Chapter Text
The morning sun shone brilliantly through the breaking clouds, casting the sleepy city streets in an angelic haze as the rain ceased. Bucciarati’s team travelled through the uneven streets of Naples, their steps march in time with those around them, easily and seamlessly blending in with the light foot traffic. No one had to look at a map as they were headed to their usual haunt, however Giorno’s gaze drifted on its own accord to settle on a different path.
“What’s wrong, Giorno?” Bucciarati asked, eyeing the younger man. His gaze hardened and he lowered his voice, “Are we being followed?”
Struck from his own thoughts by his capo’s voice, Giorno offered an apologetic smile. “No, I just know of a café down that road.” He pointed towards a backstreet where ivy climbed up the walls on either side. About ten minutes down that road lived the closest thing to a home he’d ever had.
Bucciarati stared at the boy thoughtfully as Mista’s Sex Pistols crowed about croissants. Fugo nodded along, placing a gentle hand under his own chin in thought. “I think we could stand to try a new restaurant.”
Feeling a little outnumbered, a smile settled on Bucciarati’s lips. “Alright then, Giorno, please lead the way.”
Pleasantly surprised, Giorno simply nodded and, as if on autopilot, he turned down the street and motioned for them to follow behind. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been, given all our missions, but I know the family that runs the place.”
Mista quirked a bushy eyebrow at him, catching on to the glimmer in his sea glass irises. The older teen sidled up beside Giorno and nudged him with his shoulder. “There wouldn’t happen to be una bella, giovane donna there, huh?”
Despite having the best poker face Mista had ever seen, Giorno couldn’t hide the light blush that dusted his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“A girl?” Narancia tuned back into the conversation at the right time and bounded to catch up. He glued himself to Giorno’s other side, much like Mista. “What are you hiding, Giorno?”
Giorno felt his cheeks heat up even more, but he didn’t squirm. “I’m not hiding anything; you simply haven’t asked.” He told Narancia before turning to Mista, “Yes, there is a young woman there, we grew up together.”
It was within the two months before the unnamed gangster had approached Giorno when she had found him in an alley after the bullies had their fill of the day. She left through the back door of her family’s bakery, yelling goodbye to her father in the way that children do before they realize that their voices carry and can disrupt the neighbors. In her small hands, she held a large sack filled with the blackened bits of bread that had been burnt that day.
Giorno was sitting in the alley trying to catch his breath. His slight body ached from the punches he was unable to dodge, his breathing ragged and shaky. They had been particularly vicious in the otherwise beautiful Naples morning.
“Are you alright, bambino?” She called from the mouth of the alley. The light shining from behind bathed her silhouette in angelic rays. He didn’t answer, instead choosing to watch her. “Are you hungry? Please eat.” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead choosing to dig through her sack to find the least burnt loaf of bread and offered it to him.
Giorno took it, confused by her kindness. Anxiety and anticipation turned in his stomach as he waited for the proverbial rug to pulled from underneath him. He was led to believe he was no better than scum and no one had showed this level of kindness to scum. And yet, she persisted.
She took his hand in hers, pulling him gently along with her, speaking about anything and nothing at all as she went, leaving Giorno to bask in her unfamiliar warmth. “My family owns a pasticceria just down the road. Papa tells me I’m too little to help in the kitchen, so I take out the left-overs and mess ups.”
“The mess ups?” Giorno finally spoke up, his voice just as small as he was. Her eyes softened at the younger boy. She let his hand go to pat him on the head but stopped short when he flinched. She didn’t have all the answer, being only nine herself, but she knew then and there that something was wrong. Once more she grabbed his hand and rubbed the pad of her thumb over the baby soft skin on the top of his hand to reassure him and with a voice sweetened with the nectar of childhood, she spoke to him, assuring his belief that she was brought from heaven above.
“When a pastry doesn’t come out as pretty as Papa wants, he tosses it to the side because it won’t sell. Or if something gets burnt!” She explained. “Mamma always says that it’s not the outside that counts.”
“What do you do with the mess ups?” He asks as she hefts the large bag higher up on her small shoulder.
“I take ‘em to whoever’s hungry.”
