Chapter Text
The color red had once meant something different. It once was the color of sunset. A joyful time of day. He would wait on the beach with his mother and wave at the dark silhouette of the boat against the red sky as it came in from another fishing trip. His mother would help him collect sea shells while they waited and when his father's boat finally pulled in, he got to help him unload the days catch.
Bruno Bucciarati stared at his hands now. Red had taken an all new meaning.
The knife in his hands clattered to the floor, sliding along the smooth hospital tile. It was over now. What ever bit of childhood he'd tried to cling to, was done. Gone. Oozing out like the blood on the floor. The thick tang of iron mingled with the sterile sting of medical equipment burned itself deep into Bruno's memory.
He wanted to be a doctor once when he had room to dream. Now he never wanted to see another hospital in his life.
"I'll protect you, Papa," he promised, kneeling at the side of the hospital bed where his father, unconscious to the sins of his only son, recovered peacefully.
Self defense was, of course, what the police had decided. After all, he was twelve, for God's sake, and two men who had been named the suspects for Paolo Bucciarati's attempted murder had just broke into his hospital room through the window armed to the teeth. Nobody blamed Bruno.
That wasn't the issue. Nobody wanted to address the real issue. The problem with surviving, was remaining alive.
The two thugs had friends out there, a gang that would be looking for revenge. It didn't matter to them that Bruno was twelve or that his father was on deaths door already. This would be seen as an attack on their honor.
Bruno may be young, but he wasnt a child anymore. And he was smart enough to know that the real danger was coming. The choice he had to make, was really no choice at all.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's take it back a bit to the very beginning of this little tale and maybe you'll understand how it got to this point.
Bruno Paolo Bucciarati was a good kid. Everyone said so. His mother, his father, the nice old man next door, the lady who sells flowers on the corner. The post man. The young woman who ran the book store. The balding middle aged man who cut his hair.
He was bright as well. "Sharp as a whip," Mrs Esposito, the librarian said. His teachers called him "gifted". His Daddy just called him a gift.
He was on the right track to become something great. People predicted wonderful things from him. So when he announced one day that he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up, well, nobody was surprised. This was, after all, the kid who would follow baby turtles into the sea, just to make sure they made it into the water safely.
While his intelligence was notable, it was his kindness that took center stage. His desire to help at every opportunity shone like a beacon. It drew people in, and once someone was in the orbit of little Bruno, well, it was hard to fight that gravity.
But when he was five, things started to change. It wasn't easy for a five year old to notice, not even for the exceptionally intelligent Bruno Bucciarati. It was small. His mother stopped kissing his father when he went out to work. Then she stopped packing lunches for him.
Then one night, she vanished entirely and did not come home until dusk the next day. No bed time story that night. She took trips to Rome to visit a "friend" and left Bruno behind. Bruno noticed now, the way his father's eyes lingered on her empty chair at the kitchen table. He stroked his wedding ring anxiously and waited by the front door.
When she returned, Bruno noticed that her wedding ring had been removed, the pale tan line on her finger harsh and clear. Paolo noticed it too, but as he usually did in these situations, he said nothing, grabbed his fishing pole and went to work. Bruno went to bed without waiting for a story. He didn't want one.
She went to Rome again a few months later, always coming home within the week. When she was home, she seemed happier after her time away, at least for a few weeks. She kissed his father again, laughed and made wonderful dinners and took Bruno to the beach to wait for his father to come home. And she read him stories and collected seashells.
And then it stopped.
And then his Mother left and didn't return anymore.
Oh, he had the option to go with her, of course. The temptation was there. Bruno, after all, was a very, very bright boy, remember? He wanted to go to school, he wanted to learn. He still had it in his heart that he wanted to be a doctor.
But he was also kind to a fault.
And in this case, kindness overshadowed all else.
He hugged his mother when she cried. He helped her pack. He held her hand as she walked out of their home for the last time and kissed her as she walked towards the train station.
He remained in the tiny fishing village, in the tiny house by the sea, because someone needed him.
He held his father's hand and waved until his mother was out of sight.
"You should have gone with her," Paolo murmured, barely audible over the stiff breeze coming in off the Mediterranean. "I hope this isn't a decision you regret one day."
As Bruno stood outside a restaurant, he thought about his father's words. Regret. The idea of regret had been so foreign to him. What could a child like him have to regret?
He studied the gold plaque by the door, reading each swirly letter carefully.
Libeccio.
