Chapter Text
Abbacchio hated summer with a passion. Not only did the sun beat down and burn his skin, melt off his makeup, and cause him to sweat through his clothes, the heat always put him in a bad mood—or a worse mood than usual. It didn’t help that Libeccio never seemed to keep the air conditioning at an adequate temperature for his standards. Everyone else seemed to be fine, but then again, Narancia never wore sleeves, Fugo had holes all over his outfit, and Abbacchio had never not seen Mista without his midriff exposed. Even Bucciarati, in his full suit, didn’t seem to mind the heat as much as Abbacchio did. At the very least, Bucciarati didn’t have the propensity to be miserable and complain like Abbacchio did. That seemed more likely.
The heat wasn’t the only thing that made Abbacchio miserable that afternoon. He hadn’t slept well the night before, woke up with a hangover, and was still working through the worst of a headache that wouldn’t quite leave him even hours after pulling himself out of bed and forcing himself to drink something other than wine. On top of it all, Fugo and Narancia had been picking at each other for the last thirty minutes over the most inane things, and Bucciarati hadn’t done the slightest to shut them up. In fact, he went from looking at them fondly, to chuckling too soft for them to hear, but not soft enough for Abbacchio to hear next to him, before going back to eating his rigatoni.
Realistically, they weren’t being that awful. They hadn’t gotten too loud, and surprisingly no one had been stabbed. They were just being normal teenagers: loud, rowdy, obnoxious, and too much for the more irritable than normal Abbacchio. The second he’d sat down for lunch he’d regretted leaving his headphones and CD player at home, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now, other than attempt to block out the noise of the teenager bickering.
Abbacchio was hoping to be able to sneak out of lunch early, tell a white lie about having business to attend to so he wouldn’t have to hear Narancia and Fugo (and great, now Mista was getting in on it) continue to bicker about what sounded like some TV show he’d never heard of before. It felt like a solid plan, one that no one would even blink twice at. Even if Bucciarati did, it wasn’t like he could expect Abbacchio to sit around and listen to Fugo and Mista discuss some plot of a TV show when there was an infinite number of things more productive he could be doing.
Like sleeping off the remainder of his goddamn hangover.
Before Abbacchio could come up with a real excuse to leave, there was a knock on the entranceway to their private room. All eyes turned to see the manager standing with a kid who couldn’t have been any older than Fugo, if not younger. The kid was in hysterics, tears staining his olive skin, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to retreat into himself. Abbacchio’s eyes went from the kid to Bucciarati, who already looked like he’d found a lost puppy on the side of the road, ready and willing to take it home and clean it up. It wasn’t the first time it’d happened, and Abbacchio was sure it wouldn’t be the last.
Bucciarati stood up, all eyes following him as he strode over to the kid. “I’ll take it from here,” he informed the manager, not even bothering to ask him what he knew about the crying kid. The manager gave Bucciarati a quick nod before scampering off to his station in the kitchen, never one to want to be overly involved in the activities that went on in the back of the restaurant.
Bucciarati smiled warmly, the same smile that had invited each and every one of them in the room into the familia, before he bent down enough to be eye level with the kid, only an inch or two taller than Narancia. The kid was still crying, hiccupping and blubbering like he’d just witnessed a crime of horrible proportions. Hell, for all they knew he could have.
“What the hell is his problem?” Narancia whispered, except it wasn’t a whisper, because Narancia was incapable of being quiet even when he tried.
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Mista grumbled, elbowing Narancia in the side. Narancia hissed out a cry of pain but didn’t say or do anything further. Despite his inability to keep quiet or read the room, he was at least aware enough to know this wasn’t the time or place to start a petty shoving battle with Mista.
“What’s your name?” Bucciarati asked, his voice inviting and comforting.
The kid sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Gross, but the kid was clearly going through a rough time, so Abbacchio would let it slide as long as he wasn’t the one who had to comfort him. Bucciarati was infinitely better at the whole comforting thing, anyways.
“Luca,” the kid answered through the tears and blubbering. “Luca Moretti.”
“Luca, hi,” Bucciarati greeted. “You can call me Bruno.”
“I know,” Luca responded, wiping his eyes with the same hand that he’d used to wipe his nose. “I-I came to you for a reason. I… I need your help.”
Bucciarati straightened up, his face still warm but with a more serious edge to it. “Come sit down.” He motioned to one of the spare chairs they kept near the table, just in case they had meetings or visitors, though the latter wasn’t often. Luca nodded and shuffled over to one of the chairs, seating himself to the right of Bucciarati, next to Fugo. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, choosing to look down at his lap instead, wringing his hands together.
