Work Text:
“We’ve been invited to dine with Vermicelli,” Giovanna stated from his desk.
Abbacchio slouched in the chair across from Giovanna’s desk. He sighed.
He hated every reminder that a 16 year old kid was his boss. The large elaborately carved wooden desk Giovanna sat behind and Bucciarati standing at his side was more than enough to irk Abbacchio.
A formal dinner was a rather unusual mission for Abbacchio. Typically, Abbacchio was asked to use his stand to investigate something that had already taken place: a murder, a burglary, a betrayal, etc. He would show up to the scene of the crime and start the laborious process of using Moody Blues to try to find the culprit as well as the specifics of their actions. He had a more reactive role in the gang, working with Bucciarati to give him any information that he needed to know as Giovanna’s right-hand man.
“You’ve been invited to dinner. Vermicelli would have nothing to do with me,” he said in return.
“That’s true,” Giovanna answered. “But you’re the best person to accompany Bucciarati and I. We need to be able to tell if we can trust him or not.”
Abbacchio let out a small scoff and rolled his eyes, but he knew that Giovanna did have a serious point.
It turns out that not everyone was happy with Passione’s change in management. Understandably, really. Abbacchio wasn’t all that jazzed about it either.
They had spent the last several months rooting out rats in order to keep a firm grip on the gang. It had been a ruthless cycle of finding any dissent and immediately crushing it with a firm hand, proving to all of Italy that they were not to be trifled with. It was an exhausting endeavor, but one that was absolutely necessary if they wanted to stay in control.
Vermicelli was a capo who had seemingly been cooperative with them so far. He had been one of the first to pledge loyalty to Giovanna, and he seemed willing to listen to orders. He didn’t appear to be an immediate threat to Giovanna’s reign.
At least not until Fugo found a strange number in one of his expense reports. It was just one number, and it could have been an innocent mistake, but it was strange enough to concern Fugo, and by extension, Giovanna and Bucciarati.
And so they had reached out to Vermicelli to meet, hoping to investigate the man further, to see if he really could be a threat.
Vermicelli was filthy rich and not shy about displaying his immense wealth. He had been in Passione for years, and unlike many members, he was not secretive about his position in the gang and the power he held as a result. Everyone knew who he was, who he commanded, and even the location of the enormous and luxurious mansion he lived in.
Yet, he still remained in power. There were no reports of any attempts on his life, nor any backlash from other gang members. From a distance, Vermicelli appeared all-powerful.
Abbacchio was not thrilled at the idea of being face-to-face with a guy like that.
“Why didn’t you ask Fugo? He has much more experience with rich snobs than I do,” Abbacchio complained.
“You know we can’t ask Fugo,” Giovanna dismissed.
Abbacchio did know.
Since rejoining their pack, Giovanna had given Fugo a more administrative role within Passione. Fugo crunched numbers and helped with paperwork. It was methodical and logical work that seemed to suit Fugo’s temperament much more than the split second and often violent decisions he had to make before. He seemed to flourish as a result of it, considering his outbursts had become fewer and far between.
Abbacchio knew a bit about Fugo’s past among wealthy snobs, and just what that entailed for him. When considering how Fugo had been and how far he had come, Abbacchio found himself reluctantly agreeing with Giovanna. At best, he could have a violent episode and ruin the mission. At worst, all the progress made on his temperament would be lost. They could not ask Fugo to return to the world of wealthy snobbery.
“Mista and Narancia are better suited for combat, in case things get out of hand,” Abbacchio pointed out, hoping there might still be some chance he could get out of this.
“Things won’t get out of hand. We’re just going to have dinner and see if we find anything suspicious. Mista and Narancia are not better suited in that regard,” Giovanna stated, bluntly.
And, infuriatingly, he was correct once again. The two teenage boys were absolute fiends at the dinner table. Perhaps they could be cleaned up, but they could never scrounge up enough manners to act normal for the length of an entire meal.
Abbacchio sighed. It was clear Giovanna had thought this whole thing through after all.
“Fine. What do you need me to do?” Abbacchio asked, resigned to his fate of being miserable.
“The dinner is tonight. You just have to get dressed up, tag along with us, and help keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” Giovanna answered.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” Abbacchio muttered.
“Abbacchio, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll be a key asset in this mission,” Bucciarati chimed in. “You have a good eye. I know you’ll be able to tell if anything seems off.”
“I already said fine,” Abbacchio said while avoiding Bucciarati’s eyes. “Bucciarati, I need to ask you something,” he added. He stood and walked towards the door.
Bucciarati sighed, but he nodded and followed Abbacchio out of the room and down the hall.
Abbacchio stopped once he figured they were far enough away to avoid Giovanna, who had a habit of eavesdropping. After looking one more time, to make sure that Giovanna wasn’t making any moves, he leaned towards Bucciarati and muttered in a low voice at him.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bucciarati murmured back to him, seeming to suppress a smile.
“Liar,” Abbacchio whispered. “Why the hell am I going on this mission? This is your and Giovanna’s domain, not mine.”
“Giorno is in charge, and this was entirely his decision. I had nothing to do with it.”
Abbacchio opened his mouth to argue again, but Bucciarati stopped him by laying a finger on his lips, immediately silencing him and also making his heart pound.
“Leone, have you ever considered that Giorno likes you?” Bucciarati asked, an amused lilt to his voice.
Abbacchio grabbed his arm and yanked on it, removing Bucciarati’s finger from his lips before he could spontaneously combust.
“No,” Abbacchio paused. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.
“Giorno likes you,” Bucciarati repeated, not even trying to hide a smile anymore.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He does.”
“You think the kid has some kind of crush on me?” Abbacchio asked, incredulously.
“God, no!” Bucciarati exclaimed.
“You said-”
“I meant that he looks up to you! He likes having you around, especially lately,” Bucciarati paused, thinking for a moment. “I think he wants you on this mission as some sort of… moral support.”
Abbacchio thought over his words for a moment before looking away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.
“Leone,” Bucciarati sighed his name. Abbacchio wondered if maybe he should see a cardiologist with the way his heart has been skipping beats. “You know the last few months have been difficult for him.”
Abbacchio did know that. Because it turns out that presenting as an omega isn’t exactly a walk in the park.
It was a difficult transition, even for Giovanna. The kid was a fast learner, but it’s not as if teenage hormones made a whole lot of sense anyways. He still struggled to control his scent, which Abbacchio could tell frustrated the kid. Giovanna even had a random surprise heat only a month after his first heat; just as miserable the second time around. This was an extreme vulnerability for Giovanna, at least until his hormones relax a little.
Giovanna had made it clear that his second gender was to remain absolutely secret for the time being. They had gone to great lengths to erase any and all evidence that there might be a recently presented omega in their midst. Abbacchio personally had to instruct the kid on how to use scent blockers, suppressants, and, more generally, how to not act like an omega.
“So?” Abbacchio asked, begrudgingly, even though it was clear that Bucciarati had made his point, and that Abbacchio was too much of a pushover to argue with Bucciarati for much longer.
“So,” Bucciarati parroted, albeit warmly. “You’re going to dress up, go on this easy mission with us, eat a nice meal, drink expensive wine, and accept that Giorno holds you in high esteem, and perhaps, even considers you to be his friend.”
“Never,” Abbacchio stated without pause. “And I still don't have anything to wear,” he added.
Bucciarati smiled and leaned in a bit closer.
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” he whispered with a soft smile on his lips.
Before Abbacchio could respond, the man had turned around and began to confidently walk back to Giovanna’s office. Abbacchio watched him until he disappeared from view.
And with that, Abbacchio was on board with the mission.
He eventually found himself in his room, going through his closet, completely puzzled by what to wear.
Because he had left the door to his room open, inevitably, someone had wandered in.
This time, it was Trish. She sprawled across his bed and hugged one of his pillows as she complained about her fellow classmates at the expensive private school Bucciarati had enrolled her in.
Abbacchio couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed by Trish like he often did with the others. He simply adored her. He found solace in her rants about high school drama as he struggled to choose an outfit that would make him look like someone who didn’t live on the streets for several months of his adult life.
Trish was a beta, and her scent was gentle and sweet. Abbacchio remembered how she had smelled when they first met her. She was combative, irritable, and horribly sad. Abbacchio didn’t know that betas could smell so upsetting before he had met Trish, Fugo, and Narancia. He was glad that all their tumultuous lives seemed to be finally calming down, at least for the time being.
