This one is pure angst, unexpectedly 11k words long. I can't remember the last time I cried because of writing fanfiction (probably never), but I cried while writing this one. So I hope the emotion I felt can at least partially reach you. Requested by Focusti and I truly hope you'll like it!
I also made a very subtle reference to one of King Crimson's songs and a Star Wars reference. Find them if you can >:) and uhh I finished this at 4 AM so I apologize for any possible mistakes, I'll probably edit this tomorrow
tw: gore, of course
. . .
She was late – unusual.
Perhaps this fact was emphasized by Risotto's acute state. Not once has this man fallen in love this deeply, this hopelessly – this beautifully.
And the beauty of love was easy to spot, for Risotto. Much like grotesque, the ugly sides emphasized the pretty ones.
Waiting for her to come could count as one of the downsides, for through it, he would be caught up in childlike excitement; something he wasn't accustomed to, and something that caused him discomfort, should he think of it any more.
He was vulnerable, and he did not like it. At first, when he came to realize his feelings, he treated them with loathing. Undoubtedly, loathing, for he thought of them as a distraction, nothing more. But as time passed, he realized his heart simply could not listen. He could not prevent the joy she caused him.
So he gave in, opened his eyes to the many beauties of love. And it was worth it, every bit of it. He found himself walking in a brighter world, wherein he had the privilege to love and, to possibly, quite possibly –
Be loved. It was her who gave him the silly idea. That he deserved it, in fact, that he needed it. That he could care for someone, and in turn, be cared for. As if it was the most normal thing in this violent world.
Because it was. She only opened his eyes, wide, to acknowledge both sides of the spectrum. And the fair side of the spectrum, it wasn't unreachable, not at all. It was very real and very near, just a confession away. Which he decided to postpone until the moment was perfect, to some distant, ideal moment, far in the future.
As for now... Risotto was just a lost child.
It was only natural that his cherished one was looked for keenly – and was not found, sadly.
Perhaps it was odd, for (Y/N) would always arrive early, if not, then among the first few members. The schedule of their arrivals was something Risotto had long adopted in his mind. In that regard, (Y/N) was the same as all people in the Squadra; in any other regard concerning her arrival, she was unique. Stood out to Risotto for no other reason but her many virtues and beloved flaws. Whenever his eyes would be blessed with the sight of her, he would be reminded of all of those traits. She was radiantly overwhelming, her very appearance. That was all she needed to do – merely appear.
Usually, she would stroll inside, wearing quiet confidence like it was sewn for her. A deadly stand user, a ruthless assassin, and yet, a sweetheart.
She'd search for Risotto with her stern gaze, and upon spotting him, upon the brisk locking of their eyes, her façade would crumble, just for that one instant. She'd show it in numerous ways: she'd look away, she'd turn around, twirl her pretty hair between her fingers. She would be so adorable in her shyness, her unbelievable innocence, which he caused.
Risotto's crimsons would remain unfaltering, but his stone heart? Moved, certainly moved, with vivacity short and unfamiliar. There would be so much enforced in Risotto, in that fleeting moment he would always look forward to – and was missing now.
Why, the question was immediately asked. And he answered: perhaps she was stuck in traffic, or some other everyday occurrence befell her. He had no way of knowing, and he had no way of confirming. She was possibly too occupied to contact anyone, for nobody mentioned the reason behind her absence. It had to be that way – he understood. He simply wanted his little heart to calm down as well. Although it had no rational basis, he had a bad feeling.
His hand lingered before his mouth. He swatted away the worry with a twitch of it. So much senseless stress, and what for? Time and time again, he realized just how inutile his feelings could be. Made him lose his mind for a bit, in situations that were, luckily, as unimportant as these.
Everything was crystal clear in his mind indeed; but in order to bring out the clarity, he had allowed the present moment to fly by. The chatter in the headquarters had shifted to some other topic, and he didn't manage to catch the transition. A long sigh was heaved.
The talk turned out to be a rising argument. His gaze was redirected to the team members who were scattered around the room, some sitting, some standing. And the ongoing discussion was...
"If he ordered chocolate milk, then maybe people would think it's coffee," Formaggio suggested.
"Do you actually think they wouldn't be able to discern chocolate milk from coffee? Just think of the serving, a simple, minuscule espresso," Prosciutto explained, showing the oh so miniature size of the cup with his fingers, "and a massive mug of chocolate milk with whipped cream on top like it's meant for some sugar-crazed kid." His description of the chocolate milk was spoken with sincere discord. Formaggio grimaced.
"I thought this conversation was long over," Melone added. Pesci nodded fervently.
"Obviously not," Prosciutto snapped back. Before anything else could be said, the boss raised his tone.
"Then you should finish it now," Risotto voiced himself, "let's get this over with."
"Aren't we waiting for (Y/N)? Where is she, anyway?" Sorbet inquired. Gelato, by his side, raised the both of his brows.
"I presume nobody has heard of her," the boss proposed. As expected, nobody had.
Her absence was questioned, and the Squadra together reached the same conclusion as Risotto: that she was busy with something and simply... couldn't make it. It was likely. They all knew of her occupation to help out the local seniors. It was something Illuso ridiculed whenever he could. And, by all accords, she wasn't the type to obsess over money, unlike Sorbet, who couldn't emphasize with her. All in all, it couldn't be anything serious, though the fact remained that she never, ever skipped these sorts of meetings. But there's a first.
Risotto silenced whatever worry some of the men showed. Soon enough, nobody spoke of it. Business as usual would ensue – and the money was divided among the assassins.
In appalling carelessness, they left the headquarters. Their boss watched them walk away, one by one. Being the first and last one to come and go, he once again remained on his own.
He stood up. Shrouded in complimenting darkness, Risotto found himself wondering: was there something that he should've done? Or could've done, at least – to calm down for once. To make this disgusting feeling go away.
He hadn't heard of her for multiple days. Ever since that one meeting. Could it be...?
Without thinking, he flipped out his phone and stared at it. All he had to do was dial her number and inquire about her absence. Just one call.
Nervously, his finger tapped against the phone's side. He was being irrational. Had it been anyone else in the team, he wouldn't have reacted this way. The fact her worth was placed so high...
He disliked it – no, he was embarrassed about it. He knew feelings twisted his perception far and wide.
His phone was ignored with a scowl. Nothing would be done after all. He would remain blind, he chose, and retreated into the murk of his office.
Some paperwork laid scattered on the table. He neared it and cleaned it up, and voilà, the entirety of his office was in perfect order.
