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His big bro was spending a lot more time with the squad leader these days.
At first Pesci thought nothing of it — if Prosciutto never brought it up, then of course he should presume that nothing was out of the ordinary. Besides, Prosciutto was the second in command. Meeting up with Risotto to discuss missions and important business for the sake of the team, that much was to be expected. But once Pesci was curious about something, he just couldn’t rest without getting some sort of closure or answer. Was Prosciutto in trouble? Was their team in trouble?
It made his tummy all rumbly just thinking about it.
“Pesci, Pesci, Pesci,” Prosciutto grabbed his shoulder and squeezed firmly. “What are you still doing here? I told you to go home already.”
They had just finished a meeting with the whole squad and one by one, everyone filtered out of the room and retired for the night. Pesci and Prosciutto were the last to leave, their leader Risotto silently tending to paperwork in his office.
“B-but, what about you, big bro?”
“I have some unfinished business, just some paperwork.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You should get going.”
Pesci frowned slightly, and then that itching curiosity was bubbling up and turning his stomach again.
“Y-you stay late a lot these days, big bro. I just worry about you.”
For a moment there was something soft in Prosciutto’s eyes, but just as quickly, he flickered back to his tightly kempt, hardened expression.
“Pesci, it’s work. Stop worrying so much, it makes you look like such a mammoni . You should go home, get some rest.”
It was rare that Pesci ever disobeyed Prosciutto’s orders.
His first instinct was to follow Prosciutto, and to listen to him — Prosciutto was a very assertive person. He walked with purpose and grace, always taking long, powerful strides. Prosciutto had a commanding presence, standing tall and nonchalant, his hair pulled in a series of meticulous little buns on the back of his head, with the kind of strict precision that perfectly reflected his personality. There was intentionality in the way he moved and spoke. And his cold, hard efficiency was visible in the way he acted. That coldblooded mentality was crucial for their line of work.
Prosciutto had years of experience in Passione under his belt, and it showed. But perhaps the thing that his subordinate Pesci had come to admire him for above all else was his surprisingly patient, caring side. Sure, it gave Pesci emotional whiplash to be berated for his shortcomings before suddenly being complimented and acknowledged for his strengths. Maybe there was a method to that madness, how Prosciutto could scold and praise his subordinates at the same time. It definitely motivated Pesci to do better. Prosciutto believing in him, despite his flaws and failures, was really encouraging.
And so Pesci didn’t pry or question, he didn’t press his big bro any more than that.
“Okay, big bro, if you say so.” Pesci finally answered, throwing a look back at Risotto’s closed office door.
It could just be his imagination. Maybe he was being paranoid after all, reading too much into it.
It was curious. Pesci only happened to notice because he worked so closely with Prosciutto, but during their team gatherings, they sat together. Risotto and Prosciutto.
The first few times they sat together, Pesci reasoned that the seating arrangement reflected their positions in the team — the squad leader and his second in command. It wasn’t strange. And Pesci would stop staring, when Prosciutto yelled at him to stop staring.
It was curious that no one else seemed to catch it, but Pesci could tell when his big bro was acting differently. It was subtle, the way they sat together, their legs touching, knees brushing against one another. Risotto was a very stoic and reserved person, only speaking when necessary, a blank yet severe expression always on his face. He was impossible to read. Or so Pesci thought. In these few, fleeting moments, he could catch the softer mood lingering between them, how the air felt lighter, almost buoyant. There was the slightest lift in the corner of Risotto’s mouth, the slightest suggestion of a smile. Pesci almost choked on his glass of milk.
Maybe something good happened?
The team was deep in conversation. Risotto had finished announcing their next mission and assigning roles, sending Sorbet and Gelato for reconnaissance and intel. After that, the conversation quickly shifted to yet another one of Ghiaccio’s rants, this time on maps and their inconsistencies. Melone, fearlessly, chimed in to let him know that maps were written and drawn by different people and countries, and sometimes these things, borders and names, were ultimately subjective. Of course Ghiaccio loved that response and flew into a rage. Illuso always retreated inside a mirror and Formaggio always burst into laughter whenever Ghiaccio tried to strangle Melone for being such a smartass.
Everything was normal, and it gave Pesci a sense of comfort how it felt like their deadly oddball team had its own routine sometimes. When he shot a glimpse at his big bro, he was shaking his blond head at the commotion, as usual, and placing a cigarette between his lips.
Prosciutto pulled a lighter out of his pocket, but instead of lighting the cigarette himself, he handed the lighter to Risotto.
The lighter flickered alive, Risotto bringing the flame just centimeters away from Prosciutto’s face. He watched Prosciutto’s eyelashes fall against his cheek, the cigarette resting just barely on his lips, between his teeth. There was trust in the way Prosciutto closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the lighter flame on his face. Risotto said nothing, watching him carefully, almost tenderly, as he lit the cigarette for him.
