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Capo Miseno, Napoli. The cerulean gulf glistens, crystalline, outside the window. Boats rock like gulls on the waves while the Procida shore beckons on the horizon. Mista opens the shutters, letting the salty air pervade his senses. It was a good idea to relocate to the coast. The city had suffocated him with memories, but the beach holds nothing but mildly annoying tourists. They’re easily avoided; Giorno doesn’t like the sand.
Giorno. He’s been on the phone for an hour now, talking to some politician. Just outside his office door, bits and pieces of the conversation can be heard, but Mista never eavesdrops. Whatever information he needs to know, Giorno will tell him after. Instead, Mista watches a pair of sparrows on the adjacent roof fight over lunch. His own stomach growls antagonistically. Giorno met with countless politicians that morning in preparation for the upcoming election, so breakfast had been sacrificed. The last week had been nonstop talk about waste disposal, industrial imports, and air pollution. Five years ago, if you had told Mista that the Napoletano crime syndicate would be spending the majority of their time cleaning up city streets, he probably would have gone back to school. Waste control seems like a poor reward for fighting assassins and a time-altering Stand user, but Giorno is insistent that Passione do its best not to contribute to the mess. They’re lucky to have him, Mista reminds himself as he sits through conference after conference. God only knows what Napoli would look like were Diavolo still in charge.
Suddenly, there’s a squeal from his waist and the Pistols jump out of his gun, singing a chorus of high-pitched Mista!’s. #5 flies up to his shoulder and bursts into tears.
“I know you guys are hungry!” Mista rolls his eyes. “We just have to wait. I promise we’ll get food after this, so just be patient!”
On cue, Giorno steps out of his office. He looks tired in ways only Mista can see, his hand reaching up to smooth the curls of his bangs, even though they look just as perfect as they always do. Five years by his side has taught Mista all of Giorno’s mannerisms, nervous ticks, bad habits (of which there are few), and pet peeves. Giorno slowly closes the door so the lock makes just the tiniest of sounds. He exhales silently through pursed lips, a breathing tool he utilizes only when they’re alone. It’s just noon, yet he’s clearly drained.
Mista stands, so Giorno turns to him and brings a hand to his hip in a futile attempt to feign composure.
“Its been a long morning,” he says. “Do you want to get lunch? I know you’re hungry.”
The Pistols all jump out at once, shouting and soaring over to buzz complaints in Giorno’s ear.
“You guys!” Mista roars, “Come back!”
Giorno doesn’t seem bothered in the least. He’s used to Mista’s Stand and merely apologizes to them with a gentle tone.
“More importantly,” Mista asserts, trying to look serious. “It’s not good for you to go this long without eating, Boss. The best way to stay alert and keep your stamina throughout the day is it have a full breakfast in the morning!”
“You’re the one who eats like a horse,” Giorno chides. “Aren’t you referring to yourself?”
Their favourite restaurant (one of the many that Passione controls), reserves the veranda for them per request. Giorno likes it because it’s isolated and overlooks the sea. They can hear the waves and tourist chatter, indecipherable as anything other than an oceanic melody. It’s peaceful, and Mista watches Giorno gracefully lean against the balcony, his hair lifting with the breeze, his silk jacket rustling. The sight alone puts Mista’s heart at rest.
They’ve already finished eating, but Giorno doesn’t seem in any hurry to rush off, so Mista takes his time finishing a glass of wine. It’s a rich red, staining his lips and tongue and sliding thickly down his throat with each small sip. Half a glass is just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders, but any more than that and he’d carry a buzz back to work.
Eventually, Giorno whispers his name into the wind and Mista barely catches it.
“Yes, Boss?”
There’s a momentary silence where Mista hangs on in suspense, feeling vulnerable when he can’t see Giorno’s face. He stands and walks over, but keeps enough distance so he’s still behind him. Giorno shows him his profile, eyes downcast as he gestures to his side.
“Come next to me?”
He phrases it like a question. Mista takes it as a command.
“I have a job for you, if you want it,” Giorno tells him, as if he has an option.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a photograph. It’s a simple headshot of a young man, probably Mista’s age. He’s handsome, Mista thinks. He doesn’t bear the age or physical decay of a politician.
“His name’s Paulo Miele.” Giorno looks off into the distance, putting Mista on edge.
“Do you want me to take him out?”
Giorno looks at him finally, turning around to lean sideways against the railing. He crosses his arms and wears an expression that’s as close to amused as possible for such a serious guy. Mista bristles.
“No,” Giorno droles. “I want you to bring him to me.”
There’s a relieved exhale as Mista submits to a smile. “Sure thing, Boss.”
“If I’d said yes, you’d have done it?” Giorno asks, thoughtful.
“Done what?”
“Killed this man.”
