Archive of Our Own

Trish Una hadn’t quite felt human since her mother died. For the first few days she felt like nothing but a tangle of grief piloting a body. But this is what loss did to people, so she had heard, and perhaps she might have come back to herself, to what a Trish Una with a normal life might have looked like. 

But now, curled up in a shadowed cabin on a yacht speeding away from Capri, after being handed over to yet another group of strange and intimidating men who seemed to know exactly who they were, Trish felt like a thing. Nobody cared about her save for the value she could bring to them, like a pile of jewels spilling from a urinal onto a dirty bathroom floor. It didn’t matter what she thought, how she felt. Why was she frightened, why was she worried, why was she angry if it didn’t matter?

It suddenly felt unbearably stuffy in the cabin.They wouldn’t be in sight of land for nearly an hour and she wanted to look at the ocean, feel the breeze on her face.  Was she allowed to leave? Was she supposed to ask permission? She glanced out of the little window in the door, but there seemed to be no danger (would she know it if she saw it?). The two oldest men - the capo and the one with the long white hair - were leaning against the railing and conversing, while the younger four seemed to be practicing dance moves to music she couldn’t clearly hear from inside. 

This Trish Una was a scared teenager who owned nothing but her name, the clothes on her back, and a knife hidden in her boot. She wanted to curl up in the corner and hide. But she had been trying to act like she thought another Trish Una might act, one whose father was a mafia boss, one who was a little mean and didn’t feel ashamed, one who wasn’t afraid of anything. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and pushed open the doors. 

She had hoped that she would not be particularly noticed, that she could make at least small movements without scrutiny. But the instant the door began to open, the capo stopped his conversation mid sentence, as he and his intimidating companion turned to silently stare at her. The others had stopped their dancing as well, standing to attention. Six pairs of eyes followed her as she walked steadily to the side of the boat. She leaned lightly on the railing, like she was just enjoying the view, like she was on vacation. There were only the sounds of the wind, the water, and muffled music. Trish counted, slowly, and at 20 came the sound of shuffling footsteps and the murmur of a conversation just too far for her to hear. She quietly sighed in relief as movement resumed around her, and kept her ears open to anything the strangers might say.

“No, Mista, you move your feet like this .”

“Like this ?”

A yelp, and then: “My toe! You probably broke it stomping like that! You motherfucker- ”

At the sound of a punch, Trish was alarmed enough to turn around. The short one and the one with the hat were fighting, snarling, and for a moment, Trish was worried they’d seriously hurt each other. Of course, she’d seen fights, but these were gangsters after all. Maybe they’d murder each other for a misstep. They’d all probably killed people before, so maybe it meant nothing to them.

But then the one with the hat caught the shorter one in a headlock and gave him a noogie - a noogie - and Trish felt relieved, and silly. Of course they wouldn’t kill each other, how could they get anything done if they made a habit out of killing their teammates like that? It was cute, actually...kind of like they were friends. They started doing more dance moves and kicking each other on purpose.

Trish scoffed at their antics and found her scoff matched by another. The tallest one, who had been talking to the capo, was now leaning against the railing a few meters from Trish, wearing headphones. He glanced at the roughhousing boys, rolled his eyes, then looked back to her, shaking his head, with a little smirk Trish couldn’t help but match. This brief moment of camaraderie, of someone treating her like a person, was a precious gift. Her smile lingered, though the man quickly broke the eye contact and his gaze drifted back towards the capo. 

What was his name? They had all introduced themselves on Capri, and it occurred to Trish that she should try to recall them, cement them in her mind, before she forgot (perhaps Trish Una, Mafia Princess, wouldn’t care to remember. But Trish wasn’t very good at being that version of Trish within her own mind). She remembered the man who had smiled with her was called Abbacchio, and repeated his name in her head.

She followed Abbacchio’s gaze towards their capo - Bucciarati. He was looking at the ocean with a steely eyed gaze. Everything about him was severe - the way he talked, his expensive-looking suit, the glossy black hair that waved in the wind without a single flyaway. Trish idly wondered what hairspray he used - but of course, she wasn’t allowed to ask questions, and that thought was a sour reminder of her position here, of their power over her.

What would it be like , she thought, to be a guy like that? To be a capo, with an intimidating team who followed him, would do anything he said. To dress so precisely, to stand so tall. To have real, true, confidence that wasn’t a desperate ruse. He looked like he’d never been afraid in his life. A tendril of envy coiled in her chest. She hated him for it, a little bit. Trish could never be the type to command such respect. 

