Chapter Text
5 OTTOBRE 2000, 14:27 CEST
MILANO, ITALIA
“Hey, Abbacchio?”
The goth looked up from his coffee, seeing that Mista had joined him at the kitchen table. “Yeah?”
Mista looked around frantically before turning back to him. “Do you think you can show me a bit of Milan’s nightlife tonight?”
Oh, God. Abbacchio frowned. “Mista, you’re still 17. Besides, I’ve currently got assassins after my head.”
Not to mention Bruno would be pissed as all hell if I let you get lit before you turn 18.
They’d been assigned a mission from Polpo to travel to Milan and search for the person that had caused one member of a local Passione squad to go rogue and embezzle money from the organisation. The money launderer in question had already been executed, but the betrayal had angered the Capo so much that he’d sent Bucciarati’s team to Milan indefinitely with orders not to return to Naples until the stronzo was eliminated.
One month later, all they had mostly accomplished was Abbacchio getting targeted by assassins because of his Stand.
Abbacchio knew he could fight, but Bucciarati insisted on him being accompanied by at least one member of the squad whenever leaving the safe house as a safety precaution until they knew more about the assassins.
“Yep,” Mista acknowledged. “But there’s apparently a party going on tonight at one of the local clubs, and I'm bored out of my damn mind.”
The goth raised an eyebrow. "How the hell do you even know about such a thing?"
"I overheard Bucciarati talking about it with the neighbour this morning; apparently Signora Carlaco wants to invite your quote-unquote 'wife'--" (Mista added air quotes for emphasis) "--out on a ladies night tonight, and Bucciarati obliged."
"And you want to crash it," Abbacchio guessed.
"No-o," Mista disagreed, shaking his head. "I just want to have a good time. Besides, I'm going crazy, Abbacchio. I need to unwind."
Abbacchio took a sip from his coffee. “Fine,” the goth acquiesced. “But on one condition, and one condition only.”
Mista’s eyes lit up. “Sure!”
“You stay sober and work security.”
The gunslinger grinned. “I can do that! When do we leave?”
5 OTTOBRE 2000, 21:01 CEST
MILANO, ITALIA
“You know the plan, right?” Abbacchio asked.
Mista nodded. “I work security and make sure you don’t get assassinated.”
“Good,” the goth said approvingly. "And, first names only. That way it looks less suspicious."
"Got it."
The two exited the SUV, Abbacchio arming the car alarm just in case some jackass tried to steal it.
"ID, please," the bouncer said.
Abbacchio showed him his Passione badge, as did Mista. The bouncer looked them up and down, eyebrows raised, but allowed them to enter nonetheless.
The venue was packed with a bunch of people in various forms of dress attire. Mista and Abbacchio were both wearing black suits, black dress pants, and black dress shoes. Abbacchio's hair was in a thick bun, held together by at least a dozen or so bobby pins (he'd lost track after number 10). He also wore his usual black lipstick to complement the outfit. Mista was minus his usual hat, leaving his short, dark brown curls exposed.
Italian pop music played over the speakers as patrons danced in a darkness broken by blue neon lights. Most of them were likely drunk, but they were living it up without a care in the world. Security personnel in black suits hung around the walls, keeping an eye on the crowd.
Mista's jaw dropped. "Holy shit. This is awesome!"
Abbacchio nodded. "Just remember--"
"Stay sober, or else we face the wrath of your wife," Mista finished. "Got it. And I will."
"I'll hold you to that." Abbacchio knew firsthand what it was like to be around Bucciarati when the squad leader had been pissed off at him, and it was not an experience he wanted to repeat.
The Pistols chose that moment to materialise, all six of them hovering in front of their user.
"Mistaaaaa, we're hungry!"
"Mista!"
"Mista!"
"Feed me!"
"Mista!"
"We're hungry!"
"Miiiiiistaaaaaa!!!"
Mista screwed his eyes shut, groaning, a pained expression on his face as the Pistols flitted around him and pleaded for food. "Is there food in here?" the gunslinger asked wearily.