With that over, he sat on the chair, clueless as to what to do next. The butterflies in his stomach were obnoxious – and irritated him vastly. The dread was piling up for no reason at all. He told himself that, yes, she must've been busy, and that, no, she wasn't incompetent. If something bad had truly happened to her, her stand would be enough to defend her.
She was just another member of the hitman team. Just a colleague. Overall, they were doing tough work, but... they had little to no trouble concerning their job. Nobody had disturbed them, and nobody would – they were stand users, both powerful and elusive. Then...
(Y/N) must've been fine, he reckoned, pinching the bridge of his nose. But some instinct was telling him that things weren't as simple as his brain dictated. With this bothersome worry constantly on his mind, he couldn't calm down. That, and the fact...
The fact he might determine what happened. It went against his logic and his heart, and it went against what (Y/N) would've done, and yet... it was a horrifying possibility.
If calling her meant some solace, then so be it. He loathed this anxiety – shedding some knowledge in this situation would surely ease him.
So he called her. Gained nothing else but the reason behind his awry laugh. She wasn't answering.
He called her again. She couldn't have done that. She was too clever, and he warned her, and she listened, he knew she always listened –
Did she hear the phone ring? Had she turned off the ringtone?
And he called her again. If she had decided to do something, she would've told him, after all. She was sensible, mature. She wouldn't go around doing... whatever it was she intended to. Just what was on her mind?
The solitary sound that filled his office – the beeps on the other line – once again died down. Silence enveloped him, deafening whatever was left of his frantic thoughts.
That's it. He set the phone down onto the table. Slowly, he lifted his hand to his mouth, and his eyes remained fixated on the still device. The heartbeat that latched onto his throat would not let go – and he stayed put, stuck in the unnerving moment.
What was he even doing? He'd lost his mind – this was becoming an obsession. He was deeply, thoroughly ashamed of it. His brows were brought together in scorn.
There were so many ways to justify her silence. Facts spoke in favor of her safety, whereas his intuition screamed bloody murder –
He hated it. He hated the fact his psyche was torn. He yearned for integrity, stability, and all of it was ravaged – due to, what, his emotions? His love? He wouldn't let those have their way, no.
Maybe he was just looking for a way to kill his rushing heart. A precaution, just in case the worst would come true.
So, to distract himself from the distraction, he chose to finally get his work done. He looked through the few reports, checked their credibility, if there were any mistakes, and somehow, he was finished in no time. The fact surprised him. Subsequently, he could go home.
He exited the headquarters, and was astounded by the dark that awaited outside. The nearest street lamp wasn't working, he noticed. Allowing a small frown on his face, he thought it would be absolutely ideal if a dog had decided to shit somewhere along the shadowed road. That, or... his breathing halted.
Wasn't it ridiculous that he hoped for (Y/N) to appear, even for a millisecond? Wasn't it simply ridiculous of him to actually possess that yearning? It truly was. He nodded to the mute inquiry, and headed home. Therein, he would be met with a displeasing surprise. His phone rang, and the news dropped.
Unbeknownst to Risotto, some other men of the Squadra had decided to contact (Y/N). They reached out to her, only to find nothing. No response at all. It was clear at that point:
(Y/N) had vanished.
Some of them informed Risotto the very same evening. Risotto was awake and conscious to read all of the messages and receive all the calls. With every sound his phone made, he foolishly believed it was (Y/N) who was contacting him next – and disappointment washed over him every time. At that point, he could barely control it.
But he beat the worry with his thoughts. Bashed it mercilessly, scolding himself for being such a worrywart. As the wee hours neared, so diminished the reasons for him to cling to the phone. Everyone was slowly going to sleep. He should too.
It was in nightly silence that he found some solace. These taps on his nerves were goddamn awful. He knew something horrible must've happened, but he did not know what exactly. The ignorance was eating him from the inside out, as well as the fact that he could've helped her. The fact he could still be of some help – but how? The more time passed, the fewer chances he had to come to her aid.
And yet... he knew he was exaggerating. It took him so much to convince himself.
All this strain took a toll. Although not tired physically, his mind was exhausted beyond measure. Whatever news the tomorrow held, he would skip to them through some much-needed sleep.
He prepared, whatever had to be done in the bathroom, and reached his cold bed. Not much was left to think about, and as incoherent whispers overtook his mind, he found himself falling asleep. And then, in what seemed like a blink later, he woke up – well-rested.
In the bliss of hazy consciousness, he forgot his worries, he forgot fear and life, and he found a reason to smile.
But things couldn't work that way. His brain soon turned on, like a buzzing machine, and overwhelmed him with the worries, fear and life. Pushed all the information, all the memories underneath his closed eyes. It wasn't that he didn't want to see them – he did not want them to happen in the first place.
He dug his face into the pillow. A faint groan escaped him, involuntarily. The very next moment, he jumped to his feet, ready to tackle the haunting possibilities.
He acknowledged the time of the day. Dawn had escaped him by mere minutes. Light was abundant – it crawled inside of his room, crept up the carpet, bits of it reaching his bed and its messy sheets.
He did not oversleep, as expected. With that on his mind, he checked his phone for anything new – and revealed nothing. Perhaps some men of the Squadra were chatting on the laptop, which he did not check. If anything important had occurred, he would be informed over the phone. That was his mindset.
Therefore, if nothing had happened so far, he was obligated to take action. At last, it was justified.
However, not many people were awake at this time, and he had no way of waking his team. He ought to wait if he wanted to gather the Squadra.
He had to kill time, then. Sadly, sleep was no longer an option. With so much free time, he could check the correspondence on the laptop. He turned it on, and while the system was starting up, he went to grab his toothbrush.
Once back from the bathroom, he threw himself on the chair. The poor thing creaked, the sound much like an agonizing scrape on his eardrums. He clenched his teeth, threw away the setback, and opened the chatroom. Oddly enough, there were no new messages after Melone's old rant about... Risotto didn't want to reread it.
And oddly enough, Ghiaccio was online. As soon as Risotto noticed that, his teammate began typing.
Good morning, boss.
Risotto parked the toothbrush in his mouth and typed back, Good morning.
Ghiaccio: Any news concerning (Y/N)?
Risotto: Nothing.
Ghiaccio: She hasn't contacted anyone?
Risotto: No.
Ghiaccio: That doesn't make any sense though?!
Risotto: I know.
Ghiaccio: She's always doing something with her phone and now out of all times she can't answer it?!
Risotto narrowed his eyes at the statement. What do you mean?
