Chapter Text
Most men turning twenty-four struggle to understand where they fit in the world. Few have a firm understanding of who they are, much less what they will be able to achieve. Giorno is an exception to this rule, and a rather large one. At fifteen, he declared that he would meet the Boss of the Passione and dethrone him, taking his place.
A week later he did so. Even Giorno, who could now admit he had perhaps vastly overestimated and underestimated his own abilities at the same time, hadn't been prepared for such a quick rise.
Nearly ten years down the line, he has a firm grasp of what he's capable of now.
The drug trade proved to be its own challenge, one that is never really solved, but the Passione no longer has any involvement in selling drugs, and actively stops any trade they find. The money comes from other sources and Giorno's always been good at identifying opportunities. There's the usual cash from restaurants and small businesses, since the protection racket will always be useful. But he's expanded them further, and nothing that enters Italy's ports and borders does so without a portion set aside for the Passione. His most successful expanse has been into the fashion industry, especially in the global era of counterfeit clothes. People will pay a lot to see their designs protected. People will pay even more to get their hands on a well-made knockoff.
Smuggling remains as popular as ever. The violence is kept off the main streets. Were you to ask the average person in Naples how safe they felt, they would rank their security very highly. Giorno takes a lot of pride in that.
He takes pride in the Passione as well. It's taken years to reshape it and rebuild a structure that functions properly. Diavolo's paranoia caused him to layer the organization so that the right hand never knew what the left was doing. Giorno’s sorted that out. There are clear reporting lines, and everyone knows that Giorno sits at the top. His Capos are capable men in the vein of Bucciarati - good, smart, empathetic, protective. None are Bruno, but they're as close as a person can get.
He keeps his day to day team small. Mista, Fugo, Polnareff, Shelia E. Trish alone escaped, washing her hands of the Passione and Italy. It's good. She wasn't meant for this life. He visits her twice a year. Her Paris apartment is beautiful and she has a little bakery below. The pastries aren't as good as in Italy. She says they taste better.
The birthmark on his shoulder is proof of an inheritance greater than he could have imagined when he was small. In the last decade, he’s learned to recognize the others whose fates are intertwined with his own, sensing almost immediately when something of importance has crossed his path. With a little concentration, the recognition can become something even more useful - the ability to knows where they physically are at all times. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the points of light clustered in Japan and America and France and here in Italy, here beside him at all times, all those bright stars burning in the darkness of his sky.
The Speedwagon Foundation keeps their distance. It seems that they prefer not to be involved, not unless an immediate danger is posed to the Joestar family. Giorno isn't sure if they count him as one of them, or see him as an enemy they'd rather not engage. It doesn't matter. It's the same in the end. They send a representative once in a while to talk with Giorno. He's a young man around Giorno's age, notably not a stand user, but friendly and personable. Most importantly, he never steps over the line. Morton understands that the moment Giorno is tired of the arrangement, it will end, and he does nothing to exhaust Giorno's good will.
This is true of most people who Giorno speaks with. They are friendly and personable, and they are always aware that it's his good graces that allow them to stay in his presence. He is picky about who he meets with and most of his communication is done through correspondence. A few years ago, Fugo found a stand user who had the most fascinating talent with written word, able to ensure that messages can only be read by who they're addressed to. To anyone else, the paper is covered by technical instructions on how to assemble a coffee pot. He has a stack of papers in his desk drawer from the user, and each of his capos has a stack as well.
So, the unusual letter in the pile goes unspotted until Giorno picks up the envelope and realizes that it's just slightly off. It's marginally heavier than the others, and when he opens it, he finds the papers inside are thicker than the sheets he and the others use to communicate. Giorno checks the front. The envelope looks just like the others, and he knows that's Zampone's handwriting, so careful and neat. He carefully tips the envelope to see the papers inside, and on the edges of the folds, he sees a few letters in a different hand. That's as far as Giorno gets before he holds the letter out to Mista. "This isn't from one of the Capos. How did it get in here?"
"What?" Mista's feeding the bullets breakfast and as he looks up, number six steals the piece of the donut between his fingers. "Hey hey, number six! Wait your turn!"
Six jeers and stuffs the pastry into his mouth, getting crumbs everywhere.