Then, without missing a beat, Risotto slipped the lighter back into Prosciutto’s pocket.
His hand was in Prosciutto’s pocket for only a second, but for some reason it seemed different, special almost, like a secret exchange. Their expressions were unreadable, not even sparing the other person a glance.
Pesci didn’t know what to think of it.
The few times they celebrated their victories together as a team, clinking glasses and pouring bottles of wine, everyone was more uninhibited and much louder than usual. Sorbet and Gelato were belting out songs, swaying with an arm around each other. Melone was dancing obnoxiously on the table, which was sticky with spilled wine that they only wiped halfheartedly. Ghiaccio was jumping off the walls for about ten minutes before passing out with the spilled — now empty — glass of wine in his hand. Illuso found everything hilarious, crying with laughter, and then held his stomach from laughing so hard. Formaggio was attempting to breakdance on the floor, almost knocking Illuso down from where he was curling over with laughter.
Of course Pesci joined the festivities, but he would only drink maybe two glasses of wine, preferably the sweet kind, because he typically didn’t drink as much as the others. Ever since he had gotten so sick and emptied himself right there on the carpet in their squad meeting room, he’d been too embarrassed to get that drunk ever again. It had since been cleaned and now the coffee table always covered that spot in the carpet, but Pesci worried that his coworkers would hold it against him forever. And he’d hate to disappoint his big bro for not being able to handle his liquor.
Prosciutto was also louder than normal whenever he had alcohol in his system. Depending on his mood, Prosciutto could have been singing with Sorbet and Gelato — off-key — or dancing with Formaggio and Melone. He could have been yelling and trying to restrain everyone, or he could have been brooding over his glass and making cynical remarks about Passione or maybe society in general. Prosciutto was a bit of a wild card when he drank.
This was the first time Pesci had ever seen Prosciutto being flirty after drinking. Maybe this was a type of inebriated Prosciutto that only his lovers ever saw. It was surprisingly unflattering to see him act like this.
Right now Prosciutto was putting the moves on their squad leader, who was seated silently at the table that Melone was dancing on. Prosciutto had one arm snaking around Risotto’s shoulders, while his other hand playfully poked at Risotto’s partially exposed chest, drawing little circles with his index finger.
It should have been a sign that Risotto wasn’t opposed to this behavior, especially when he smiled , but Pesci was a little distracted fighting off the dizziness that he almost forgot he saw the stoic Risotto smile.
Prosciutto was always composed, maybe a little too tightly wound sometimes, that this type of behavior coming from him was a little embarrassing to watch. It was entertaining to see him say cheesy lines and make kissy faces, but after five minutes, it became more and more painful.
He called Risotto different names. Some distinguishable ones between his slurred words were “bello” and “cucciolo mio” which Pesci desperately wished someone else heard too. Calling Risotto handsome was one thing, but a puppy! “My puppy,” to be exact.
Now Pesci didn’t recall ever witnessing Risotto act like a dog, maybe except for the fact that he was obedient and fulfilled his missions. Did Risotto act like a dog with his big bro? How would that even work?
It would be nice to have a giant dog, Pesci thought randomly. Such a big dog would make him feel safe, and cuddling would probably feel really amazing. Was that what his big bro meant? About their squad leader?
Pesci felt woozy just imagining it. But maybe it was the booze making his head hurt.
Next thing he knew, Prosciutto had already pulled away from Risotto and was dancing oddly, or well, he was mostly swaying, making gestures at Risotto with a mischievous grin on his face. It was probably an invitation to dance together, but Risotto was as stiff as can be, as far as anyone knew.
Pesci had to wipe his eyes again and again, his head feeling heavy with the wine, but he squinted and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t imagining this.
Their squad leader had risen from his chair and actually joined Prosciutto’s weird dance. Everyone was too dazed and preoccupied with themselves to notice the scene unfold. They were holding hands, Risotto and Prosciutto, swinging together, like an old couple. It was oddly affectionate, how they laughed together as they swayed. It was strangely sweet, hearing the snorting laughter of his big bro as Risotto raised his hand above him and he spun. And then Prosciutto tried to reciprocate, raising his arm as high as he could, just so Risotto could crouch under it and spin in a circle. It was a sight to behold.
For some reason, seeing them dance together like this made Pesci feel really sentimental.
He cried.
It was curious. Sometimes missions didn’t go smoothly, and someone on their team would get injured. Given their dangerous occupation, it was not a rare occurrence. Accomplishing a mission unscathed was almost never the outcome. Their targets weren’t always harmless civilians. And even if they were, they could hire bodyguards or stand-users. Ultimately, their job as hitmen was always to dance with death. Their enemies could and would do a number on them.