Ghiaccio: Whenever we go on a mission, she's glued to it. Staring at it like she's expecting the messiah. All the time. Now, somehow, she can't reach it. The fuck happened? Did she lose it?
This was confusing. Risotto had never seen (Y/N) linger on her phone as much as Ghiaccio highlighted it. When with Risotto, why would she not be on the phone? The reason why... the possible reason made his heart contort.
Even so, she would've arrived to collect her pay yesterday. It's abnormal of her to be unavailable for such a long period, Risotto reasoned.
It took Ghiaccio some time before he'd start typing again. OK. Basically, she disappeared.
Risotto: Most likely. I've intended to have you gathered in the headquarters as soon the team is awake.
Ghiaccio: OK.
On both sides, a pause arrived. Risotto knew the cause of his – a numb knot spawned in his chest. He took the moment to acknowledge it, merely sigh, and greet it so. In that solemn situation, he tested out the limits this invisible cord wrapped him in, and revealed that, by all means, he ached. One deep breath was enough to release a string of pain through his heart.
All of a sudden, a new message garnered his attention. He made sure to steady his lungs.
I have no idea what happened. I haven't spoken to her in a while, and it's probably the same with everyone else. I'm sure that the others would've told you in case they knew anything relevant. That being said, I hope (Y/N) is alive.
How blunt. As if Risotto hadn't been aware of that already. He replied with a short, Me too.
But there was some warmth in Ghiaccio's statement. It defied the usual chill of his personality. Risotto did not miss it, and yet... could not reciprocate it.
I should get going, he added, for he had to, in all sincerity. The toothpaste in his mouth was starting to bite on his tongue, and the sensation wasn't pleasant in the least.
However, standing up proved to be an unpleasant act as well. The tinge in his heart rose, as the knot tightened. He was obligated to carry it, to the bathroom, where he spat the paste and finished brushing his teeth, then to the window, where he stumbled to refresh his head.
No matter the cold air, he poked his head outside, arms resting on the window's frame. He was met with scarce life scattered in the grey.
And what happened there? What would be the commotion that sparked Risotto's interest? Some people crossed the street – a car hadn't stopped early enough, so the woman on the zebra jumped and latched onto her companion's arm. It was comical, to an extent, and he was reminded of a similar event.
Per se, going on missions with (Y/N) was something Risotto broadly avoided. Reasons were numerous. The last time they had gone to one, their particular set of abilities was necessitated for the kill – so he had no choice but to do it with her. Their target was a dangerous stand user, but as expected, that presented no problem for the duo. That's not to say they had no struggles. The fight left some wounds, but it was nothing too bad. Victory was achieved and that mattered.
Relaxed as he was in that moment, Risotto lifted his hands in a triumphal pose. Meters in front of him, the bloodied corpse laid as a sure trophy to their success. Apparently, the success was so great that (Y/N) had to hug him – and... well, he froze. In every sense.
It was a misunderstanding, she explained later, because of the way his hands were positioned, the situation, the relief she felt, and whatnot. But Risotto was left with an unplanned memory of an embrace, although it was very short and very awkward.
And this unplanned memory now resurfaced completely out of the blue. What once gave him a sincere smile, now locked his lips into a rigid line. Not much could be felt. He continued observing the streets.
Lazy cars passed underneath him, and lazy eyes watched them. Pigeons hopped about the pavement, hastier than many of the few people outside in this monotone morning. Someone found it adequate to yell at a reckless driver, and the driver yelled back. All in all, a very peaceful, monotone morning. Nothing that would unsettle Risotto, far from that.
He lived through the calm, through the storm, and now settled with their aftermath. The morning was largely as quiet as his tired mind, and he relished in this mutual peace. He prepared himself, with deep breaths, to face whatever this nauseating day had to offer.
But things needn't be as dark. He didn't have to look down at the dirty road. He could've stared at the clear rooftops, the bleached skies. There, the white was burning. The Sun had its rays sprawled equally over the clouds, and they were quite painful for Risotto to watch. The heavens were simply that bright – overwhelmingly so, for even a peculiar thought crossed his mind: could they be hiding her?
His eyes widened and he quickly looked away, scoffing at his stray assumption. What an enigma – why was he so certain in that delusional idea? On a subconscious level, where his intuition too hollered, but logic scolded. Interesting. He abandoned the window and its view, and smiled in bitter intrigue.
Not much time was killed, he knew. So he made himself breakfast, a sandwich with whatever he had in the fridge. There wasn't much else he could do afterwards except idle, and think, all over again, of everything and nothing. He was consuming time with prospects and reflections.
Little by little, the minutes accumulated into hours. Noises of the day rose, and so did Risotto. He informed the Squadra that action must be taken. It did not take much for them to reassemble at the headquarters, and Risotto, once again, arrived first, and luckily, he did not wait much.
With everyone gathered, tension was high. Risotto walked around, unusually nervous himself, with a hand on his chin. And he assured, beginning as he had planned over and over again back home, "There is a high probability that (Y/N)'s disappearance is a false alarm, for she has a bustling private life. Therefore, I advise you not to panic, even in case we do uncover something bad. We need to stay calm." By that, he mostly meant Pesci.
"However, the fact remains nothing like this has ever happened. (Y/N) has no record of such odd behavior, making her disappearance even more concerning. We should backtrace her possible intentions and from there, start investigating."
Risotto took a deep breath. He knew her intentions, but he wanted to hear someone deny them.
"Let's start from the last time we collectively saw her, the meeting –"
"Which meeting?" Pesci seemed confused, which made Prosciutto grumble.
"When we discussed the boss," his older brother explained curtly. Pesci let out an "oh".
With that over, Risotto continued. "So, has anyone seen her afterwards, or spoken to her?"
Only a few heads were shaken. The remainder resorted to silence. Risotto's eyes narrowed at the sight. Judging by the situation, he was the one who had last seen her.
The situation was a short one, nothing special. She stayed behind after the said meeting. Sat for a couple of moments, a blank stare ahead, missing Risotto by a couple of inches. He sat in front of her, on the sofa adjacent to hers, thereby near. He easily caught the newfound fire stirring up in her eyes.
"This is insane," was all she said.
Tilting his head in confusion, Risotto couldn't quite understand the meaning behind her statement. (Y/N) didn't really voice her opinion throughout the meeting, but she seemed to have agreed with their final decision: to go after the boss. "We've already established that the idea is insane," he said, his connotation slightly inquisitive.
"No, no, I'm not talking about us going after the boss. I'm talking about him, exactly him," she explained while flailing her hands a little. This amused Risotto.