This was the place, without a doubt. The one he'd been told about. The place that could do what the police could not and would not do. After all he'd gone through the last week, his feelings towards the police had soured. Growing up, he'd been fed the lie that the police were there to help, stop the bad guys. But what were they doing now?
No. Bruno was a bright boy. Mrs. Esposito said he was bright, and he knew that even she would have to agree that this was the only logical option.
He pushed open the door and confidently requested an audience with Signore Polpo.
Meeting Polpo was not what he'd anticipated. When Bruno thought about mafioso, he imagined hard featured, grizzled characters. Missing fingers, scars, wrapped in Gucci, like a bow on a trash can. Capo Polpo was something different.
He was a fat man, with an absolutely outlandish style, but he wore a smile like a costume. A mask, like one he'd seen people wear when they took a holiday to Venice for Carnival when he was six
"Ah, you're the Bucciarati boy I've been told about." His deep rumbling voice made Bruno quiver on the spot. His eyes flickered to the table, to the others gathered around it. A strange crew, outlandishly dressed, intimidating. Except for one. Late teens, early twenties dressed in a cracked black leather jacket and faded blue jeans. He looked like any college age kid and his stark normalcy made him stick out like a sore thumb here.
Bruno blinked back to Polpo, reminding himself not to show fear.
"Yes, Sir. I'm grateful you took the time to see me today." He bowed low, awkward, unsure if this was correct. It seemed correct and nobody said anything about it except-
"Such a polite boy. That will serve you well, young man." Polpo sounded approving. "I've been informed of your plight already. Such a dreadful situation."
Bruno dared to look up, watching through his lashes as the gigantic Capo shoved a half a block of cheese into his mouth.
"Have a seat, boy."
He did. He was small though, smaller than the chairs were made for. He managed to pull the chair out (with the help of that absurdly average young man, Bruno noted, who was doing his very best to disguise the fact that he was helping) and he sat up, legs dangling like a doll, too short still to reach the floor.
"Are you hungry?" Polpo asked and Bruno, who was always honest to a fault, nodded slowly. "I thought so. All you've been through, I bet you've hardly eaten a thing."
Without a word, a plate was set in front of him from the young man on his left, the one who had helped pull his seat out. He opened his mouth to thank him, but something in his eye told Bruno this was not an act of mercy, even if it was a kind gesture. Instead, he gave a stiff nod and dug into the best spaghetti he'd ever tasted.
When he wiped his mouth, the sauce looked like blood.
His name was Arancini. No first name, just a bizarre last name to go by. Bruno walked side by side with him down a back alley behind the restaurant, unsure of everything now.
"You'll be working under me now, kid." The young man announced. "Polpo wants me to keep an eye out for you, see what you're made of."
"Yes sir," Bruno muttered.
"Don't have to be so polite," he sighed, "just keep your head down for now and do what you're told. I'll show you the ropes."
"Yes sir, thank you."
"What did I just say?" Arancini snapped, leading him to a rusted fire escape.
"Sorry, sir."
The teenager sighed deeply and held a hand out. Bruno took it and let the older boy help him up the ladder.
"Can I ask you something, kid?"
Bruno paused on the first landing and nodded, staring at a slimy dumpster below.
"What are you expecting to happen now?"
And despite being such a bright boy, Bruno genuinely wasn't sure of the right answer. So he did his best.
"I guess..." he hesitantly said, leaning against the rusted railing, "I do a few jobs here and there, and then my dad and I can go somewhere safe? Maybe I can go to school? Get a job?"
Arancini had large, gentle brown eyes. They reminded Bruno of honey, the way they caught the streetlights and glistened as the sky darkened. Warm, sweet and right now, they looked so, so sad.
"What?" Bruno asked, but he was afraid of the answer.
"I'm just... sorry."
Bruno didn't ask him to clarify. He didn't need to. The made their way up the fire escape to the converted storage room turned hideout over the restaurant. Bruno stayed there while his father recovered and slept in a storage closet.
Red soon stopped being the color of sunsets and Bruno began to hate that time of day.
Christmas time with mom was always an occasion for forced friendliness with her new family and awkward conversation with a woman he didn't really connect with anymore.
Bruno sat on a far too modern and expensive couch holding a box with a big red bow. He hadn't moved to open it yet. Not this, nor anything else sitting under the brilliantly decorated tree.
"Bambino?" His mother questioned, using that sweet, affectionate nickname for him. Her baby, always. She had no idea just what her 'baby' had become now. "Aren't you going to open that?"
