19/06/2000
A boy, no older than 19, stood by a door to a somewhat run-down looking unit. The windows were closed, curtains drawn, and lights off. Occasionally, people would walk down the narrow street, but nobody seemed to stay here for long. The streets of Naples were relatively quiet today – that is, not unbearably loud – and it was a little overcast, but not too much. He reviewed his instructions one last time; a scrunched up piece of paper that one might have mistaken as just trash, poorly scribbled in a writing that surely only he could read.
Be at hideout by 14:50. Stand near entrance. At 14:55 discard paper into drain. Knock at 15:00 precisely – do not use doorbell. Member “Formaggio” will be expecting you. Secret code “Ha fame, uccellino?”, reply with “Certo, forse cinghiale e un po’ di vino”.
He checked his watch – 14:53. Close enough. Trying to be casual, he walked over to the opposite side of the footpath, crumpling the paper once again, dropping it by his side, and watching it flutter to the ground. He nudged into the drain with his foot. Nobody seemed to notice, or more likely they just didn’t care.
Missions like this weren’t exactly uncommon for him. It had apparently been a year or so since he’d joined, or rather been recruited into the most prominent gang in Naples, Passione, but he couldn’t recall much of it at all. He could remember why – could he ever forget? – awakening disoriented in a dark and unfamiliar room accompanied by a giant of a man with a presence and a voice dark like the Devil himself, only for this same, strange figure to save his life before his very eyes. Doppio owed the man his life now, running some errands for his gang was the least he could do.
Now wasn’t the time to focus on the past, though. As with all his missions from the Boss, he knew he had to stay present and focused. One more check of the time. 14:59. The phrase repeated over and over in his head.
Taking a deep breath in, he steeled himself, and walked to the door. It was reasonably large, made of a dark wood of some sort. Just below head height sat an ornate yet worn knocker. He swung it three times, and took a step back, wiping a touch of sweat from his forehead.
Without warning, the door opened just a crack, held there by a chain on the opposite side. He couldn’t see the person on the other side, but just as his Boss had written, they spoke.
“Ha fame, uccellino?”
The man’s voice was a little gravelly, a little squeaky, and slightly annoyed. They sighed.
"Sì, ah- Certo, forse c-cinghiale e un po’ di vino.” He stammered a little, but corrected himself.
No response. He nervously took a step closer to the door, hoping to speak more privately.
“I take it you must be F-Formaggio, yes?” He whispered.
The man sighed again, closing the door a touch, loosening the chain, before opening it just enough to let someone through.
“Come on, in you get. Let’s make this quick, ok?”
Doppio shuffled inside, and the man closed the door behind him. The corridor was dark, and led to both a staircase at the end, and a kitchen on the left. It had an almost rust-coloured wallpaper, cracked but not quite peeling, and the floor was covered neatly with a pale carpet.
“Allora…” Formaggio began, walking past the boy and motioning to the kitchen area with his head, “In here’s fine. Nobody else is around.” He grinned.
Doppio wasn’t quite someone to talk to others, but it’s not like he didn’t want to. Being the Boss’ consigliere meant he didn’t have much time, if any, to spend making friends or going and enjoying himself. Not that the Boss would let him do such things, he wouldn’t risk putting his only understudy in danger, and besides, what if another mission came up? He always needed to be ready.
“...You coming? Hey, quit staring, snap out of it.”
“O-oh, sorry. Y-yes,” he muttered, awkwardly clutching his bag, and following the strangely friendly gangster into the kitchen and living area.
“Sit. Make yourself at home. Want a drink of anything? Coffee?”
“N-not really,” Doppio said, sinking into a couch he expected to be firmer.
“Good, we’re strapped for cash,” Formaggio chuckled, pouring himself a cup of something Doppio couldn’t identify from this far away. Maybe he needed glasses.
Eventually, he sat down next to the boy, looking him up and down. Doppio tried to pay no attention to him, before remembering the reason why he was here at all.
He took his bag off his shoulder and unbuttoned it, pulling out a small, paper-wrapped package, square and slightly larger than one’s palm.
“S-so, give this to your capo, alright?” He said, offering the package to Formaggio.
He grabbed, almost snatched the package, fiddling with it for a moment, before placing it down on a close-by table.