"We've already established that he's horrible as well," he continued.
"Not in the sense we all talked about! This isn't about money, I couldn't care less about that. I don't care if I'm paid a couple of thousand lira less. I live in the lap of luxury anyway, we all do, more or less. But, boss, he is degrading us. Humiliating us!"
This was something Ghiaccio had mentioned, but Risotto didn't interrupt her. He was fazed by her ferocity.
"And I won't let our superior treat us like scum. Because that's clearly what we are to him: scum. While other sections of the Famiglia thrive, we're left with what? A broken TV," she pointed at the said object, "and absolutely humiliating treatment. Despite us being oh so important to him and oh so cherished in the Famiglia. I won't let him do that. We can't let him have his way. For all I know, we can easily kill him. Right? There is a reason why he's so elusive, he must be a weakling. If not a weakling, then a pathetic loner. Doesn't matter. But once we find him, he won't stand a chance! He'll die. We will kill him. We have to."
She caught a breather, and Risotto used that to speak up. There was so much he wanted to say after this rant.
"First of all, breathe a little, (Y/N)," he told her, making her let out an airy laugh.
"I've hardly ever seen you this riled up. I assume there's a personal motivation that fuels the animosity."
"That's true," she confirmed.
"In that case, take care. You cannot allow emotions to control you."
She nodded, and Risotto continued. "Second of all, you are correct. Everything you've said is true. This is why we will go after him once we gather the necessary information. As you said, he won't stand a chance. I wouldn't agree with the team's intentions if it were impossible."
(Y/N) probably tried not to show it, but she was relieved, and Risotto noticed it. Her shoulders relaxed, as well as her once stern expression.
"Third of all, why?"
"Why what?" There, even her tone softened.
"Why did you say all of this? We've already discussed that in the meeting."
She hesitated on what to say. Indeed, even as she spoke, she carefully picked her upcoming words, her eyes bolting to the ceiling as she figured. "You've already guessed that there is a... personal motivation, as you called it, present. But... I wanted to make sure you'd.... well, do it."
Risotto's brows furrowed a bit. "Agree with the plan? I've already done so."
"Don't misunderstand me," she began, quick to defend herself, "you just didn't seem too... eager about it. I wanted to make sure you were convinced... and convince you, too."
Bold words coming from (Y/N), she hadn't said anything during the meeting. But Risotto was unpleasantly surprised to find out that (Y/N) thought he was hesitant to comply. He would do anything for his team, he truly would. He cared vastly about them, and even if the idea to kill the boss was immaturely impossible, he would consider it. He would, no doubt about it. It would be right to say her assumption struck the wrong chord.
He decided not to justify himself, although he wanted to, in order to be seen as a better person in her eyes, to brag about his willingness to help the team – it truly was tempting. But he swallowed his pride and told her, "A plan like that ought to be approached with caution, and as it concerns all of us, it is something that we all should carefully review, give our opinion about, and collectively agree on. And as you've seen by some people's behavior earlier, they're excessively enthusiastic about it. Some sense had to be delivered."
(Y/N) nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry if I offended you."
Did he show it? He shouldn't have. "You haven't, not in the least. Would that be all?"
She nodded again. Good, then. Risotto found it inappropriate to ask her about her troubles, although she seemed to have been somewhat... disturbed. If she needed his support, advice, or anything, she would've asked, he believed. So he let her be, more out of shame than out of intrusiveness.
She stood up and without saying anything at all, headed towards the exit. This astounded Risotto, as well as the odd sight – she clenched her fists.
"Don't."
She turned around, perplexed by his demand. He was perplexed too, without a doubt. He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.
"Don't do anything on your own. It's too dangerous," he warned.
"Sure," she dismissed him with a quick reply and continued walking away. No, no, she wouldn'td do that –
"(Y/N)," he called out, and she turned around, once again. They both heard fear in Risotto's voice.
"I mean it. Don't do anything stupid."
(Y/N) was clearly shocked. Wide eyes almost went shut, as a loving face took over. "Oh, don't worry. Have I ever?"
She hadn't, of course. Risotto forced a smile as well. Lingering on the doorstep, she seemed as if she wanted to say something – at least that's what Risotto's memory told. Then she left, no goodbyes whatsoever.
Her bright smile was engraved in his reminiscence. The more he thought of it, the more his own expression darkened in the present.
"If that's so, then I'm certain (Y/N) went after the boss," he finally stated to his team.
"She what? No way," Illuso was quick to disagree.
"After the meeting, she approached me and hinted that she would go after him on her own. I warned her against it, and she seemed to have obeyed."
Melone... had an addition to the conversation. "She didn't listen, huh... oh, (Y/N), (Y/N)..."
"Quit interrupting him!" Ghiaccio yelled.
"Too much time has passed for us to blame this on a mishap. We must find her before it's too late," Risotto proclaimed, and the hitman team agreed.
Nobody knew where she lived, except for Risotto. If the situation were any different, he was sure he'd get ridiculed for that. Or at least, indirectly teased, in whispers and chuckles. He just so happened to have once walked her home – and although she had a stand of her own and could easily defend herself, she accepted his company. Something Risotto was now (and back then) extremely grateful for.
The search began with him having a head start. He went to her home, as he had intended. The others went to local cafes, inspected the area, some resorted to finding clues on the web. To conclude, the collective worked hard on finding her.
It didn't matter who hit the jackpot, Risotto thought. She needed to be found.
Formaggio and Illuso came with him, and the two chatted all the way. (Y/N) lived in the most ordinary building on the streets; the same stoic, gray type that framed all alleys. As they walked down those dull roads, they encountered a repetitive scenery. But Risotto remembered which building was hers – he would recognize it for sure. The door was...
"Boss?"
Risotto's line of thoughts was broken with Illuso's inquiry. "Yes?"
"I'm unsure if this is inappropriate of me to ask, but I wanted to know 'cuz it seemed real fishy. Is there something going on between you and (Y/N)?"
Luckily, Risotto's ironic smile was not seen.
"What?! That's very inappropriate, and you know that! Where's your heart, man? The fuck," Formaggio immediately stood in Risotto's defense.
"No, Formaggio, it's alright," Risotto sincerely spoke, and responded, looking back to the two men with a cold glare, "and Illuso, to answer your question, no."
"Mhm. I see, sorry," Illuso replied to that. Formaggio's grumble was heard as well.
Their boss moved on in silence. He had more important business to attend to. Because just around the corner was (Y/N)'s residence. That is, if he remembered correctly.