Giorno just holds the letter up until Mista comes over to take it from him, turning it in his hands. He's not afraid it might hurt him - anything that comes in front of Giorno has been handled by no less than three different stand users who are adept at sniffing out traps - but he is slightly disturbed that it made it this far. Mista shows the front to Giorno. "Says it's from Zampone."
"The handwriting inside doesn't match the outside." He leans back in his chair. Mista frowns and pulls the letter out. He glances at Giorno to check before he opens it, and after a nod from him, that's what he does. Mista flips through the pages and Giorno waits. He can feel Gold Experience waiting to be summoned, eager to spring forward and step in if it turns out there's a trap here that no one else found.
Instead, Mista's eyebrows bolt up and he yanks at something clipped to the last page, lifting it up. It's a photo. "Hey, Giorno? This guy says he knew your dad. And he put a photo in here to prove it."
Giorno keeps his reaction entirely internal, carefully hidden behind his mask. This isn't the first letter he's gotten like this. The knowledge that Dio had a son is one that Giorno's done his best to keep quiet, but it seems that even the best kept secrets always get out one way or another. The first letter was the one and only time Giorno contacted the Speedwagon Foundation, instead of the other way around. The second one remained his business alone and he dealt with that one without anyone but his closest companions knowing.
He holds out his hand for the photo. There's a dozen photos in circulation that seem to pop up. There's the photo Giorno's mother had, and there are eleven others that the Speedwagon Foundation has shown him. But when Giorno takes it and flips it around, he finds himself looking at a photo he's never seen before. It's shockingly candid - Dio sits in what could be any living room in the late 1980s, lounging on a sage green couch, one foot resting on a coffee table between two glasses of half-drank wine. There's a slight smile on his lips and a comfortable air to him. It's utterly alien from the other photos he's seen. In the other photos, Dio has a commanding presence and an electric aura that still holds some power to it. In the photo he took from his mother, Dio is cold and distant and dripping authority.
In this photo, in this strange living room, Dio seems almost human. It reminds Giorno of the photos Mista insists on taking when they're all together. He sees himself in this shot in a way that strikes him to the core. He's always seen parts of himself in his father - his ambition and his hunger and his determination. Now, for the first time, he sees some of the softness of himself as well. Giorno knew he didn't get that from his mother, but none of the stories he's ever heard have made him believe that he got it from his father either.
The smile Dio wears could be Giorno's own.
Giorno taps the photo against his desk and then lies it flat, holding out his hand for the letter. The handwriting is neat and precise, each line the same size and length.
"Giorno Giovanna, my apologies for contacting you in this way. Mr. Zampone is unaware that I have used him for such a task and I promise you that I have not interfered in any other way. I know my precautions may seem absurd, but I have not remained a free man for two decades by being sloppy. As I am certain you are already aware, the Speedwagon Foundation takes a great interest in any who kept company with your father in the last years of his life. As I prefer a life unobserved by others, I have no interest in revealing myself to them and spending the rest of my years within their facilities or closely monitored by their agents. It takes extraordinary circumstances to convince me to reveal any part of myself to others. As I'm sure you can already intuit, you are that extraordinary circumstance.
I would like to speak with you. Your father was dear to me, and though he has long since passed, I would find some comfort in meeting his son. In return, I offer you something that I know the Speedwagon Foundation can never give you: the side of your father that I knew. I am certain you've heard much about his sins. Perhaps you wonder how it was that so many came to find comfort in a man who could be so ruthless and cold. That was only one side of Dio - a side reserved for his enemies. He could also be charming, thoughtful, and compelling. This description may feel familiar.
I have included a photo of your father, taken in September of 1988. I suspect it is unlike any you have ever seen of him. There are more photographs that I have brought with me, as well as stories about the man your father was, both the grand and the terrible. My only price for sharing this information is the pleasure of your company. I would treasure a chance to see how alike your father you are and how different as well. From the swiftness of your rise and the heights of your ambition, I suspect I will find the spark that this world has lacked since January of 1989.
If my offer has sparked your curiosity, then all I require is a sign that I am welcome. There are flowering pitches outside your villa. If I see geraniums added to them, I will arrive at your doorstep in two days time at 1pm to speak with you. If not, I shall take my leave and never trouble you again.
Regards, Jon Shepard."
