Guido Mista : Reunion

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Spot the Star Wars reference...

"I'm leaving now, I'll see you tomorrow!" you called, expecting a hearty Italian goodbye in return. Strangely, you never received one, prompting you to investigate the owner's whereabouts. You entered the kitchen, surprised to find it was empty and clean, save for a lighter on the ground. It was decorated and mustn't have belonged to the chef or the boss, since neither of them smoked. Picking it up, you inspected it, admiring the design before going back to your search. In the hallway between the fire exit and the storage room lay a huge pool of sanguine; and it didn't smell like wine. Treading cautiously to avoid any glass, you approached the doorway, open just a crack.
"Hey, is this your lighter?" A faint groan came from behind the door, the chef slumped against a shelf, bleeding out. "Oh my God! What happened?!" you screamed, forcing your colleague to hiss at you to be quiet. Pressing your apron against his wound, you were shaken off.
"Put it down and run!! The boss called in a demon or something!"
"The lighter? Why?!"
"Look at me, just go before it gets you too!" Slowly edging away, you stumbled backwards, dropping the lighter in the process. Its flame relit, despite being sideways on the ground. Your colleague's eyes widened in sheer terror at the ignition, more so when you tried to correct your mistake by grabbing it back. Before you were able to switch it off, you felt your neck tighten. Grasping it, you gagged for breath, before a sharp pain stabbed you in your throat, leaving you to piss out blood on the floor.

Outside, Bruno Bucciarati was enjoying his walk back from another restaurant, the evening breeze cool on his chest. Groups of people were gathering around the place, screaming for help and awaiting emergency services. He knew who was in there, since he had recruited them himself. The mobster dipped down the alley on the side and zipped a small hole in the fire exit door to take a peek. Since the fire was in the front, he assumed its flames hadn't ripped through to the back yet. He needed to know if this was a Stand ability or something more sinister. When his blue eyes witnessed a waitress slumped against the wall, holding her neck covered in blood, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man he had picked mustn't have been worthy, but it seemed a champion had arisen all the same. He prised apart the gap, flinging his skinny body through it and grasping your arm. Pulling you through, you tumbled to your knees and fell to the ground, faint from shock. Change, paper, a pen and the lighter flew from your pocket, it's failure to ignite confirming his suspicions. You'd been chosen.
Kneeling, the gangster pressed two fingers against the underside of your wrist, checking for a pulse. It was there, so you were going to be alright. Pocketing the lighter, he stared at your face and tried to remember it, should he decide to recruit you after all. He wasn't going to tonight, since you weren't who he had chosen. Sirens blared, signalling his departure from the scene.
"Arrivederci," he mumbled, retreating back to his full height. Since you were safe, he could go back to his search for a team.

You were in a dream-like state. Everything felt far away, encasing you in a hazy sort of bubble. Having sat for over an hour staring at the wall, refusing to interact with Mista or anything he was bringing you, be took it upon himself to sit beside you finally. Swallowing, he peered over at your motionless face, worrying more than he cared to.
"Dolce, why don't you have a cup of tea?"
"No thank you," you whispered, tears dropping from your eyes. Mista wasn't your boyfriend, despite having had romantic dealings with him in the past. It had just never progressed to that stage you supposed. Plus, you tried not to get jealous when he spoke to other women flirtatiously. Taking your hand, he cradled it in his lap.
"Well, it might make you feel better."
"I don't want anything, I don't understand!" Sighing, he tried to play it cool, instead simply wrapping his arms around you.
"Don't cry, Y/N."
"I got stabbed, I got fucking stabbed in the throat and there's nothing there!" Though it was peculiar, he believed you. He saw it in your eyes. "I've got no boss, no job, I lost one of my only friends..." Bursting into a flood of tears, you wailed the last bit. "Now the police don't believe me!" His hands swept hair out of your face, daintily drying your irritated cheeks.
"I believe you." Eventually, you took a deep breath, noticing that two hours had passed and Mista was still by your side. Gradually turning to look at him, you realised he had fallen asleep with your hands in his lap. Your heart melted at the man's thoughtfulness. He'd spent all this time sat with you, despite you having a full-scale meltdown. Peeling yourself away from him, he stirred a little, but appeared to remain in his dreams. You bent over, aligning your mouth with his cheek and giving it a gentle smooch. In between waking and sleeping, the flutter twisted in his chest, cheek heating up with a blush.
"Grazie, amore."