They turned, and Risotto recognized the deep crimson entrance of her building. His heart leaped. They were on the right path after all. He walked on, approached the door, and checked the tiny nameplates on the wall. Among them, he searched for (L/N)... and found her almost at the very bottom, meaning she lived on the top floor.
Naturally, he pressed the button next to her name, just in case. He didn't know what he was expecting, for he got no response from the intercom.
Since they had no other way of entering, Risotto used Metallica to mess with the lock. Thus the door was opened and they entered the chilly interior. And to go up, they used the stairs.
He skipped two, even three steps at a time. Illuso and Formaggio followed close behind, hasty as well. Risotto's heartbeat rose as they all spiraled upwards, to her residence. That horrible feeling from yesterday was caving in, once again did his intuition scream bloody murder. All that he had in mind were the worst scenarios.
He had never been optimistic; hope, itself, was something he never resorted to. Similarly, he was never roughly disappointed. But now, what fueled him was utter despair, pushing him closer to the terrifying possibility, driving it into reality –
With a surprisingly sickening atmosphere. A faint stench alienated the air. What a sorry introduction to (Y/N)'s floor.
He really didn't have to hurry at that point, but he kept the frantic pace. Why, he had no idea, but he kept searching for her nameplate on one of the doors, although he knew what would expect him. He was absolutely sure, for such a long period, wasn't he? But all of the dread he tried to hide, now cumulated, and it was too much for him to bear. He was shaking, oh, he sure was, as he looked around, his feet lighter than ever.
Illuso spotted it first. Her pretty name was engraved on the plate. Risotto glanced at it, then towards the lock – Metallica was undoing the mechanism already. A click later, and he could enter doom –
But he did not want to. He froze, his hand floated in the air, and he realized, as his heartbeat ticked the time in his ears: he could not do it. He couldn't make himself cross to the other side.
"Boss?"
The callout brought him back to his senses. He was their leader, through the good and the bad, through the best and the worst. He had to do this, he had no other choice.
His hand landed on the doorknob and he swung it open. Another wave of reek greeted them, thus Risotto's breaths turned painstakingly shallow. As if the smell clawed at his wet eyes, he found himself squinting them, to make out the thick whiff and what else it obscured.
He was moments away from it. The last time he would see (Y/N) in the entirety of his life. He looked around, darted his eyes here and there, and he saw, in between.
All he needed was a single glance, to be reminded he loved. One glance, to see her signaling a hollow heart to him – inked with her guts, spilled and embedded onto the wall with black nails. Intestines that morphed into a crimson profession of undying love. Underneath them laid their deceased owner, a ghastly figure with a gaping void to fill out her stomach – and on her face, eyes bulging at Risotto, pleading for help long impossible, long expired. He wasn't there to save her.
But she? (Y/N) was finally there to warrant her death.
He closed his eyes as if to deny it. Clenched his teeth, as if to grip onto the remainder of his sanity. And as if to distance himself from his men's gags and screams, he walked backwards, blurry gaze shoved into the floor. Never again to see her.
Agony crippled him. His hand landed onto the nearby wall, to prevent himself from falling further into this void – the void that was in her open mouth, her dugout belly, her once beautiful mind. All now black, morose black, that painted his vision, that hid him from his own tears. The mildest consequence of his colossal failure.
And what to reply to that proclamation? To that monstrous statement? A chokehold prevented Risotto from sobbing, let alone screaming back. All that left his trembling lips were ragged breaths, and all that came inside was sickly air, barely enough to fuel his shuddering heart. Salt, too, prickled his tongue, while it arched and got pulled by the rising nausea.
There was so much he could've done to prevent this. This had been preventable, but now he was powerless. Utterly and wholly insignificant in the face of fate.
There was nothing left to do. This was all they were left with. A tragedy and a massive disrespect to (Y/N) – and the dreadful wonderment, just how much she had suffered before succumbing. He could not begin to imagine it, but he knew that his aches, they were nothing. Nothing when compared to what she'd been through in her final moments.
Only one person could be held accountable.
"Boss, there's... a note," Formaggio's thin voice was heard. Risotto could not respond, he barely even heard Formaggio – his head was absent in perturbation. His hand rose, fingertips strumming over the gentle lines of tears. He became aware of his outburst, how vastly it devastated him – and to hold himself together, slowly, his hand hid his mouth. He could not allow himself to fall apart.
Avoidant of the bloodbath, his gaze drifted to Illuso – a man so caught up in terror that he had to sit down and stuff his eyes with the sight so as to convince himself in the cruelty of the present. Then, Risotto's gaze hovered over to Formaggio, to find someone who, much like his boss, had no courage to face it. Ghastly pale was his visage, trapped in bewilderment.
In those two, Risotto saw himself, the devastation was mirrored. And he saw people who needed him, who needed his help. He had to stay strong not only for them, but for his own sake as well. He could not allow this tragedy to tear him apart right at the start, no. He had to calm down. He had to gather himself.
Clarity graced his vision. His hand lowered. (Y/N) would want it that way.
He hardened his heart, as much as the tender muscle allowed. With a wipe or two, his tears were gone, and no new ones would escape. Risotto trod on with sure steps, to find the note Formaggio had gestured to.
Indeed, on the table laid a paper tainted by droplets of her blood. Risotto couldn't bear to touch it, but he leaned in to read.
With no heart to sustain it, the idea is killed, it said, in a mockingly fancy handwriting. It only caused worse spite.
"What... does it say?" Illuso asked, quietly.
Risotto made a rocky sigh before reading it out loud, and he turned around upon hearing Illuso's whisper. "Whoever did this is a monster."
And before he could spit his words of vengeance, Formaggio exclaimed them himself. "We'll find the boss and obliterate him."
Obliterate? But would they? When uttered from another mouth, the idea seemed ridiculous to Risotto. Vengeance was impossible, at least in their current position: zero information and a high possibility of new casualties. This was a mere warning, a mere showcase of the boss' power.
He was flaunting with the lives and deaths of Risotto's teammates. As infuriating as it was, Risotto was powerless against it. He could feel his nerves boil.
"We can't," he spoke, his voice steady as ever. He could almost feel the terrified looks of his teammates as they landed on him. And he would not look back. He kept his focus on the note, stubbornly rereading it.
"The message is clear. With (Y/N), the idea of betrayal should die as well," Risotto elaborated.
Illuso jumped back to his feet, his fists clenched in newfound fervor. "As if we'd let that happen!"
Risotto's eyelids drooped. They had to let it happen.