Together the children handed out bread and pastries to the people sitting in alleys and outside the storefronts. Giorno watched her carefully as she smiled at most everyone that passed them by. She greeted the elderly who pat her on the head, and she scolded the teens who tried to sneak an extra loaf before everyone in the area was served. It didn’t take long for Giorno to make up his mind; she was a rose of no man’s land, caring for the forgotten and damaged in the mafia-infested streets of Naples. Her kindness and general disposition were enough to solidify his opinion.
She had grabbed his hand before walking back in the direction they had come from. “What’s your name?” she finally asked.
“Haru…uh…Giorno,” he corrected himself.
“Thank you for being my helper today Giorno,” she offered him one of her cherubic smiles. “My name is Pietra.”
Pietra.
Giorno committed the name to memory, chanting it over and over in his head like a prayer on his walk home. Little did she know, but before the unnamed gangster, Pietra was the catalyst for the beginning of Giorno’s journey to believing in the kindness of others. From that day on, they were inseparable; she, the daughter of a baker in a small town and he, the bastard son of a night of frivolous passion. It wasn’t until the unnamed gangster reappeared in his life and the neighborhood children started acting friendlier did Giorno realize how much he struggled with the pull he felt to her as a child. It only grew worse as he tried to balance his attraction to her as a young man. Jealousy chilled his blood when other boys brought her flowers and he became defensive when some got too close for comfort. Pietra would only laugh and pat him on the head affectionately, thanking him for being her knight in shining armor.
Even though Pietra took charge of most conversations, Giorno felt he could tell her anything. When his hair mysteriously turned blonde, as if overnight, she didn’t question it. She simply told him how strapping he looked and that he’d always been handsome, but how beautifully the blonde made his eyes pop! When he hinted at his strange ability to bring life to things, she looked confused, but didn’t mock him. She listened intently and tried asking questions, but only succeeded in confusing herself in the end. She was supportive of most things he did, however when he told her his dream of becoming a gangster, Pietra bristled.
“I could never live with myself if you were hurt, patatino.” She held his face in her hands as she spoke, as if it would get her point across. His heart ached at the pet name she had given him. Little potato: a sign she still saw him as the little boy from the alley all those years ago.
“Please don’t call me that,” he said evenly as he nuzzled into one of her palms. Because I love you. The words settled in his chest, an ever-present ache beneath his sternum.
“Mi dispiace, Giorno,” she apologized, “I know you’re not a baby anymore…fifteen and still growing, I’m immensely proud of you, but please reconsider.”
“You speak as if you are someone’s mother and not a young woman.” He said with a sly smile and moved to tuck one of her dark curls away from her face lovingly. His smile fell as he spoke once more, “Please do not ask me to give up on my dream, Pietra.”
Tears clung to her dark lashes like morning dew as she took in his words. There was something about the way her eyes glistened that constricted his heart, but his resolve was stronger. It had to be. Because Giorno Giovanna had a dream. Nothing could distract or derail his plans, and yet with every glance from her chocolate gaze, he felt a bit of his quiet exterior chip away. Cupid had pierced him, unarmed and unprotected, while she went about her daily duties seemingly unaware of the tangible magnetism of her very existence. But he, Giorno Giovanna, had a dream that he would conquer Passione and reform the city in his image, free from those who sell drugs to children and harm the innocent. He refused to abandon this dream…yet there existed the singular and unyielding truth of her very real nature as a source of distraction.
She was temptation in itself; temptation to stray from his dream, even for a moment, as a second dream took root. Giorno saw her in white, smiling coquettishly up at him from behind her veil. In his imagination he could see the two of them on the cliffs overlooking the waves crashing on the rocks below as the espresso cooled in their cups. His mind jumped to her demure, gentle gaze cutting through the steamy bathroom as they bathed together. These thoughts danced through his mind and dulled his senses. He would fight for her, but to reach his dream, he would have to leave.
“I don’t want you to give up on your dream, Giorno…” Pietra sighed, her hands slipping from his face to rest on his shoulders. “Just be careful and come home when you can.”
Giorno pressed a kiss to her cheeks before leaving the pasticceria-turned-café. He hadn’t known how long he would be gone, where he would go, or when he would be back, but he swore he would. He owed it to Pietra and the second dream blossoming in his heart to return to her. To return home.
It wasn’t until Abbacchio was standing in front of him, grabbing his shoulder and shaking, him none too gently, did Giorno snap back to attention. How long they had been standing in front of Pietra’s café? Suddenly, Giorno felt smaller than he had in that alley eleven years ago. How many months had it been since he last saw Pietra? You cannot act like you haven’t been counting, he told himself, it’s been six months and two weeks. The idea of seeing her made his heart thunder in his chest.