Unfortunately, their team didn’t really have a medic, nor could they afford one. And they could never stroll into the hospital with their inexplicable wounds without garnering unneeded attention, let alone be able to pay the price of the hospital visit.
Nevertheless, it was nothing short of a miracle that everyone in their squad was in one piece, surviving and dodging fatal blows and tragic ends, hiding their scars under their clothes. Everyone still had their fair share of close calls, though.
One such case with Prosciutto.
They were sent on a stealth mission to take out a traitor to Passione who was selling information to another gang. Pesci’s big bro was usually a perfect match for these stealth missions. Honing his skills with the Grateful Dead, Prosciutto could single out the target and simply shake their hand or tap their shoulder, bringing them down quietly in a relatively peaceful yet untimely death, leaving a wrinkly old corpse in his wake. It could hardly be called a murder, perhaps a form of cruel fate, that the victim had passed so suddenly.
However, that wasn’t the case this time. Their target had hidden in a public crowd, where it was unwise to use the Grateful Dead or Pesci’s Beach Boys, not without causing a scene. If they didn’t pinpoint their target’s exact location and used their stands recklessly, they would not only expose themselves, but their own stand abilities.
It was a plaza, countless footsteps pattering against tile and stone, the air filled with chatter and trivial conversations. They were already in the middle of the crowd, mid-chase, but there was something that didn’t sit right with Prosciutto. It felt like they were being watched, despite being surrounded by civilians. And then it dawned on him — an ambush was waiting for them among the crowd. Realizing this was a trap all along, Prosciutto ordered Pesci to fall back.
Of course Pesci did as he was told.
As he retreated, frantically looking behind him for his big bro, it was then that Pesci heard a round of gunshots. The crowd screamed and scattered at the sound.
Everything blurred together, as if time had somehow sped up and slowed down all at once. Pesci could no longer distinguish the terrified faces running by him, feeling people push and shove past him. Pesci tried to be confident, tried to tell himself that his big bro was the one that fired. But when the civilians cleared out, shrieking and running away in a panic, their target and his lackeys disappearing with them, only a single body remained on the ground.
Red bloomed across his tailored suit, dark red stains covering the pattern of the fabric. Splatters of red decorated the pavement under his body, lying there, limp and lifeless.
When they arrived back at their squad base, Pesci was a mess of tears and snot, while his big bro was a mess of blood and exhaustion. The only ones who were present at the time were Illuso, Ghiaccio, and Risotto, who all rushed to their side. Pesci placed his big bro on the sofa, where he stifled his groans of pain.
“What happened?” Illuso asked.
“Was it the enemy? Were you followed?” Ghiaccio almost snarled when he turned around and yelled, “PESCI, STOP CRYING! Your whining isn’t helping!”
“S-sorry…”
Pesci could hardly focus on the scene, his tears blurring the view and the sound of his choked sobs overpowering the commotion around his big bro.
“We were ambushed in a public crowd.” Prosciutto spoke, his breathing ragged. His voice sounded more gravelly than normal, like it was hard for him to breathe. “No, we weren’t followed.”
Unsurprisingly, Prosciutto took the injuries very well, mustering up the strength to properly report the details of the situation and issuing orders to Illuso and Ghiaccio. Illuso would retrieve the first aid kit, his footsteps resounding down the hall, while Ghiaccio summoned White Album and carefully iced the parts that were the most unbearable.
Prosciutto unbuttoned his own shirt, revealing the few gunshot wounds on his abdomen. Their enemy had narrowly missed his chest, probably due to the bustling crowd, firing three just in case and missing each time. Prosciutto would laugh at their terrible aim if it didn’t hurt so much. Instead, he settled for a lopsided smirk.
Risotto extracted the bullets with Metallica, silently and efficiently. Afterwards, he used a damp towel to clean the dried blood. Ghiaccio gradually released White Album’s ice.
When Illuso returned with the first aid kit, Prosciutto sewed and patched himself up. His manicured eyebrows were scrunched at the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth, but there was fierce determination in his eyes.
Once he finished, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief, dropping his head against a pillow that Pesci tucked under him. A few stray strands of his hair escaped his ties, sticking to his forehead.
At Risotto’s command, Illuso and Ghiaccio filed out in pursuit of that same target, while Risotto stepped out to make a phone call, leaving Pesci and his big bro alone for a moment.
“Are you alright, Pesci?” He rasped out.
Startled at the call of his name, Pesci jumped and scrambled to Prosciutto’s side.
“Yes, I’m totally fine, big bro! You should be worrying about yourself, not me…”
Prosciutto reached a hand towards Pesci, shaky with the exertion of effort, then grabbed Pesci’s yellow overcoat. He yanked down with every ounce of power in his body and pulled Pesci towards his own face, a severity in his dark blue eyes.
