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The Bad Rich

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Haddaway is playing as they drive down the highway. It’s late March, windows of the van rolled down, the car body shaking from the bass. Destination Salerno, or somewhere near it, a vineyard, the usual. 

The sound gets distorted as they enter one of the many tunnels on the road - so used to it, the radio losing its signal only to pick it back up once they drive out on the other side. 

They, the gang, mafiosos, we’re not assassins, as someone wise once put it, eight people in total, sitting in a (most likely) stolen white Ford Transit. Or, the teenage kidnapper van. 

Six men, two women. 

A combination of strange outfits and questionable fashion choices. 

A blonde kid wearing a bizarre pink suit is sitting behind the wheel. He looks way too young to be driving, but no one else seems to mind. 

Next to him, there is a white-haired goth staring mindlessly out of the window. Black lipstick on his lips, in a perfect shape, matching a long-sleeved cloak in the shade of grey-ish blue. He’s wearing a pair of red headphones and seems irritated to say the least. 

Maybe with the fact of a literal kid driving?

Or maybe because an androgynous-looking man with a bob cut, sitting behind him, doesn’t seem to bother this at all? 

Said man would probably attract some looks, too. With his suit snow-white, decorated only with a tear-like pattern (and tons of zippers), he surely does stand out from the crowd.


A teenager to his left is humming the lyrics to the song, even though it’s not possible to hear it that well inside the tunnel. The sound of the engine, twice as loud thanks to the shape of the concrete pipe going across one of the mountains, drowns out his singing. 

“What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more ,” he repeats over and over. He can’t sing. In fact, he’s really terrible at it. 

But no one seems to mind. 

No one - except for a pink-haired girl - one of the two. Her expression is rather irritated as she watches a man wearing a patterned red beanie tease a boy younger than him, a blonde clad in a ripped green suit. 

She tries to pretend she’s not listening to their conversation. It’s rather ridiculous, after all, why men, she thinks, rolling her eyes as she mindlessly plays with the edge of her long pink and purple skirt decorated with geometrical patterns. 

She’s the most important here and she likes it or so she thinks - but she’s also the most annoying one. 

None of the other passengers are going to admit that, though. It would mean instant suicide, disrespecting her like that. Her, the daughter of the mafia boss that they’re supposed to protect. 

The other woman, sitting in the back of the car, doesn’t like the idea. 

She won’t let it show, of course, but she feels a certain dislike towards the pink-haired teenager. An instant repulse, in a way. It’s not the first time, though, and not the last one, either. 

She brushes away a strand of her hair - black and red - and lets out a heavy sigh as she takes a glance outside the window. 

The end of the tunnel is approaching, she can see daylight in front of them. 

Good, she thinks, resting her gaze on the signs on the concrete walls. The car is moving too fast to read them - who let a fucking kid drive it, after all? - but the motion is comforting. 

Makes her feel less claustrophobic. Less stuck. 

She’d hate to fight inside of a tunnel, for sure. 

A fear that, if turned against her, would probably kill her. 

With the power of Bruise Pristine, that is. 

A crimson red aura around her, whenever it’s hard to keep her emotions in check, an aura that often manifests itself in the form of a humanoid figure. 

Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe she’s just high and seeing things. Tripping badly after listening to Daft Punk. 

As mafiosos, they smuggle drugs, after all. 

Or so it seems. She knows she’d be cut in pieces - or rather, zipped into pieces - disarticulated, dismembered - if the black haired guy ever found out she dared to touch any of those substances. 

Bad memories, she knows that. 

She can read minds. 

Sort of. 

It’s more about sensing fears than actual memories, but she knows something bad happened in the past. To the man. Something drug-related. 

She’s never going to ask, though. She wouldn’t dare to. 

Everyone’s allowed to keep their secrets. 

She can only pick up as much as her powers allow her. 

The powers - the Stand - a reflection of her soul. Or the traumas inside it, actually. 

We’re not assassins, she remembers the black haired one’s words from just a couple of days ago. 

Or are they?

In a way. She could kill, if she wanted to. Or in an act of self-defense. 

She hates it, but there’s no choice. 

