Deeper Than Blood, Heavier Than Gold(Under Editing)

Capitolo XIII. Proiettile

Guido Mista, born in December 3rd 1982. After being accused of being a murderer, he has crossed paths with a man named Bruno Bucciarati, a mafia man but a righteous and kind soul. After that encounter he has become one of his men and worked under him as a gunslinger, a loyal comrade and a brother not only to the young mafioso but with everyone in his team. Mista bet his life on the man dressed in white and pledged to protect and serve him. But fate and time are cruel... Bucciarati died and most of his friends ended up dead too. He had questioned himself, "Is this supposed to happen?" Or that question asking "why?".

After the death of his friends, he has set his mind to protect the ones that survived. He is there for them and he will die if that's what it takes for them to be safe, and today is the time where he has seemed so helpless. He had no weapons, no powers, as he waited and laid motionless on the ground. Playing possum- just to lure the enemy in.

In his years as an assassin and a mafioso, he had gained the unique talent of playing dead. He could slow his heart rate for just seconds just to lure a target before shooting them in point-blank range. He listened as his captor approached him while laying on the floor. His mind is slowly drifting away as his captor circled around his motionless body. A vulture trying to eye up on a dying animal, examining if he's truly dying. The man put his chilly hands on Mista's neck and clicked his tongue as he caught of his faint pulse. The man then placed his ear near his lips to find out if there are still any breaths being breathed by the man lying on the floor.

The moment he felt the man had placed his head near his mouth, Mista, with all the force he had left. Brought a hard headbutt and broke the man's nose, making him stumble a few steps back. Just like how his first kill went. Guido Mista's instinct kicked in and he stood up. He was calm, his usual bright expression replaced by a calm but serious look, a deathly stony stare, tainted with bloodlust, ready to kill. His dark eyes didn't waver its glare towards the man. As if in slow motion, Mista made a run for it. His legs sprinted towards the still dazed opponent and used his body to slam him into the wall, severing some of his opponent's ribs.

"Argh!", the man spewed out as he coughed up blood. Mista didn't wait for his enemy to gain a footing as he released a swift kick on the throat, causing the man to fall onto his knees, grasping for air, face turning red. Guido is a marksman, but he knew the first rule of assassination:

"Never rely on a single gun. An assassin must be a weapon himself ."

He knew this from his experience and by a certain stoic ex-police officer named Leone Abbachio after a near death experience on a mission. Indelible. With no second thoughts, he kicked relentlessly, turning the man on to his stomach before giving the finishing blow.

"Just like Fugo said, '30 pounds per square inch is enough.'"

Mista panted as he took a step back. His sweat trickling down his forehead, his shoulders finally slumped down. He leaned on the wall as he tried to catch his breath with a triumphant smile.

"Looks like someone needed a doctor.", he joke towards himself, laughing bitterly as he thought of his friends.

'Trish and Giorno could've laughed at it, Sheila and Fugo try their best to roll their eyes on me,' he thought as he stood straight, a tired but grateful smile quirking the sides of his lips.

"One down, now off to find the others.", He said to himself as he went over to his enemy's lifeless body. He crouched down as he used his foot to retrieve anything to cut throughout of his restraints, and in this case, a scalpel. A smirk tugged his lips as he got the sharp tool to work. Good thing Mista is blessed to be physically flexible and can cut his way out.

"Ha! Oh, shit! I've never thought I would miss to have my hands free!", he said in triumph, feeling lighter now that he's free from the stuffy straitjacket, stretching his arms above his head. Things went in favor for the unluckiest luckiest gunslinger. "Now, all I have to do is to find an exit. What could this shitty-arsed wannabe used to pass through these walls?"