Bucciarati eased himself down between Luca and Abbacchio before turning in his chair to look at the kid face on. “Tell me what’s wrong, Luca.”
Luca took a deep breath to compose himself before sitting up a little straighter and running a hand through his dark, messy, curls. The kid looked like he hadn’t slept in days, something Abbacchio was acutely familiar with. At least he’d learned how to hide the dark circles under his eyes with enough concealer over the years. “It’s… it’s my dad,” Luca started, finally pulling his gaze up from his lap to look at Bucciarati. Even then, it seemed like he was looking through him more than at him. “I came home from school yesterday and he-he was on the floor. I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe he just tripped or something? But when I ran over to him, he was barely breathing. So, I called for help and they got him to the hospital and-and…”
He was crying again, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths. Bucciarati gave the kid another sympathetic smile and put his hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay, Luca. Take your time. I’m here.”
Abbacchio tore his eyes from the kid to his boss, sitting and looking at the crying boy like he was the only important person in the room. Bucciarati had this special ability to make anyone feel like they were important, like they were being heard when no one else wanted to listen. More than that, he could make anyone feel like they were worth a damn, even if for only a couple of seconds. If only long enough to convince them to give themselves a second chance.
Luca nodded frantically, wiping tears from his eyes once again. “They took him to the hospital, but they said there wasn’t a lot they could do. They said that he overdosed, but they didn’t know with what, just that it was really fucking strong.” Luca hiccupped again and shook his head, staring at Bucciarati like he was afraid the mere mention of drugs would get him thrown out on the street. Something on Bucciarati’s face had shifted, but Abbacchio couldn’t quite place what it was. Whatever it was, it clearly made even Luca nervous. “But my dad didn’t do drugs! He didn’t even drink! He was… he was boring. It’s just us, so-so he never… never did anything, you know?”
Abbacchio watched as Bucciarati nodded slowly, taking in every word the kid in front of him said. Around them, Fugo, Narancia, and Mista sat in silence, watching in just as much curiosity and confusion as what to do or say as Abbacchio was. Out of all of them, Bucciarati was definitely the one to go to if a stranger off the street wanted a word of kindness that would actually make them feel better.
“So… you think he was drugged?” Bucciarati asked, professional but still comforting.
“Yeah,” Luca confirmed. “I don’t know why anyone would…” Luca turned away and looked out the window, his hand shaking by his side. The kid was clearly heartbroken, and Bucciarati was falling for every second of it. “He never hurt anyone. He’s a good man.”
Bucciarati was quiet for a second. He looked about as lost in thought as Luca did. “I’m sure he is, Luca.”
Luca turned back to Bucciarati after a couple of seconds of tense silence, looking at him with an intense pair of brown eyes. “Please, Mr. Bucciarati. I don’t know who else to ask. The cops… they’re useless—” Abbacchio knew that one far too well, “—and I don’t have any other family. The doctors think he just gave himself too much, or someone sold him a bad batch, but… he-he wouldn’t. Someone did this to him and I-I need to know who. I need you to prove he was murdered, not just… not just an overdose.”
Bucciarati was quiet for a moment, looking at Luca with too much softness in his eyes than the average gangster. Abbacchio knew what his answer would be before Bucciarati even opened his mouth; there was no way that he’d turn down helping a kid in need, not when he came to him like this. Bucciarati could never help himself when it came to charity cases… hell, it was the only reason he was there. But at least he wasn’t a damn orphan (or soon-to-be orphan) like the rest of their motley crew.
It didn’t take Bucciarati long to respond. When he did, there was an infinite amount of gentleness in his voice, something he definitely didn’t get from Passione. “We’ll look into it. You don’t have to worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Luca looked like he was about to burst out into tears again just at the promise of someone looking into his father’s case. Instead, he just nodded again frantically and blurted out a string of thank yous to Bucciarati. All the while, Abbacchio fought the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t that he disliked the idea of following a trail back to someone who’d given someone a hotshot, that was something he was accustomed to, or at the very least knew how to do. It was that Luca, his dad, and whoever had drugged him… none of it was Passione business. It was heartbreaking, sure, even Abbacchio couldn’t deny that, and sure, he felt for the kid, but… it wasn’t exactly something anyone should go to the mafia for.