Not when you’re in a gang. 

And she hates that too. 

A part of her wishes they - all of them - were just a regular family. A group of friends going on holidays, somewhere. 

But no. 

That’s never going to happen. 

They’re more like partners - no emotions, no bonds, no attachments. 

Pure suffering. 

Her worst fear?

Loneliness, probably. 

In a way. 

A black strand of hair falls into her eyes again. She sighs heavily and brushes it away, noticing the pink haired girl is staring. 

“What?” she hisses at her before she can stop herself. 

There’s surprise in the younger one’s eyes. Surprise and fear. 

Not a mortal one, though. Just momentary. It’ll pass. 

The pink haired girl looks away just as quickly. 

And that makes the other woman even more irritated. 

What? ” she repeats, more aggressively this time, causing the black-haired guy to give her a warning look. 

Paxe, ” he says in a calm, but menacing tone. She looks up at him. Rolls her eyes. She won’t apologize, no, but she averts her gaze, too. 

Doesn’t want to end up beheaded if the little shit feels scared or in danger and tells that to her oh, no one’s allowed to know my identity, piece of shit daddy selling drugs to children like her.

Instead, Paxe just sighs again and turns to the kid still singing Haddaway. 

“Would you mind shutting up?” she grumbles at him, to which the guy just offers a semi-conscious gaze. 

And then, then it clicks, something in his head. 

In a matter of seconds, he’s holding a knife against the woman. The blade almost pierces the skin on her neck, but she doesn’t even wince, like she’s used to it. 

Instead, a red aura appears around her. It takes one warning look for the little shit to hide the knife and go completely silent - not the best way of raising kids, but when there’s too many, it takes desperate measures to keep them in check. 

She’d never hurt him, though - no, that is just a warning. 

A warning on what can happen if he really pisses her off one day. 

Or, what she’s capable of.

What Bruise Pristine is capable of.

Paxe sighs and runs her hand through her hair, her long, black nails getting caught in the knots that have formed during the day. 

She can see the goth in the front seat is smiling - a barely visible smirk sent right to her, a silent thanks because he can’t bother with the singing guy anymore. 

Let alone that one, though. There’s the blonde kid who’s driving - the one who the goth really cannot stand. 

Same goes for Paxe.

Giorno Giovanna, that’s the kid’s name. And he’s got a dream. 

Or maybe not anymore, because he already got his dozen or so billion of liras. 

Still, he’s annoying. 

Bucciarati, you’ve got a serious issue with adopting strays from the streets, the goth, Abbacchio, said to the bob-cut man the day he brought Giorno to Libeccio. 

And - and - Paxe can agree with the man. They don’t need another unstable teenager in their team. They’re all messed up on their own.

A former sex worker, an ex-cop and a teenage killer.

How lovely. 

The boss must have been just as insane when he decided to leave his daughter in their hands. 

Paxe sighs, playing with a chain attached to her black cargo pants. She can feel the pink haired girl’s - Trish’s - gaze on her, but she’s not going to snap at the teen again. 

After all, what if she really ends up telling her father how poorly the gang has treated her?

Paxe can’t put others in danger. 

“Hey, Chitarra,” the voice of the beanie man interrupts the woman’s thoughts. 

She hums in question as she turns to face him. Mista, the class clown. 

But he’s nice, actually. 

Someone to prank people with. 

“What’s between you and Fiora?” he asks, pulling a grissini stick out of the bag resting on the floor next to him and dividing it into six smaller pieces. For his stand, Sex Pistols, to eat. 

Or maybe it’s just an excuse for him to have a snack. Since stand users can feel what’s happening to their stands. 

Paxe can only guess, as six tiny, yellow creatures fly out of the man’s hat, bickering about something, one of them probably crying. 

Surprisingly, she notices a hint of a smile on Trish’s face as soon as it happens. 

“Are you going to answer?” Mista’s voice grows more persistent, making her turn her attention back to him. 

“None of your fucking business,” she snaps at him in response and rolls her eyes. Hoping it will do the trick. 

But, unfortunately, Mista, unlike Narancia, is not scared of her. He’s superstitious enough on his own, he won’t let other fears take over. 