“Will do. Hey, you’re part of the messaging team, yeah?” Formaggio asked forcefully, though it was more of a statement.
“That’s, uh, that’s right, yes. Why do you-”
“That’s weird, you know, I’ve been involved with this for a couple of years by this point and I haven’t heard a single thing about a messaging team. Hitman team? That’s us. Debt team? Of course. Drug team? Absolutely. But messaging? Messaging?” He ranted.
“I- it’s very important,” Doppio stammered again.
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Formaggio said slyly, smirking. “It’s just that it doesn’t exist, that’s all.”
The boy felt a cold shiver down his spine.
“I really should be going-”
“Busy? I’m sure a postman like yourself has so much to do, right?”
“It’s – it’s not that sort of messaging. The Boss gets me to…” Doppio trailed off. He’d said too much, now.
“The Boss, hey? The big guy himself? You must be pretty high up to be his own personal messenger. But you look like you just got out of high school.”
Doppio had no intention of continuing this interaction. He motioned to go grab his bag, but Formaggio held him by the arm and tugged him back.
“Not so fast, alright?”
Doppio pulled his arm back, scratching it on something as he did so. A small puncture wound revealed itself just past his wrist.
“Oh, careful there. Here,” Formaggio said, oddly kindly, offering him a tissue to wipe away the barely noteworthy amount of blood.
Doppio smiled at him weakly. Formaggio sank back into the couch, spreading his arms widely. His attitude changed almost instantly.
“Look, I’m sorry if I’m being too… forward? It’s not every day we get to talk to someone as close to the Boss as you are. No hard feelings, alright?” He talked brightly now, almost as if telling a joke, patting Doppio on the back. “I just don’t want to take any chances, you get me? You’re a wealth of knowledge, I’m sure. There’s a lot to be learnt from someone as close to him as you are.”
Doppio was puzzled, wiping again at his arm. A throbbing pain began in the back of his head, and he raised his hand to it, closing his eyes for a moment to process everything. He shook his head, and opened his eyes once more.
A shimmering, metallic body stood next to Formaggio, who watched Doppio with intrigue and itched at his chest casually. The Boss had warned him this might happen, so he focused only on Formaggio himself. It would be much too risky to acknowledge a Stand right now.
“Something wrong?” Formaggio asked, still grinning.
“Oh, just a headache, that's all,” Doppio replied, trying to be nonchalant and hide his panic. His headache was starting to get to him; this tended to happen whenever under stress. Another shiver down his spine caused him to shuffle in his seat. “Look, I don't mean to disappoint you, but what I do is e-entirely classified. I can't tell you about it. I've already said too much.” He put on some confidence, hoping Formaggio would back down.
“Figured you'd say that.” Formaggio leaned over, seemingly towering over him, placing a hand on Doppio's shoulder. “I've got ways of making you talk, ok? Spill it now, or you'll be screaming it at the top of your lungs.” He spoke calmly, yet forcefully. The joking personality was gone, his face flat and gaze piercing.
“I- I really can't say-” Doppio quivered. “- I c-can’t just share it, t-the Boss w-would-”
“To hell with the Boss! He's kept shit from us long enough! You know, I'm starting to think Sorbet and Gelato were onto something, with all those secrets he's keeping!” Formaggio and his stand got closer still, a long, sharp finger skimming his chin.
“I- oh- my head…” Doppio sunk back into his seat, retreating from the unfolding confrontation.
“You listening to me? Either you work for him and know what his deal is, or you're just a phoney sent to mess with us! What's it gonna be?!”
“I can't… I… s-sorry…” He could barely whisper anything at this point.
It felt like he briefly blacked out for a moment. It wouldn't have been the first time.
“...Huh?” Formaggio asked.
It was silent all of a sudden.
“...Huh?” Doppio said in return. “What happened?”
“You… you just-”
Phone call. Why did he always have to black out just before a phone call?
“C-could you g-give me a second?” Doppio said weakly, reaching for his bag, which he didn't realise was slightly larger than it was a minute or two ago.
“Uh… ok?” Formaggio replied, puzzled.
Doppio grabbed his phone from his bag. It was a special one that the Boss had given him, a modified handset with the internals of a mobile. He pushed the pickup button.
