Abbacchio nursed his glass, hazy eyes fixed on the countertop. His chin rested on his hand and his hair hung over his eyes like a dejected shower curtain.
Typically, such alcoholic spells would be broken by Bucciarati’s embrace. But that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
The ex-cop had just gotten rejected. And it hit him like a punch in the gut.
He had been… so close.
He and Bruno had just gotten into bed, and started making out… When Abbacchio asked Bucciarati to hit him.
Any attraction Bruno had felt for him immediately fizzled into concern.
Anything that could have been was shut down right then and there.
Abbacchio groaned, letting his face slip onto the wooden counter. God, he just wanted death at this point.
He went through a few more drinks as the evening progressed. Time seemed to slip by him, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
But suddenly, something started to feel wrong.
When had the bar gotten this quiet?
He looked up, turning towards the bar's entrance.
In the doorframe stood the one and only Risotto Nero. His hat clattered as he walked into the bar, red eyes dragging along the various patrons who dared stare at him.
Leone looked away, turning his gaze to the countertop.
Risotto slid into a chair a few spaces away from Abbacchio’s, and the barkeep immediately began fixing him a glass of water with lemon.
Abbacchio sighed into his hand, eyebrows knitting. He desperately hoped that the assassin wouldn’t notice him. He was a mess, and this night had been humiliating enough.
But, as his luck would have it, he felt eyes on him.
He risked a glance at Risotto, only to have his fears confirmed.
Those red eyes bore into him with an inhuman intensity.
Abbacchio sneered, looking away. What the fuck was he trying to prove? Was he seriously working to intimidate him? Haha, he must be quite insecure if he thought that was still necessary with the title of ‘Capo of the Execution Squad.’
He laughed to himself at the thought. He may be pathetic, but at least he wasn’t a try-hard.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He jolted in his seat, whirling around.
Risotto stared down at him, his eyes narrowed. “What are you be doing here, Leone Abbacchio?”
God, this guy knew his name. Why the fuck would fucking Risotto Nero know who he was?
Abbacchio drew his lips to a line and shook his glass, making the ice rattle. “Not many reasons a man comes to a bar. But what about you? I’d think you could actually afford some half-decent liquor.” He made a show of tilting his glass back, nearly draining the contents.
“I’m not here for booze,” Risotto shot back. “And I meant why are you here. In a bar on the east side of Bari. I know where your base of operations is, and I doubt the liquor here is worth a three-hour drive.”
Abbacchio groaned. “I like driving,” he muttered.
Risotto’s eyes drifted to the glass in his hands. “And do you intend on driving back like this?”
Abbacchio could hear the venom in his voice. “What the fuck do you care,” he muttered, turning away. “I never thought you’d be so talkative in person.”
Those eyes were boring into him again.
“Allow me to clarify,” Risotto hissed. “I don’t ask out of concern. I’m simply curious as to why one of Polpo’s men stumbled into La Squadra’s back yard.”
Abbacchio looked back at him, eyebrows twining. “I’m not here on business. I didn’t- I’m not here under any orders. I just… didn’t want to run into any familiar faces tonight.”
Risotto nodded, his gaze unblinking. “That’s good. Your stand is an investigative one, is it not?”
Abbacchio rose to his feet, hands in the air. “I- I’ll just go. I wasn’t sent to investigate you, I swear to god.” He could feel sweat bead the back of his neck. Fuck, fuck, he hoped Risotto couldn't tell how terrified he was.
Risotto glared him down. He shot to his feet and grabbed him by the collar. “You’re drunk. Like hell are you stepping into a car like that.”
Abbacchio winced, going silent.
Risotto stared over the bar, scowling as people looked away. He returned his attention to Abbacchio. Without uttering a word, he dragged him outside into the rain. He tossed him against a black Cadillac, gaze cold.
Abbacchio braced himself against the car, his knees giving out. “I swear to god, I wasn’t sent after you,” he choked out again.
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to convince me.”
Abbacchio stared up at him through the misplaced strands of his hair.
“Get in the car.”
Abbacchio stared out the car window, his hand clutching the door handle. He doubted he would get very far, but he fully prepared to jump should it come to it.
Risotto snuck a few glances at him, scowling. “Relax. I’m not going to kill you on the road.”
“What an oddly specific promise,” Abbacchio commented, his voice hollow.
Risotto stayed silent for a few seconds as he navigated an intersection. He was… an oddly careful driver. “Do you think I have reason to kill you?”
“No! I told you, I’m not here on business.”
“Then we shouldn’t have a problem.”
Abbacchio groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “So just let me go.”
“No. You need a place to stay.”
Leone didn’t respond for a few seconds. “Is that why you’re kidnapping me? To make sure I have a goddamn bed to sleep in? If you’re trying to suck up to Polpo, know that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
Risotto barked out a laugh. “Polpo is scum. I’m not interested in his good graces.”
Abbacchio didn’t argue. He decided against asking more questions. His grip on the door handle loosened.
Leone stumbled after Risotto into his apartment complex. He felt it buzzing with energy- no doubt from the stand users that inhabited it.
He swallowed, tracing the wall with his fingertips as he followed Risotto up the stairs. They passed through a living room, where a few men lounged.
Abbacchio’s eyes bulged at the sight of a man casually hanging out of a mirror set on a table.