Looking at the capo suddenly hurt too much, so she turned her gaze back to the dancing boys. She had remembered overhearing Abbacchio earlier muttering something about “the new kid” - so one of them had recently joined. Perhaps he was as shy and uncertain as she was. Trish resolved to figure it out - perhaps if she observed carefully, over their journey, she could tell by their words and actions who was the newest. 

To her mild disappointment, it became obvious almost immediately. Three of them were dancing in sync like they’d done it a thousand times before, and the other was observing carefully. So that was the new kid - the one named Giorno, with the blond barrel curls. What hairspray did he use? Perhaps he was green enough that he’d answer mundane questions like that. 

The boys waved Giorno over and he performed the moves hesitantly but correctly, albeit without any flair. The short one - Narancia - demonstrated the move with exaggeration. Giorno tried again, once more with exact precision. They went back and forth a few more times, Narancia with increasingly flailing limbs, Giorno repeating the moves perfectly but blandly every time. It was really quite funny. Trish liked to dance, and the moves looked fun. She was struck by the urge to run over, to shock them with how well she’s been able to pick it up  just by watching. But it wasn’t her place - she was somewhere above and below them, on a separate plane. She’d just ruin the fun and make a fool of herself. She could easily imagine the awkward stares. 

It became apparent, then, that the phantom sensation of eyes on her was not imaginary. One of the boys was staring at her, the one with the holes on his jacket - Fugo was his name - with whom she’d acted so rudely on Capri. If the situation was anything other than what it was, she’d go apologize, but it would ruin her disguise. It was better to be haughty than to be a coward. Accidentally, she made eye contact with him. His expression wasn’t a glare or a leer, as she’d expected, but...thoughtful. He was wondering something about her and trying to figure her out. Trish hesitated for a moment, torn between the sweet rarity of being acknowledged, and the discomfort of being scrutinized. Then she stuck her nose up and turned away, facing out to the water. 

The air was bracing, and goosebumps appeared on her arm. She resolved to stay there anyway, still as a statue. She did not turn around again.

When the tiniest sliver of land appeared on the horizon, Bucciarati spoke behind her. “We’re approaching land. You should get back into the boat cabin, in case someone’s watching from shore.” The momentary sense of peace they had found on the ship, far from enemies, was gone. 

When the boat docked, Trish was sitting primly on the cabin’s couch, staring at the floor and waiting to be told where to go next in the already-endless parade of unfamiliar vehicles and places.

She stood up when Bucciarati opened the door, his subordinates crowded behind him. He frowned. “Our enemies may already know what you look like. The color of your hair is especially recognizable. It’s a short walk from the boat to the car, but you should be disguised.” Trish looked at him blankly. She’d left her janitor disguise behind on Capri.

There was a silence, and Trish realized that nobody, not even the capo, was quite sure what to do. These guys were supposed to protect her life?

“We could unzip her and carry her in a bag or something?” came a tiny whisper from the crowd.

“Shut up Narancia, she’d panic for sure if we did that!”

Trish wasn’t sure what was more offensive, that they’d even consider putting her in luggage , or that she would somehow be afraid of it, rather than furious.

“Mista, give Trish your hat.” Bucciarati interrupted the whispers. Oh, no. She stared at the one with the hat. She was not wearing that thing. It was hideous, and probably sweaty. Mista looked even more panicked than she was. 

Mista raised a hesitant hand to the brim, but he could take it off, Trish grabbed the grey, threadbare blanket that was folded over the back of the couch, and in one move shook it out, pulled it over her head and wrapped it around her like a shawl. It was musty. She looked at Bucciarati for approval. He nodded. 

She followed him from the boat, up the pier, and his team flocked behind her. She didn’t like how they were all where she couldn’t see them.  She squared her shoulders and walked as if she were on a runway, modeling the latest designer fashion instead of a ratty old blanket meant to hide her away.

When the team entered the safe house, they immediately dispersed, exclaiming at how fancy it was, opening doors and cabinets. She thought about travelling with her mother, exploring hotel rooms and rented summer cottages the same way. Trish wished she could join them. Instead, she flounced up the stairs, scanning the bedrooms until she found the biggest one, with a view out the front. As she entered, she heard footsteps approach her from behind, stopping in the doorway. She whirled around, announcing “This one’s mine.”

It was Bucciarati. The only indication he gave to her assertion was a curt nod. “We’ll be patrolling the area to make sure it’s secure. Stay in here until then.” His tone was polite, but firm.

