Si Dolce È'l Tormento | A BruAbba Story

Abbacchio

Diece staggered back, staring at the blade embedded in her chest. The knife in her own hand clattered to the floor. When she looked up at Bucciarati, her blue eyes were wide and stunned, and there was something like fear in them. "You're crazy."

Narancia's disbelief was more audible. "What the hell? Why would you –?"

Even Fugo looked shaken. "Capo... you have to..."

Abbacchio stayed where he was, frozen. Deep red bloomed around the hilt of the knife, soaking through the thin shirt he himself had thrown on to ward off the chill. A shout or a scream or a sob caught in his throat and stuck there, trapped.

Bucciarati shook his head. Trish's features were sculpted into a resolute, businesslike mask. The face of the capo. "No time for that. Abbacchio, Narancia, tie up her real body."

Narancia nodded shakily and ran off. To find rope, probably, an impartial voice provided into the empty cavern of Abbacchio's blank mind. Behind Bucciarati, Dieci dropped to her knees, shaky hands clutching at the knife. An intense cold bloomed at his core and spread through him until he could no longer feel his fingers.

"Abbacchio."

Trish's voice startled him out of the trance. Bucciarati was staring at him, his gaze pointed. Narancia had returned with an armful of rope and was clearly trying to avoid looking at Dieci in the background.

Bucciarati nodded toward Fugo. "Quickly, please."

Abbacchio accepted the rope numbly. Fugo put his hands behind his back, but it took several minutes to tie a secure knot with Giorno's unfamiliar hands. When he straightened up, Dieci had gone pale, and blood had soaked the front of the shirt. Abbacchio fought off a wave of dizziness.

"Well." Bucciarati turned to face her. His voice was cold, and if the sight of the knife buried in his own chest shook him, he didn't show it. "Unless you want to bleed out in that body, I suggest you return everything to its proper place."

Abbacchio's stomach dropped. "No –"

Dieci stared at him. "You're crazy," she said again.

"I wouldn't wait too long," Bucciarati said calmly.

Abbacchio took a step forward, shaking his head wordlessly.

Dieci raised one shaky, blood-covered hand and snapped. For a second, the shadow of a twisted, eyeless Stand loomed behind her. Then the room went black.

The first thing Abbacchio felt as he struggled back toward consciousness was the wind against his face. There was a quiet sigh all around him, one he couldn't place until he opened his eyes and saw the dry grass around him rustling in the breeze. The field, outside. Outside? He had just been somewhere else, but he couldn't grasp the memory through the fog in his head. He sat up, startled by the effort it took – there was a weakness in his bones like he had just gotten over a sickness. The sky overhead was scattered with stars, the moon sinking down to the horizon. Its fading silver light fell across a darkened house at the end of the road.

Oh, no.

Abbacchio scrambled to his feet and ran. The memories hit him in a wave: Bucciarati, blood soaking through the shirt, Dieci staring up at him with the capo's pale face. No, no, no. He could hear the rustle of grass behind him as someone else struggled to their feet, then a voice shouting after him, but he ignored it. Grass hit his legs with a hiss. His heart beat so fast he felt dizzy.

The front door stood open. Abbacchio stumbled as he raced up the front steps. The roar of his heartbeat was too loud to hear voices from inside. Please, please, please. He slammed into the wall as he banked sharply for the living room.