But then again, it wasn’t like the cops were any help. He knew that better than anyone.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, listening as Bucciarati continued to comfort the boy. It was clear from the look on Bucciarati’s face that there would be no talking him out of working this particular charity case or bringing them all along for the ride.
Great.
☆
As expected, it was even more miserable out in the sun than it was in the restaurant. Abbacchio instantly regretted wearing so much black, but at the same time, he knew he’d make the same choice again if given the option to go back to that morning when he got dressed. Abbacchio was a lot of things, but when it came to his style, he was nothing if not consistent.
Getting out of the restaurant, away from the teenagers’ bickering, helped ease Abbacchio’s headache a little, but the whole ordeal with Luca did nothing but weigh down on him as he stepped out into the hot sun. Once Luca left Bucciarati had instructed Fugo to go to the hospital and figure out what he could about Luca’s dad, all while Mista and Narancia treated it like any regular mission Polpo would’ve given them. It all felt so wrong to Abbacchio, but he wasn’t about to say anything, at least not in front of everyone. He might have been an asshole, but he knew better than to undermine his boss in front of the entire team.
Abbacchio didn’t make it very far down the sidewalk, on his regular route he took to collect his portion of protection money, before he heard Bucciarati calling his name from behind him, coming out of the restaurant not far behind him. He had no choice but to stop, not because it was his boss, but because it was Bucciarati. As pissed as Abbacchio was about this job, he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to have a one on one conversation with him.
“Can I walk with you?” Bucciarati asked, approaching Abbacchio.
Abbacchio shrugged and gave Bucciarati a slight nod. Bucciarati smiled, shuffling out his pack of cigarettes and offering Abbacchio one. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared cigarettes, so Abbacchio didn’t think twice about taking one and accepting the offered light. “You didn’t stop me just to enable my nicotine addiction, did you?”
Bucciarati chuckled, a soft and airy noise that made something in Abbacchio feel lighter. “No, I was just feeling nice.”
“You’re always nice,” Abbacchio muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette and continuing to walk down the sidewalk.
“Not always,” Bucciarati argued. Abbacchio rolled his eyes, but if Bucciarati noticed, he didn’t make a show of it. “But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sort of.”
Abbacchio raised his brow slightly, turning his head to look at Bucciarati. He had his cigarette raised to his lips, just lingering for a second before he took a drag. Abbacchio had realized over the last month or so that it was becoming increasingly harder not to watch Bucciarati in moments like these. Or in any moments, really. “Yeah?”
Bucciarati exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I know you aren’t sold on this job.”
Abbacchio let out a heavy breath through his nose, almost laughter but not quite before taking a drag of his cigarette. “Was it that obvious?”
“To me it was,” Bucciarati said, though he didn’t seem angry. Abbacchio should have expected as much. “You don’t have to keep it to yourself, you know.”
“When have I ever been known to keep my opinions to myself?” Abbacchio countered. Bucciarati smiled, almost playfully, and there was that light feeling inside Abbacchio’s chest again, making him forget he was on the way to gently threaten the owner of the nightclub a couple blocks over into paying the protection money he owed.
Bucciarati chuckled. “Touché.”
They stopped walking, Bucciarati turning to face Abbacchio head on instead of walking by his side. Abbacchio turned to face him as well, watching as he stood with his cigarette hanging between his knuckles, one hand resting on his hip. He didn’t know how he managed to turn something as disgusting as blackening his lungs with nicotine into something so elegant, but if anyone could do it, it was Bucciarati.
“Whatever it is, you can get it off your chest. It’s just me and you now.”
Abbacchio bit back a huff, inhaling smoke instead. It being just them didn’t make it any easier to tell Bucciarati that his bleeding heart was going to get him in trouble one day, that picking up every charity case he saw was as stupid as it was admirable.
“I don’t know why we’re getting involved, that’s all,” Abbacchio answered, crossing his arms and looking Bucciarati head on. “I get why you want to help him, but…” He paused a moment and thought over his words. He knew he’d sound like an asshole no matter how he worded it, but then again, he didn’t think anyone expected any more or less from him at this point. “This isn’t Passione business. There haven’t been any other overdoses in the area. If there were, you would’ve been the first to hear about it. This was an isolated incident, someone out for revenge, or jealousy, or… fuck knows why else. Whatever it was, it isn’t any of our business. There’s no reason for us to go sticking our noses in someone else’s business when it has nothing to do with us.”