Said mirror man caught Abbacchio’s eye. “Hey, Risotto, who’s your friend.”
“This is Leone Abbacchio. He’s one of Polpo’s men.”
That seemed to catch the attention of a man with long lilac hair. He grinned, tucking his laptop to the side. “Polpo, eh?” He crawled over the couch, sniffing the air around Abbacchio. He hummed, eyes lidding. “Good find,” the assassin commented, before sinking back into his seat.
“Goddamnit, Melone, cut that shit out! We all know you’re just trying to be weird,” groaned a hit-man with curly blue hair.
Melone cackled at the accusation.
Risotto ushered Abbacchio down the hall as the two continued their banter.
“They seem colorful,” Leone commented.
“I’m sure you’d get along great.” Risotto’s voice was dry, but Abbacchio wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm.
He followed the assassin into a bedroom. It smelt like rust and damp concrete.
It was modestly furnished, complete with a desk, chair, heater, and bed.
Abbacchio stared at the mattress warily. This room seemed too well lived in for him to have it to himself. Risotto confirmed this, taking a seat at the desk and starting up his computer.
Risotto followed his gaze to the bed. “What are you waiting for. Go to sleep.”
Abbacchio looked down at his wet leather apparel, and back to Risotto.
The man seemed to understand the predicament. One didn’t simply sleep in leather and expect to walk away from the smell come morning.
But like hell was he going to pamper this drunk piece of shit. “Sleep in the leather or in nothing at all, I’m not giving you pajamas.”
Abbacchio sneered at him, sinking into the bed. “Fine, just don’t complain when your mattress reeks of sweat.” He was about to lay his head on the pillow when he touched his hands to his lips. He stared up at Risotto until he got his attention. “I… Can I have a towel? I don’t want… I don’t want to get lipstick all over your sheets.”
Risotto considered it. And yet… hmm. The color suited him. “No.”
Abbacchio’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wh- you want me fucking up your pillowcase?”
Risotto turned back to his computer.
Abbacchio’s eyes burned holes into the back of his head. “Why did you really take me home.”
Risotto didn’t respond, rolling his eyes. He knew the answer Abbacchio was digging for, and it certainly wasn’t emotional baggage over a drunk driver and a dead family member. He turned to meet the man’s stare, glaring at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Abbacchio released a steady exhale. “And what if I don’t?”
Risotto narrowed his eyes.
Abbacchio tipped his head to the side, staring at Risotto with what was clearly meant to be an evocative look.
He turned back towards his screen, deadpan. Just his luck… A horny drunk with pretty lips. He subconsciously crossed out the latter observation.
Abbacchio released a slow sigh, stretching out on the bed.
Risotto didn’t turn around.
“Don’t ignore me,” he murmured.
“And why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I don’t plan to stick around after tonight.”
Risotto’s eyes lidded, and he continued typing.
Abbacchio slipped out of the bed, supporting himself on the frame of Risotto’s chair. He ran his fingers down the man’s exposed chest, breathing a sigh into his ear. “Please?”
Risotto’s posture loosened. He placed a hand over Abbacchio’s, grabbing him.
Abbacchio’s eyes widened as Risotto rose to his feet and twisted Abbacchio off balance so that he tumbled onto the bed.
Risotto slid onto the mattress, straddling Abbacchio’s hips. He held Abbacchio’s face in his hands, locking him with his piercing red eyes. “I don’t sleep with drunk trash,” he whispered, trailing his lips towards Abbacchio’s neck.
Abbacchio whined, his hands wrapping around the back of Risotto’s head as if to keep him in place. “Please, please, please, please-”
Risotto pushed his shoulders into the bed, making the frame shake.
Abbacchio went quiet.
“Begging is for dogs.” With that, Risotto picked himself up from the bed and returned to his chair. He couldn’t deny that Abbacchio had managed to send his blood hot and his skin flushed, but he had enough self-control not to act on it. He had to set this boundary, that was all. He thought Abbacchio would take the hint that he wasn’t interested in sleeping with him. He really did.
“Is that what you want?” Abbacchio’s voice came like a hum, buzzing with excitement. “For me to be your dog? Your bitch?”
His hands stilled on the keyboard. “Quiet.” He turned around, glaring at Abbacchio. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you for the rest of the night. Do you understand?”
Abbacchio sighed at the order, his body curling around the blanket that he had twisted between his thighs. He nodded.
Ten, or maybe fifteen minutes passed until Abbacchio finally understood that Risotto had only silenced him to keep him out of his hair. The realization stung.
Risotto’s ears pricked up as he heard the shuffling of clothes. It seemed Abbacchio had gotten fed up with trying to sleep in his outfit. At least, that's the implication Risotto decided upon.
Leone murmured something under his breath and shifted back under the covers.
Risotto tried not to pay attention to him, but his stand made it so that he could feel every pulse of Abbacchio's heart. The sound was deafening in the otherwise silent room.
He slid off his chair and out into the hall, where for once, the sound of Ghiaccio's screaming was a welcome noise.
He took a seat at the table, fiddling with a small iron ball that he kept in his pocket. He turned it into a prickly star, then into a cube, and finally a knife. He repeated this, practicing sculpting whatever came to mind.
The conversation around him quieted down as the team watched, mesmerized.
“I can do tricks too,” Ghiaccio muttered.
Melone dismissed him with a wave of his hand, which started their arguing all over again.