“Sì, pront-”
Formaggio immediately snatched the phone from him, but Doppio held on tightly.
“He's right there! I can't miss this opportunity!” Formaggio spat.
Doppio’s body seemed to slouch, and slightly shrunken as it was, Formaggio expected him to be much less stronger than he was. This was not the strength of a boy his age, let alone one of his thin and weak-looking build. Formaggio let go, surprised and confused.
“What's with you, hey?” He asked, concerned. “You're confusing me, kid.”
The boy, empty eyed, put the phone to his ear. After a moment of silence and intent listening, he glanced over at Formaggio, offering him the phone.
“It's for you,” he said.
Formaggio blinked in disbelief. This boy just resisted him stealing the phone with the strength of a grown man, and now was willing to just hand it over?
Well, no point questioning it. He'd get what he wanted.
“Yeeees? This is Formaggio,” he said coolly.
The voice on the other end shook him to his core.
“Formaggio. Yes, that's right, Risotto said you'd be the only one home, didn't he?” It was dark and yet soft and calm, but terrifying in a way he couldn't describe. The presence of the voice made it almost feel like he was in the room with him.
“Y… you’re…”
“Unhand my messenger. You've done too much prying for one day, wouldn't you agree? You know what happens to those who pry.”
“H- how do you know what's happening?”
“I have eyes everywhere, Formaggio.”
A startled Formaggio looked over to a storage cupboard he and the others had cleared out a month or so ago. How could he forget the fate of Sorbet and Gelato? It made him feel sick again.
“Emotionality is understandable, Formaggio. I'll let it slide this one time. Do not test me again. Do as you were told. Hand the package to Risotto and ask no further questions. If you try and open the package and read the contents, I'll know. Do you understand?” The voice held a mysterious quality, recognisable yet unlike anything he'd heard before. He knew instinctively not to test it.
“...Of course, Boss. I- I'm sorry for even considering going against you-”
“Stop grovelling. Hand the phone back to my messenger, undo your effects on him, and let him go without a second thought. I'll be watching. Arrivederci, Formaggio,” the voice said, before going silent.
“Boss…”
Formaggio’s attention slid back to the boy, clutching his head and wincing.
“H-here’s your phone back,” he apologised.
“Oh, t-thanks,” the boy responded, stuffing the phone back into his bag. He looked at it, noticing something was off. “I r-really should be going…”
“Of course. My apologies for keeping you,” Formaggio said, emotionless. He stood to help the boy up, still struggling with his headache.
Doppio slid himself off the couch, and not expecting such a distance, fell and almost hit his head on the stone floor. Formaggio immediately remembered what he'd been planning – what a stupid plan – and reset the boy's size before he could notice anything more and consider this an attack. If he reported this to the Boss, it would be over for him.
“Shit, you alright?” Formaggio panicked.
“Y- yeah, I'm alright. Today's not my day, is it?” he replied, lightly.
“I guess not,” he said, bending down to help the boy up. It didn't seem like he'd been significantly hurt, just a slight scrape on his hands. “It can't be helped,” he sighed.
Grabbing his bag, Doppio slung it over his shoulder, brushing his hair with his fingers quickly, and looking disappointedly at his hands. He sighed, too. He still had this awful headache.
Formaggio led the poor boy to the door, knowing better than to let him linger anymore.
“Take care of yourself, right?” He said, still shaken from the phone call.
“Y-yeah, ok,” Doppio responded, weakly.
Formaggio closed the door on the boy, once again sliding the chain into place, before walking slowly back to the kitchen and starting to prepare himself the strongest cup of coffee he'd ever made. He needed it after this. Something that felt like a punch to the face.
“Strange kid,” he sighed.
“Well? What was it, Formaggio?” Risotto asked the still somewhat shaken man, barely closing the door behind him before speaking. The dark fabric around him obscured his form, and to any observer he would have seemed just like a shadow. Behind him, a shorter, scrawnier man with pale, frigid hair stood, with that usual permanent sneer on his face. Ghiaccio, of course.
“There’s a uh, package,” Formaggio explained. “Apparently it’ll tell us whatever we need to know.”
“Just a package? No-one came and said anything?”