“You should never snivel, Pesci. Bawling your eyes out like that—you’re such a mammoni. You have to be calm, rational, strong, patient. You have to make sure you never let your emotions get in the way of the mission, Pesci. We lost our target.”
“I-I’m really sorry, big bro! But I was worried about you…you were barely breathing and there was blood all over you, and, and you got shot—!” Pesci blathered, almost whimpering.
Prosciutto’s grip tightened.
“The mission always comes first, Pesci!” He yelled, his fist wrinkling the fabric of Pesci’s overcoat.
Pesci flinched and apologized profusely, his face all sweaty and streaked with dried up tears and snot. Prosciutto paused and hissed at the pain in his abdomen, all wrapped up in bandages now, and his grip loosened.
“I’m sorry, big bro, I’m sorry!” Pesci wailed. “I failed the mission!”
Prosciutto sighed and moved his hand to touch Pesci’s face instead. It was uncomfortably warm and clammy under his touch. The look in his eyes softened.
“You were smart and careful to bring me back here without being followed, Pesci. You might’ve been a bawling mess the whole time, but I could’ve bled to death out there if you hadn’t carried me back. You showed excellent focus and determination, and those are important skills to have. You should always remember that.”
“Big bro…”
And just like that, Prosciutto huffed and pushed him away.
“Get me a glass of water, will you? My throat is killing me.”
Pesci nodded enthusiastically and hobbled off towards the kitchen. He heard the door open and the familiar jingle of their leader’s peculiar hat as he walked around the corner, opening the kitchen cabinet for a glass suitable for his big bro. The voices in the room next door spoke softly, but Pesci could still hear them if he listened carefully enough.
“What’s that face?” Prosciutto sneered. “Are you pitying me?”
There was no audible answer.
“I know, I know, that was a poor performance. Probably going on my record, right?” Prosciutto hesitated, and there was a long silence that followed.
And then, in a grimly mocking tone, he smiled bitterly.
“Maybe it would’ve been better if I ended there.”
Pesci almost dropped the glass. His heart was suddenly throbbing, ready to leap out of his chest. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It must have been a joke, the cynical and dry-humored kind. Pesci fumbled with the glass as he filled it with water, his hands all sweaty and nervous.
It was silent for a while, with no noise coming from the other room. Whether or not Risotto had moved, Pesci was unable to tell from the silence. Risotto moved deliberately, with intent, shrouded in mystery. Pesci could only hear himself gulp in the still air. He wondered if he was allowed to walk back into that room, but his feet felt too heavy.
There was a strained voice then, from Prosciutto, and he sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
When there was no answer, he kept going, his tone genuine and self-reproachful.
“I let him get away.”
Pesci finally heard Risotto’s deep voice when he answered.
“But you’re alive.”
There were some sounds of movement in the room, Risotto’s footsteps, their voices closer together, the shuffle of fabric. After a moment, Prosciutto scoffed, but he was grinning.
“You’re surprisingly sentimental. You’re not going to cry, are you?”
The curiosity for a sentimental Risotto got the better of Pesci — that, and to finally deliver his big bro’s glass of water — when he finally returned to the room. Risotto was standing beside Prosciutto, and for a second Pesci saw a retreating hand, right by his big bro’s head.
Pesci noticed that the loose strands of hair on Prosciutto’s face were swept aside, tucked behind his ear. Did Risotto do that?
“Pesci! You finally got the water. What took you so long?” Prosciutto’s voice brought him back, taking the glass from his nervous hands.
He could feel the side-glance from Risotto. Those intimidating red eyes could bore holes right through him. Pesci was getting goosebumps. Still, Pesci couldn’t shake the feeling that Risotto was grateful for what he’d done, bringing his big bro back here to get treated. It would help if Risotto actually thanked him, but that was probably asking for too much.
Instead, Pesci felt a reassuring pat on his back.
When he looked up at Risotto, there was sincere gratitude in his smile.
For some high-stake missions requiring the whole squad, they would formulate a plan and split into smaller groups to pursue the target. It was the most frustrating when their hit was a moving target, especially if they managed to secure transportation that had already taken off, because even their stands couldn’t make them teleport.
Well, in those cases, the hitman team would take different forms of transportation and perform a pincer attack. Sorbet and Gelato were their intel, working from a distance and providing crucial informational support for the team. Illuso and Formaggio took the train, purposely arriving first, while Melone took his motorbike and Ghiaccio drove a car, to arrive next. They would flank the enemy, and closing up the rear were Prosciutto and Pesci, followed by their squad leader Risotto.