That was the only memory going around his head. He had been absolutely sure to make it official the next day, and you had been together ever since. Leaning back on his chair, Guido Mista, now a convict, felt a wash of chill engulf him. 'Get up. You're being released,' they had said. He was not a man to worry too much, even in this moment, but, if it was you who posted his bail, he would be having some serious words. Even though he'd tried his best to support you after that terrible freak accident six months ago, Mista was almost certain you would be through with him, not to mention bail money these days was a lot and like him, you didn't have any. He'd never earn enough to pay that off!
Leaving the prison in his own clothes, the last person he expected to see was a beautiful, modellesque man. His hair was black as night, sharply cut around his face. His blue eyes looked as though they had seen through millions, yet not a single wrinkle tainted them. The ivory suit shimmered in the daylight, only his chest bare. It was a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.
"You're the one who bailed me out?"
"Yes. I saw the incident on the news and decided you acted out of self-defence," he replied, mature as ever. "It means you are incredibly skilled with a pistol and full of life, but a guy like you probably wouldn't last two years in prison." The older man shifted his pose, continuing his explanation. "That's why—"
"You pulled some strings. Do you belong to some organization?"
"Come with me. There's an excellent ristorante nearby."

Walking with the mystery man, he took them to a restaurant that Mista had been in before, but he didn't know it had changed hands within the last few weeks. A male server brought all sorts of Italian delights for him to tuck into and he did so. He spared a single thought for his girlfriend, since it tasted just like her cooking. She hadn't seen him for weeks before his arrest, anyway, so he guessed he would be lucky if she'd have him back now. Bucciarati complimented him on his eating habits, offering bruschetta too. The young boy was so immersed in eating such fantastic food, he didn't really notice Bruno ordering four plates of the stuff, before claiming one of the meals for himself as well.
"Oh, do you mind asking Signorina to come out here for me?"
"Right away," the chef replied, leaving the pair to chat.
"Now, following from our conversation."
"Okay, I'm in," he agreed. "I think you and I will get along great. So, I'm in, on one condition, though. Treat me to some dolce, too. Does this place have strawberry cake?"
"You sure are an odd one."

On that note, the other three filed in after being greeted by none other than the ristorante's owner.
"I guess this must be fate, too," Mista mumbled, judging the character of the three who walked in, Fugo, Narancia and Abbacchio. "This isn't so bad, everything worked out in the end," he mused, completely forgetting the issue that was his relationship. Clacky shoes walked towards Bucciarati, stopping just before the door.
"Buongiorno," a female voice said. "Thanks for making the effort to say hi, I've been so down since my... My..." Your voice trailed off as Mista finally recognised the owner of the voice, almost choking on his drink. "It was you." Throwing your arms around the mature mafioso, you could feel yourself tearing up again, crying thank you over and over. "Oh, Signore Bucciarati!"
Though not a fan of being touched, it warmed his heart that the gesture was so well met. You didn't realise, but he felt compelled to watch over you since the accident. Your Stand was powerful, yet you didn't know you had it. He hadn't recruited you for the simple reason you brought so much joy to your customers, and gang life would be a waste.
"Please, there's no need to thank me. You've allowed me to spend the last month holding meetings here."
"No, really. It's on me, Signore Bucciarati. After all," you smiled sweetly, making eye contact. "This is the second time you've saved my life." Walking over to your boyfriend with your hands on your hips, he bared teeth at you as you loomed over him, demeanour completely switching.
"Ha ha, uuhh, hi amore..."
"Don't 'Hi amore' me!" you screamed, making the other four exchange looks across the table. Their servings were brought to them, making for dinner and a show. "Where have you been for the last six weeks?!"
"Don't be so rough! Cut me some slack!"

Giggles and snickers came from the table as they watched Mista being chased and beat into submission with a tea towel by his angry girlfriend. He'd never admit it, but maybe prison was a safer place than the ristorante was with you in it right now.

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