"Right! (Y/N) didn't die in vain!" His teammate agreed, striking Risotto's nasty spot.
"No. You both know that we're in no position to search after the boss. We know nothing and there's nothing we can do."
Formaggio immediately retorted, "But (Y/N) was clearly on to something! Why do you think she was murdered?! Because she knew something!"
"For a fact I know she didn't, and she was murdered for trying to dig into the boss' identity," Risotto tried to reason.
"So what?! She was alone, we can do it together! We can avenge her!" Formaggio once again attacked, enforcing even more anger into Risotto.
"We can't," he barely spoke through his growing rage.
"But –"
Risotto snapped, "Silence! Do you want others to get slaughtered like her?!"
Formaggio couldn't muster a response. His boss calmed down, luckily, and continued, "I understand your need for justice. We simply cannot afford it right now."
Out of all people, Risotto could wait. The very fact vengeance would arrive someday was enough for him, and he hoped his men understood this.
"Can't believe you're arguing while she's there," Illuso mumbled. He hadn't spoken at all during the conflict, but what he uttered now eternally silenced whatever counterargument was brewing. Risotto, however... he merely hung his head low.
"The way this fucker disrespected her..." Formaggio afforded a peek at the corpse.
But Risotto did not. He swore they would restore her dignity.
The very next day, they attempted to. At her quiet, humble funeral. Overlapping silence crushed all above the sullen coffin. All the tears were long cried, and mutual hatred had long dropped its weights; all that remained was beat-up anguish.
The amount of belittlement before fate was astonishing, for these assassins. To think that death they dealt with so commonly would hurt them all so profoundly.
In the center of it all, stood their leader. Risotto's breakdown upon spotting (Y/N) was the only time his emotions were shown – ever, in fact. As it turned out, they were not seen. Formaggio and Illuso were too occupied with the corpse to even look at Risotto. Afterwards, he returned to his usual, aloof self, as if nothing had happened. Nothing!
Even during the funeral, he had little to say. His teammates' behavior spoke volumes about (Y/N).
Pesci, who was relentlessly crying at its beginning, wailed so much to his brother. Prosciutto didn't try to scold him, or silence him. Risotto listened just as carefully as Prosciutto did, while Pesci explained, "She was so sweet! She always praised me, she... she always... she was always there for me... why do the best people have to go?! Why her?! Why, big bro?!"
Pesci threw himself onto his sibling, his hands gripped and messed with Prosciutto's suit, but he didn't know how to answer. Risotto, listening from a lonesome distance, concluded that there was no reason. Fate rolled the dice and they landed poorly. There was no higher meaning, there was no... nothing.
Destiny was a hollow principle. Questioning it was useless. And so, Risotto came to terms with the tragedy with inhuman ease. Not apathy for sure, rather, a numbness that lulled him into a dream-like state. This funeral, the events leading up to it? They did not feel real. Risotto was just a dissociated bystander thrown into it all.
He observed, waiting for his role to become... potent. To matter in this entire mess. But there was so little he could do! He sat on the cold bench, once again, powerless, just mingling as one of the remnants of the tragedy. They all faded away, slowly – grieving was not their forte. With the first assassins who rose to their feet, Risotto felt an alarming pound in his chest. They couldn't leave without a proper statement coming from him. He was obligated to say something.
"From this moment onward, (Y/N) (L/N) has never existed," his voice boomed in formidable echoes, resonating through his men as they departed. It was the best that way. Sever the severed, he had decided, and cut off the mutilated heartstrings. What was done cannot be undone, he was aware, and although he ached...
Would (Y/N) like to see them in such a state? Grieving, despairing? Certainly not. Then why bother wailing?
He needed to move on. He had no other choice. Everything else would lead to complications. He could not allow emotions to sway his life – or his job.
But he had to deal with them. Eliminating them was impossible, bottling them up was impossible. If he were to cut them, he had to tap in their essence. He needed to end his relationship with (Y/N).
Risotto knew the importance of goodbyes. In psychodrama, for example, he knew the protagonist sometimes had to deal with unresolved relationships from the past, and to resolve it, a farewell would be played out. In the form of dialogue, between the two characters, where the protagonist ought to say what was left unsaid, thus sealing the past.
Risotto had no choice but to reenact this method. Nothing else would effectively, healthily, set him free, as far as he knew.
He was almost excited to walk down the stairs and reach her, and have some time alone with her. He thought of the many things he could've told her, all so vividly different. He could've, yes, he could've told her of the cat he gave milk to – she would've loved hearing about it – or he could've slammed a singular, harsh goodbye, but none of it would serve the purpose. He needed to say the right thing, the perfect thing to mark the farewell.
As his steps slowed, so slowed the pace of his thoughts. He had to stop and ponder, for he attained the grave realization that this was his last moment with her. At least, in some figurative sense, in his mindscape, but she was with him.
And just like always, Risotto would change. His heart was moved, crooked in a stray direction, but certainly moved. He found a flower by her casket, and caressed it with the gentleness she had once taught him.
She had taught him so much – she did not have to. Risotto did not want to learn how to love. But, he did not blame her, not in the least. He was grateful for her very existence in this goddamned world, however short-lasted it proved to be. Where she trod, even her shadow was boldly bright in comparison to the mafia's dark. He didn't know how, but she did not cease to illuminate. Not once, since the day he met her.
What a remarkable person she was. His eyelids fluttered, and he let them fall shut, black enveloping his whole world.
"Sorry," he murmured, although he knew it made no sense. Her body had evidently been in her apartment for a long time, far before her disappearance was noted. The decomposing confirmed it. But he felt the need to tell her that, to apologize, for some reason. Of all things, it was by far the most adequate.
And alongside the apology, a weight was lifted, and Risotto opened his eyes to see bleak existence. Swiftly, he averted his gaze away from the coffin. It was over.
The firm knot in his chest lessened its grip. He knew he was not forgiven. He would never be, and he could live with that, so long vengeance was possible, he established firmly.
Risotto Nero walked into the funeral a free man, and exited it a convict. His confinement – solitary. Walls of hardened sorrow caged him. Stone-cold they were, and stone-cold was him. Had anything truly changed? A free man and a convict, where was the difference, except in the title? For he could live life as if nothing happened, and the very reality was his jail.
Such a solid punishment. To be forced to live obediently. To just walk the streets like yet another passerby, as unimportant as any of them in his own life. In the grand city of Napoli, despite the mafia and his clearly valued position in it, Risotto had never felt smaller. It was no wonder, then, that he slouched his back and paced with a pace of a drunkard.
