellati’s presence would be calming and he’d lend support to the Don, but Abbacchio would never forgive Giorno for embarrassing him in front of Buccellati.
“Sorry it took a while,” Buccellati says, pleasant, as though it has been ten hours since the two of them were called in and not ten minutes. “I was finishing off signing off on one of Narancia’s mission reports.”
“You work too hard!” Polnareff says, “Your head is always buried in some kind of paperwork.” Buccellati gives a pained smile; he’s used to hearing that he works too hard, and it does not get easier. Sometimes, in his head, he thinks of the hard work now Giorno’s regime has kicked in as his penance for working for Passione for so long when he knew it was corrupt.
“I’m happy to do whatever Giorno thinks is best.” Buccellati says, and Abbacchio cannot help the scowl that alights on his face at the words. “I’m just glad to be useful.”
Buccellati should know he’s more than useful; should know that this entire operation would never have been pulled off without him. Abbacchio is still scowling when Giorno says, gently;
“You’re one of the most useful members of all of Passione, Buccellati. I’ve just been wondering if perhaps your talents are wasted on paperwork.” Giorno reaches into his desk, pulls out a brown paper envelopes. “In fact, I called you in here because I have an assignment for the both of you. Field work.”
“You too, Abbacchio!” Polnareff adds, cheerful as ever; since Passione’s full takeover, he’s proved himself to be far more ebullient than he originally seemed; cracking jokes, smiling, flirting on the occasion that one of Giorno’s adopted stand users happened to be particularly attractive. “Someone has to keep Buccellati concentrating on the job, right?” Abbacchio does not even deign to respond; jokes about Buccellati are not the right way to get him on-side.
Buccellati is frowning. It’s not that Abbacchio in any way dislikes the idea of working with Buccellati - his stomach does that strange flip-flop it always does when he thinks about his former leader for too long - but Abbacchio knows, too, that he’s somehow being punished. Giorno must know that he’s not been the most welcoming to his recent partners; this is far too much like a reward for Abbacchio to be anything but cynical.
And, well. It’s Giorno Giovanna setting the mission. Abbacchio has already had to put far more trust than he’d have liked to into the kid; he’s not going to start following his orders blindly now.
“Why?” Abbacchio asks, bluntly. His complete lack of deference does not faze Giorno in the slightest - the golden-haired Mafia Don is reaching into the envelope and pulling out sheets of paper and completely ignoring Abbacchio. He fucking hates that. Buccellati glances to his side at Abbacchio, eyebrows raised coolly; it’s disappointment, and Abbacchio sags minutely in his chair. He can’t be rude to Giorno with Buccellati beside him. He can’t take the weight of his disappointment.
“I thought your abilities would be useful,” Giorno says, blithely. “Now, if you’ll allow me?”
Despite phrasing it as a question, Abbacchio knows there’s a note of warning in his voice. Mista has tensed next to him; Abbacchio knows that Giorno won’t actually hurt him (Giorno, despite Abbacchio trying to be open with his feelings towards the younger, seems to have an inexplicable fondness for him that makes Abbacchio feel hopeless for two very separate reasons), but he still grunts and lets his Don finish explaining.
“Sebastiano and Dante Pizzelle were former members of Passione,” Giorno says, as he retrieves two photographs from the envelope; he slides them towards Buccellati and Abbacchio, who dutifully look at the scowling candid photographs of the men. “Brothers. From what little paperwork Diavolo had and what I’ve gleaned from other sources, they were heavily involved in the trade and selling of the drugs Passione manufactured. They skipped town when news of the new regime filtered through.” Here, Giorno allows himself a tight and satisfied smile. “But they’ve been spotted, way out in one of the little villages. Missing people reports have been filtering through. And a couple of people on the streets are saying that they bought their drugs from the Pizzelle brothers.”
“You want us to, what? Go out and kill them?” Abbacchio asks, and Giorno shakes his head. “Rough them up? Find out if they’re kidnapping the missing people?”
“Not quite,” Giorno says. “Well. I want you to investigate. The missing cases only turned up once the Pizzelle brothers were in town; Verpazzone had a non-existent crime rate before this. I want you to find out what they’re doing, what’s going on with the missing people, and get them back here so we can deal with them. Investigative work, really.” And here Giorno meets Abbacchio’s eyes; this is why Abbacchio has been called in, then. Moody Blues is nothing if not suited to a good old-fashioned mystery.