“Geez, calm down, I was just asking,” he sighs, defeated. And then, they drive out of the tunnel. The radio catches the signal back, not giving Paxe a chance to come up with an insult to say in response. 

“I’m blue da-ba-dee, da-ba-daa, da-ba-daa,” the teen sitting in front of Mista, Narancia’s his name , the one with the knife, starts singing again. 

“For the love of goth, shut the fuck up, ” the white-haired human incarnation of misery in the front seat snaps at him.
And then, a sponge, one used to wipe the windows when they steam up, flies across the van. 

Paxe shakes her head disapprovingly at that, but she has to admit, it’s adorable, in a way. How Narancia drives Abbacchio insane. 

Like siblings. 

Like a family they’ll never be. 

No matter how many meaningful looks Abbacchio is going to send Bucciarati, because they’re in love, they’re so fucking in love that they won’t admit it.

Unlike her and Fiora.


“I don’t want you to think I’m crossing some boundaries, but Mista’s got a point,” the black haired man, Bucciarati, turns to face Paxe. “It’s really irresponsible for you and Fiora to-”.

He’s right. He’s crossing a lot of boundaries right now.

“We won’t be seeing each other until the mission is over,” the woman cuts him off sharply. It’s better to keep things this way. She doesn’t want to come off as whiny, there’s no space for that. And no reason for her partners to care. “Trish is the priority now.”

To that, there’s a smile from Bucciarati. Nothing more, nothing less. 

And then, the pink haired teen lets out a gasp. 

Paxe glances at her, raising an eyebrow in surprise. 

Trish looks shocked to say the least, color fading from her face with every passing moment.

For a moment Chitarra fears it was an enemy stand attack, but then the pink-haired teen begins to speak.

“I,” she stutters, stunned. “I thought you hated me.”

Paxe stops herself from rolling her eyes. 

“It’s not my job to like you or not,” she says instead. “I, we just need to keep you safe until you get to your father.”

Hoping he won’t kill us at the end of the mission, she adds to herself, resting her eyes on the sea visible to the right. 




There’s a loud thud followed by a bunch of curses as two men land on the floor, their limbs zipped together randomly, like a horror scene. 

They look defeated. Pissed. 

And harmless. 

One of them seems to be on the verge of crying. He’s rather short, his hair green and shaved on the sides. There’s a look of confusion on his face. Or maybe someone just hit him with a frying pan when he was a kid. 

The other one, though, taller and blonde, just smirks. Contempt in his eyes, he’s about to do something.

At least until Bucciarati lands on the floor next to them, standing, holding unconscious Mista in his arms. 

Both the capo and the gunman still show signs of aging, like everyone else in the room, except for the two enemies, but these are slowly fading. 

Same goes for  the other gang members. 

Paxe looks up at Bruno, noticing her hands don’t look as bad as they used to less than five minutes ago. They could still belong to someone in their late thirties, sure, but the skin is slowly getting smoother. 

“So?” she asks, hoping he’s got a plan. As long as it’s not a suicide mission of trying to fight their enemies inside their shelter, with the two being in power and half of his team on their deathbeds.

“We’re going to negotiate,” Bucciarati says firmly, making the blonde man laugh. There’s a flash in the enemy’s eyes, as if he’s up to something, but Paxe doesn’t even let him finish. 

She walks up to the two, a latex-like humanoid figure following her like a shadow. The more terrified the two men look, the wider she smiles. 

The green-haired one breaks down crying. Whatever he’s seeing in his mind at the moment, certainly is not pleasant. 

The blonde desperately attempts to save face, but there’s fear in his eyes, too. 

“Suffocating?” Paxe kneels down next to him with a grin. “How basic.”

She watches as the man starts gasping for air for a few more minutes, allowing the power of his stand to fade completely, and when it does, she leans in even closer, her stand mirroring her moves until it places a hand on the enemy’s throat and clenches its fingers around it. “Say hi to Bruise Pristine.”

Color fades off the man’s face as Paxe takes a brief glance at her hands, now perfectly smooth, back to their own twenty three years of age. 