Their pack had become more tight-knit than ever, even after Giovanna’s presentation a couple months prior. They knew that the key to survival was staying together and depending on each other. However, it also appeared that this closeness had given them more than just survival. They all had companionship now, something that most of them had very little good experience with. Abbacchio would never admit it, but being in a full house together, a measure they had resorted to in order to guard each other from assassination, had been sort of nice. Reassuring, maybe.
Abbacchio banished the sugary sweet thoughts from his head and focused on the task at hand. While looking at his wardrobe, a variety of fabrics in almost exclusively dark colors, he decided that he would have to recruit back-up. He turned around and interrupted Trish in the middle of her long-winded story.
“I’m going on a mission tonight with Giovanna and Bucciarati to have dinner with some rich snob. Help me pick out something to wear that the brats at your school would approve of,” He told her plainly.
With each word he spoke, he could see her face light up further. She jumped up and grabbed his arm, barely containing an excited squeal. However, she took a deep breath and got serious, grabbing his shoulders and looking up into his eyes with conviction.
“Bucciarati gave me a credit card to use for emergencies. This is an emergency. We’re going shopping right now,” She said while thrumming with excitement.
“Fine, but we only have a few hours. I need to be ready by six,” Abbacchio reasoned.
“Got it!” She nearly yelled as she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door in a hurry.
Abbacchio spent the next couple hours being dragged from store to store by Trish, trying to talk her down from the more expensive items. He wasn’t sure if it was possible for Passione to go bankrupt, but he didn’t want to find out.
His only request to her was to go with darker colors, which she agreed to, unquestioningly. Abbacchio tried not to feel too warm and fuzzy about how upbeat the teen was acting. He tried to suppress a smile as he complained about being sent into the dressing room for the fifth time.
On their way home, several shopping bags of various sizes in each of their hands, Trish got a call from Fugo. Abbacchio could hear him yelling about her spending clearly from a couple feet away, even though the phone was not on speaker mode.
“Fugo, it’s for a mission for Abbacchio! I had to spend that much money. Now, I need you to do me a favor and plug in my flat iron and turn it on,” She spoke into the phone. Abbacchio couldn’t hear what Fugo was saying anymore, though he still sounded like he was grumbling about something.
“I need you to do it! We’re running out of time and every second counts! Are you trying to sabotage Abbacchio on this important mission?”
When Trish and Abbacchio arrived back at the house, Fugo stood waiting for them, huffing with anger, but the flat iron was plugged in and ready to go.
Trish insisted on doing Abbacchio’s hair and makeup. Abbacchio felt a strange sense of calm wash over him as he listened to Trish and Fugo bicker. For a brief moment, it felt like they were normal kids.
Trish sent him into the bathroom to get changed into his new outfit, allowing Abbacchio to finally get a good look at his hair and makeup. His hair was smooth, glossy, and sleek as it pooled over his shoulders. He wondered how she managed to achieve that from the frizzy and bent mess that it usually was.
His makeup was even more astounding. Abbacchio wasn’t a stranger to makeup in any sense, but the carefully crafted smoky eye, soft blush, and contour made him look completely different. She made his lips their usual black, the only choice he would have made for himself, but even his lips looked more soft and round than usual.
Abbacchio only let himself stare in wonder for a few more moments, before he quickly began to put on his new clothes, careful to avoid messing up Trish’s hard work.
Once changed, Abbacchio stepped out of the bathroom and into Trish’s room, the clicking sound of his heels distracting Trish and Fugo from their current argument and making them look up at him.
Fugo stared in shock and horror, with a hint of blush on his cheeks, while Trish jumped up and down and squealed with joy before running over and making slight adjustments to his hair and clothes.
“You’re wearing a dress!” Fugo sputtered once he remembered how to speak.
It was true. Abbacchio was wearing a dress. It was a sleek black dress that stretched to the floor, with a slit that revealed one of his pale long legs. He wore delicate heels which made his already tall and lean figure appear even taller. The top had thin straps, exposing his arms and shoulders.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?! And he’s so tall, too! Abbacchio, you look like a model!”
“A model? Trish, you made him look like an omega!” Fugo shouted angrily.
“I am an omega,” Abbacchio stated, matter-of-factly. Fugo looked slightly sheepish in response but still angry.
“I know, but this is a mission! You never dress like you’re an omega on missions! And neither does Giorno! It could be dangerous!” Fugo answered defensively.
Abbacchio couldn’t help but think that Fugo had a point. Normally, Abbacchio never dressed or acted like an omega. It was often more trouble than it was worth. But he had spent the day acting so normal, that he had almost forgotten to care. He had gotten so swept up in spending the day with Trish and talking about fashion and shopping, that he hadn’t really stopped to think much about the mission.
“This is different, Fugo,” Trish chimed in. “This is an important dinner that requires a more refined touch. He needs to blend in with a higher class crowd.” she explained rather coercively.
“I don’t think he’s going to blend in with anything,” Fugo responded while giving Abbacchio a look that made him feel somewhat exposed. Abbacchio shot the kid a warning glare.
“Fugo, shut up!” Trish hissed at him before turning to Abbacchio. “Listen, Abbacchio, I think it’ll be helpful for this mission to look more omegan. The only thing that you need to know about rich people is that they only care about expensive and rare things, and right now, you look like a very expensively dressed, rare male omega. I think you’ll be able to butter this guy up without even trying! Am I wrong, Fugo?”
Fugo looked nervous in a way that Abbacchio hadn’t seen him look in months.
“You’re not wrong, it's just- you really don’t want to draw any attention from these types of guys, okay? They’re all scumbags! I think you should change!” Fugo answered in an almost pleading tone.
“It’s 5:58! Bucciarati and Giorno are probably already waiting. There’s no time to change!” Trish responded, hurriedly. She grabbed him by the arm to lead him downstairs, but Fugo desperately grabbed his other arm.
“Wait, you can’t expect Bucciarati to just go with this!? What’s he going to say when he sees you like this?” Fugo hissed.
Trish giggled in response.
“I don’t know, but I can’t wait to see his face when he sees,” she answered.
“Nothing. He’s not going to say anything,” Abbacchio stated.
He pulled his arms from the two teens' grip and made his way towards the stairs. He pretended not to notice the shocked silence from the teens.
Abbacchio made his way carefully down the stairs, holding his dress away from his feet and delicately stepping to avoid tripping over his heels. He began to wonder if he really was making a mistake, and dread filled him with each step he took.
He was no stranger to outlandish fashion, makeup, and hair, but even this was a bit foreign for him. He felt like a different person. He felt like an omega.
Fugo and Trish began bickering through whispers behind him, and he took strange comfort in the familiar sound of it.
Once he reached the final landing in the stairs, he saw Giovanna and Bucciarati speaking in the entryway; Bucciarati’s back to Abbacchio. Giovanna was wearing a dark blue suit, and his hair was down with his blonde curls neatly arranged. Bucciarati was wearing his black suit, which made Abbacchio’s heart pound whenever he saw it.
As Abbacchio descended the last few steps, he watched as Giovanna noticed him from over Bucciarati’s shoulder.
Giovanna appeared to stop speaking mid-sentence as his eyes grew comically round and his jaw dropped slightly in shock. Abbacchio would have laughed at how stupid he looked if Bucciarati hadn’t immediately turned around to see what Giovanna was looking at.
Bucciarati’s eyes widened at the sight of Abbacchio. The room was silent for several moments. Abbacchio couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.
The silence ended when Bucciarati took a deep breath, and his face seemingly shuttered to a neutral expression.
“Abbacchio, I see that you found something to wear,” he plainly stated with no emotion.
“Yeah,” Abbacchio answered in a similar tone.
He schooled his expression, but inside him was pure agony.
Bucciarati was momentarily surprised, but absolutely nothing more. Abbacchio really thought that he might say something about his looks. He had half expected the man to throw a fit about the mission like Fugo, or maybe even a small compliment, but no. He looked at him and stated a fact. No other emotions, no comments, no nothing.
Abbacchio realized in this moment that he had let his guard down and gotten his hopes up without realizing it. Why had he really dressed up like this? It didn’t matter if Abbacchio looked like an omega or not, Bucciarati would never be interested in him in any way. The dress, the shoes, the hair, the makeup; what made him feel interesting and beautiful moments before now just made him feel ridiculous. There was no point to any of it.