Trish bristled at the undisguised command. “Remember that you’re not my boss, Mr. Bucciarati! You can’t just order me around!” She tried to make her voice sound assertive. She wouldn’t have been brave enough to try this in front of the whole team, but maybe alone he would concede some tiny sliver of power.

His eyes narrowed only slightly, for half a second, before snapping back to his usual cold expression. “That is correct. I am not your boss. But I am tasked by my boss to ensure your safety, and I will take any necessary action to fulfill that mission, regardless of what your actions may be.”

Trish’s fists clenched with indignation as his threat - a threat! - and her stomach whirled with fear. Before she could sputter out something even more embarrassing, Bucciarati produced a small notepad and pen from some pocket hidden within his suit. He presented them to her with a small, perfunctory flourish. 

“I’ll be sending one of my men to shop for essentials shortly. Write down what you need, and we will do our best to get it for you. Money is no object.” 

As soon as Trish took the notepad and pen, he turned and walked down the stairs without a word, or a wave, or a nod. Trish felt utterly dismissed. She slammed the door. Alone, she investigated the room thoroughly, opening closet doors and desk drawers, trying fruitlessly to evoke some feeling of excitement. The room was nice, but incredibly plain. 

She grumbled to herself as she wrote down her list. The pen was excellent, weighty, the ink running smoothly. She allowed herself to be utterly extravagant, repeating her demands on Capri: Givenchy blush, as if she wore it every day instead of sneaking it out of her mother’s purse on special occasions. On a whim, she added Dior lip gloss as well. She underlined “from France” twice on the line about mineral water, and wondered how much she could get away with scolding whoever Bucciarati sent if they got it wrong. In fact, she kind of hoped that they’d get it wrong. It would taste the same anyway.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Trish hoped it wasn’t Bucciarati. It was a rather annoyed looking Fugo, and Trish gladly matched his expression. She jabbed the list out towards him like she was brandishing a knife. “Make sure you get it right.”  she said imperiously. 

Fugo snorted as he took the list. “I’m not going. We’re sending Narancia, who’s a bit more intelligent than he looks, which means he almost certainly will get it wrong.”

Ok, that was a little funny. Trish just barely managed to hide her smile with a sneer. “If he forgets the handkerchief, or gets one in the wrong color, I’ll just use your shirt again.”

Fugo’s eye twitched. “Nobody said we had to be nice to you, you know.”

He turned even more abruptly than Bucciarati had, and left. If he didn’t hate her before, he probably did now. Good, thought Trish.  It was better to be hated for being a spoiled brat than for being a pathetic coward.

Trish leapt up from her nap when she heard a knock at the door, frantically arranging her hair to look presentable. Narancia must be back from the shopping, which was a relief because Trish was horribly bored. There was nothing to do in the room but sleep and worry. “Took you long enough”, she said as she swung open the door.

Narancia was covered in bandages and soot. Trish gasped, holding out a hand before she could calculate how she was supposed to react. He held up a charred shopping bag. “Um, sorry most of the stuff got burned. I got in a fight and everything got set on fire. By me. But some of it looks kind of ok, so...”

Trish’s jaw dropped. When they had said they’d “guard her with their lives”, she had thought they’d meant it in a cliche, sort of dramatic way. But Narancia was hurt . Just from going shopping. What if whomever he’d fought had found him because he was taking too long to find the stupid French mineral water?

How would she feel if one of them actually did end up dying for her?

She took the paper bag, and straightened up, trying to piece together her demeanor. “Thank you, Narancia,” she said softly. She searched for words that weren’t useless and couldn’t find any. “I’m glad you’re ok,” she said, anyway.

Narancia ran a hand through his hair, looking surprised. “Sure, thanks. Um, I’d better go downstairs now. Bye.” 

Alone again, Trish investigated the bag. The makeup and Vogue Italia had survived, only a little singed. Outside, three of Bucciarati’s men were driving away, presumably having been given some new mission she wasn’t privy to. Would they be attacked like Narancia had been? Trish decided they’d probably be fine. There were three of them, after all.

Trish went back and forth for a while, reading a few pages of the magazine, tossing it on the bed, staring out the window, then returning to the magazine again.  Narancia, Mista, and Bucciarati seemed to be patrolling the house at different intervals. Each time she saw their alert, searching posture, she was uncomfortably reminded of the danger she was in, and she would turn away to read about different people with different lives on glossy and perfumed paper. 