Pesci found it a little curious that Risotto would suggest traveling with him and his big bro, without telling the rest of the squad. It was a little suspect, especially because it would present a more liable situation, having three in one car. But Pesci could never question the squad leader’s decisions, even if it did kind of feel like he made this decision for what seemed like his own self-interest, or at least more personal reasons.
Apparently, it was because they could only afford to rent one car.
Prosciutto and Risotto were packing the trunk with their belongings.
Pesci had stuffed his backpack with clean clothes and underwear, as well as some packaged candies for the long ride, and took his bag into the back seat with him. He was already strapped in, craning his head around to see the opened car trunk blocking his view of the leader and his big bro.
There was a tiny gap, though, right between the trunk door and the rest of the car. Pesci had to duck a little to be able to see through it, but he could tell the figures of the two standing. He could hear their muffled voices, some light chuckles.
For a moment, Pesci thought he saw their hands touching or maybe Risotto slipping his hand around Prosciutto, his fingertips brushing against his waist, but then his hand suddenly changed direction and returned to his side.
Pesci could hear them faintly, Risotto poking fun at the sheer amount Prosciutto preferred to pack when traveling. The mission was a three-day endeavor, but his big bro had packed enough to last him a week. He was also very meticulous about how he packed his things, using a fine leather bag, a small suitcase, as well as a duffel bag. The contents were undisclosed to even Pesci, but he had to assume Prosciutto’s nice suits were all pressed and tucked inside garment protector bags, beside rows of socks and sock garters. Maybe there was a more dangerous reason that Prosciutto was so private about his possessions, and maybe it was smart of him not to divulge that information, or maybe it really was just his personal preference.
Whatever the case may be, his big bro was angrily trying to fit them all in the trunk, while Risotto teased and chastised him. Their luggage could barely fit in the trunk together, but Pesci could probably fit one more bag in the seat next to him.
Pesci reached for the window roller handle, manually rolling his window down.
“I can fit one more bag in here, big bro!”
The struggle at the trunk stopped, and he could hear Prosciutto click his tongue in frustration. He angrily slammed the car trunk shut and came around to Pesci’s window, tossing his leather bag inside and onto Pesci’s lap.
“Be careful with that bag, you got that, Pesci?”
“Y-yeah, of course, big bro!”
Prosciutto settled into the passenger seat and Risotto slid into the driver seat next to him, adjusting and readjusting the seat because he was such a giant and every position was kind of uncomfortable for him. Pesci could see his big bro roll his eyes in the side mirror, rolling his window down a crack as he stuck a cigarette into his mouth.
It was silent for most of the drive. The radio wasn’t working, and no one had thought to bring any CDs or cassette tapes. Their destination was Gioia Tauro, a port city in Southern Italy, a vital meeting point and drop-off location for Passione’s trade routes and supply chains. Their squad was to intercept their target from his unscrupulous business deals selling Passione’s own supply to other dealers overseas. The drive would take about five hours from Naples, so there was plenty of time to spare on the road.
Only fifteen minutes in, and Pesci was getting bored. At first, he was tempted to suggest playing parlor games to pass the time, but his big bro was very quick to reject that idea before he could even finish suggesting it. Although it was definitely worth noting that Risotto was willing to humor him and play along, if his big bro didn’t shoot that down too. Pesci would never call Prosciutto a party pooper, but he was sure that Melone and Formaggio would.
Sighing, Pesci looked outside his window, admiring the scenery. As they drove out of the city and into the Southern Italian countryside, the landscape transformed into stretches of lush vineyards and farmland, thriving in the slightly warmer climate. The colors of the land and sky slowly blurred together as they drove.
Within an hour or two, Pesci could feel his eyelids growing heavy, his consciousness slipping away as he drifted off to sleep.
When Pesci woke up, his vision blurry, he rubbed his eyes and blinked at his surroundings.
It was dark. When they had first left, it was late in the afternoon. Pesci must have missed the sunset.
They were at a gas station in the middle of nowhere and Pesci was the only one inside the car. Prosciutto was filling the tank with gas, leaning against the car and puffing at another cigarette as he waited. Pesci wondered where Risotto was, when the man himself emerged from the local store with two cups of coffee, a box of cigarettes, and a bottle of milk.
Pesci didn’t know why but he pretended to be asleep, listening to Risotto’s approaching footsteps as he walked up to the car. Risotto briefly opened the car door and placed the bottle of milk in the cup holder. Pesci thanked him in his head, trying not to smile.
Then Risotto walked up to his big bro and handed him the box of cigarettes and a fresh cup of coffee. Prosciutto responded with a “grazie” and they fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their coffees under the bright fluorescent lighting.
“Once we’ve completed this mission, would you want to take a detour on our way back?” Risotto asked suddenly, in that deep syrupy voice.