Mista’s a little surprised by the question, considering their history. Suddenly, with the wind tousling Giorno’s hair out of style and the smallest of half-smiles on his lips, Mista realizes for the first time that he hasn’t killed anyone since they took over Napoli. Five years coming and going with the moon and the tides and the bullets in his gun constantly rotating, reloading, checked. Five years, and not once has he been sent on an assassination job. The knowledge wraps like a rope around his heart; that he’d gone so long without even thinking about killing sends him reeling. Giorno looks a little intimidating, for once his age of twenty and three years younger than Mista.
“I would do anything you ask of me, Giogio,” he whispers, breathlessly.
Giorno pulls on his earlobe, his gaze focused on Mista with curious intent and something much warmer that for once can’t be identified.
“I have operatives in charge of murder,” Giorno confesses. “I don’t need you for that. All I need is for you to stay by my side. And, of course, bring me Paulo Miele.”
Paulo Miele, Mista discovers, is not particularly hard to find. Deep in the city, at the junction of a fork in the road, is his flat. There’s a barber shop on the left and a hill on the right, where two older men sit in plastic lawn chairs, smoking and complaining loudly about nothing important. Just a few blocks across, in the safety of a piazza, Paulo turns tricks nightly. Discovering the kid’s a male prostitute had left Mista feeling confused and undoubtedly curious about what he could possibly have done to warrant Passione intervention.
Mista’s skin crawls as he circles the grass, planning how he’s going to approach the situation. Paulo isn’t dressed in a particularly flashy fashion, unlike most female prostitutes whose attire usually gives away whatever business they have on the street corner. He looks clean, put together, his ironed shirt perhaps a size too small.
Since everyone of importance in the city knows exactly what Mista looks like, he’d been instructed to change into something different. Something no one has ever seen him in: a business suit. He carries a briefcase to seem convincing and tries not to look as unsure of himself as he feels. Although, if he really were a straight laced business associate paying for gay sex in public, it wouldn’t be unusual to come a little undone. The piazza isn’t that populated anyway. It’s a late enough hour, the kids at least have been put to bed.
Finally deciding to take the leap, Mista makes a beeline for his target. Up close, it’s not hard to see the boy’s age. He looks a youthful twenty, with a strong jawline and unusually long lashes, which flutter when he looks demurely in Mista’s direction.
“I was wondering when you were gonna come over,” he coos. “You were staring for so long.”
“It’s my first time,” Mista says, trying to sound authentic. It’s not a lie. Mista’s certainly never picked up male whores before.
“Cute,” Paulo says. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How much for a full night?” Mista has no intention of paying him anything, of course.
“With you?” he sizes him up, paying extra attention to Mista’s chest and crotch. “70.”
Truthfully, Mista expected more. He acts nervous, looks around the piazza before leaning in. At least Paulo smells nice. His cologne is sweet like women’s perfume.
“Hey, can we do this in a less...open area? I’ll give you the cash once we get to my car, okay?”
Paulo’s face darkens. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Please? I just don’t want to cause any suspicion, since I live around here. It’d be bad if one of my neighbors saw me giving you money.”
The kid seems to think about it for a moment and eventually decides Mista looks harmless enough, because he sighs and nods. Mista tries not to wince. Hopefully, after he realizes Mista’s not a John, he’ll be smarter on the street. This kind of naivety will get him killed, eventually. Assuming Giorno doesn’t want to threaten his life already, because Mista still doesn’t know what he could possibly want with someone like this.
When they get back to Mista’s Maserati (the license plate changed), Paulo spends a few minutes gushing over the interior of the car, so Mista lets him think he’s hit the jackpot for a few moments before pulling out his gun. At the sight of it, Paulo visibly panics and Mista feels genuinely bad for him as he frantically tries to open the locked passenger door.
“Shh, stop, listen!” Mista grabs his flailing arm. “I’m not gonna hurt you so stop struggling!”
“Then what’s the gun for?!” Paulo screams, “You bastard! I fucking knew you were too good to be--”
“My boss wants to meet with you.”
Silence. Paulo freezes, his eyes wide and hunted. “Your...boss?”
“Don Giovanna.”
They’ve been in there for-fucking-ever, Mista thinks, standing outside Giorno’s office once again. The entire drive back home had only intensified Mista’s curiosity as he cast glance after suspicious glance at his passenger. What did the kid get himself into that Giorno would need to see him face-to-face? It’s dangerous enough for an outsider to meet with the Don privately, let alone know where he lives. Giorno’s being reckless, but for what? Troubling still is that Giorno had told Mista to stay outside. Of course, an ordinary prostitute wouldn’t stand a chance against Gold Experience, but Mista would want to be there anyway, because that’s his job, isn’t it?
Summoned by Mista’s frazzled nerves, #3 manifests on his shoulder, growling angrily. “Want me to smash him, Mista? Just one bullet and I’ll pop him off real fast.”