“F-fair enough,” the blonde chokes out, his throat still in the firm grip of Bruise Pristine. “We can negotiate.”

Bucciarati just hums in response, placing unconscious Mista on the sofa, before he kneels down beside Paxe, giving both enemies a sharp look. The green-haired one has teared up a bit and he looks traumatized to say the least, but that’s life, especially when you’re a gangster. 

“C-can you make it stop?” he pleads, avoiding everyone’s gaze, like he’s ashamed of his own behaviour. 

He should be. No crying in the mafia, rule number one. 

“Make what stop, dear?” Paxe asks, offering an innocent smile. “The maggots eating you alive? It’s all in your head, love.”

The green-haired enemy just whines in pain, making Chitarra laugh so hard Bucciarati sends her a warning look. 

“If you’re going to torture my brother any longer, we’re not going to talk,” the blonde then states, his voice serious. 

Making the situation even more absurd. 

“You’re choosing between death and death then,” Paxe shrugs, getting up and taking a step back to lean against the wall. Tempted to make him suffocate again, just for a brief moment.

“She’s got a point, you two are actually the ones who started torturing us. Not to mention everyone else on this train. We don’t kill innocent civilians, rule number…,” Bucciarati says, hesitating at the last sentence, as if he couldn’t remember.

“Two,” Paxe offers. “Number one is no crying in the mafia,” she adds, looking at the green-haired man. 

“Thanks,” Bucciarati rolls his eyes and reverts his attention back to the enemies on the floor. “But we want to negotiate, instead of killing you two,” here, the blonde’s expression changes to surprised, so the black-haired man continues: “You see, there are some… circumstances … that forced us to change plans. And since we have a similar goal, it would be wise to team up.”

He probably can’t believe he’s saying this. He even lowers his voice, as if he was scared someone might be eavesdropping. 

After all, it’s betrayal, a suicide mission, their plan. He can only hope capturing the two enemies looked convincing enough when he did that.

“Team up?” the blonde raises an eyebrow in surprise. He looks intrigued. So much so that the tone of his voice makes his partner calm down a little. “What do you mean team up ?”

Bucciarati sighs and rubs his temples. So much - too much - has happened within the course of the past seventy-two hours. Too much to bother with explanations.

“You’re both assassins, is that right?” he asks, completely ignoring the blonde’s questions. He knows the answer to that question already, but a confirmation would be useful.

“What makes you think that?” the enemy scoffs. He’s bad at lying. 

“First of, because we already killed two of your teammates. Also, the abilities of both of you,” Bucciarati gets up to his feet. “The most underpaid people in Passione. La Squadra Esecuzioni. What a name to go by. I’ve heard you’re after the boss. So are we, but the plan has changed.”

“No way,” the blonde says, shocked. “How am I supposed to know this is not some sort of a trap?”

That’s a valid question. It’s so rational Paxe actually begins to like the man. 

It’s her turn to shine. 

“The babygirl doesn’t want to meet her daddy,” she says, nodding towards Trish, who just scoffs at the nickname. They still don’t like each other and it seems nothing will change that. 

But at least now Paxe is allowed to make jokes like this one. 

Unless this, too, is a trap set by the boss to hunt down traitors. 

“As far as I’m concerned that’s not a valid reason to betray the gang,” the blonde points out, making Chitarra roll her eyes. 

“No, but, you see, there’s this annoying kid in our team. A kid with a dream to get to the boss and convince him to stop selling drugs to innocent children,” she says, walking up to him. “Dreams are the most precious things. It’s always good to learn new things, since nightmares are more of my field of interest.”

She can put it that way. It’s not bad dreams actually, but rather making them reality, so that the enemies will die killed by their own fear. 

But it’s too early to reveal her stand’s power. 

Too early. 

“So?” Bucciarati asks. “What do you think of this?”

The blonde rolls his eyes. 

“I take it this psycho,” he nods towards Paxe who offers an innocent smile in response. “Is coming with us?”

“I am,” Chitarra shrugs. “Now call your anemic capo.”