He tried to internally reassure himself with Trish’s words about the mission. Bucciarati would never want him in the way Abbacchio wanted, but he could still be useful to him. His emotions felt as vulnerable as an open wound, and he wanted nothing more than to grab a bottle of wine or two from the kitchen and hide in his room for the night, but he could at least do his job first.
“Trish, did you have something to do with this?” Giovanna asked.
Trish stepped forward, looking somewhat sheepish, likely as a result of Bucciarati’s lack of reaction. Fugo huffed angrily with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I picked out the dress and did his hair and makeup. Did I do a good job?” she asked, clearly fishing for compliments.
“I think you look very nice, Abbacchio,” Giovanna said.
“I don’t really care what you think,” Abbacchio answered.
“You’re very talented, Trish,” Bucciarati said, not even looking at Abbacchio. Trish quietly thanked him, looking slightly distressed.
“We really should be leaving now. I don’t want to keep Vermicelli waiting,” Giovanna interrupted smoothly, almost successfully dispelling the awkwardness.
Abbacchio walked after Bucciarati and Giovanna towards the door, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was almost certainly going to be a long and draining night.
“Wait!” Fugo quickly stepped forward and grabbed Abbacchio’s arm, facing him head on.
“You look good- well, more than good! Trish was right when she said you look like a model,” Fugo said while blushing up to his ears. “Just remember what I said about these wealthy types, okay? Be careful. Please.”
For just a moment, Abbacchio thought about the young miserable boy Fugo was when they first met a few years ago. He was angry, jumpy, and mean as hell without even trying. Even though Bucciarati assured him that Fugo was a good kid, it was difficult to see it at the time. Now he looked at Fugo, and suddenly he was a kind and compassionate young man. Abbacchio couldn't help but wonder when the hell did that happen?
Abbacchio used the hand not gripped by Fugo and mussed the kid's wild hair, much to his chagrin.
“I’ll be fine. And I’ll tell you all my thoughts about this wealthy shithead later when I get back, okay?”
A small smirk cracked Fugo’s serious expression.
“Can I join?” Trish asked sheepishly. Fugo looked at her and sighed dramatically.
“Fine,” he said. Trish smiled softly.
Abbacchio gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, before turning to follow Bucciarati and Giovanna out the door.
When he turned around, he saw that Bucciarati was looking at him- really looking at him. He had an expression on his face that Abbacchio couldn’t interpret. However, Abbacchio couldn’t wonder for very long, because as soon as Bucciarati saw Abbacchio looking back at him, his face went back to that forced neutral expression that he typically wore for missions.
He reached out a hand to Abbacchio, and after a moment, Abbacchio took it. Bucciarati placed Abbacchio’s hand on the inner corner of his arm and led Abbacchio out the door, playing the role that respectful alphas are supposed to play with omegas. Nothing more.
The three of them rode in silence on the way to Vermicelli’s mansion. Rather than Giovanna driving, like usual, they had a driver taking them in one of the gang’s nicer cars. Bucciarati sat in the front of the car while Abbacchio sat in the back with Giovanna.
Giovanna leaned over slightly towards Abbacchio and whispered to him, “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” Abbacchio asked, trying not to grit his teeth.
“You’re wearing a dress,” Giovanna stated blankly.
“And?”
“Trish put you up to it,” he stated.
“She didn’t. I chose to wear this,” Abbacchio answered.
“She has ulterior motives,” Giovanna said.
Abbacchio knows that Giovanna and Trish have some kind of bet going on about himself and Bucciarati. He doesn’t know exactly what the bet is, but he has a feeling that neither of the teens are going to win it. He wished that he could feel some spiteful joy from that, but he can’t help but feel like he’s losing out on something too.
“And you don’t, asshole?” he snapped.
“Tell me what she said to get you to wear that,” Giovanna insisted.
“I was already wearing the dress. She didn’t make me do anything,” Abbacchio insisted. He stopped to think about her response to Fugo. “But she did say it would help butter up Vermicelli to have an omega there. Something about rich assholes liking rare shit,”
Giovanna appeared to think this over deeply before slowly nodding. “She’s more devious than we give her credit for. Maybe I should have her join the gang after all.”
Abbacchio gave him a pained look.
“Better not,'' he said before letting out a sigh. “Just look at how she got me. She might steal your job if you’re not careful. Take over the family business or something,” he warned, mostly joking.
Giovanna huffed a quiet laugh, appearing to try to keep a straight face.
“What are you two whispering about back there?” Bucciarati asked, having turned around in his seat to look at them directly.
“Nothing,” they both answered simultaneously. Abbacchio glared at Giovanna, who appeared to be fighting to keep a smile off his face.
Bucciarati’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I admit, I was happy at first, but I’m starting to question if you two getting along is such a good thing after all,” Bucciarati said.
“We do not get along,” Abbacchio said.
“I was just asking Abbacchio about his new look,” Giovanna said, innocently. He turned to Abbacchio. “I like it. I think you should dress like this more often. It distracts from your personality.”
“Eat shit and die,” Abbacchio said.
Bucciarati rolled his eyes and faced forward, seeming to ignore their barbs at each other for the rest of the car ride.
The car pulled up to the front of the mansion. They all exited the car, Bucciarati opening the door for Abbacchio and lending him a hand while stepping out of the vehicle. After stepping out, Giovanna approached Abbacchio and offered him a hand before Bucciarati could.
“Are you fucking serious?” Abbacchio muttered in a low voice.
“I’m the boss, and I need to look like it,” Giovanna muttered quietly back.
“You want me to suck your dick, too?” he grumbled.
“Abbacchio!” Bucciarati hissed.
Giovanna stood on his tiptoes and whispered into Abbacchio’s ear.
“I can’t have anyone thinking that I’m not in charge, or worse, suspecting that I’m an omega,” he said quickly and quietly. Giovanna was leaning against Abbacchio’s side. His breath brushed against his ear and his lips were hidden by Abbacchio’s hair, so that no one could read them. It was an offense from Giovanna that Abbacchio typically would not let slide, but he, rather kindly, did not throw him off.
Because Giovanna did have a point.
Abbacchio sighed. He couldn’t help but notice that Giovanna, manipulative little shit that he was, didn’t bring up this plan until Abbacchio was in front of several waitstaff and couldn’t cause a scene.
“Fine,” he mumbled and gripped Giovanna’s arm a little harder than necessary. He tried to not think about how ridiculous they must look. With his new heels on, Abbacchio towered over the kid.
They climbed up the stairs like that, Abbacchio disgustingly posing as Giovanna’s arm candy, and Bucciarati trailing slightly behind them as Giovanna’s right hand man.
At the entryway to the mansion, they were greeted by Vermicelli, himself.
He held a glass of champagne in one hand joyfully waved them in with his other hand. Judging by the rosiness of his cheeks, Abbacchio presumed he must have been drinking for quite some time. It was a strange move for sure, though it did send the message that Vermicelli did not seem to be overly worried about a visit from the boss.
He was mostly average looking. He appeared to be in his forties, though it was clear that he had some work done on his face, which made Abbacchio unable to further narrow down his age.
“Don Giovanna! And Capo Bucciarati! It’s lovely to see you again! I haven’t seen you both since swearing loyalty to you back in April!” his voice boomed with excitement.
“It’s lovely to see you, too, Capo Vermicelli,” Giovanna answered pleasantly.
“And who is this lovely creature you have here?” Vermicelli asked loudly, looking Abbacchio up and down. He reached out a hand to Abbacchio, and despite all instincts screaming at Abbacchio not to, he gave him his hand in return. Vermicelli clutched Abbacchio’s hand in both of his uncomfortably warm, sweaty hands.
“He is my guest,” Giovanna answered shortly. Vermicelli almost seemed to not hear him, as he continued to hold onto Abbacchio’s hand and stare at him.
“What is your name, my dear?” he asked. It took all of Abbacchio’s willpower to not yank his hand away and kick the shit out of this guy.
“Leone,” he answered, not wanting to give the creep his last name.
“Leone!” Vermicelli excitedly repeated. He kissed Abbacchio’s hand with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ sound. Abbacchio held back a shiver of disgust. “A gorgeous name for a gorgeous thing like yourself!”
“Signor Vermicelli,” Bucciarati firmly interrupted. “I’m very impressed by the art and architecture of your home. Would you mind showing us around until dinner is ready?” he asked.