Abbacchio scanned the room, gaze soon landing on a buffet table. "Back left corner."
Mista sighed in relief. "Grazie mille." He made his way over to the table, leaving Abbacchio to his own devices. The goth instinctively felt for the Beretta he had nicked from the glove compartment, relieved to find it tucked in a holster attached to his suspenders. Given that there were assassins after him, there was a good chance that they could show up, regardless of who was keeping tabs on security.
It'll be fine, he told himself. Just act natural.
Abbacchio found his way towards the bar, ordering a shot of tequila. The bartender nodded, pouring the drink for him as Night Moves by Bob Seger played over the speakers.
"I was a little too tall / Could've used a few pou-ounds / Tight pants points hardly reno-own / She was a black-haired beauty with big, dark ey-ey-eyes / And points all her o-own, sitting way up hi-igh..."
The goth recognised the song from various times he'd heard it on the radio. Most of the time, Abbacchio preferred to listen to Italian rock music while driving since he tended to lose himself in classical music, but every once in a while he'd tune in to the English-language stations whenever the music ended up being something he couldn't stand.
"Here you go, Signore," the person behind the counter said, sliding Abbacchio his tequila shot.
Abbacchio thanked the bartender and paid for his drink, listening to the Bob Seger song as he began to lose his sobriety. He figured this would be the only alcoholic drink he'd get this evening, given that there were people in this city who wanted him dead.
A soft voice coming from directly to his right took him by surprise, alerting Abbacchio to the fact that he was no longer drinking alone.
"...I woke last night to the sou-ound of thu-under. How far off I sat and wo-ondered; started humming a song from nineteen-sixty-two-oo-oo. Ain't it funny how the night mo-oves, when you just don't seem to have as much to lo-o-ose?"
Abbacchio turned. A person with long, black hair stood next to him, singing along to the song as they held a half-full wine glass in their right hand, emotion in their voice. "Strange how the night mo-oves...With autumn closing i-in..."
Abbacchio studied the being, transfixed. They looked both masculine and feminine, and their appearance was such that one could not be distinguished from the other. Their singing voice was somewhere between a tenor and a contralto, entrancing the goth like a siren calling their prey. Their black hair went down to their waist, adorned with at least eleven miniature braids (with plenty of room left over for unbraided hair) and hair clips that looked exactly like the ones Bucciarati usually wore. They also had bangs in a similar length to that of the squad leader's. Their outfit consisted of a white bustier corset/bodysuit, fishnet tights, lace-up stiletto heels, and a long, white loincloth that went down to their ankles. There was also a similar loincloth in back that mirrored the one in front, but Abbacchio didn’t know what it was called. A butt flap?
He didn't think it would be appropriate to ask.
They were also wearing white gauntlets and a relatively thick choker of the same colour, zipper-like decorations present on various points of the outfit, including the choker itself. The closest resemblance Abbacchio could think of that the person might have to someone would be a black-haired version of Daenerys Targaryen from A Game of Thrones and other books in the series he had read. That, or the mysterious black-haired beauty referenced in the Bob Seger song from earlier. Or maybe a cross between both. Who knows.
It made him miss his own black-haired beauty (aka his squad leader) for some reason.
Not-Daenerys turned after the song ended, facing the goth directly. Their blue eyes shone like the sea back in Naples, complemented by winged eyeliner and white eyeshadow. The lips were adorned with white lipstick, directly contrasting the black shade on Abbacchio's lips, but there was also a patch of gold lipstick on the centre of the bottom one.
Abbacchio looked at them, impressed. “Whoever did your makeup must be really good.”
Not-Daenerys smiled. “Grazie. It was my neighbour.”
The goth nodded. “You’ll have to give them my regards.”
“I will do that.” Their non-singing voice was, like their appearance, both masculine and feminine. It also sounded vaguely familiar somehow, but also completely different at the same time. He couldn’t place it.