Formaggio gulped almost audibly, following Risotto and Ghiaccio into the other room as he talked.
“Nope, just a knock at the door, I said what they wanted to hear, and by the time I opened it they were gone. Just that little paper tied thing was left.”
“Right. And where is it now?”
“Oh, uh, on the coffee table.”
Melone sat alone on the couch, typing something vigorously into the group’s shared laptop. They’d already seen the little package, figuring it was something important, and jested throwing it over-arm to Risotto, but just ended up handing it to him.
The enormous man took the package, signalling the others to give him some space. This was, after all, a private order directly from the Boss. Not just anybody was allowed to witness this. He remembered what the message had told him.
“I’ll need the computer, Melone.”
“Oh, uh, fine,” They responded, taking a moment to log out, before folding it shut and putting it on the kitchen bench on the way out, not making a fuss.
“I’ll open the door when I’ve received the information. Stay put.”
“I’m not a fucking dog, Risotto,” Formaggio quipped as the kitchen door slammed shut behind him. He wandered upstairs with the others. “No fucking respect,” he whispered, dryly.
Risotto exhaled bitterly, rolling his eyes a little. Walking over to the bench, he sat, looking puzzledly at the package. After a brief moment, he cut the twine, neatly opened the brown paper, and found himself staring at an unlabelled 3.5” floppy disc.
Entering his login into the laptop, he inserted the disc into the drive and waited for it to load, resting his head on his free hand. For whatever reason, the Boss seemed to love making these overly complicated and showy programs to send their information through. It was never just a simple text file, or something.
Sure enough, after a moment, a program took over the entire screen to flashily display that this was, indeed, a personal message from the Boss of Passione, for the eyes of Risotto Nero only. Of course, that wasn’t his real name – the Boss was also obsessed with giving each of their underlings some codename, which almost inevitably turned out to be food-related.
A message began to type itself out, letter by letter, almost like a typewriter, printing itself onto the screen.
Risotto,
I hope this message finds you well. I apologise for the short notice, but another mission has come up for your squadra.
As of three days ago, the capo of the Divisione Recupero Crediti, known as Bistecca, was found dead, seemingly killed by the other members of the Divisione out of hopes of overthrowing him. Their names are Orzo, Finocchio, and Rucola.
I view this as a direct violation of my orders, and as such the three of them are now considered traitors to the organisation.
Your squadra must now find the true reason behind Bistecca’s death, and deal with the culprits. I am aware you aren’t exactly detectives, but I wouldn’t trust anyone else with such a task. As you should be very aware, I take traitorous matters very seriously. I expect you should feel the same.
The last known residence of the three traitors was Montelupo Fiorentino, a commune roughly 20 km south-east of Fiorenze. I expect you to assign three members of your team to this task, and to arrive there within the next two or three days.
This is an urgent matter. Do not hesitate. I will contact you if there are any updates to the situation. Do not try to contact any members of Passione in Montelupo Fiorentino. We cannot allow the traitors to find out about your investigation.
I expect this will go smoothly. Do not disappoint me again, Risotto. I will communicate with you again soon.
Boss.
17/06/2000
Bistecca’s home was more like a maze than a house. Supposedly, it used to belong to some high-ranking government official before it got abandoned, then bought and refurbished by Bistecca. Not that he did any of it himself. To onlookers it was painfully obvious that he was part of the mafia, considering his sleazy and lazy attitude he always loved displaying on anyone he thought lesser than him, but it's not like anyone could do anything about that.
His job, as capo of the debt collection division of Passione, was to negotiate and “deal with” anyone who hadn't yet paid their dues to the gang, and make sure everything was settled. Though, he never did this and made sure to hand it off to his three subordinates – three siblings he only knew as Orzo, Finocchio, and Rucola. He didn't know their real names, but Bistecca wasn't his, either.
The three siblings sat in Bistecca's study, ready to receive their latest mission. Rucola – real name Rita – sat tired and bored on Bistecca's incredibly worn Chesterfield couch, stretching her joints and cracking her knuckles habitually.
Her older brother, Finocchio – real name Ferruccio – stood with discipline beside her, not bothered by her stretches that would probably remind most people of a possession scene from a horror movie. He was just as fed up with Bistecca as his sister, but being the eldest, he'd placed himself in the leadership role and so refused to show his annoyance.