“We’ll be gone for a few days, then.” Buccellati says. “It shouldn’t take too long--”
“Buccellati! I’m surprised at you!” Polnareff says. “You know better than any of us small towns do not give up their secrets that easily. I’ve seen your file!” Buccellati’s face colours; it’s true that he grew up in a much smaller place than Naples. It’s true, too, that he should have thought about that. “We’ve been working on an alibi for you both for weeks!”
“Ah,” he says, stilted. “Forgive me.”
This time, the photograph passed over is of a small building; taken from far away. Abbacchio squints at it, but it doesn’t really give much information; when Giorno speaks, he sounds very satisfied, and Abbacchio knows now that he’s facing some kind of divine punishment for being such an asshole in the past.
“This is Old Periwinkle Farm,” he says, and though his voice is the same as ever Abbacchio swears he can hear satisfaction oozing from every syllable. Smug bastard. “Signor and Signora Pecora happen to have just sold up on it, having gotten a fantastic deal may I add, in order to live out their dreams of buying a houseboat.” Oh, dear. Abbacchio can unfortunately see where this is headed. “Verpazzone finds the produce on the farm very useful for stocking their grocery stores and the like; the Pecoras were very happy to sell the farm, livestock and all, to two hopeful young farmers looking to get away from the hustle and the bustle of the city. And Verpazzone in general will be very happy to see that Old Periwinkle is still up and running and providing.”
A slow smile is spreading across Buccellati’s face. It is not at all mirrored on Abbacchio’s. Abbacchio speaks, deadpan;
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
(He’s not.)
-
“You might have been laying it on a little thick,” Giorno says, once Abbacchio and Buccellati have left his office, one in much higher spirits than the other. Giorno had been delighted to see that Buccellati’s face had fair lit up at the prospect; he feels indebted to Passione, yes, but everyone knows Buccellati has always had a yearning for the simple life. Farming might not be a fisherman’s life, but it’s closer than what Buccellati is doing now. “All of that about how important the work is to Passione and how you know they’ll both do a très magnifique job--”
“I had to,” Polnareff says, but he’s still grinning. “Did you see Abbacchio’s face?”
Mista puts forward, a little tentative;
“Well, I mean, they are doin’ an important job, right?” Giorno smiles blithely at the gunman’s question.
“In a sense. I’m not actually that concerned about the Pizzelle brothers; the missing people are a little more worrying, of course, but not a pressing concern. The drugs they’re getting in are negligible, really, compared to some of the things going on in Naples - but, well. It proved a perfect opportunity to give Buccellati a vacation. He’ll like farming.”
Mista is smart with some things; intuitive. It’s one of the reasons that Giorno is so thankful to have him as a bodyguard. Mista sees and thinks about things that other people don’t even briefly entertain - that doesn’t stop the fact, though, that about some things he’s still woefully dumb.
“You bought a farm just for Buccellati to have a vacation? We all love the guy, yeah, but what about all the shit with the produce? Y’can’t let a whole village starve when these guys are caught, right?” Mista sounds doubtful; letting people starve is not in line with Giorno’s usual aims.
“I might have over exaggerated the need for the farm,” Giorno shrugs, “but we have plenty of people who’ll need new identities at some point or another who I’m sure would jump at the chance to start a simple farming existence.” Mista processes the information, nodding slowly, and then delivers his very final question.
“And what about Abbacchio? I know his stand’s real useful for this kinda shit, yeah, but aren’t we supposed to be, I don’t know, punishin’ him? I mean, y’know Abbacchio. Spending time with Buccellati is hardly a punishment for him.”
Giorno’s face splits into a grin, as he leans back on his expensive chair, two legs off the ground. For a moment, he seems like a slightly manic teenager pulling a prank; the kind he never got to be. He considers the question for a while, smile growing and growing, clearly very pleased with himself.
“I’m not a hundred percent on what goes into running a farm,” Giorno says, after a few moments of deviously grinning to himself. “But I do know that there’ll be early mornings and chickens and goats, plenty of animals, plenty of animal droppings, gardening--”
“Oh shit,” Mista says, comprehension dawning. He can’t stop the smile that comes onto his face, either. “You’re a fuckin’ genius.”
Giorno waves away the compliment, but the sparkle in his eye and the curl of his lip give him away. Even Polnareff is grinning.
“You see how it’s a punishment?”
Mista crows with laughter, slapping his knee.
“He’s gonna hate it!” Mista says. “Abbacchio doesn’t even wake up until noon. Fugo got him a cactus once and he killed it. A cactus. How can that even happen?” Mista laughs again, and echoing Giorno's earlier sentiment, he shakes his head. “Fuck. I hope Buccellati takes a ton of pictures."