“No!” Mista stage whispers. “Trust Giorno. We’re supposed to wait.”
More Pistols appear and #1 flitters to the door, peeking through the keyhole.
“Mista!” he shouts, and Mista’s blood runs cold.
Filtered through the heavy door is a strangled cry and Mista never eavesdrops but he’s not beyond breaking the door down. Thankfully, it’s unlocked because Mista rips it open, gun drawn and Stand out. Giorno’s sitting on his desk, knees up and suit pants around one ankle, a dark head hesitant between his legs and when he sees Mista he digs his heels into Paulo’s shoulderblades and moans, “don’t stop, shit” without dropping eye contact once.
Mista sees red, violent fury seething under his skin but he finds he can’t move, just clenches his fists and locks his jaw. The Pistols explode into a range of convoluted emotion, #7 flying into Mista’s gun, preparing a bullet, while #5 begins to cry.
“E-excuse me,” Mista splutters, averting his eyes from Giorno’s red face, from his wet eyes, from his bangs coming loose for once.
He turns and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. As he leans against the wall, he realizes with crushing dread that he’s painfully hard in his pants. Behind his eyelids, Giorno’s body rocks with pleasure and the head between those legs isn’t some bought kid, but him. Moments pass. Silence behind the door. Mista wants to go outside and clear his head, but the order to wait and his duty to obey keeps him obediently chained. At some point in time lost, the door opens and Paulo rushes out, fully clothed. He doesn’t look at Mista as he leaves, just keeps his head down. From inside the office, Giorno calls for him.
“Mista,” he sings. “Come in.”
Mista swallows and can’t remember wanting to disobey a direct order more. His back is rigid as he enters the room. Giorno’s leaning against his desk, put together and neat, as if he hadn’t just received head.
“Shut the door, please.”
Mista shuts it.
Giorno seems to be examining him, searching his face. Mista’s looking at him blankly, trying to will away his boner, which is softening, but not as quickly as he’d like.
“Thank you for bringing him to me,” Giorno says.
I wish I hadn’t, Mista thinks, and almost says. Truthfully, Mista’s pissed. Even more so because he doesn’t know what game Giorno’s playing right now, or what he expects. He wants to yell, he wants to cuss, he wants to throw things. But he can’t, he won’t. It’s Giorno and he would never lose his temper around him. So, he bottles it up and fumes silently, clenching his teeth like a prison for his rage.
“Obviously no one else in the organization can know,” Giorno continues. “If it had been a female prostitute, it’d be fine, but if anyone found out a queer was in control of one of Southern Italy’s most powerful crime syndicates, well.”
Mista flinches and drops eye contact, settling his gaze instead on Giorno’s shoes.
“Mista,” Giorno growls, sounding irritated. “Come over here.”
He can’t help himself. He walks over until he’s right in front of the desk, close enough for their knees to touch. Giorno peers into his face, but Mista looks instead at the opposite wall. Gradually, he’s losing his anger and replacing it with the dull ache of genuine hurt.
Giorno touches his hand and Mista’s fingers twitch minutely before going limp, weakly allowing Giorno to hold his palm in his without reciprocating. A thumb strokes the back of his hand, slowly, and Mista’s eyes flick to it, heart racing.
“Why won’t you look at me?” Giorno whispers. Mista watches as Giorno brings his hand to his mouth.
“Look at me,” deliberately placing the pads of Mista’s fingers against his lips.
His mouth is soft. They make eye contact, finally.
“I’ll kill him,” Mista warns, voice feral.
“Don’t do that,” Giorno says.
“I swear to God I’ll empty a chamber in his skull if he comes near you again.”
“He won’t. We’re going to be paying him off for a while.” Giorno squeezes his hand and finally Mista takes over, cupping Giorno’s face with careful reverence.
“Why did you do this?” Mista asks. “Why didn’t you ever tell me your...orientation.”
Truly, Giorno smiles. It’s much more conniving than Mista expected.
“I was testing you. I didn’t want to lose you, but now I’m sure I won’t.”
Mista pales as his erection throbs against his thigh. Mista spent years watching him, noticing him, studying him, but only now he realizes the honest nature of his desire. He’d been yearning, all this time. He felt desperate.
“Giorno,” he whispers.
“Mista, I’ve wanted you for a very long time.”
Giorno leans up slowly, his features merging with each hesitant inch closer until finally, with a hand against Mista’s chest for leverage, he kisses him. The moment their lips touch, something animalistic roars awake in Mista’s chest. He throws an arm around Giorno’s neck, clutching his braid and pushing their mouths together firmer, harder. It’s aggressive almost immediately as they clutch each other in frantic need, Giorno grabbing Mista’s ass and squeezing. Mista can feel Giorno’s erection against his hip and it’s almost more than he can bear, blood boiling in his veins until his eyes water, eyelashes fluttering as he opens his mouth against Giorno’s. Lips sliding and wet, Giorno moans against Mista’s tongue and rotates his hips until they feel each other, silk against denim.