Vermicelli, no doubt sensing an opportunity to flaunt his wealth, immediately accepted and let go of Abbacchio’s hand.
Abbacchio stepped back. He tried to give Bucciarati an appreciative look, however, the man had already moved in front of him, putting himself between Abbacchio and Vermicelli with his back to Abbacchio.
Abbacchio settled for going back to Giovanna. He noticed that the kid looked annoyed, which was a bit unusual for him when playing up his role as the boss. He grabbed his arm, and squeezed it hard, as if to tell the kid to get a grip. Giovanna gave him a look that Abbacchio wasn’t sure how to interpret. The two of them turned and followed behind Vermicelli and Bucciarati, as Vermicelli discussed the gold content of the statues that lined the entryway.
This mission was going to be even more painful than Abbacchio had previously thought.
The three of them were offered champagne from a server with a platter of glasses. Bucciarati and Giovanna turned it down, but Abbacchio grabbed one, interested in trying rich people's alcohol. Giovanna gave him a warning glare, accompanied with an arm squeeze when Vermicelli wasn’t looking. Abbacchio rolled his eyes at the kid and continued to sip from the flute of champagne.
They walked for quite some time, listening to Vermicelli babble on and on. Sometimes, Vermicelli would get distracted by Abbacchio’s presence, approach him and ask him a question or two, like how he liked the art or the champagne. Then, he would shower him with bizarre compliments until he would be firmly interrupted by Bucciarati. Bucciarati would then direct his attention to some other topic, usually money related, and Vermicelli would return to his foolish babbling.
This cycle repeated about five or six times until dinner. Abbacchio could tell that Bucciarati and Giovanna’s patience was wearing thin. Burcciarati had a vein on his forehead that popped out sometimes when he got angry, though his bangs mostly covered it. Because he was by his side, he could physically feel Giovanna get more tense as the night progressed.
He wondered if they regretted roping him into this mission yet.
Abbacchio himself was deeply annoyed. He developed a headache as the night went on. Each time Vermicelli would call out his name, the ache grew stronger. Abbacchio regretted giving the man his real name. It felt as if he was soiling it in some way each time he spoke it.
Finally, a member of Vermicelli’s staff announced that dinner was ready to be served. Vermicelli clapped and cheered like an idiot, then led them into the dining room.
Abbacchio couldn’t believe that they still had the whole entire dinner to get through. It felt as if they had already been here for hours, though it was likely less than an hour since they arrived.
They followed Vermicelli into a decadent dining room, with a round table set with four places. Vermicelli gestured madly to the table as he told them to come in. He set down his champagne at one of the placements and pulled out the chair next to his newly claimed seat.
“Leone, please, sit here, darling,” he half requested, half demanded. Abbacchio braced himself for potentially the worst hour or two of his life, but before he could take a single step, Giovanna squeezed his arm and held him back.
“Signor Vermicelli, I would like the honor of sitting next to you,” Giovanna stated firmly.
Vermicelli paused for just a moment, glancing between the two before smiling and vivaciously agreeing. Bucciarati pulled out the chair next to Giovanna and furthest from Vermicelli for Abbacchio to sit.
They were served roasted lamb and potatoes. Abbacchio would have assumed that the food would at least be good, but he found it overly rich, and the gamey flavor of the lamb was overwhelming in a bad way. He wished he was eating pasta at Libeccio instead, listening to Mista and Narancia’s foolish ramblings rather than Vermicelli’s. He forced himself to keep politely eating, and tried not to drink too much champagne in the process.
Vermicelli chattered on and on, only stopping to put more food in his mouth or to take a sip of champagne. Abbacchio wasn’t sure if there really was anything suspicious about this guy. He seemed like an utter buffoon.
He stopped rambling for a moment, appearing to be distracted by something.
“Is something wrong, Signor Vermicelli?” Giovanna asked politely.
“No, nothing, it’s just-” he paused and began sniffing at the air. “Leone, dear, I think I’m catching a whiff of your scent. It smells like a rose garden, how lovely!”
Abbacchio’s blood ran cold. He did have a floral scent, like many omegas did, but his scent was unmistakably lavender. Giovanna, on the other hand, smelled strongly of roses, and appeared to have lost control of his scent.
Abbacchio didn’t dare look at the kid, for fear of giving anything away. Giovanna could be in real danger, and the next several moments were completely up to Abbacchio.
Abbacchio brought his wrist to his nose and took a small whiff. He smelled absolutely nothing, but he gave a solemn nod to Vermicelli.
“My apologies, it seems my scent blockers have worn off. I hope my scent won’t bother you,” he answered, trying to seem embarrassed and apologetic. He turned to Giovanna, scooted his chair closer to him and grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry, Don Giovanna, I’m being a very poor guest,” he managed to say sincerely without throwing up.
Abbacchio hoped that the closer he and Giovanna were, physically, the more difficult it would be to tell exactly where the scent was coming from. Giovanna appeared outwardly calm, but the way he gripped Abbacchio’s hand back with both of his gave away his panic.
Vermicelli stood from his chair so quickly that the dishes, silverware, and glasses clinked from the jolting of the table.
“Oh no, no, no! Don’t be embarrassed, darling, you smell absolutely divine! I’m not sure where these two found you, but you allure me in every way! Male omegas are already rare enough, but to meet one as bewitching and sensual as y-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Bucciarati growled as he stood from his place, shaking the table for the second time this awful dinner. Bucciarati had finally lost his composure.
The room was silent for a moment, and Vermicelli’s eyes were wide from shock. Clearly he wasn’t used to being spoken to in this way.
Abbacchio and Giovanna were still sitting close to each other, gripping each other’s hands and staring in silence. Abbacchio had no idea how to navigate this situation.
Bucciarati took a deep breath and began to speak. His voice, though lower, was still angry. It was clear he had lost all patience with the man.
“Vermicelli, Leone is Don Giovanna’s guest. Don’t you think it’s rude to fawn over someone else’s guest?” he spoke as if giving the man a warning.
Vermicelli thought over Bucciarati’s words for a moment before nodding.
“You are absolutely right!” He agreed firmly. He slowly sat back down in his chair. “I’ve been a rather rude host tonight.”
He sounded more serious than he had been all night, which immediately set off alarm bells in Abbacchio’s head. Vermicelli nodded at a nearby waiter.
“Prepare the dessert we reserve for only our most special guests,” he demanded. The waiter disappeared into the kitchen, presumably.
Bucciarati slowly lowered himself back into his chair, looking extremely guarded.
More servers came and refilled the champagne glasses. Vermicelli raised his glass.
“An apology toast to Don Giovanna and Leone as we wait for dessert to be ready. Please forgive me for stepping on any toes,” he stated.
Since neither Giovanna nor Bucciarati had champagne glasses, Abbacchio was the only one who was physically capable of toasting. He grabbed his newly filled glass and raised it slightly towards Vermicelli’s direction, before taking a small sip and setting it back on the table. Giovanna and Bucciarati watched Vermicelli with narrowed eyes as he downed his champagne.
Vermicelli set down his glass and let out a content and refreshed sigh. He smiled as he spoke.
“You know, I admit I was quite nervous when you two took over Passione. You’re both quite young, and you came from relative obscurity,” Vermicelli stated.
Abbacchio tried to remain observant of his surroundings, because something fishy was definitely going on, but he couldn’t figure out what it could be. He struggled to focus on Vermicelli’s words while also paying attention to the rest of the room.
“However, I’m very glad we’ve had this dinner tonight. It’s helped me to realize that we have far more in common than I previously thought. I think I’ll have a much better working relationship with you two than I ever did with the old boss,” he said while smiling and nodding.
Abbacchio felt a bead of sweat forming along his hairline.
“What are you trying to say, Vermicelli?” Bucciarati demanded.
“I think I know why you two are here tonight,” Vermicelli responded.
“And why is that?” Giovanna pitched in.
“You must have found out about my little side business,” Vermicelli answered patiently. “I apologize for hiding it from you in the first place, but you must understand that I had no idea you would be so receptive to it!” he said, placatingly.
Abbacchio felt like his stomach was in knots. Why was the man so calm? What side business?
“Give us details, Vermicelli,” Bucciarati angrily demanded.
“Patience, please, Signor Bucciarati, I insist we wait until dessert,” he answered.
“I don’t give a fuck about dessert. Tell us what the hell you’ve been up to,” Bucciarati growled.
“Really, it will all be clear once dessert is ready,” Vermicelli placated.