There’s shock painted on the blonde’s face. Paxe can see the question How?! bouncing around in his head, bright red. How does she know his capo’s stand’s ability?

But she does. And she knows much more than that. It only takes a quick run through people’s traumatic memories to find things out. 

Like, that the blonde’s name’s Prosciutto. Or that his partner, Pesci, has never killed anyone. 

Or that their capo, Risotto, isn’t as scary as he seems to be, as the power makes him anemic, the more he uses it.

Too bad this particular type of power only works for some people.




Three days later Prosciutto and Pesci are back in one piece - or rather, two. They’re sitting in a passenger car heading to Venice, together with the other members of the Hitman and Bucciarati Teams. Some of them are staying in the turtle resting in the back of the vehicle - those who refused to sit in the heat of the day. Or maybe they’re just trying to befriend the Bucci Gang, as Melone put it when they first got into the car. 

Towels cover the windows, their edges caught by the glass rolled up. They do a half-hearted job of keeping the heat outside. The A/C is barely working and it’s still hot inside, despite Ghiaccio’s efforts to cool the interior down. 

“I hate this weather,” the man complains.

He’s driving, on the edge of having an anger outburst, keeping himself in check only because his capo is sitting next to him. 

Risotto Nero, way too tall for the stolen Ford Escort, mindlessly playing with an edge of the towel stuck in the window to his right. 

In the backseat, Bucciarati, Abbacchio and Chitarra squeezed together. The kids stayed inside the turtle and the three of them headed outside, as the adults. 

It seems La Squadra used a similar strategy, having only Ghiaccio and Risotto join them. 

Or maybe it’s the lack of available seats in the car. 

Or, perhaps, the fact that Abbacchio would just kill anyone who’d come in his way, too tired to bother with anything. And that Bucciarati is the capo. 

Paxe, then, has the ability to keep the enemy in check. 

Because, as much as Ghiaccio doesn’t seem that much of a threat, Risotto is quite dangerous.

And he’s handsome, Chitarra realizes, biting her bottom lip. 

She’s wearing a dark red shade of lipstick today, an impromptu decision as soon as she saw Nero approaching them with the rest of his team. 

Not that she’s in love. She’s just crushing.

She has no idea if it’s the man’s red eyes, his voice, or his general attire that makes her knees go weak whenever her gaze crosses with his, but she likes it. 

The feeling.

It’s so much nicer than what she had with Fiora.


The heartbreaker. 

She doesn’t want her partners to find out. Not until she feels ready to tell them, at least.

Or maybe it’s not even going to be necessary. 

Fiora betrayed her trust, ripped her soul in two, hurt her like a bitch. 

It wasn’t about them not working out the way she hoped they would. If anything, Paxe was only mad about the dishonesty. It wouldn’t hurt as much if Fiora had the guts to just tell her she wasn’t her type. Or something like that. 

Disappearing without a word wasn’t okay and it never would be. 

Chitarra’s moved on since then, sure. That was life and it wasn’t her first heartbreak, maybe not the last, either. 

Still, Fiora broke her heart, in a way. 


“So,” Risotto’s voice snaps the woman out of her thoughts. “We meet the boss on San Giorgio Maggiore. Only the seven of you and Trish come out first, to make him think everything’s going as planned. And then we kill him, right?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Abbacchio says in response. He’s holding Bucciarati’s hand, discreetly, but it’s there and it’s cute, so cute Paxe actually wants to scream, because that means the man finally had the guts to ask their capo out. 

“But,” Bruno notes. “You can’t use the turtle. If the boss realizes there is something wrong, he will most likely trap you inside.”

“And that would kinda suck,” Paxe adds, as Risotto nods. No one asked, but she wants to get the assassin’s attention. Somehow. 

Would he want to date a whore? , she catches herself thinking. Even if she should be focused on the plan. Not falling in love with one of her new partners in crime. 

But then, it’s going to take them another eight hours to get to Venice. They’ve barely left Naples. 

She can at least stare at the man shamelessly. 



Thanks for reading and welcome to my canon fanfic with an original character. Been rewatching Golden Wind recently and felt like writing a fic hahaha

Let me know how you liked it in the comments! <33