Lastly, the youngest sibling, Orzo – real name Orazio – fiddled with his hands and bounced his knees, sharing the limited free space on the couch next to Rita. He had always been the most affected by the missions handed out, but Rita and Ferruccio loved him dearly and had supported him through the worst.
He nearly sprung out of the couch in shock as Bistecca slammed the enormous double doors behind him, not acknowledging the three of them until he'd sat at his office chair, reclining as far as it would go, lighting a cigar, and sighing loudly.
“Right, you three,” he began in a rough, scratchy voice, “something new from the Boss again. Nice and easy, a couple of former members haven't quite paid back what they said they would, and once again it's up to you three to make them pay up.”
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket, tossing it to Ferruccio, who unfolded it to reveal the typed details inside. He nodded at Bistecca.
“Just that?” He asked.
“Just that. So easy the kid should be able to do it,” Bistecca replied, taking a huge breath out and exhaling smoke into the room.
“Call him Orzo, please,” Ferruccio demanded.
“Ah, I'm terrible at names,” he dismissed. “Yeah, let Orzo handle it then. Should be easy enough. Besides, he's hardly intimidating, perfect for just a nice calm discussion.”
Ferruccio looked as his brother, who exchanged glances with him momentarily before looking down at his own shoes. Orazio had never done a job on his own before, though not because he wasn't capable – it just affected him deeply, mentally. He was not the sort of person to be a part of a gang at all, which meant the gang was more than happy to have him as an easy pawn to manipulate.
“You want me to take care of it, sir?” He asked, shakily.
“Are you listening? I've said that twice now. Yes, Orzo, this one's yours. Finocchio will give you the details. Now leave me alone, you three, I'm busy.”
“You're never busy,” Rita snapped, still stretched out on the couch.
“Oh yes I am, you just don't understand the responsibilities of being a capo. There's a lot to take care of, sweetie.”
“Don't call me that, asshole.”
“Hey, ok, settle down, I was just being nice,” he laughed cheekily, taking another drag of his cigar and itching his balding head. He pulled open a drawer, grabbed a small unmarked book, opened to a random page, and began reading. “Do something about her, alright, Finocchio? That attitude is not acceptable. Leave me alone.”
“Yes, sir,” he said proudly, intending to do absolutely nothing at all about his sister's behaviour. Ferruccio turned, walking over to the heavy wooden doors, and gesturing for his siblings to follow. Orazio came quietly, but Rita took a bit of encouragement before pulling herself over the back of the couch and giving Bistecca the finger as she left, but he was too buried in his book to notice.
“What a bastard,” she complained once the doors were closed.
“You say that every time,” Ferruccio commented.
“And yet you never disagree,” she said, cheekily. “What's the deal this time? What're we doing? I wasn't listening.”
“Well, like he said, some past gang member is overdue on something, we've got to check it out as usual. He specifically wants Orazio to do it.”
“Shit, really?”
“I, uh, I'll be fine, guys,” Orazio piped up, though not confidently. “If it's just a negotiation it shouldn't be difficult, right? I can negotiate.”
“It's true, but we have no idea what this guy's like. We can't be too careful,” Ferruccio explained.
“What does the info say about him?” Rita asked, before snatching the paper out of her brother's hands. “Jethro Bartolomeo, hey? Age 46. Doesn’t seem to live that far from here. Boss gave him the code-name ‘Burro’, used to be part of the gambling division until he literally bought his way out of the gang after being a part of it for years.”
“Or not. Evidently the Boss isn't happy with the deal,” Ferruccio pointed out. “Gambling team… don't think we've met anyone from there. Wonder what they're like.”
“Probably just a rich idiot. How does one even buy their way out of a gang anyway?” Rita asked rhetorically, slipping the paper to Orazio. “You’ll need this.”
“Should we just… go there? Now?” He asked, cautiously.
“Well,” Ferruccio thought, studying the clouds pass by through the window. He did this often. “The weather doesn’t seem too bad. A bit overcast, but nothing too nasty. The forecast for later was meant to be good, too. You should be safe. We’ll still stay close-by, though.”
Orazio nodded quickly, trying to steel his courage.