A few hours later, Trish was once again leaning on the windowsill, staring at the alien view from the alien room. She tried to imagine that this was her home; that she was an old woman who had lived a happy life and retired here, with family that would visit her; that this view was familiar and comfortable and every day she would go out and pick grapes without worrying about being kidnapped or killed.

She was snapped back to reality by the sound of squealing tires, dust in the distance: a car approaching. She panicked for a moment, whipping her knife out of her boot, holding it with a shaking fist until the car got just close enough to recognise it as the one Bucciarati’s men had taken. It was moving so quickly that something must have gone wrong. Trish leaned out of the window.

A strange sound came from the front of the house below her - she looked down just in time to see Bucciarati exit the house seemingly through the wall. Trish supposed it made sense that this house had secret passageways, though the idea that some might lead to her room made her nervous.

The car squealed to a stop and its occupants burst out. Fugo was supporting Abbacchio, who was gripping his wrist, blood streaming down his arm. Bucciarati was running towards them. Giorno was cradling something - a human hand. Abbacchio’s hand was off.

Trish’s stomach lurched. He’d lost his hand, his whole hand, his whole life changed forever because he had been ordered to keep her safe. Trish tried to imagine losing a hand, never being able to play piano or guitar again. The pain he must be in…and Trish had been here lounging . She felt useless, powerless.

She gripped the windowsill tightly, and her fingers sunk in. Trish looked down at the sill, recoiling in disgust - the wood must be rotten. She’d been leaning on it all morning. How had she not noticed? The house had seemed nice, but must have been hiding this rottenness underneath. 

Her eyes flicked back up, to see Abbacchio...with both hands. He was holding up his wrist, which was circled with something gold, and twitching the hand attached, grimacing in pain. Had Trish been imagining things? She’d heard of limbs being reattached successfully, but there was no medical equipment that she could see, and she was sure that none of these people were doctors. She had only looked away for a few seconds. She was glad for it, but...how? How? 

The “no questions” mandate had been an annoyance and an insult, but now Trish was furious. She’d certainly have something to say about it to her father, his position as boss of Passione be damned. She resolved to figure out this mystery.

Of course, it was obvious they’d have to leave after this attack. Trish was glad to get out of this house with its hidden passages and rotten wood. When Mista knocked on her door to tell her they were heading out, she already had all of her possessions, few and small, gathered in the paper bag they’d been bought in. She tried to carry it like it was a designer purse, expensive and not charred even a bit.

Nobody bothered to mention to Trish where they were going; it seemed that that information had been disseminated by the time she had left the house. Nevertheless, in the team’s conversations amongst themselves in the car, Trish overheard enough to learn that they’d be taking a train, and their final destination was Venice. She supposed she should be grateful that even though they weren’t supposed to be answering her questions they were at least not actively hiding things from her, but that in and of itself felt almost insulting. They had no issue talking right over her, not even considering what Trish might learn. 

Maybe they thought she was too stupid to pay attention.

Trish tried to calm her bubbling frustration by focusing on the mystery of Abbachio’s hand. He was complaining about the pain of his hand being “zippered” on, and when Trish snuck a glance at his wrist, the thing holding it together did look quite remarkably like a regular zipper, one you might find on any item of clothing, like on Bucciarati’s suit jacket. These zippers must be some incredibly advanced medical technology, then, or perhaps magic - although considering the possibility of magic did make Trish feel childish. 

Either way, it was unnerving that her father’s mafia possessed such powers. On the other hand, it was a relief, that they could heal themselves - and her - if they got badly hurt. Was it technology (if so, how?) or magic (if so, how? )? Certainly, it would be an extremely difficult puzzle to solve. If Trish paid very close attention, perhaps she could figure it out on her own.

Then, at the train station, they entered a tiny room on the back of a turtle.

So it was magic.

Trish would have guessed that finding out that there was magic in the world would have felt wondrous. But things only felt stranger. And more dangerous.

Trish was armed with half a glass of ice chips. Mista and Bucciarati had left to fight, and the rest of the team was dying, magically aging right in front of her. The ice melted far too quickly beneath her hands as she pressed it to Narancia’s cheek. She started making rounds, to cool the others just a bit - Narancia seemed closest to death, but she had been cooling him the most, and she didn’t want the rest to slip away. 

The ice ran out. 

She pressed the refrigerated bottles and cans to them instead - it didn’t seem to be working, but maybe the effect was too subtle to be visible to her. Fights didn’t last long, right? Maybe if she could prolong their lives for just a few seconds - 

Trish was pulled out of the turtle.

