Si Dolce È'l Tormento | A BruAbba Story

Bucciarati

content warning: brief torture (it's not that bad guys I can't handle torture)

"Stop."

The voice cut through the living room the moment Bucciarati set foot inside, Fugo a step behind him. His own blue eyes stared back at him, cold. She stood in the center of the space, Fugo's body before her like a shield with a knife pressed to his throat, scowling.

"Try it and I'll bite your arm off," Fugo's voice snarled. "Don't give them anything, capo."

Narancia. A cold weight settled in his stomach. Behind him, someone rushed into the room, stumbling to a stop at the scene unfolding there. Bucciarati glanced back and saw Giorno, green eyes narrowed and blond hair a wild mane. Their eyes met for half a second, and something about the cool, steely focus was so familiar he didn't need to ask who it was.

"Dieci." Abbacchio stepped forward into her field of view. "I don't need to tell you what happened to the rest of your team. It'll be easier for everyone if you let him go now."

"Didn't I tell you to stay where you are?"

Narancia went still as the blade bit into his skin, scowling even harder. A thin line of blood ran down his neck.

"Now, this young man and I were having a conversation." Bucciarati shivered at the sound of his voice, at the low growl she twisted it into. "Where is it?"

Narancia spat.

Moonlight flashed off the knife. The noise as it sank into his shoulder turned the capo's stomach. Narancia clenched his jaw and went pale.

Dieci yanked the knife back, sending a fine spray of blood across the floorboards. The blade returned to his throat. "I won't ask again."

Narancia shrugged with his good shoulder. His face looked drawn beneath the feigned indifference. "I don't know."

Her fingers curled around his bloody shoulder like claws. Narancia visibly tensed. "I said I don't fucking know, you psycho."

Bucciarati could see the black fingernail polish in the moonlight – his hands, the ones Abbacchio must have painted. There was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

Dieci dug one painted nail into the gash. Narancia snarled at her like a wounded animal.

"Stop." Bucciarati stepped forward, meeting his own eyes. "He's telling the truth. I'm the only one who knows where it is."

Narancia shook his head forcefully, sending Fugo's hair into his eyes. "Don't, capo. I can take her – gah, what the fuck is wrong with you –"

Bucciarati kept his gaze steady and his voice cool. "Let him go."

Dieci jerked her head in his direction. "Closer. Slowly."

Bucciarati could feel the restrained protests of Abbacchio and Fugo burning into the back of his neck as he crossed the bar of moonlight on the floor. The house was quiet enough to hear his slow footsteps and Narancia breathing hard. Dimly, he wondered where the hell Giorno, Mista, and Trish were. If they had Golden Experience here –

"Stop." Dieci eyed him for a long moment. Then in one movement, she shoved Narancia away from her and grabbed Bucciarati's arm, whirling him around to face the room as she slipped behind him. Cool steel pressed against his throat. He watched Narancia stumble back toward Abbacchio and Fugo and let out a silent breath.

"Well, capo?" The voice was a hiss near his ear. The blade pressed harder against his throat, just enough to sting. "This would be the time to start talking."