Bucciarati stared at Abbacchio for a couple seconds, bright blue eyes flickering with something that felt like disappointment; it hurt more than Abbacchio would’ve liked it to. If he wasn’t so stubborn, he would’ve backtracked and taken it all back, but despite hating being on the other end of Bucciarati’s disappointment, he couldn’t help but feel like all of this was a mistake.
He exhaled one last time and flicked his cigarette off to the side, stomping it under his boot. He didn’t know why he’d picked up smoking anyways; it was among one of the many vices he’d gained to distract himself from the mess he’d made of his life. “Look, for once I’m not trying to be a dick, but… I don’t know if this is right,” Abbacchio finally added on, trying to get the disappointment in Bucciarati’s features to soften at least a little.
Bucciarati looked away from Abbacchio, off into the distance at something Abbacchio couldn’t pinpoint, taking another drag of his cigarette. He stayed quiet for a couple seconds, causing Abbacchio to question if he’d royally fucked up, or if Bucciarati was just deep in thought, or maybe somewhere in between. “You’re right… to a degree,” Bucciarati finally said, turning to look at Abbacchio again. “This isn’t Passione business, not necessarily. Polpo didn’t assign us this mission. You’re under no orders or obligation from Passione to follow through and help me figure out who did this. And I’m not giving you a direct order to, either.”
Their eyes met, and just for a moment, something like fear sparked in Bucciarati’s eyes. It was like he was afraid Abbacchio would say, good, and turn around and walk away. He would’ve been an idiot if he thought Abbacchio would ever do anything of the sort.
“I didn’t say that I wasn’t going to help,” Abbacchio clarified, his voice coming out softer than he’d meant it to. “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I won’t help.”
Bucciarati nodded slowly, eyes still locked onto Abbacchio’s. There was a type of intensity to it, something that would’ve made Abbacchio squirm if it hadn’t been regular for them, the moments of intense eye contact, lingering touches, or conversations that strayed into territory that almost seemed dangerous. Thinking about whatever it was that was lingering between them was enough to bring Abbacchio’s headache back, so he pushed it to the side like he had every other time Bucciarati caught his eye for a little too long.
“I appreciate it.” Bucciarati flicked his cigarette to the ground before stomping it out, breaking the too intense eye contact. Not for the first time did Abbacchio find himself missing Bucciarati’s eyes on him once he looked away. “It means a lot to me. When it comes down to it, this could go beyond Luca’s dad. I don’t like the idea of there being drugs on the street, much less a bad batch. We should find the root of it before it gets out of hand.”
Abbacchio nodded but said nothing more. He didn’t believe for a second that Bucciarati was going after whoever had drugged Luca’s father just to get drugs off the street. It might have been part of it, but there was something else. Bucciarati had been too touched by Luca’s story, his heart had practically broken for the kid in front of the entire team. Whatever it was, Abbacchio could only hope it wouldn’t end up biting them all in the ass in the end.
☆
It only took Fugo a couple hours to get in and out of the hospital with the information they needed. Despite wishing to be elsewhere, Abbacchio found himself sitting in the exact same position as he was at lunch for dinner. Normally he would eat dinner (usually takeout or leftovers from the last time he had the energy to cook) alone in the relative comfort of his apartment. Tonight, however, he was surrounded by the rest of the gang, Narancia to his left and Bucciarati to his right, picking at gnocchi he didn’t even want, but ordered so Bucciarati wouldn’t give him that annoying you should be eating look that made him feel like a child.
Next to him, Narancia dug into his pizza like it was the first and last meal he’d ever get, while Mista shared his chicken piccata with sex pistols, who scampered around the table trying to get the biggest bites of his chicken. Over the last couple months, Abbacchio had learned to tune out the high-pitched sounds of the bullets’ arguing; they might have been annoying, but even Abbacchio couldn’t deny that they were useful.
“So’re you jus’ gonna leave us in suspense?” Narancia asked through a full mouth of cheese and sauce, looking across the table at Fugo, sipping his cup of tea. “Wha’d you find ou’?”
“Narancia, don’t talk with your mouth full, please,” Bucciarati chided, giving him a stern look over his glass of wine. Abbacchio wondered if Bucciarati was in any way aware of how motherly he sounded sometimes, as opposed to a leader of a gang. It was in equal parts amusing and endearing.
Fugo finished his sip of tea, shot a look of disgust at Narancia, before turning to look at Bucciarati. “Moretti—Salvatore—is in critical condition. He’s in a coma, so obviously I couldn’t speak to him.”