Everything seemed... saturated. The songs blasting in the cafes, the children playing on the empty roads, the pigeons fluttering their wings loudly once Risotto interrupted their cooing. Those were all ordinary things, but they all stuck to his mind, due to this... dim wonderment.
He couldn't wait to get over with these melancholic sensations. He simply wanted to get home, then get a mission, then go kill. He wanted to be thrown back into the cycle.
And after an eventless day and a dreamless night, he finally got it. He was with the rest of the Squadra, getting accustomed to this faulty cycle they were coming back to. Only (Y/N) was missing. The fact wasn't mentioned, and wouldn't be mentioned, as it appeared. Days tumbled over each other, and there was a development Risotto was glad to perceive.
The head of the Famiglia had a powerful message to send out to Risotto's team – that their heart, the vital organ, was ripped out. By all means, that was false.
Risotto grew to understand that, through the tragedy, the team had changed. It was a subtle difference, probably noticeable only to an eye as keen as his, but it was there. He looked into the men's actions and saw a silent sort of kindness. (Y/N) united them with her absence.
But when delving into the introspective, Risotto, strangely, found no change. It was as if the shocking moment was the worst, everything else... he could get used to. He didn't allow himself to miss her, and he easily distracted himself from her departure. If he'd spot the empty seat on the sofa that once belonged to her, well, he'd simply look away. A tinge of pain would impale his heart, but he got used to that too.
And he knew, time would heal it as well. Time would bring revenge, the sweet justice. But time passed, and what happened? The world revolved, the spring's beginnings unfolded, and the assassins killed all but the one most important target – the boss.
Much like the kindness (Y/N)'s absence enforced, the topic of the boss remained silent. It seemed as if everyone were waiting, just like Risotto, for his mystery to be faintly revealed, mentioned, caught in their everyday occurrences.
But it did not. Risotto's hands were still soaked with the wrong blood. He was itching to scratch the dried gore off of his skin, to scrape this vicious cycle. It was becoming one, wasn't it? What a paradox. The numbness he swore to wear had gotten all tight and unpleasant, his teammates were tired and fed up. Risotto knew he loved to imagine it were the boss he was killing in his few assassinations, and this was where he broke his pledge. For this was when he felt, and when the numbness became bestial wrath.
And he... he disliked that, but he couldn't help it. He could allow these few emotions in those few moments to overwhelm him, at most. At most! Everywhere else he was the same as ever.
However, one day, there was some sort of odd gravity in the team's behavior. Risotto had always been sensitive to social cues and their finesses, so he watched as this regal behavior spread among the Squadra. He could see Pesci's shy gasp, Prosciutto's squint of sapphires, Ghiaccio's involuntary grit and Sorbet's frown. All cascading from each other, as a secret was passed on, never directly spoken, never heard by Risotto.
The avoidance present in their interactions was a native mechanism for Risotto. What would redirect his gaze from that one spot on the sofa, what would always remain silenced, indirectly, barely mentioned? (Y/N). So he put that topic, her, in the current context, the...
The month after her death. One month had already passed. The unsaid secret reached him too.
His eyes scanned the polished floor beneath him, and his thoughts – they were blown out by the intense realization.
He picked on the patterns in the light that was reflected. Some straight, some looped. He tilted his head slightly, and the light moved where he watched, and remained where his gaze stopped. His brain was kindled so.
Now, Risotto was no sentimentalist. First, his job excluded that trait, and second, his character could not sustain it. So he didn't do anything. He had to pretend she hadn't existed, and just like the rest of the Squadra, silently accept it all over again.
It was a minor change to the cycle, not the best, but it happened. A little fact thrown into the seas of existence, rippled the waves with its drop, and it spread, not without consequences.
Although to Risotto it seemed like just another pale day, it would end with a note very vibrant. In his sleep, he was encountered by some scene of nature, where light trespassed the treetops in white streaks. Underneath them snaked a tame road of dirt. And although he visually had no way to locate this spot, he fundamentally knew where he was – Sicily.
Once the realization settled, he turned around, compelled by the gentle breeze. It was the sea that the breeze originated from, the beautiful, wide azure, a remedy to his soul. And before him, all the way to the water, sand like ivory, never too coarse and never too rough.
And the wind, the scent it carried... mewls of nostalgia got to him, and he was melting. He was brought back to his childhood, to the innocent and loving times, and... and that warmth, that came with all that was good, and with... love, indeed, love.
(Y/N). He knew she was the wind, for she gave him all of it. In return...
He could feel her in his grasp. (H/C) locks beneath his chin, her loving smile that he swore to protect; her, simply with him, possible and true. The warmth of her embrace that he felt only once in his damned life, that slipped away, like the breeze all around. He was enveloped in the wind, but the wind did not stay. It sighed along, then left him alone. And just like that, Risotto was stripped of any feeling.
There was unfamiliar heat in his face, and he tried to chase it away. He even closed his eyes, ready for the accursed tears to pool, to drain him of the warmth – but they didn't. He remained frozen as seconds flew past, expecting his heart to split in half. But it didn't.
Why? He had to go after the wind, he thought, so he took a step forward, only one. It was enough for him to realize that he had no feeling in his foot. It was almost as if he was standing on air. The sensation unsettled him.
He waved his hand towards the brush by his side, and did not sense the leaves underneath his fingertips. He retracted it, then, frustrated, shoved it into the bush. Nothing, again. He pulled it out and saw cuts and early blood seeping from them. He did not feel any pain, nor the delicate trickling of that fluid, nor the stinging that should've arrived as his flesh was exposed. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
He stepped backwards by reflex – no, he staggered backwards, then fell. And he would've hit his head quite painfully if it weren't for the fact he couldn't sense it. Such an annoyance, all of this. He rolled on the ground and somehow got back on his feet.
Risotto was static, but did not get to question these circumstances he found himself in. No, as soon as he got back to his feet, he looked and saw that what once was an angelic azure, now grew into a wild indigo. Grew, yes, he saw that right. An atrocious wave rose from Sicily's fine coastline and like a crumbling wall approached Risotto with the sole purpose of killing him.
Run for cover, he thought, and bashed his legs senselessly against the ground. It was futile, naturally – and the waters swallowed him, crushing him that very instance, but allowing him to feel at long last: death.
Risotto woke up, chest pressed against the bed, his heart pounding so violently it actually hurt. He opened his eyes immediately to spite these fantasies, and indeed, he was back in his room, in his bed. He groaned and smacked his face with the both of his hands. What a fucking gross dream.