“Fine. When will dessert be ready, then?” Giovanna asked, going along with Vermicelli’s nonsense.
“Hmm. I’m not sure. It usually doesn’t take this long,” he answered while looking directly at Abbacchio.
Abbacchio stared back at the man in horror as he felt a rush of slick begin to soak into his underwear and dress.
He was going into heat.
Abbacchio stood in panic, but even with the adrenaline starting to flow through his veins, his legs only held him up for a moment before he collapsed to the ground, hitting the floor with a groan. He tried to move but was only able to make small twitchy movements. His limbs felt heavy and weak. His lower stomach was burning fiercely. This was far from a normal, healthy heat.
“Leone!” Bucciarati yelled. Giovanna kneeled down and grabbed onto Abbacchio. He seemed to attempt to move him, but Abbacchio groaned from the pain.
“Abbacchio!” Giovanna yelped, sounding panicked. He felt Giovanna’s stand try to examine him.
Abbacchio’s mind raced as much as it could in his sluggish state. He wasn’t due for another heat in months. And even if he was due, it would never be as sudden as this. He would begin to feel the effects of preheat several hours, even days ahead of time.
“Ah, finally. I was wondering why it was taking so long to kick in. It must be because he’s quite a bit bigger than the average omega. Not to say that you don’t have good taste, of course! Consider this my apology gift to you, Don Giovanna! This is an absolutely amazing drug! Trust me, he’ll be raring to go for days. I imagine you're quite busy, so you can probably just pass him off to someone else when you have to work. That’s what I do, anyways. If you like the experience, we can talk more business at a later da-”
His rambling was interrupted by the sound of a zipper, a wet squelching sound, and a cry of pain.
“You drugged him,” Abbacchio heard Bucciarati hiss at the man. Vermicelli blubbered in response. “Is there an antidote, some way to fix this?” Bucciarati demanded.
Vermicelli continued to blubber, until Abbacchio heard the sickening snapping noise he knew to be the sound of breaking bones.
“Answer me!” Bucciarati yelled.
“No! No! Of course not!” Vermicelli yowled in response.
Abbacchio shuddered from his spot on the floor. How did he let this happen? When did he get the chance? It took him far longer than it should have for him to realize that it must have been the champagne, during Vermicelli’s asinine toast. Abbacchio cursed himself for drinking the stupid champagne. His breathing grew more troubled, and he shuddered again.
“What the hell have you done?! What is this drug?!” Bucciarati yelled.
“The name is long and weird- I don’t know it! I’ll have them hand it to you okay? Just give it to him, now!” Vermicelli yelled at the waitstaff, who began to run to meet his demands. “Please, please, just let me go, I don’t understand what I did wrong,” Vermicelli sobbed.
“Bucciarati, I think- something’s really wrong,” Giovanna yelled out, still clutching to Abbacchio. Abbacchio could smell panic in his scent.
“What happens to the omegas you do this to?” Abbacchio heard Bucciarati growl at the man. Vermicelli continued to loudly sob. Abbacchio heard another bone snap, followed by a screech.
“The omegas! Do they die?!” Bucciarati furiously yelled at the man.
“They don’t always die!” Vermicelli wailed in response.
In the next moment, Abbacchio heard the sound of Bucciarati summoning his stand and what he could only imagine was an extremely painful death, judging by Vermicelli’s gurgling screams.
The next several moments were hazy, as Abbacchio seemed to black out for a minute or two. He shivered and gasped between waves of pain. He might have vomited, but he couldn’t say for certain.
He vaguely remembered hearing screams coming from the waitstaff. Bucciarati must have been on a reign of terror. Every time he became momentarily aware, Giovanna was still by his side, clutching onto him.
Abbacchio became more aware when Bucciarati was kneeling by his side, gently shushing him and pulling him into his arms. Abbacchio could hear himself whimper pathetically from pain.
“Shh, shh, shh, I’ve got you, Leone- It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured softly while tucking his face into his neck. Bucciarati’s scent flooded Abbacchio’s senses, and he felt himself go limp in response. He felt Bucciarati stand up and carry him away. He gave hurried demands to Giovanna to open doors for them and eventually to drive them home.
Abbacchio sat curled up in Bucciarati’s lap for the entire car ride, while Bucciarati continued to murmur reassurances to him and stroke his hair. He kept his face buried in his neck. Bucciarati’s scent was the only thing making the pain bearable as he faded in and out of consciousness.
Once they returned home, Abbacchio whimpered in pain from being jostled while Bucciarati carried him from the car and into the house. Bucciarati whispered hushed apologies.
“Polnareff!” Bucciarati yelled loud enough to echo throughout the whole house. Abbacchio felt himself being carried for several steps, unsure where their destination was until Bucciarati kicked open a door, and they were met with a wall of the man’s scent.
Rather than taking Abbacchio to his own room, Bucciarati had taken him to his room instead.
Bucciarati carefully laid Abbacchio down on his bed, murmuring apologies for moving him. He smoothed out his hair, scenting him in the process. He ordered Giovanna to fetch him a cold compress, some water, and anything else he might find useful.
Polnareff entered the room soon after, the floor creaking in the way it only did under the weight of his wheelchair.
“The hell is going on?” the man demanded.
“You have your laptop with you?” Bucciarati demanded.
“Yes. Is Abbacchio okay?” he asked with concern. Bucciarati pulled an orange pill bottle from his pocket and tossed it to the man.
“He’s been drugged. I need you to look that up and tell me what exactly it is, quickly.” he demanded.
“Of course,” Polnareff answered immediately, the pattering sound of typing filling the room not long after.
Several sets of footsteps shortly preceded Mista and Narancia running into the room, followed shortly after by Fugo and Trish. Giovanna came in after all of them, his arms full of the different items requested from him.
And all the teenagers began to speak at once.
Mista yelled out, asking what the hell happened. Narancia ran towards the bed and grabbed Abbacchio’s arm, yelling his name over and over again. Giovanna dropped everything and ran after Narancia. He yanked him off of Abbacchio, calling out that he might hurt him as he held back the thrashing teen. Fugo howled in rage, seemingly at Abbacchio and Trish, yelling about how he told them so while he paced back and forth. Trish appeared to be near tears, as she apologized to Fugo and Abbacchio.
It was all too much for Abbacchio.
“Bruno,” he gasped. He immediately caught his attention. Bucciarati leaned close to him, his hands cradling his face.
“What is it, Leone?” he asked in a rush, desperately looking into Abbacchio’s eyes.
“Get them out of here,” he panted. “Now.”
“Of course,” he whispered gently, stroking Abbacchio’s hair.
Bucciarati then stood, and walked across the room to the various teens. He materialized Sticky Fingers, who grabbed Narancia by the arm, and forcefully yanked him away from Giovanna. Sticky Fingers then fisted the back of Fugo’s collar, and nearly knocked their heads together as he threw them out of the room. Abbacchio could hear them fall to the floor with an ‘oof’ noise, as the wind was knocked out of them.
Bucciarati turned to look at Mista, who immediately put his hands up in defense.
“We’re leaving, we’re leaving!” he quickly placated, while grabbing a now crying Trish by the shoulders and steering her out the door. “C’mon, Trish!”
Once they were through the door, Sticky Fingers slammed it shut and locked it, before dematerializing.
Bucciarati was back by Abbacchio’s side in an instant. Giovanna gathered all of the various supplies he was ordered to fetch and passed Bucciarati a bottle of water and a cold compress.
Abbacchio couldn’t help but notice Bucciarati’s scent with the way he was frantically smothering him in it. Normally, Abbacchio would revel in a moment like this, but there was an undertone to his scent that made a chill go down his spine.
Bucciarati smelled scared. And that scared the shit out of Abbacchio.
Abbacchio mustered up all his energy to grab Bucciarati’s wrist and squeeze it.
“Hey, I’m okay. Really.” Abbacchio tried to comfort him. Bucciarati leaned over him and stared into his eyes.
“You’re in pain,” he murmured. His voice was full of distress.
Abbacchio took a deep shaky breath, bracing himself to try to make his voice sound as normal as possible.
“It’s just a shitty heat. I’ll be fine,” he reassured him.
“This seems very serious, Leone. I’ve never seen a drug like this on the street,” Bucciarati spoke softly to him. He gently wiped sweat from Abbacchio’s brow with his thumb.
“That’s because it’s not from the street,” Polnareff interjected.