They also appeared to be a bit tipsy, if the now almost-finished wine glass in their hand was anything to go by.
“Can I buy you a drink?” they asked.
Abbacchio frowned. “That would be nice, but I’m afraid that I’m spoken for,” he responded. “My ride’s also here. He’s not the person in question, in case you were wondering.”
“I understand,” Not-Daenerys responded. “I’ve also got someone waiting for me at home; I'm just here to have a good time.”
“I can respect that.”
“What’s their name?” Not-Daenerys asked, genuinely curious.
“Aida,” Abbacchio said, supplying Bucciarati’s alias of Aida Rossi.
They smiled. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“What about yours?” Abbacchio asked, curious.
“Leijona,” Not-Daenerys responded.
Abbacchio blinked. “Sounds like an interesting name.”
“It is indeed,” Not-Daenerys agreed.
It was Abbacchio who had suggested Bucciarati's alias in the first place, choosing the moniker "Aida" after the Verdi opera of the same name. It also meant "happy" in Italian, which was interesting considering that the two were in the mafia--and close.
In this life, happiness was hard to come by.
Abbacchio and Bucciarati gone undercover as a couple during their stay in Milan; the original intention was "boyfriend and girlfriend" and just for one night, but the two gangsters had needed to improvise after the revelation that Abbacchio had been targeted by assassins and additionally add "husband and wife" to the undercover list after their next-door neighbour, a dancer by the name of Filippa Carlaco, stopped by to visit a couple of weeks earlier and mistook them for a married couple. To most people, Bucciarati and Abbacchio were dating. To the neighbour and her crowd, they were married. And, to the younger members of their squad, they were just close friends. As for themselves...Bucciarati and Abbacchio hadn't put a label on their relationship yet.
Long story short, it was a mess.
"So...Aida," Not-Daenerys said, a curious expression on their face. "Can you tell me about them?"
Abbacchio smiled fondly, images of Bucciarati popping into his head. "They're ruthless sometimes, but overall, they're kind," he responded. "What about your partner? Leijona, you said their name was?"
"Yeah," Not-Daenerys confirmed. A smile appeared on their face. "Leijona's a wonderful person, even though they don't always see it. They've got a righteous heart, and always prefer to search for the truth behind life's mysteries, no matter what it takes. That's one of the greatest things I like about them."
"They're lucky to have you," Abbacchio said sincerely.
"The same goes for Aida," Not-Daenerys responded.
Abbacchio chuckled. "I'm flattered."
The two sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the Italian pop song playing over the speakers while becoming inebriated. Not-Daenerys didn't ask many questions, which Abbacchio was grateful for. He gave them the same courtesy, sneaking a glance over at Mista. He was monitoring security by the buffet table, the Pistols nowhere to be found. Abbacchio figured that the colony Stand must've been sufficiently fed.
Good.
"I need the toilet," Not-Daenerys said some time later, turning to Abbacchio. "Can you watch my drink, please?"
Abbacchio nodded. "Of course." The last thing anyone needed was to have their drink spiked and for their night to go to hell.
Not-Daenerys smiled. "Grazie." They made their way over to the restrooms, leaving Abbacchio at the bar. The goth finished off his tequila, keeping an eye on the stranger's half-finished glass of wine.
"Oh, wow."
The goth glanced up, seeing Mista right next to him. The gunslinger smirked. “It isn’t even midnight and you’ve already got someone hitting on you.” He nodded in the stranger’s direction. “I’ve gotta say, they look kinda hot.”
Abbacchio snorted. “Well, yeah, they do, but I’m not interested. Besides, I’ve already got someone.”
Mista raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” he teased. “Is there something going on between you and Aida that I should know about?”
Abbacchio felt his face go red. There is, but I'm not telling you at the moment. “Shut the fuck up.”
Mista leaned over. “If you’re not interested, can I have a go?”
The goth gave him a stern look. “You’re not here to flirt, Guido.”
“It was worth a shot.”