His next day wasn't half bad. No, well, he almost forgot about the dream since something far more important happened. Donatella Una was dead, and Donatella Una was the boss's alleged lover. Risotto would have to admit he was pleasantly surprised.
But this only triggered a chain of events down which the Squadra descended. One by one, the path was abandoned by the men, as they erred fatally. Risotto was left the last one standing, barely standing.
He had no team to be strong for. All of his sufferings were ignored for one, simple goal: to find and kill the boss, and he was persistent in his cause. Only after could his life continue, and until then – until then, he would do everything and anything in his power to end that one wretched life. Luckily, he was on the right path to do so.
He was led to Sardinia, he was led to a cliff, and he was led to observe an unusual line of events which he chose to interfere in – rightfully so.
The pink-haired man he chose to bother was of the usual sort. Terrified and frail like any other civilian. Risotto would've let go of him if it weren't for one important factor.
His intuition screamed. This time, he would listen. And just like that, indeed, facts came to support it. He spotted the movement of the foot this guy had made, a very specific and deliberate one, to hide the envelope.
"Stand up, move your left leg, and show me," he ordered, lifting a finger to point at him. But he was suspiciously ignored. Risotto didn't have time for this idiocy.
"I told you to stand up! Stand up!"
His furious demand was listened to, and the stranger jumped up with a cowardly screech. He stood on one leg, arms propelled in a defensive manner. But that did not interest Risotto – the envelope was, as it appeared, empty.
Risotto caught a buzzing sound in the distance. The stranger, too, reacted to it. The guy had to be a stand user, for he reacted to... to Aerosmith. Buccellati's team arrived, and this man, a stand user, couldn't be there without the boss' interference. He had to be a person greatly trusted by the boss.
With Buccellati's presence on his mind, Risotto felt inclined to battle him. However, however...
"But there is true fear in your heart," he exclaimed, "you're a walking contradiction!"
His opponent twitched and resorted to uncanny anger. "Shut your trap!" He pointed at Risotto, and Risotto saw that he was even foaming, like a rabid dog. "You're the one who's about to be shaking in your boots!"
He ran towards the assassin – a bad move. Risotto immediately deduced the range of his stand, thus the way to land the kill. He proceeded to have his own stand procreate razors, then needles in his opponent's trap. This didn't faze him one bit, and he ran towards Risotto, trying to land a hit of his own. But all his punches were amiss, and as Risotto avoided them, he reached the edge of the cliff – ideal, he threw himself off the rocks and vanished from his enemy's sight.
The battle began. Dulled rage was a sharp weapon, and he was itching to strike.
And struck he did. Right from the start, he tiptoed at the doorstep of victory. The train of his thoughts was conducted with elegance; he predicted and he predicted right, and the enemy would soon succumb. What occurred in his mind, reflected on reality; his movements were equally as airy and light while he swayed around. He circled around, stopped here and there, took a blow – but dealt far worse ones.
His foot was severed, but he took the best of it. And as expected, his opponent was tricked, and what did that mean? What could that possibly mean? Oh, Risotto knew exactly what it meant, and his heart trembled with delight.
And then? He explained his trick, and watched as his opponent quite literally changed before him, and so did Risotto's opinion on him. The realization snapped in his mind as soon as he saw confidence twisting the man before him. Coupled with his erratic behavior, Risotto rightfully concluded that there were two of them. The first one, just a loyal henchman, but the other one...
"I had just thought you were the boss' most trusted man," he murmured, then pointed at the screaming man. "But you... to think that you..."
Pure glee forced a grin to his face. He couldn't remember the last time he felt wholly happy, to the point he was shivering like a careless boy.
"I can't wait to see what your face will look like once you die," he shouted in elation like no other, he relished in the bloodshed that took place and the agonizing wails of the boss, of that disgusting scum. Risotto would do anything to make this torture last an infinity or more, but he had to restrain himself. He had to do the right thing, finally, he could do it.
"There's nothing else you can do. I've won. I'm going to chop off your head," he exclaimed. "This is the end! Take this!"
At long last, triumph! His hands trembled as he lifted them up and up, and as he took a deep breath, his chest full of life and joy, he sentenced the boss to eternal death, "Metallica!"
And then, all of a sudden, horrifying pains reverberated throughout his body. It was only afterwards that he got aware of the gunshots.
He couldn't even move his hand to feel his wounds. He couldn't even process it. He was dying.
"I was winning..." He whispered in disbelief, denial, dread – for he was outsmarted, and he was beginning to realize how and why, despite the collapsing of his mind. "I would've won... but you had thrown the scalpels at them... boss..."
He fell, and all of his spirits did too. His blurry vision, tiring eyes, were subjected to the Sun's scorching light. He had no strength left to move them.
"I finally... figured it out..." And he wouldn't let it slip away, no. He would end the boss. He was determined now more than ever before, his mind was a mess, but he knew he would do it –
He swung a brisk glance towards this shadowed man who now stood by him, holding up Risotto's foot. He only recognized his arrival due to the absence of the Sun – the silhouette now hid it from Risotto. "I know your identity." Gore dripped from the boss' head as he tilted it slightly. Risotto's time was short, he was painfully aware, and he shortly pleaded,
"Before I die, show me... show me your face."
"I will not allow you to continue this conversation any longer, Risotto Nero," the boss told him, and proceeded to dialogue with a silent partner about his immediate death, his pride, his success, rubbing it in in Risotto's already devastated state. The boss offered an honorable death in exchange for iron in his blood, acting all high and mighty, all abominable in his greatness.
But Risotto would have a say in this noxious dialogue. With the remnants of his mind, he tugged at his vocal cords, the muscles of his punctured throat, to produce a hoarse, barely audible reply. The boss, naturally, did not hear, and he leaned in too close, demanding for a repetition, and hastily, the iron.
"I'm saying... that I won't die alone," he warned.
And somehow, Risotto gathered enough strength to grab the boss' shoulder, and he pulled that monster right against his chest, glaring at him with all the love that got corrupted into hatred.
Risotto announced, "Die!" And death came.
All that he knew, all that he felt, was a brisk fade of consciousness as it paled into light. What came next was inevitable in death: acceptance. He was forgiven at last.
Did it even matter? In reality, Risotto and all he loved, lost.
. . .
I sloppily sketched Risotto one night when I couldn't make myself write, so take that as well :) and have a Bruno sketch, he's always a remedy. And, lastly, I hope you enjoyed this story. It sure was an adventure to write.