His fingers fiddled with the ribbon, silky smooth, red. The color made him feel queasy.
"Of course." He pulled on a smile, a mask, just like the pretty costumes at Carnival. "Thank you."
He caught the eye of his mother's fiancé, Alberto, who smiled back. He was a very nice man. Immediately friendly, wanting to learn everything about Bruno he could, seemed to take a genuine interest in what he said and looked at his mother like she was the only source of light in the Universe.
And Bruno was happy for her. He had to be happy for her because there was no way back, even if he chose to hate this. Acceptance was easier.
He tugged on the ribbon and opened the box.
"I hope it's the right size," Alberto said, "we had to guess."
He pulled out a white jacket covered in a curious spoon-like design. Bruno wasn't sure he was old enough to believe in love at first sight, but when he touched this fabric, he was smitten immediately.
"I hope it isn't too flashy," his mother fretted and Bruno couldn't contain a smirk as he thought about the way the rest of Arancini's team dressed. He'd fit right in.
It was a size too large when he tried it on, but that was hardly surprising. Bruno was underweight, although his body was slowly beginning to fill out with muscle. It wouldn't take long to grow into it.
"It's perfect," he said, touching the gold zipper pull at the front, admiring the sharp, shiny teeth. How well they fit together, the sound they made when they separated.
He wondered if he could somehow zip himself back together. His two halves, Bruno and Bucciarati, fitting together and coming apart like the teeth of a zipper.
Bruno was fourteen now. His birthday had been yesterday. Not that birthdays meant anything anymore. Another year away from his childhood. Another year he'd managed to save what little if his old life was left. His father was alive still. He'd bought these years with blood.
Sitting on the edge of a dock watching the sun set, Bruno waited for another boat to pull in.
When he closed his eyes, inhaled the sharp scent of salt and sand, he could almost put himself back in a place long ago. Two small feet, buried in sand, tiny hand clutched to his mothers. He was waiting for his father again, he pretended, gently splashing the water below with his toes. They still had the boat, hadn't sold it for scrap just yet, his father still worked, his mother was still holding his hand, reading bedtime stories, kissing his father goodnight. He was still a kid. Still Bruno and not-
"Bucciarati."
The fourteen year old snapped his head up as Arancini sat down on the dock next to him.
"Polpo asked about you today," his leader and mentor said. "He's taken a liking to you, I think."
"I am always happy to serve my Capo," the boy responded automatically.
"You're doing well, Bucciarati," Arancini murmured, pulling one knee to his chest, letting the other hang off the dock. "People have noticed. If I'm being honest, I'm a little worried about that."
"Why?" Bruno asked, "I'm trying to keep my head down, sir. I really am."
"I know, I know. You're not in trouble." He reassured the boy. "I'm just worried that they'll try to take advantage of you. Or take you out, if they think you're a threat to their position."
"You don't think I'm a threat to you," Bruno asked turning towards his mentor, "do you, sir?"
"Me?" Arancini laughed. "I'm not stupid Bruno. Of course I do. You're a fierce lil' brat."
He playfully punched Bruno on the arm in a way that reminded him of how siblings should act. It made him smile and wonder if he might have had a younger sibling one day if his parents had stayed together.
"To be honest, Bucciarati," Arancini continued, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket, "I'm glad, you know. That you're better than me."
"Sir?" He didn't understand and as Arancini pulled a cigarette out by his teeth and lit it up, Bruno had the distinct sinking feeling that his life would change again soon. For better or worse, he couldn't say.
"Polpo wants to speak with you. Face to face."
"Polpo is in prison," Bruno pointed out, "how would I break in?"
"You won't," Arancini snorted, "you're going to pose as his nephew and pay a family visit."
"Oh." When Arancini took a drag of his cigarette, the younger boy asked, "did he say anything else?"
"Yes," the older teen exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon, but didn't explain more. He did that a lot. Putting so much meaning behind a simple one word answer.
It made him shiver.
The silence stretched between them as the setting sun painted the sea crimson. Blood in the water. His father would have called it an omen. There was a saying about a red sky at night, but young Bucciarati couldn't remember if it was supposed to be good or bad.
"Bruno."
The boy blinked up at soft brown eyes, shaken. He hadn't called him Bruno in almost two years.
"I'm sorry."
He almost dared to ask why, but they spotted the boat on the horizon and stood up. He watched Arancini drop his cigarette into the water, put his hands in the pocket of his jacket and wait for the boat to pull in with the days catch.