“What do you mean?” Bucciarati demanded.
“It’s a prescription drug, but it’s banned in most countries. Even when it is legal, it looks like you have to jump through several hoops in order to get a prescription.”
Polnareff paused, appearing to think over what to say.
“Spit it out, Polnareff!” Bucciarati growled at him.
“It’s an extra-strength heat inducer that’s used as a last resort for omegas with fertility issues, but it’s only prescribed to mated omegas who are bonded with an alpha,” Polnareff explained. “I don’t really understand the science, but it’s something about the balance of hormones. There’s a long list of bad side effects for omegas without alphas- things like organ failure, brain damage, and death is on there, too, though I’m not sure how likely it is,” he stated in a flurry of words, avoiding eye contact by looking at his laptop screen in his lap.
Abbacchio let the words wash over him, and for a brief moment, he felt like he was having some sort of out-of-body experience. He felt like he could see himself from above, trembling pathetically on the bed. Bucciarati sat by his side, gripped the sheets tightly, and bit his lip so hard that Abbacchio thought it might bleed. Polnareff continued to avoid eye contact while Giovanna stood deadly still.
The room was silent for a moment.
“I could try using Golden Experience Requiem on him,” Giovanna offered with just the smallest hint of desperation in his voice.
“No, Giorno,” Polnareff sighed. “We still don’t have a great understanding of how the requiem abilities work yet, and you’ve already used that trick on him before. You don’t want to accidentally do to him what you did to Diavolo,” he reasoned.
“Could both of you leave, please,” Bucciarati demanded. From his tone of voice, it was clear that he was not asking. His eyes were on Abbacchio, alone. Abbacchio looked back at him, trying to prepare himself for what was likely going to be another reckoning.
They listened as Polnareff left, the door opening and closing behind him. However, one presence remained in the room, forcing both Abbacchio and Bucciarati to look up at Giovanna.
“Leave, Giorno,” Bucciarati demanded in a firm tone, clearly losing his patience.
Giovanna looked at him wearily, a look that Abbacchio had never seen him direct at Bucciarati before.
“This isn’t right, Bucciarati,” Giovanna spoke firmly.
“You think I don’t know that?” Bucciarati incredulously demanded. His teeth were bared, and he smelled furious.
“There has to be some other way!” Giovanna raised his tone.
“Get out, Giorno!” Bucciarati yelled.
Abbacchio’s eyes darted quickly between the two. He had hardly ever seen the two disagree about anything before, and now it looked as if they were going to rip each other’s throats out at any moment.
Abbacchio used every ounce of strength he had to sit up. He grabbed Bucciarati’s shoulder with one hand to support his weight and put his other hand over his mouth, before he could say anything he regretted to the kid. Abbacchio tried his best to push out some calming pheromones in his agonized state. He ended up mostly leaning on Bucciarati, who wrapped his arms around him and supported his weight, while looking at him with wide eyes. Bucciarati didn’t bother trying to take his hand off his mouth.
“Shut up,” he murmured at Bucciarati, whose eyes got wider at the command. He gave a quick little nod in response, careful not to shake off the hand over his mouth.
Abbacchio turned to look at Giovanna, who looked extremely caught off guard.
“I’ll be fine. Get out of here, kid,” he tried to speak as evenly as he could, though his voice wavered a couple of times.
“Abbacchio-”
“Giorno,” he interrupted. “Just go, okay?”
Giovanna stared at him with wide eyes for a moment. Abbacchio watched as the kid seemed to war with himself for several seconds, before he eventually nodded. He looked at Abbacchio one last time, before turning around and walking quickly out of the room, locking the door before slamming it shut behind him.
Abbacchio slumped even further onto Bucciarati, taking his hand off of his mouth. His face fell onto Bucciarati’s shoulder. Bucciarati held Abbacchio tighter. He huffed a weary laugh, that Abbacchio felt more than he heard.
“I almost forgot. Giorno likes you,” he murmured.
“He doesn’t,” Abbacchio groaned into Bucciarati’s shoulder.
Bucciarati leaned forward, forcing Abbacchio to lay back on the bed, and no longer allowing Abbacchio to hide his face in the safe haven of Bucciarati’s shoulder.
“He does,” Bucciarati whispered to him. He leaned over him and had a tender look in his eye that Abbacchio couldn’t look away from.
“Then he’s an idiot,” Abbacchio muttered. Bucciarati sighed and brought a hand to Abbacchio’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin under his eye.
“If he’s an idiot for liking you, then what on Earth does that make me?” he asked.
Abbacchio stilled for a moment or two as Bucciarati’s words sunk in. He took a shaky breath and grabbed the hand stroking his face. As he grasped his hand, Abbacchio looked up at Bucciarati and begged.
“Bruno, please, don’t say something you don’t mean.”
“I do mean it,” he insisted.
“You don’t! You don’t!” Abbacchio whispered with desperation. “You’ve never said or done anything to-”
“Leone, please-”
“You barely even look at me!” Abbacchio hissed.
“I couldn’t!” Bucciarati interjected. “Please, just let me explain!”
Abbacchio stared at Bucciarati. He was clearly greatly distressed. Despite Abbacchio being the one in pain, he couldn’t help but want to comfort him.
“Fine,” he whispered.
Bucciarati took a shaky breath.
“Out of our pack, you’ve always been the most loyal to me. You do whatever I tell you to do, no matter what. Every mission, every command; you always do what I say.” Bucciarati let out a small spiteful laugh. “When we betrayed the boss, you were the first to follow me.”
“What are you saying?” Abbacchio asked.
“I’m saying that if I told you to sleep with me, to get in my bed, would you have done it?”
“Yes,” Abbacchio answered without hesitation.
Bucciarati groaned at his response. He rubbed a hand over his face.
“What’s wrong with that?” Abbacchio whispered defensively. He moved his hand away from his face, so that he could see the frustration in his eyes.
“If I had expressed any kind of interest in you, how would I know that you wouldn’t obey me as your boss? Leone, I- I’ve wanted you so much, but not like that.”
Abbacchio felt a myriad of emotions fill him upon Bucciarati’s explanation. It took only a moment for one of the emotions to beat out the rest.
He nearly growled through gritted teeth.
“Bruno, you are so fucking stupid!”
Bucciarati’s eyes widened. He had seen Abbacchio angry many times before, but never had his anger directed towards him.
“Leone?” he asked.
“Have you ever thought that maybe there’s a reason that I’m so loyal to you? Have you considered that I do what you tell me to do because I like to?”
“Leone-”
“Do you think if the old boss had asked me to suck his dick, I would have just done it? What about Giovanna?"
“No, I-”
“I like you , you asshole! It’s because it’s you !”
They were both still for a moment.
To Abbacchio’s horror, he could feel tears gathering at the edges of his vision. Through his blurred vision, he could see Bucciarati staring at him in shock.
Abbacchio took a shaky breath.
“It’s always been you.”
Bucciarati surged forward, forcefully shoving his mouth against Abbacchio’s. Their teeth clacked together unpleasantly, and Abbacchio nearly yelped from shock. After a moment, the shock began to fade. Bucciarati moved his lips against Abbacchio’s and moaned into his mouth.
Bucciarati shifted so that he was on top of Abbacchio, pinning him down while kissing him. He worked his fingers into Abbacchio’s hair, pulling at it in a way that made little gasps fall from Abbacchio’s mouth.
The haze of heat had finally begun to drain Abbacchio of all his remaining sense of shame.
He had briefly gotten some consolation from the shock and pain of this chemical heat by being surrounded by Bucciarati’s comforting scent. However, his scent had become much less of a comfort and more like a drug itself now. When Bucciarati moved his kisses down his jaw and began kissing, scenting, and nipping at his neck, Abbacchio huffed deep breaths, trying to take in as much of his scent as he possibly could.
Abbacchio bucked his hips up against Bucciarati, who ground his hips back against his in return.
“Get this stupid dress off of me,” Abbacchio gasped while desperately grabbing onto Bucciarati’s arms and shoulders.
He felt weak and shivery and very very hot.
Bucciarati jolted, lifting his face from its spot against Abbacchio’s neck.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he mumbled while grabbing Abbacchio's face and forcing him to look him in the eye.
Bucciarati looked wrecked already, his bangs were messy and stuck to his forehead. His pupils were large and black. His lips were swollen, pink, and wet.
“Leone, pay attention!” Bucciarati demanded, forcing Abbacchio’s attention away from his mouth.