Prosciutto snorted.
“A detour?”
“Yes. It’s a little less than an hour drive to Villa San Giovanni from Gioia Tauro.” Risotto continued, seriously, almost monotonously, but not quite. There was earnest sincerity in his voice, excitement maybe. “We could take a ferry to Messina from there.”
Prosciutto almost choked on his coffee, coughing before regaining his composure, chuckling.
“Messina? You want to go to Sicily ? What’s this detour supposed to be—a trip back home?”
Pesci could hear his big bro burst in a fit of laughter. It took a moment for Pesci to realize that it was Risotto who must be from Sicily, the island at the tip of the Italian boot, because he knew Prosciutto hailed from Northern Italy. Not that his big bro ever told stories about his past or anything, because Prosciutto was a very private person. It was definitely news to Pesci to hear about Risotto’s allegedly Sicilian background, though. He basically knew nothing about their squad leader. Not his stand abilities, not his age, and certainly not his past.
Hmm, now that he thought about it, Pesci had never been to Sicily before. If they ever brought this up again when Pesci wasn’t pretending to sleep, he wouldn’t mind making this detour.
“Kind of,” Risotto answered him. “I haven’t been to Sicily since I left. And I never planned to go back, but there are a few places I want to show you. You’ve asked me about my hometown before, and I thought it would be better to take you there instead. We’re already this far south.”
“You’re serious?” Prosciutto laughed incredulously. “Maybe all the driving is getting to your head. I can drive the rest of the way. You should take the passenger seat and sleep it off. You sound insane.”
Pesci felt his heart racing in his chest. He desperately wanted to open his eyes, sneak a peek at their expressions, even though their faces probably weren’t visible from this angle — they were both pretty tall, anyhow — but his whole body burned with curiosity.
Just a little wouldn’t hurt, Pesci thought, trying to open one eye discreetly, the tiniest crack. He propped one arm over his head, like he was adjusting his sleeping position, covering his face a little better.
Only their torsos and below were visible, but it was better than nothing, Pesci supposed. They both held their coffee in one hand, while Prosciutto’s other hand held his cigarette. He was just about finished with it, tossing it to the ground and grinding it into the dirt under his foot.
“I am serious. We could fly back to Naples from Sicily. The flight’s only an hour. If we time it correctly, we could spend some time in Sicily and still make it back without raising suspicion that we’d gone there in the first place.” Risotto reasoned, speaking with clarity. “A detour.”
Prosciutto was quiet.
Pesci kind of expected his big bro to blow up at the expenses of such a self-indulgent trip. No matter how much fun it sounded, the costs would only add up — ferry rides, plane tickets, restaurant bills — and that would raise suspicion. Besides, Risotto had explicitly told him before they left Naples that the only reason they were even traveling together in the first place was because they could only afford to rent one car, so how could they possibly afford this charming little detour?
But his big bro didn’t blow up. He was just standing there, quietly.
For a moment, Pesci almost lost himself in his imagination. A vacation in Sicily, not worrying about work, soaking in the warm sunlight and enjoying a relaxing day on the beach. What a dream, to not have to worry about money or life and death, because that was their daily life as Passione’s hitman team. Pesci thought they could use a vacation.
“Sounds nice.” Prosciutto finally said, hesitating.
It seemed like he wanted to say more, maybe, but he decided against it and didn’t press any further.
“You’re a bit of a hopeless romantic, you know that?”
Risotto offered a small smile and then looked off into the distance, taking a sip of his coffee.
“In my hometown, the ocean at night reflects all the stars in the sky, and it looks like the world stretches on forever. When I was younger, I thought I could touch the stars in the water.”
The gas pump had been done for a while now, and Prosciutto was unhooking the nozzle from the tank and putting it back on its pedestal.
“You sound like a gullible kid. You didn’t drown reaching for the stars, did you?”
“No,” Risotto finished the remainder of his coffee and tossed it in the bin. “But it’s the first thing I would want to show you.”
Prosciutto followed suit, downing the rest of his coffee and tossing the paper cup.
“Alright, that’s enough of your little detour getaway. It’s way out of our budget anyway. Are you driving, or should I? You could probably use some shut-eye. You’re kind of delirious with all this talk.”
“I’ll drive.” Risotto sighed, opening the car door, then slid into the driver’s seat. “The seat’s already adjusted for me.”
With a nonchalant shrug, Prosciutto walked around the car and slipped into the passenger seat.
“Maybe you should get some rest instead.” Risotto suggested. They both buckled in and Risotto started the engine. “I want you to reconsider.”
“You are out of your mind, Nero.” Prosciutto chuckled. “Just drive, will you?”
“I told you I was serious.”