“Yeah, obviously. We didn’t think you entered his coma dreams,” Mista cut in. Fugo threw a piece of veal across the table at him without breaking eye contact from Bucciarati. Narancia snickered, while number three and seven started to battle it out for the stray piece of veal chucked at Mista’s head. Abbacchio rolled his eyes and turned to look back at Fugo, ignoring the high-pitched screaming and crying (he wasn’t sure if number five ever shut the fuck up) from Mista’s bullets.
Fugo went on like nothing happened, despite the glare Mista was sending him from across the table for riling up sex pistols. “I talked to one of Moretti’s doctors. Just like Luca said, he was injected with a lethal dose of something they couldn’t identify. They didn’t know if he injected himself or if someone else injected him, but apparently the police aren’t interested in looking into it.”
“Figures,” Abbacchio muttered.
Fugo half-shrugged. “All they could say that whatever it was, it was shutting down his organs, faster than anything they’d seen before.”
“Do they think there’s any saving him?” Bucciarati asked.
“His doctor said they’re doing everything they can, but there isn’t much they can do once his organs shut down.” There was a nonchalant edge to Fugo’s voice, like something so horrible as a drug overdose, a possible murder, leaving a kid without a father, barely affected him. To his credit, no one else seemed that affected either, nor was Abbacchio. It sucked, but they heard horrible stories of death all the time. Each of them had been responsible for death in one way or another; no one sitting around the table was a stranger to death and destruction.
Still, that didn’t change the way Bucciarati’s face screwed into an uncomfortable grimace at the information. Abbacchio didn’t miss the way his knuckles went white around his wine glass, holding so tight he worried the glass might shatter and cut his boss’ hand.
Bucciarati let out a soft breath and let go of his wine glass, setting it down next to his barely touched carbonara. “Did you find out anything else?”
When Bucciarati spoke, his voice sounded professional and unaffected, even if the way his brows knit and his foot tapped on the floor told a different story. Abbacchio wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle changes in their boss, or if he was just overanalyzing him due to his habit of never being able to keep his eyes off him.
“I stuck around for a while after the doctor went on to check on the rest of her patients. Moretti’s chart was still in the room, for the nurses I guess, so I read it over.” Fugo took a bite of his veal parmesan, pausing to chew and swallow his food before he continued, something Narancia clearly was too impatient for. He waved his hand, motioning him to keep going, which Fugo ignored as he chewed, making a show of chewing slower just to piss Narancia off. “His next of kin was listed as a woman named Adrina Moretti.”
Abbacchio furrowed his brow. He distinctly remembered Luca claiming to not have any other family; it was the reason he’d come to Bucciarati in the first place, or so he claimed. “A sister? Mother?”
Fugo shook his head. “She was listed as his wife.”
“Wait, hold on,” Mista started, twirling his fork around in his hand, a piece of chicken hanging off it. Number two jumped up from its position on the table and snatched it out of Mista’s grasp, earning it a scowl from Mista, but nothing more. “If Moretti has a wife, why isn’t she around? Why is the kid doing all this shit?”
“That is… a good question,” Bucciarati responded, leaning back in his chair slightly.
“Is this Adrina lady Luca’s mom?” Narancia asked, finally not speaking with his mouth full.
“How am I supposed to know?” Fugo snapped, glaring at the boy across from him. “It listed her as next of kin, there was no family tree on the fucking medical chart, you idio—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Bucciarati put his hand out to stop any further insult or injury between the boys. “I’ll get in touch with Luca and invite him for lunch tomorrow. We’ll ask him more about this Adrina woman. He was a wreck earlier; he must’ve just forgot to mention her.”
“Sure,” Abbacchio muttered. Either Bucciarati didn’t hear him or ignored him.
☆
True to his word, Bucciarati invited Luca around for lunch the next day, sans the younger boys. Bucciarati claimed he didn’t want them around, acting their normal teenage selves, while Luca was still hurting. In some ways, it made sense, but it led Abbacchio to question why Bucciarati had still silently requested his presence, not bothering to let him know that he’d relieved Mista, Narancia, and Fugo until Abbacchio showed up for lunch.
The second the kid sat down across from Bucciarati, he’d instructed him to order whatever he wanted off the menu, free of charge. As disgruntled as Abbacchio was about working this job, he had to admit that there was something about Bucciarati’s compassion that was endearing. Despite his position in Passione, and at such a young age for that matter, he never lost whatever it was that made him human. Abbacchio wasn’t sure if he should’ve been envious or smitten, or maybe a mix of the two.