“What is it?” Abbacchio complained. He bucked his hips up against Bucciarati’s, who gasped in response.
“Ah! Stop that! This is serious!” he chastised Abbacchio. “Leone, the drug… it’s for mated omegas…” Bucciarati trailed off, seemingly unsure of how to proceed.
Abbacchio removed his hand from Bucciarati’s shoulder and slapped it to his neck, clumsily pulling his sweaty hair out of the way as he tilted his head to the side. He presented his bare neck to Bucciarati whole-heartedly and without any hint of hesitation.
Instead of immediately biting him and getting on with it, like Abbacchio had hoped he would, Bucciarati stared at his neck in shock.
“Bruno, just do it!” Abbacchio complained.
“Ah, I really wish I could have taken you out to dinner or something first,” Bucciarati sighed. “Leone, I know you don’t have much of a choice,” he paused to take a shaky breath. “Do you think you’ll really be happy like this? With me?”
Abbacchio laughed, almost cynically. He grabbed the lapels of Bucciarati’s suit and yanked on it, pulling his face closer to his own.
“If you would have asked me that back on the day we met in that alleyway, the answer would have been yes,” Abbacchio murmured.
Bucciarati kissed him hard. Abbacchio was starting to think that if talking about his feelings got Bucciarati to kiss him like this, then maybe he should do it more often.
Bucciarati broke away from the kiss.
“Bite me back,” he demanded. His voice sounded as wrecked as he looked.
“Fine, whatever, just hurry up and fuck me,” he moaned. He bucked his hips up against Bucciarati’s again, feeling just how stiff his cock was. Abbacchio suffered as he thought about the tragedy of his cock still being inside his pants rather than being inside him.
“Please, Bruno, get rid of these clothes,” he nearly whined.
Bucciarati fumbled as he pulled off his suit jacket, revealing the lingerie underneath that Abbacchio had dreamed many times. Bucciarati immediately buried his face back in Abbacchio’s neck, as if being away for more than a few seconds was unbearable.
Before Abbacchio could complain about Bucciarati’s pants and the god forsaken dress, he heard the sound of zipping. He felt the dress come loose, and watched as Sticky Fingers’ hand also unzipped Bucciarati’s pants off his body.
However, Abbacchio was quickly distracted by Bucciarati’s warm hands exploring his torso. He felt one hand drift down his side, before finally arriving at his underwear, a satin pair of panties completely soaked in slick.
Bucciarati pried himself away from his task of sucking and nipping at Abbacchio’s neck to sit up and watch as he pulled Abbacchio’s panties off. Abbacchio’s cock flopped out and he felt exposed. It felt as if slick were gushing from his cunt, and he wondered if Bucciarati could tell by looking.
“Are you just going to stare?” Abbacchio grumbled.
Bucciarati smirked and yanked his hips closer, angling them up.
“Forgive me. You’re very distracting,” he murmured. He leaned forward and kissed Abbacchio’s frowning lips as he slipped his fingers inside of him.
“So wet, Leone,” he moaned. His fingers moved in quick thrusts. “ Fuck .”
Bucciarati continued with these little murmurs as he explored his body.
Abbacchio’s body responded without any input from his brain. His hips jerked. His spine arched. His muscles contracted. His toes curled. His breath stuttered.
It was more than Abbacchio had ever dreamed of, but it wasn’t nearly enough. His whole body burned with aching desire. He needed more.
Despite being distracted, Abbacchio reached for Bucciarati’s cock. Once he found it, he gave it a squeeze, resulting in a very interesting sound coming out of Bucciarati.
“Bruno, fuck me right now,” he demanded.
“Ah, Leone, amore -”
“ Please! ”
His voice cracked as he pleaded with him. “ Please! I need it so bad, just hurry up!
Bucciarati pulled his fingers out of Abbacchio. He looked Abbacchio in the eye as he licked one of the slick-coated fingers with a moan. Before Abbacchio could even consider kicking the man, his hips were yanked into position once again. He felt Bucciarati rub his cock over his wet cunt, sliding through the thick accumulation of slick. The head of his cock dragged over his cunt several times. It occasionally catched on the rim, but to Abbacchio’s endless frustration, never went in.
Abbacchio hooked a leg around Bucciarati’s waist. He wiggled his hips slightly as he took Bucciarati’s cock in hand and guided it inside himself. Bucciarati’s jaw dropped, and he groaned as he sunk the rest of his cock into Abbacchio.
“Oh God, Leone,” Bucciarati panted. “You’re so hot. You-”
Abbacchio reached a hand into his hair and grabbed hard, pulling Bucciarati’s lips to his own. He clenched down on Bucciarati’s cock, causing the man to nearly yelp.
Their fronts were pressed tight together, only Bucciarati’s lingerie between them.
“Fuck me,” Abbacchio whispered between kisses.
Bucciarati began to move his hips in earnest, rocking into him over and over. Abbacchio moved his hips in return as much as he could, but the haze of heat had overtaken him to such a degree that he felt that he barely had any control left over his body. He gripped onto Bucciarati’s shoulders, hanging on for dear life, and moaned and panted from pleasure.
Abbacchio was almost frustrated as he felt orgasm inch closer and closer. He didn’t want this moment to end. He wanted to stay like this, pressed so tightly against Bucciarati, that he wasn’t sure where his atoms ended and Bucciarati’s began.
But then he remembered. There was a way to ensure that this wouldn’t end.
Because Abbacchio was curled up under Bucciarati, the man’s neck was far closer to him than normal. However, Abbacchio’s lankiness, as well as the weakness he felt in his limbs, proved to be somewhat of an obstacle as he maneuvered his face against Bucciarati’s neck.
He took a moment to scent and smell the man, his lips brushing against his scent gland. Bucciarati moaned, clearly appreciating the attention. However, the moan was short lived, as it sharply cut off with a gasp as Abbacchio sank his teeth into Bucciarati’s neck.
For a brief moment, Abbacchio wondered if he made a mistake. Bucciarati’s body had gone completely still against his, and his muscles were stiff and taught. But before he could move his face away from the man’s neck and ask if he was okay, he felt an expanding pressure in his cunt that nearly made his eyes roll to the back of his head from pleasure.
Bucciarati knotted him with a punched out noise. Abbacchio fell back against the sheets and shook with orgasm as the knot filled him completely.
Bucciarati kissed him with mostly teeth, before moving his lips down his jaw and neck. He buried his teeth into Abbacchio’s neck, marking him in return. The initial shock of the bite was painful, but the pain was quickly overpowered by waves of feeling reverberating throughout his body.
He had been marked by Bucciarati. Bucciarati was now his mate. And Abbacchio was his.
Bucciarati reverently nuzzled against the fresh mark. He was murmuring something, but Abbacchio’s brain could not process words at the moment. As his body came down from the lustful frenzy of heat, shock and exhaustion overtook him.
For the moment, Abbacchio felt a deep satisfaction that he’d never felt before. He pressed his face against Bucciarati’s hair and breathed deeply as he felt himself drift into a dreamless sleep.
~
The remainder of Abbacchio’s heat was simultaneously the worst and best he had ever experienced.
He was overwhelmingly hot and sweaty. He felt oversensitive and weary at all times. He was so weak and shaky that he often struggled to move his limbs.
Normally, heat affected him in waves, and while this one functioned similarly, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the debilitating waves of heat that would crash into him.
It was horrible.
But it was also wonderful, because Bucciarati was there. And he seemed to relish in taking care of him.
He would massage his lower stomach when he had cramps. He gently brushed out his tangled, sweaty hair. He cleaned up the bite mark, gently treating and bandaging it to avoid infection and encourage healing. He managed to slip out of the room at some point to bring him food and water, encouraging him to take small bites and sips whenever he could. He wrapped his arms around him and held him tight whenever Abbacchio felt anxious and touch-starved.
And he fucked him. He fucked him plenty of times, in many different ways. And Abbacchio appreciated every second of it.
By the end of the heat, Abbacchio’s whole body fiercely ached. Finishing up a heat was never a pleasant experience, but this one was especially brutal. He felt as if he’d been hit by a car.
After Abbacchio’s fever broke, they both collapsed into a deep sleep. They slept for several hours, groaning and laughing when they awoke to the sticky and unpleasant state they found themselves in.