They were outside of the train, and there was a man with a fishing rod, and Bucciarati, both of them yelling threats. There was a small golden flying person , and a large blue punching person, and the ground was crushed underneath her hand where she’d braced herself. Nothing made sense.

The man with the fishing rod fell to pieces under Bucciarati’s fists, disappearing into the water before she could fully register that he’d been killed right in front of her. Chunks of flesh, a spray of blood, then ripples in red water. Trish had never seen anyone die before. The strangeness of it made the whole thing seem not quite real.

The wrinkles began to disappear from Bucciarati’s face, and disappear, and disappear. Had he always been so young? Most of the gangsters in his team were obviously teenagers, but Trish hadn’t thought much about Bucciarati’s age, other than “adult”. He couldn’t be older than 25, probably closer to 20. That made him only five or so years older than Trish herself. To be in his position...he must have been around Trish’s age when he joined Passione. Or younger.

Trish tried to imagine herself in five years, and found that she couldn’t. She used to be able to, but now, with her future so uncertain, she couldn’t conjure up an image, an idea of where or who she might be. Or even if she would be alive.

Finding out that Bucciarati was so young made him only a little less intimidating, but it was enough for all of Trish’s questions to spill out of her, one after the other. “Answer me!” she demanded in a moment of courage. For half a second Bucciarati looked shocked. And then...uncertain. The expression sat strangely on him, but it made Trish hopeful. Even one answer, she thought desperately. Please. Just one . 

But he answered none of them.

They were almost to Venice, now. Trish watched carefully as Abbacchio summoned some sort of hologram. She was glad to see Pericolo again, even just his image. She figured he must be a ruthless man, to have lived so long in Passione, but he had been kind to her for the few days they had spent together. They had played chess - she’d managed to win a round, and Pericolo had reacted with delight. He had told her about the places in Italy he liked to visit, and about his little granddaughter. 

This Pericolo hologram was serious, all business, informing them of their next destination. And then Trish watched him pull out the gun. She wanted to stop him, to yell or grab his hand but it was evident that this sequence of events had already happened. She could only watch.

The hologram showed his death in impressive detail.

And then the number of occupants of the room was back to four, with nothing to do but wait.

Trish curled up against the side of the couch, facing the chair Pericolo had been perched on when he died. The gunshot echoed in her ears, his death replayed in her mind, over and over - his calm expression, the gun, the sound, the spatter of blood ...Her father had ordered him to do this. It was one thing, she figured, for him to order Bucciarati’s team to risk their lives to protect her. The danger came from enemies that they could fight and win. But Pericolo had entered this room on purpose to kill himself, just for a little more secrecy. Pericolo, who had lived so long, who had a whole life, a family who would never know why, or how, or for whom he had died.

How could anyone be so callous as to order someone to die? Trish wondered uneasily if her father might be the type of man to kill her if she displeased him. Or even if it would just be convenient. 

Now that she thought about it, it probably would be convenient

She shook the thought out of her head. If she thought that way, she really would begin to panic. So her mind returned to thinking about Pericolo.

The photograph burning in his hand, the gunshot, the blood...the tone of his voice, the timer on his forehead, the blood...standing on the chair, the lighter in his hand, the ringing shot, the blood, the -

“Hey.” Abbachio was suddenly leaning over her, blocking Trish’s view of the chair. His face was serious, brows furrowed.  “You’ve never seen someone die before today, have you?”

Trish shook her head no. She’d been in school when she got the call that her mother had died. Abbacchio sat down on the couch next to her and now that her view was not obstructed, her eyes seemed to slide of their own accord back to the little chair. Had the blood spattered across the walls, the floor, the couch where she was sitting? Where had his body gone after he died, after he died, after he d-

“ Hey. Look at me.” his voice was stern, but he didn’t seem angry. Trish’s eyes flicked to his. “Thinking about it isn’t going to help anything. It’s done. Focus on what your senses tell you right now.” Trish scowled, but didn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears . So she gave his suggestion a try. 

The sight of the pictures on the wall, Bucciarati lost in thought on the armchair. The sound of Narancia’s quiet snores. The softness of the pillow Trish hadn’t even realized she was clutching to her chest. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, feeling the air cycle through her.

She glanced back at the chair. She still knew Pericolo had died there, but it was just a chair now. One she could sit in or casually hang a sweater on. Abbacchio’s trick had worked surprisingly well.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah.” 

Abbacchio nodded and relaxed back on the couch. His gaze drifted away towards Bucciarati and Trish supposed their short interaction was over, but after a minute or so he spoke again.