“Yeah, I can tell you put too much thought into this.” There was a hint of a smile sitting on his lips.
They slowly pulled out of the gas station, their car lights leaving streaks behind them.
Pesci wasn’t even sure if this hypothetical trip to Sicily was as a party of three, but he still hoped that his big bro would agree to take that detour.
Pesci just could not fight the curiosity.
He needed to confront his big bro about this once and for all. Prosciutto had always deftly dodged the question, but Pesci would get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing he did. The relationship between the leader and his big bro was something special, whatever it was, and it was driving him crazy.
“I know you say I worry too much, big bro, but I just can’t help it. I noticed you and the leader spend a lot of time together. You act differently with each other, and it just feels like, like you’re hiding something, or that you don’t trust me? I-I care about you a lot, big bro, and I want you to be happy. You can be honest with me.” Pesci paused, his heart pounding. “Are you and the leader…are y-y-you and the leader…!”
His own reflection stared back at him, his face tomato red.
Pesci was rehearsing in front of a mirror. He already made sure Illuso wasn’t inside the mirror, checking the other room where Illuso was flipping through a magazine on the sofa at least twenty times, before rehearsing his little speech. Pesci had already embarrassed himself by doing that once before. He made some confessions to the mirror without realizing Illuso was in it, biting back his laughter, because Pesci was a wholesome guy who felt guilty about stepping on a cat’s tail and genuinely wanted to apologize for his actions.
Besides, this speech he was practicing in the mirror concerned secrets that the rest of the hitman team potentially didn’t know about, so Pesci needed to tread carefully. This was his big bro and their squad leader’s reputations at stake here. And if Pesci’s suspicions were unfounded after all, then who knew how humiliating it would be for him, making these assumptions about his big bro and the squad leader.
Eventually, after memorizing his speech and giving himself a pep talk, Pesci felt he had built up enough confidence and walked outside, where his big bro should be waiting for him. The door led out to a shady alley and a series of intersecting streets. At first, Pesci often got lost without someone to follow through the maze of narrow streets to the squad’s designated meeting spot. Now, Pesci knew his way around, and he was sure his big bro was strolling down one of these streets, because he would never loiter too close to the entrance.
Some of these streets had overhanging vines, casting leaf-shaped shadows on the ground, while others had hanging clotheslines draped across balconies and windows. Most of the buildings were made of stone, charmingly worn out as the chipped paint revealed their age. Some greenery even adorned the walls, vines climbing up and down. Pesci almost felt too comfortable, recognizing what stores and cafes were in which streets.
After spending enough time together, Pesci learned that his big bro preferred certain alleys. One had a cafe that Prosciutto liked, and another had a boutique and a tailor that he’d visit every now and then. Pesci tried walking down each street, searching for that unique hairstyle and swaggering walk, when his eyes fell on a familiar giant wearing a funny hat.
What was their leader doing here?
This was the street with the cafe that Prosciutto liked. Their espresso suited his tastes and he had a complementary slice of tiramisu once for being their hundredth customer on the day of the cafe’s anniversary or something. It was a street with overhanging vines, and Prosciutto told him once that he liked the shade they provided. In the spring, flowers bloomed from the window boxes, petals falling to the stone pavement.
Pesci almost walked up to Risotto, but when he took another step forward, he caught sight of his big bro standing next to him. Pesci stopped right in his tracks. He couldn’t hear them from this distance, but he could see them pretty clearly.
Risotto was reaching up and removing a petal that had landed on Prosciutto’s head. His hand moved slowly, hovering, fingers just barely caressing Prosciutto’s face as he lowered his hand.
When he released the petal, it fluttered below in downward circles, joining the other fallen petals scattered all over the ground. Risotto’s hand lingered by his side, drifting towards Prosciutto’s own hand. Even from this angle, at this distance, Pesci could tell his big bro found Risotto’s hesitation entertaining. Their fingers brushed against one another tentatively, and it was Prosciutto that finally laced his fingers through his own, squeezing his hand.
The expression on Risotto’s face was indescribable, though if Pesci had to describe it, he would say their squad leader was tickled pink.
It was the first time he’d ever seen Risotto make a face like that.
Now that he thought about it, maybe he was seeing something he shouldn’t be. Was this an invasion of privacy? But, they were in public? So maybe this wasn’t meant to be private?
But Prosciutto and Risotto had never held hands like that before. Well, they pretty much never held hands at all, but this just felt different — special. Pesci felt guilty anyway, like he was spying on them, even though he wasn’t doing it on purpose. His heart was racing in his chest, pounding so loudly, he was sure they could hear it.
Suddenly, as if right on cue, their heads turned in his direction.
He’d been caught. They caught him snooping.
“Pesci.” It was his big bro’s voice, stern and unwavering.