"Uh-huh."
Not-Daenerys returned to the bar a moment later, a grin on their face as they approached Abbacchio. “Hey, handsome.”
Mista looked at the stranger directly, an embarrassed look making its way onto his face. “Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God.”
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Mista looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else at the moment. “I...I am so sorry. I didn’t recognise you. Please don’t kill me; he’s all yours.” He waved to the stranger, giving them a look that was a cross between a cringe and a sheepish smile before scurrying back to his post at security.
“What was that all about?” Abbacchio wondered.
"No idea," Not-Daenerys said, shrugging.
"D'accordo, signore e signori!" the DJ announced over the PA system, first in Italian, then in English. That made sense, given Milan's statuses as both an international financial hub in the EU and a global fashion/design capital. "Alrighty, ladies and gentlemen! Penso che riconoscerete tutti questo prossimo successo di EuroPop. I think you all will recognise this next EuroPop hit."
The crowd erupted into cheers as ABBA's song Dancing Queen started to play over the speakers. Not-Daenerys downed the rest of their wine in one go, grabbing Abbacchio by the hand and practically dragging him over to the dance floor.
“Friday night and the lights are lo-ow / Looking out for a place to go-o / Mmmmm, Where they play the right music / Getting in the swing / You come to look for a king..."
Abbacchio's mysterious dance partner immediately got into the music, singing along without a care in the world. They danced, looking at Abbacchio the whole time. The goth let out a soft chuckle.
This is going to be an interesting story to tell Bucciarati when Mista and I get back.
Not-Daenerys grinned, once again taking Abbacchio's hand. "Come on," they urged. "Dance with me."
Abbacchio chuckled. "Might as well." After all, they were just someone who wanted to have a good time, and were probably a bit lonely. The least he could do was set an example for Mista and not be a dick.
Besides, this person seemed to be pretty nice.
The two danced to the music; one partner slowly losing his inhibitions thanks to tequila, and the other partner who'd definitely lost their inhibitions and probably had a little too much wine for their own good.
"You're a teaser, you turn 'em o-on, leave 'em burning and then you're gone," Abbacchio's dance partner sang, dancing seductively in front of him. "Looking out for another, anyone will do, you're in the mood for a dance. And, when you get the chance..."
"...You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeeeeeeeeeeeeen," the crowd screamed. Abbacchio decided to join in the drunken, off-key English singing at this point, mainly so he wouldn't stand out (but tried to stay as on-key as possible without feeling any more like an idiot). "Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yea-ah-ah! Yo-ou can dance, yo-ou can ji-ive, having the time of your li-i-ife! Ooh-ooh-ooh; See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queeeeeeeen! Digging the Dancing Queeeeeeeen!"
The song ended after the final instrumental break, switching over to a slower tune in Italian. People began slow-dancing around them. Abbacchio's dance partner reached over to take his hand, but the goth pulled away, an apologetic look on his face.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Abbacchio told them gently, switching back to Italian. "We've got people waiting for us."
It wouldn't be fair to them.
Not-Daenerys smiled mischievously. "What makes you think our significant others aren't already right here?"
Huh?
Is there something I'm missing, or am I just plain dense?
“Who are you?” Abbacchio asked, flummoxed. “Stop playing games with me.”
His dance partner placed a hand on his cheek. They leaned forwards, whispering in his ear. “I’m the one who found you in the rain last year.”
Abbacchio’s eyes went as wide as saucers. Not-Daenerys pulled away, but the goth grabbed their wrist before they could leave. Now that he looked more closely, the decorations and the gauntlets closely resembled articles found on Sticky Fingers…
Yep.
It’s him.
It’s definitely him.
This assertion was confirmed when he saw a familiar Stand faintly manifest for a brief second.
Abbacchio sighed, shaking his head in amusement. “Oh my God.”
I’m a dumbass.
Abbacchio’s squad leader grinned. “Nice to see you, too, bello.” Blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Do you want me to buy you that drink now?”