“Do you mind if we ask you some questions Luca?” Bucciarati asked over his glass of water once their food arrived, looking at the kid with a gentleness in his eyes.
Luca shrugged and nodded, looking down at his plate of spaghetti. He hadn’t made much eye contact since he’d sat down; Abbacchio assumed it was because they didn’t want him to see his bloodshot, tear-filled, eyes. He remembered being fourteen (it wasn’t that long ago), there was nothing he’d hated more back then than someone catching him crying. Hell, he still wasn’t too crazy about it.
Bucciarati looked at Abbacchio like he was waiting for him to ask the questions. Abbacchio lifted a brow, unaware that he’d be leading the investigation (if that’s what this even was) here. Regardless, he cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, trying to appear more comfortable; intimidating a kid whose father was in the process of dying of an overdose wasn’t high on his list of goals.
“Your father’s next of kin was listed as a woman named Adrina Moretti,” Abbacchio stated. At the woman’s name Luca looked up from his plate of spaghetti, eyes wide and filled with pain, anger, or maybe both. “Who is she?”
Luca was quiet a moment, his gaze going from Abbacchio to Bucciarati, back down to his plate of noodles. “She’s… she’s my mom,” he responded in a shaky voice. “I haven’t… we don’t really…”
“I understand,” Bucciarati responded, giving Luca a gentle nod. “Tell us about her.”
Luca looked up from the table again, the sadness in his eyes flashing into something definitely angrier, if only for a second. The grip on his fork became tight, his knuckles going white, his other hand trembling on the table where it sat. Abbacchio was surprised by the reaction, not expecting so much rage from the teary-eyed kid who he’d seen only a couple moments ago. However, within a second or two, Luca took a deep breath and dropped his fork, bringing his shaky hand up to wipe at his eyes. Abbacchio couldn’t tell if he was more angry than sad the longer he watched him.
“We all lived together until I was five, but then things got… bad, and they broke up,” Luca started, his voice sounding strained, like his jaw was too tight as he spoke. “They never officially got a divorce. I don’t know why. But mom left and… I never really saw her after that. Only Christmas and birthdays, but only at first, then… nothing. It’s just been me and dad these last nine years.”
“I see,” Bucciarati responded. Abbacchio was sitting right next to him, yet his voice sounded far off. Not unlike Luca, Bucciarati’s hand was trembling, though he hid his under the table. Abbacchio had the urge to grab his hand, to tangle their fingers together and calm his nervous fidgeting, but he stopped himself. Instead he just turned his gaze onto Bucciarati, hoping for some clue as to why the story about Luca’s mother had bothered him so much.
“Why are you asking me about my mother, anyways?” Luca asked, placing his fork down on the table. “The only reason she’s dad’s emergency contact, or next of kin, or whatever, is because he never changed it. He never got sick, and like I said they never officially got divorced, so there was no point in changing it.” Luca paused a moment, looking back and forth between the gangsters sitting across him again. Abbacchio wondered how intimidating they really looked, him slouching down to try and appear smaller than he really was and Bucciarati fidgeting under the table, treating Luca like a lost puppy he’d found on the street. “You… you don’t think she did this to my dad, do you?”
Abbacchio opened his mouth to say something along the lines of maybe, because if there was one thing he’d learned as a cop (other than that the whole system was fucking broken), was that it was almost always the spouse. Or the ex-spouse, in this case. Before he could speak, though, Bucciarati gave Luca a soft smile, all the compassion in the world resting in his soft features. “We don’t know yet, Luca. But we’re going to keep looking into this. We won’t stop until we find out who did this to your dad, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Luca responded, giving what Abbacchio assumed was his best attempt of a smile. “Are you gonna talk to my mom?”
Bucciarati gave Abbacchio a look, like he was looking for approval, even though he didn’t need it. Abbacchio just nodded and crossed his legs, wishing for this conversation to be over sooner rather than later. “Yeah, we will,” he answered, turning back to Luca. “Don’t worry about what we’re doing right now, Luca. Just worry about yourself, okay?”
Luca took a deep breath and averted his eyes from Bucciarati. “Easier said than done.”
Bucciarati sighed, a sad noise that made Abbacchio frown. He didn’t like seeing Bucciarati like this; whatever it was about Luca, it was hitting Bucciarati harder than Abbacchio expected it to. “I know.”