“You should keep in mind that it doesn’t always work. Especially if...it’s someone you knew. But it can help, when you keep going back.” his voice was quiet, less gruff than usual. 

Trish had seen them all as hardened mobsters, unmoved entirely by death and violence. She had imagined herself the only one weak enough to be affected by such things. It was strange to think of any of them, let alone the intimidating Abbacchio, trapped in the type of spiral she’d been in. “Do you do it, too?” she asked shyly. “Go back?”

Abbacchio turned to her in surprise. Trish was sure she’d offended him, asked too invasive a question - so rude, when he’d been so kind to her. Abbacchio let out a little huff, something she couldn’t tell was a scoff or a laugh. But then he smiled a sad little sideways grin as he turned away again. 

“Yeah, sometimes.” 

They were in Venice.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Trish asked the floor she was huddled on. She didn’t expect to get an answer, least of all from Bucciarati. 

But here, at the last moment, he gave her one. “Here’s what I think,” he said, and told her that her father would take away her name and her face and she would live somewhere safe, but away from all she knew or loved. He said it as if it were a comfort that the very last things Trish owned would be stolen from her. There would be nothing left. 

She’d gotten the shape of her eyes from her mother. Maybe if she begged, if her father ended up liking her enough, he’d let her keep them. 

Bucciarati held out his hand.

The elevator was almost to the top. There was nowhere to run here, nowhere to hide. Trish tried to calm herself, focusing on her senses. The elevator arrow, creeping forward. The quiet whir. The warmth of Bucciarati’s hand. The -

Trish couldn’t move. She felt underwater, asleep. There was terrible pain, but she couldn’t pinpoint where. Someone was screaming her name. She tried to call out to someone - to her mother, but she was dead. To her father, but she never knew him. To her friends from school, but she’d never see them again. To - to -

“ Bucciarati!- ” Trish tried to scream, but it came out as a whisper. She lurched forward, sitting up, and all the pain converged onto her left wrist, a terrible ache. She held it up - it was ringed with a golden zipper, like Abbachio’s wrist had been when he -

Oh. 

Trish clapped her right hand over her mouth, swallowing bile. She looked around frantically; she was back in the turtle room. But hadn’t they gone to meet her father? No other enemy could possibly have found them, he’d made sure, he’d made sure -

Oh.

The facts fell into her mind easily. Her father had tried to kill her. Bucciarati had saved her, betraying the boss in the process. She started to hyperventilate. 

The last thing she could remember was being in the elevator; If her father had succeeded in killing her, she’d never have known. Her life would just be...over. Her father hadn’t even bothered to meet her before killing her, hadn’t even been the slightest bit curious about what she was like. Trish twisted her face. How stupid was she, to wonder if he’d like her? It hadn’t mattered at all what kind of person she was; it never had, it never did, it never would. She was an inconvenient thing, to be gotten rid of.

Trish balled her left hand into a fist. It hurt. She stood up and punched the wall, and it gave way, soft and elastic. Some defensive mechanism of the turtle’s room, perhaps? But punching it still hurt, so she did it again, harder, hissing between her teeth. 

She whirled around and paced, faster and faster. How much time had she lost? What would it have been like to feel the pain of losing her hand, to see it detached from her body? She was grateful she didn’t remember, but also felt like something had been taken from her, again, without her permission. Her memories, her pain, terrible, but hers . She ran her fingers around the zipper, over and over. If Bucciarati died, would the zipper disappear, her whole hand falling off with it? It was good that the zipper had no pull, because for a wild moment, Trish felt a frightening urge to rip it off, to watch her hand tumble away, to scream and bleed until all of her fear and rage and grief poured out red.

It occurred to her then that the room was empty. She was alone. If there had been a battle, somebody could have died. Bucciarati’s team...what had happened to them? She peered up through the top of the turtle, straining her ears to listen. White cloth, and the murmur of calm conversation. Even so, it would be safer to stay behind in the turtle, just in case.

But she couldn’t stand being in there a second longer. She had to know what was going on. Against the screaming of her better judgement, Trish cautiously lifted up an arm and found herself underneath a table, the fragrance of garlic and wine in the air. A restaurant? So things were probably calm. Trish stayed curled up beneath the table, trying to even out her breathing.