Mista pulls back, squeezing Giorno’s shoulders.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he gasps, saliva drying on his chin. “Boss.”
“I’ve wanted you for years,” Giorno groans, bringing his hands around to rub up Mista’s exposed belly. “Do you have any idea what it was like, staring at your abs all day, every day? I was a teenager.”
Giorno sinks to his knees, slowly, and Mista can’t stop him because, ultimately, he doesn’t really want to. Flexing his stomach muscles, he twitches a little as Giorno stares hungrily at his abs, a long finger tracing his dark happy trail.
“I’ve thought about cumming on these abs since I was fifteen,” Giorno confesses as if to God, and bows down to lick the line of hair from Mista’s bellybutton to his bulging pants.
“Shit,” Mista gasps, Giorno’s breath on his crotch warm and gusty.
Eagerly, he opens Mista’s fly and reaches in, dragging out his pulsing cock. It’s almost fully hard and Giorno holds it between his hands like he’s at church.
“Boss, hey,” Mista starts. “Maybe I should shower first, you know?”
“I can’t wait to taste your cock,” Giorno says, and puts him in his mouth.
Mista cries out in surprise. He’s starting to sweat already from nerves, so he peels his hood and sweater off. Giorno’s taking him slowly with an inexperienced throat that visibly clenches with each forward movement. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. His right is wrapped tight around the base of Mista’s shaft and the other is limp against his hip, palm sticky. It’s not the best blowjob Mista’s ever received, but it’s so much more arousing because it’s Giogio. He reaches down and lightly traces Giorno’s bangs, causing his eyelids to lift as he looks up at him. His eyes are watering aquamarine, and just as Giorno gets him a little more than halfway, a tear spills over. Mista catches it with his thumb, rubbing it into red of Giorno’s cheek. He holds his face still as he pulls out of his throat.
“I’m gonna cum,” Mista whispers, taking hold of himself.
Giorno kitten-licks his slit, coaxing out strings of precum that fall against his chin. It’s insanely sexy, seeing him crouched there, waiting.
Mista closes his eyes and asks, “What should I do?”
“Cum on me,” Giorno commands, his voice sounding even more erotic with eyes closed. “Cum all over me.”
Mista’s orgasm rips out of him with torrential force and he groans with each shot of thick, ropey spunk. Once, twice, three times. He opens his eyes and sees Giorno touching the cum on his cheek, so Mista milks himself dry against those curious fingers. Breathless and panting, he watches Giorno thoughtfully lick off his cum.
“Hm,” he hums. “Salty. I might have to get used to it before I swallow.”
Mista reaches over and grabs a handful of tissues from the box on Giorno’s desk.
“Plenty of time to be thinking about that. For now, let’s just get you cleaned up.”
Tissues do a temporary job, but Giorno will still have to shower and wash his hair. When they’ve gotten the bulk of the mess off, Giorno touches Mista’s neck affectionately and tries to catch his gaze.
“Hey,” he says, fondly. “I’m sorry I played you.”
Mista stops to look at him. “Forget about me. Involving that kid was too risky, Giorno. What if I got caught? What if someone recognized my car? What if he tells someone? Do you have any idea what could happen if word of thi--”
“Mista,” Giorno’s tone is strong. “I said I was sorry I played you, but I don’t regret it. The kid is happy to get off the streets. I’m sending him to school in the States.”
“T-the United States?!” Mista splutters. “That’s a lot of money, Boss.”
“Turns out I have family ties in Florida. Just consider it charity.”
Giorno leans forward to wrap his arms around Mista’s shoulders. It dawns on him that Giorno hadn’t received release earlier and Mista kicks himself for it, sliding his hand up the back of Giorno’s shirt and feeling him shiver.
“Let me make you cum, too,” Mista practically begs.
“Don’t worry about it. I already came.”
“What? When?!”
Giorno looks at him, devilish tongue sneaking out to lick his lips. “When you came on me.”
Mista can’t believe it. He pushes Giorno back and sees the front of his silk trousers darkened with wetness.
“You’re telling me you came untouched, just from my spunk hitting your face?”
“Mmhm.”
“That’s fucking hot.”
Giorno stands up, smoothing down his suit before heading for the door. He looks proud of himself, Mista picking up on a satisfied sway in his hips. At the door, he pauses and looks back.
“But I want to cum for real, with you inside me. You better be ready when I get out of the shower.”
Mista thinks, as he rubs his beating heart through his chest, that Giorno’s orders are going to get a lot more interesting from here on out.