This was the end.
Pesci felt his lower lip begin to tremble.
The two were approaching him now, hand in hand.
But Pesci was too panicked to care about their intertwined hands. He wanted to run, but his feet felt heavy, as though his obligation towards his big bro and his sense of duty towards the squad leader had glued his feet to the ground. Petrified with fear, Pesci could feel himself sweating bullets. His clothes were sticking warmly to his body.
“Pesci.” His big bro repeated, now standing in front of him. He was still holding Risotto’s hand, while his other was in his pants pocket.
He needed to say something. His hands felt so clammy, he was so nervous.
“Y-yeah, big bro?”
“Why are you standing back here?” Prosciutto seemed less than impressed, eyeing the corner that Pesci had been ducking behind. “You look so suspicious.”
Risotto stood silently at his side, his glowering red eyes as scary as ever. He seemed otherwise harmless, though, especially with his hand in Prosciutto’s, he seemed…giddy even.
“Um, well, I…”
Pesci wasn’t sure how to go about telling them that he’d rehearsed a speech for his big bro, not for the both of them. And it didn’t seem like a good idea to start spouting his memorized lines when it sort of looked like he was spying on them just now. Pesci felt so unprepared. Everything was all messed up and different from what he expected. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!
“You’re mumbling, Pesci. Speak up.” Prosciutto narrowed his eyes.
Pesci lowered his gaze to the ground.
“Y-you’re…holding hands…”
Prosciutto raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, and?”
“Um…” Pesci reluctantly raised his head, his eyes nervously darting between them, trying to gauge their moods with a quick glance at their expressions. “I-I don’t know, it feels like you and the leader…um…”
It was hard to distinguish their expressions. Risotto’s face was essentially blank. It had taken years for Pesci to learn how to discern when the squad leader’s expression changed, because he was always so reserved and calculated. Risotto’s face seemed to only have varying degrees of severity, while Prosciutto tended to fluctuate between calm and collected, infuriated, and occasionally snarky. Right now those heavy-lidded blue eyes were relentless.
Pesci swallowed the lump in his throat. He wiped his clammy hands on his pants, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
“It feels like y-you…really l-l-like each other…” Pesci stared at the ground. “I noticed you act differently with each other, and, and it’s really special and I…I’m really happy for you…!”
He said it.
It was so quiet towards the end, almost a whisper, but he really said it! Pesci would be preening with pride for being able to say it, if not for the terrifying presence of his big bro and squad leader looming ominously over him. The weight of their gazes would’ve been enough to make Pesci fall to his knees, but his sheer willpower was keeping him on his feet. Whether or not his big bro and leader were enraged by Pesci’s words, it would all come to light soon.
This was the moment of truth.
Risotto and Prosciutto looked at each other, and then at Pesci.
A moment passed, before a hand touched Pesci on the shoulder. It seemed safe for Pesci to raise his head, so he did, not sure what to expect.
“Pesci, what are you talking about?” Prosciutto was looking at him skeptically. Pesci stared back at him with wide eyes.
“We stopped hiding it from you a while ago.” Risotto chimed in with that deep, velvety voice, his facial expression gravely serious. A second later, he softened ever so slightly. “Though we appreciate you verbalizing your support.”
Pesci blinked, unsure if he was mishearing things.
“W-what?”
His big bro let out an exasperated groan, but the tone of voice that followed was oddly sweet, maybe even embarrassed.
“You’re the only one who knows about us, Pesci. It doesn’t matter how hard we tried to hide it, you always caught on. Your intuition is really something else.”
“Yes, it’s a very valuable skill.” Risotto added.
“But you have to keep this a secret from everyone, Pesci. Understand?”
“Why?” Pesci shifted his feet.
“I don’t think they’re ready to know about us yet.” Prosciutto’s face twisted in mild disgust, imagining the kind of reactions the rest of the squad would have — especially Melone — when they did find out about them, because the members of the squad acted like a bunch of mammoni way too often for their own good. They would probably whine about being left out, make gross kissy faces at them, whoop and holler and pester them about their adventures in the bedroom, and Melone would probably ask for their DNA, because he had such a concerning obsession with trying to procreate with his stand.
Prosciutto suppressed a shudder.
“You have to keep this a secret until we say it’s okay, Pesci.”
Pesci didn’t have much of a choice, so he nodded obediently.
This whole conversation was a whirlwind of emotions for Pesci, and he was still trying to settle down. At some point, he was pretty sure Risotto and Prosciutto had complimented his intuition, and that they had put their trust in him and him alone to guard this secret. Pesci was so proud and ecstatic to have this moment, and he just wanted to cling to that praise for a little longer.
Because sooner or later, Pesci would have to break the news to them that he could not keep secrets.