Giorno was saying something, and Trish was surprised at how relieved she was that he was alive, for how little she knew him. She listened in on the conversation, feeling waves of relief with each new voice. Mista ( alive ) said something about Fugo ( alive ) staying behind. Bucciarati ( alive ) talked next, and Abbacchio ( alive ) responded. They were discussing finding her father’s identity, and Trish felt thrills of fear and purpose, struggling with each other.

Narancia ( alive ) spoke next - he was pleading to keep Trish out of things, to keep her safe. Trish wanted to feel offended by this, but the worst thing was the insidious instinct within her that said yes, yes, keep me safe, keep me far away . Another instinct responded, closer to her ear: No. 

No.

How dare he do what he did?

Find out where you come from and defeat him.

No matter what!

“Sardegna”, Trish told them after she’d emerged from her hiding place. That was their next destination. She was glad she had something they could use, glad to be part of the effort.

Bucciarati’s tone was uncharacteristically gentle when he warned her that they’d have to kill her father, as if she couldn’t figure that out. Of course they would, he was trying to kill them, tried to kill her. Why would Trish care about that at all? She recalled how Bucciarati had reassured her about her father giving her a kind life. So he can be wrong about things .

For once, Trish felt on slightly equal footing with the rest of them. Like she was more than just cargo. They looked her in the eye, listened to her words, nodded at her responses. She found herself feeling bold - now that they were free of the boss’s orders, maybe she could ask them about the things she’d been seeing. She could stop being kept in the dark. She could -

Narancia was shouting something. Before Trish could even fully turn to see what was happening, a hand grabbed her head and shoved her roughly down, and suddenly she was alone again, in the empty room. 

She had known there would be enemies, but so soon? This was relentless. It was going to be relentless. She had just marked them all as alive, and now any number of them could be killed by this new enemy, and again, and again. Any number, including all. And if they all died...the enemy would come for her. 

Beforehand it had been bad enough, being worried about being kidnapped by nefarious figures that wanted to learn more about her father’s identity. She’d be useful to them, enough to keep alive. But her father - no, the boss - wanted her dead. They knew about the turtle. If they defeated all of Bucciarati’s team, they’d come in and kill her and there’d be nothing she could do about it. 

Trish’s mouth felt dry. She began to search the room methodically for some place to hide, even though she knew it was useless, just for something to do. Any possible place - the closet, the cabinet, under the table - was laughably pathetic. They’d find her in seconds. She might as well die in the middle of the room, on her feet.

Time passed. She paced for a bit, went to the closet, and sobbed. She paced for a bit, went back into the closet, and screamed into a pillow. She had just gotten back to pacing when someone appeared in the room. Before she could think, Trish yelped and grabbed her knife, brandishing it at the newcomer while pressing herself against the wall. 

It was Giorno, alive. The only signs of struggle were a few spots of blood on his chest and jaw. He didn’t look worried or upset. He didn’t even react to the fact that Trish was holding a knife at him.

“Bucciarati sent me to tell you that you’re safe to leave the turtle. We’ve stolen a plane and I’ve personally confirmed that it’s safe. We’re about to take off.” He held his hands behind his back, voice measured as always.

“Last time I checked, we weren’t near any planes,” Trish said slowly. “And it sounded like we were being attacked.”

“Yes. We defeated the enemy and took a boat to the airport.”

“After you defeated the enemy.” 

“Yes.” Giorno furrowed his brows slightly, confused at her tone.

“How long ago,” Trish asked through gritted teeth, “did you defeat the enemy?”

“Roughly twenty minutes ago. It was not a problem.”

“Not a problem ? The last thing I knew, Narancia was screaming about an attack and someone shoved me in here! I’ve been spending the past ‘roughly twenty minutes ago’ having no idea what was going on except that we were being attacked!” Trish’s volume rose as she spoke, stopping just short of yelling. She raised a shaking finger at him. “Do not ever do that to me again.” 

Giorno’s eyes widened. Slightly. “I apologize. It...didn’t occur to us.” None of them had thought about it. Not a single one. 

“Bet it would have occurred to you if it was Mista,” she snapped. “Or Narancia. Or anyone else but me!” 

Giorno seemed to consider this carefully, but didn’t confirm or deny it. “I apologize for the delay.” His tone was infuriatingly, blandly polite, as if he was apologizing for her being on hold or something.

Trish saw red. “Don’t you get it?” she cried. “I never know when or if you’re going to come back! If you guys ever lose, they’ll come after me next. Every time you leave me here alone, I’m waiting to fucking die !”

Giorno’s went pale, raising a hand to his mouth. 