“What gives, Giorno?” Narancia bumped his shoulder on his way towards the door. The café hadn’t changed in the few months he had been gone. There were multiple tables that made up an outdoor seating area lined with crosshatch pattern pergolas covered in vines, painting the café’s front in romantic shadows. Due to the morning’s rain, the café’s occupants sat in the cozy interior where they sipped their morning coffee in rustic comfort.
“Lost in thought.” Giorno replied simply before following the rest of his team. The bell over the door tinkled as they entered and all at once they were confronted with the sweet smells of breakfast pastries.
“Giorno?” A sweet voice called from the far side of the café. It was the voice Giorno had dreamed about for six long months. His heart only had time to beat once before his eyes met hers and immediately softened.
Pietra looked the same as she always had. With loose, dark curls and tan skin, she looked every bit the Italian native she was. His eyes traversed her form, admiring the trousers that hugged her curves; with a plump softness in her stomach and thighs, it was as if each roll on her body was lovingly crafted like the ones she served daily. Before he could blink again, Giorno was wrapped in one of her warm hugs, the combined scent of honey and baker’s yeast overwhelming his senses.
“Oh bambino, my Giorno, you’ve been gone for so long!” She cooed, her hands fretting over every inch of his form before slapping him on the skin of his chest left exposed by the cutout of his suit. “Stupido! Do you know how much I’ve missed you? You could’ve called! Written! It’s been months!”
Giorno let her yell at him affectionately, let her call him names, and yet he continued to stare at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He would apologize for the lack of communication. He would apologize for leaving her lonely, but he couldn’t apologize for leaving. It was something he had to do. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted quietly.
The rest of the team watched the display with myriad responses. Abbacchio took in the sight with limited interest before finding a table to claim for the group as Narancia’s gaze shifted between the two like a child watching a game of tennis. Mista readjusted his gun and took a step towards Giorno.
“So, this must be her,” Mista purred, interrupting her attention by taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Guido Mista, at your service.”
Pietra snorted, taking her hand from his and gently patting him on the cheek. “The pleasure is mine, Guido.” Her voice was kind but casual as she spoke. “Any friend of Giorno’s is a friend of mine-,” her eyes skimmed over the top of Mista’s hat to land on a pair of familiar ocean blue eyes. Her fingers drifts from Mista’s and she took a step around him. Mista shrugged and moved to sit at the table Abbacchio chose, figuring their conversation was done.
“Bruno.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if she hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. Bucciarati’s gaze fell on her and softened as she approached. Giorno looked to the table where the gang was sitting, unbothered and unaware of the scene unfolding before them. Bucciarati’s strong hands came to rest on her upper arms, rubbing soothing lines down her bare skin.
“I didn’t think…” she trailed off, staring at nothing but the man in front of her, “I mean, in your most recent letter, you said you weren’t sure when you’d be back and you never told me you knew Giorno-,”
“Cuore mio.” Bruno spoke low, a gentle reminder that others were present. That seemed to snap her out of whatever reverie she found herself in. She wouldn’t drop the subject completely, reminding herself to speak with him in private later, but the damage had already been done.
Giorno didn’t register taking a seat. He didn’t remember opening the menu and telling her what he wanted. All he could see was the gentle way his capo had held the woman he loved. Mista quirked an eye at him and gave him a light kick under the table to jostle him out of his thoughts.
Once again in the real world, Giorno watched her flounce from person to person as she introduced herself to his team with bile in his throat. Her easygoing nature and kind spirit weren’t lost on the men, even Fugo offered a curt smile as she took his order. On any other day, the sight would’ve warmed his heart, but the sight of Bruno so close, holding her so intimately, was one he couldn’t easily get out of his mind. All at once, Giorno felt out of place and all too small, a feeling he did everything in his power to avoid since childhood. His heart ached in his chest as the image of her in white slipped through his fingers.
Dark cerulean eyes watched Giorno crumble internally in his chair with worry and interest until the teen turned and stared. To an untrained eye, Giorno looked like his normal, stoic self. If it weren’t for the indescribably emotion swirling in his eyes, even the leader would’ve thought so too. It only took a split second for him to catch on. Bucciarati’s gut roiled at the realization.
Giorno loves her.