The writing is formal and precise. The word choice is odd and a bit dated, like it was written by someone who learned Italian from a great-grandparent. Giorno notes how it flatters him, and how even moreso, it flatters his father. The Speedwagon Foundation has been very generous when sharing information about Dio, but all of it has painted a vivid and starkly negative picture. The man he's aware of doesn't feel like the same man posed in the photography. But then, how do Giorno's enemies see him? And if he had a son who never knew him, how would they describe Giorno? Ruthless and cold.
"Usually they blow more smoke up your ass before asking to meet you. This guy must think you're desperate to hear about your dad." Mista sets a hand on his right hip, fingers grazing the pistol tucked in his waistband. "Should we take care of him?"
Giorno doesn't answer yet. He lays the pages out, scanning it once more. While the letter's penmanship is second to none and his Italian seems to be thoroughly fluent, Giorno has the distinct impression that whoever wrote this isn't from Italy. It doesn't feel like a translator was used to write the letter, and aside from some dated word usage, the author feels consistent through the entire letter. He rubs the paper between his fingers. It's good quality paper in a thicker weight and fiber count than you would find used in typical notebooks or printers. The ink also seems to be from a high quality pen, judging from the lack of leakage or smeared strokes. The envelope is one of Zampone's and Giorno suspects that if they check, they'll find Zampone's fingerprints on this, and only Zampone's.
"No." Giorno tucks the photo away in the letter and folds it back up. "Call Zampone. Find out how this letter was placed with the others. We need to know how he compromised Zampone before I meet with him."
Mista raises his eyebrows and leans against the desk. "You think that's a good idea, Gio? He's probably one of the creeps Mo talks about. He's going to want you to be your dad, and all he's going to give you is a bunch of crazy."
"Good thing I have a bodyguard to protect me." Gio quips, just to make Mista laugh. He's successful and Mista all but plops his ass on the desk as he has a cackle over it. Giorno smiles to himself and lets his eyes trace the length of Mista's body. He's missed sex between them lately. Maybe when this business is over, he'll invite Mista to join him in bed.
It's been two months since they put their relationship on a break, again. Mista's been seeing a girl for a while. She seems nice, but it's already starting to fall apart between them, Mista missing dates or texts. His other relationships never last. Eventually, when Mista and Giorno both feel like it, they'll hook back up and fall into their usual routines. It's comfortable for them both, but as with anything, familiarity breeds contempt. Giorno enjoys the flexibility, knowing that he'll never feel trapped by obligations he can't always meet. Mista likes the variety the arrangement provides, so he and Giorno never grow tired or irritated with one another. And most importantly, it ensures that they never reach a point where they grow so tired of each other that it affects Mista's ability to fight and die for Giorno - because there may come a day when he has to.
Giorno's had a decade to come to terms with the fact that being the boss means people will die for his sake. He isn't fifteen anymore, learning the most difficult lesson of all: being willing to let other die to see you succeed means that those people may often be your friends. Still, he's careful, not risking their lives on whims or flights of fancy.
Jon Shepard is a risk. The photo of Dio Brando is exceptional bait. He can't imagine anything else that would so expertly hook his interest. Giorno picks it up, leaning forward to take another close look at it. Is it a body double or fake? Possibly. Unlikely though. Even in a strange setting, even relaxed, Giorno can see parts of himself in that man. He's sure that if he asked Fugo for the photographs he keeps of their gatherings, Giorno would find one much like this among them.
He looks up at Mista, a sign that it's time to move. Mista nods and turns his head, "Hey! Come on, get in." And with a casual flip of his wrist, he opens up the barrel of his revolver to tuck his stands away. He taps his hat with a pair of fingers as he salutes Giorno. "This bodyguard better do his job. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
Giorno smirks at the idea and turns his attention back to the letter - and to the photo. When the door shuts, Gold Experience makes himself known, hovering directly over Giorno's shoulders. The stand is mute and silent, as he has been ever single day since the requiem wore off. But even now, Giorno sees a strange spark in those blank eyes, and he feels the distinct impression that he is being watched back. He lifts the photo to show his own stand. Does Gold Experience see any kinship in this as well?
If he does, he says nothing. So Giorno directs his stands to the pots outside, and he thinks of geraniums with pale, pink blossoms.