They attempted to clean both themselves and the room to the best of their abilities. Abbacchio could barely keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds. If he had the energy, he would have laughed at the way Bucciarati fussed over him in the shower. Or maybe cried. He’s not quite sure.
Abbacchio eventually found himself back in bed. Despite the fresh sheets and the open window, the room still smelled of heat and rut. Or maybe the smell was still stuck to both him and Bucciarati.
He wouldn’t have minded the scent if it weren’t for the elderly doctor that stood by his bedside and lectured both him and Bucciarati.
“You two should have gone to the hospital, immediately! You should be thankful that he’s alive and well!” she scolded.
She was a local doctor that had been associated with Passione for years. Apparently, Bucciarati had known her for as long as he’s been involved in Passione. Bucciarati sat by his side and watched her like a hawk as she took his vitals and examined the mark, but Abbacchio knew that Bucciarati must greatly trust the woman if he brought her into their house.
Abbacchio couldn’t help but wonder how Bucciarati had seemingly managed to befriend all of the elderly women in Naples.
She sighed and shrugged, seeming to run out of things to chastise them about. Abbacchio wished he could just roll over and sleep for a day or two.
“It looks like you did the best you can do. It’s going to take a while for his hormones to stabilize, and the bond will make you two a bit codependent for several weeks, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage from the drug,” she conceded. “He’s going to need plenty of rest for the next several days. Healthy food. Lots of water, no alcohol.”
Abbacchio stopped himself from groaning out loud, but Bucciarati gave him a sympathetic look anyway.
“How long will it take for his hormones to stabilize?” Bucciarati asked, concern furrowing his brow.
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to run some blood tests to get a better picture of what’s going on. From there, I can prescribe medication if need be,” she explained as she put her stethoscope back into her bag. “However! This is something that I need all my equipment for! Which means you’ll have to stop by my office once he’s feeling more up to it.”
“Of course, Dottoressa,” Bucciarati placated. He squeezed Abbacchio’s hand before standing to escort her out.
Once Bucciarati closed the door to the room, Abbacchio let out a sigh of relief and flopped over, burying his face into the pillow and hoping to sleep for as long as he possibly could.
After only a few moments, the door opened again.
Despite having his face shoved into a pillow, Abbacchio knew immediately that it was not Bucciarati at the door. Not enough time had passed for him to return, not to mention, Bucciarati had been stuck to him like glue for the last few days. The man would not stand awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight anxiously, like this person currently was.
Abbacchio sighed as he mourned his chance to sleep. He lifted his face and shot a glare at the person in the doorway.
He silently stared at Giovanna for several moments. The kid looked extremely uncomfortable.
“It reeks in here” he said.
“What do you want, Giovanna?”
Giovanna stepped forward. He sat at the foot of the bed. He seemed to avoid making eye contact with Abbacchio. Abbacchio groaned and sat up, mentally preparing himself to have a conversation with the kid.
“I’ve spent the last several days restructuring Vermicelli’s branch of Passione, as well as investigating his side business and annihilating everyone who had a hand in it. The work seems mostly done, though Fugo and I are still working out some of Vermicelli’s assets,” he stated, as if giving a report.
Abbacchio stared at him for several moments. He wasn’t sure what he wanted him to say in response to that. Did he want to be praised?
“Okay?” Abbacchio finally said.
“I missed having your and Bucciarati’s help,” he stated, still not looking at Abbacchio.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes.
“We’re both fine. We’ll be back on the clock again soon. Don’t talk about us like we’re dead,” Abbacchio said.
“You were dead. And you could have died again. But this time, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.” Giovanna said.
His face and his voice were both neutral, almost completely devoid of expression. The kid seemed robotic. Abbacchio found it creepy as hell.
However, there were a few things that gave away Giovanna’s feelings of distress. He had dark bags under his eyes, no doubt a product of working overtime on Passione business the last few days. His shoulders looked stiff, and his spine was straight as a board. Abbacchio nearly shuddered at how he had gotten to know the kid well enough to be able to tell how wound up he was.
Abbacchio scoffed.
“Well, I didn’t die. And, unfortunately for you, I’m going to be around to bitch at you for a very, very, very long-”
He was interrupted by Giovanna lunging at him and silently pulling him into a tight hug.
Abbacchio sat completely still for several moments, utterly shocked. He blamed his out-of-whack hormones for the way his arms came up and hugged Giovanna in return. He gently patted him on the back, as if consoling him, though the kid didn’t make a single sound. Giovanna continued to squeeze him.
Merely a second or two after Abbacchio began hugging the kid back, the door silently opened as Bucciarati returned to the room. He froze from shock at the scene before him, while Abbacchio looked at him in horror. Slowly, Bucciarati’s expression morphed from shock to a shit-eating grin. Abbacchio glared at him as he slowly and silently closed the door, somehow avoiding alerting Giovanna of his presence.
Not even a moment after, Giovanna moved back to his spot at the foot of the bed with a neutral expression, as if he didn’t just squeeze Abbacchio half to death.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes. If Giovanna was going to pretend that just didn’t happen, Abbacchio was willing to play along.
“So who won the bet? You or Trish?” he asked.
Giovanna shrugged. “We haven’t really talked about it. I don’t think either of us won.”
“What even was this stupid bet?” Abbacchio asked.
“We bet on who would crack first,” he answered.
“What do you mean?” Abbacchio asked.
“The bet was who would finally cave and confess. You or Bucciarati,” Giovanna clarified.
Abbacchio desperately wanted to kick him but his curiosity got the best of him.
“Who bet on who?” he asked.
“Trish bet on Bucciarati confessing first. Her reasoning was that Bucciarati is much more in touch with his emotions than you,” he shamelessly said.
Abbacchio scoffed.
“And you?”
“I disagreed. I bet that it would have to be you. Bucciarati is not one to put himself first. You would have had to say or do something in order for Bucciarati to do anything,” Giovanna put a hand to his chin, as if thinking very deeply. “I think Trish eventually realized that too, which is why she had you wear that dress. She’s very tricky,” he explained.
Abbacchio suppressed a shiver from disgust at how spot-on Giovanna’s logic was. The kid had a strange intelligence inherent to him that never ceased to baffle Abbacchio.
“Neither of us anticipated that you both would be too stupid and stubborn, and that someone else entirely, like Vermicelli, would have to step in.” Giovanna sighed.
Abbacchio began kicking at the kid, who grinned as he dodged the kicks.
“Serves you right, asshole!” he said while aiming a kick at Giovanna’s chest.
Giovanna caught his foot and held on, not allowing him to move it enough to keep kicking him.
“Hmm, maybe Fugo technically won for telling us to mind our own business,” Giovanna wondered aloud.
“Good! Listen to Fugo!” he grunted, while trying to free his foot from Giovanna’s grasp.
Suddenly, the door slammed open.
Narancia ran into the room and launched himself at Abbacchio, knocking the wind out of him as he fell back against his pillows.
“Abbacchio! You’re alive!” he screamed, giving Abbacchio a strong sense of deja vu from the time he did this several months earlier.
Mista, Fugo, and Trish ran into the room. Mista and Fugo tried pulling an uncooperative Naracia off of Abbacchio, only managing to jostle Abbacchio even further. Trish went to Abbachio’s side not occupied by Narancia and joined in on the hug.
“Stop it! Bucciarati is going to kill you guys!” Fugo hissed. He swatted at Trish and Narancia, who ignored him in favor of squeezing Abbacchio, who told himself that he only allowed it because he was still trying to catch his breath from being landed on by Narancia.
“Really? I think it’s sweet.”
Everyone turned to see Bucciarati leaning in the doorway. He looked utterly amused, his eyes warm from smiling.
“God, your kids are so annoying,” Abbacchio half-grumbled, half-wheezed.
Bucciarati touched his neck, idly tracing his freshly bandaged mark. “ Our kids, Leone. Our kids are annoying.”
As Fugo and Mista loudly complained about them acting gross already, Abbacchio couldn't help but feel warm and tingly at the sense of belonging he felt. He thought of the words he said to Bucciarati on the day they decided to betray the boss.
“I never had a home or place I wanted to go. The only time I’m ever at ease is when I’m with you, Bucciarati.”
The second sentence was true. It had always been true, and likely always would be true. But it was the first sentence that Abbacchio thought of at this moment.
A home. A place he wanted to go. It was something that had been out of reach for his entire life.
Abbacchio sat amongst the loud teens who had become his pack and stared at the man who was now his mate and wondered if he’d finally found it.