Trish was glad that she seemed to have finally gotten through to him. But with the change in Giorno’s demeanor, all of the fight went out of her. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Look, I know that this is life and death. And compared to you guys I’m weak, and small, and...useless. But that doesn’t mean it’s ok.”

Giorno looked horrified. “Trish...you’re completely right. I wasn’t even considering you. I can get very focused on my own goals, but...I don’t ever want to be the kind of person who does that sort of thing. Please forgive me.” He bowed his head, closing his eyes.

Trish hadn’t seen Giorno show so much as a hint of emotion until now. His face had always been a mask of stone. Had it slipped because the rest of the team wasn’t around? Trish reminded herself that they were the same age. He seemed so upset that Trish stepped towards him and haltingly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Giorno, it’s ok. I forgive you. I know you won’t do it again.” It was the truth - she wasn’t sure what had affected him so greatly, but she could tell that this wasn’t an act to placate her.

“Thank you, Trish.” His voice sounded so small. So small that Trish impulsively wrapped him in a hug. After a brief pause, Giorno gently hugged her back. He smelled like roses, real roses, in the way that perfume couldn’t quite replicate. Trish realized that she hadn’t been hugged since the day of her mother’s funeral. 

She stepped back, letting herself smile a little. “I’ve got to get out of this room.”

Giorno gave a halting smile back. “The plane has windows.”

She knew what he meant.

When the plane landed, Trish and Abbacchio went into the turtle to help heal the others while Bucciarati ferried them to a less exposed location than the beach.

The room was as grim as it had ever been, the three boys lying pale and corpse-like. Their wounds had been zippered shut, but the room still smelled like blood. Once they were healed enough to ask questions, Trish started to fill them in on what had happened on the plane.

“Kid’s got a Stand. Guess it makes sense,” Abbacchio said, gesturing to her with something that nearly sounded like pride.

Giorno didn't look surprised, but Trish blushed at Mista and Narancia’s twin exclamations of awe. 

“Awesome! What does it do?”

“Can we see it? Bet it’s cool!” 

“Don’t pressure her!” Abbacchio rebuked them, but Spice Girl was already out. She greeted the room with a cheery  “Hello, boys!” then punched the coffee table, which sunk under her fist until it touched the floor. When she let go, everything that had been on the table went flying, scattering pens and coasters and empty glasses, the room thrown into chaos as everyone dodged the debris.

“Oops,” said Trish. “This is Spice Girl.”

“It’s very nice to meet you. Trish has told me all about you,” Spice Girl told the room.

“No I didn’t ,” groaned Trish.

“Holy shit, your Stand can talk!” Narancia whistled, impressed.

“Hey, Sex Pistols can talk!” Mista pouted.

Throughout all of the interruptions, exclamations, and questions, Trish eventually got the whole story out. Everyone looked impressed, and Trish was in a good enough mood that she allowed herself to believe in the possibility that they weren’t just humoring her.

She could fight now. They’d all survived. Maybe things would end up ok.

Trish had experienced death before, but it had always been achingly slow. Time enough to say goodbye, again and again. It had taken her grandmother years to die. It had taken her mother months. 

Abbacchio died in an instant. Trish had last seen him, alive and well, less than half an hour before she’d learned of his death.

Trish had suddenly been nervous to see the face of her father, as they all had approached the stretch of sand where he had once been. She knew the ways she looked like her mother’s family and the ways she didn’t. Would she hate those other parts of her face that didn’t match theirs - the shape of her nose, the jut of her chin - if they turned out to be his? 

She had been nearly taken by an urge to ask Abbacchio if he could use his miraculous Stand to replay her mother, too, just for a moment. If Trish’s last three-dimensional view of her could be as she had been in that faded photograph, eyes sparkling with sun and youth and life.

Before she could talk herself into or out of asking, Bucciarati had told her to get into the turtle. There could be enemies close by. He was right, and she had, distracted, thinking about her mother. She hadn’t looked back.

Trish was flipping through the long-since finished issue of Vogue Italia when she heard the scream from outside, so muffled she might have not have noticed, if not for the pain of it. There was only one type of scream that sounded like that. Someone is dead. Before she could think, Trish was on her feet. Who is it? Are the rest still fighting? Who is it? Can Giorno heal them? Who is it?

Giorno and Bucciarati were suddenly standing in the turtle, looking more shaken than she had ever seen them. Abbacchio? Mista? Narancia?  All possibilities were unthinkable.Trish looked wildly through the curved window in the top of the room, eyes darting in the hopes to see a glimpse of a vivid blue and red sweater, a bright orange skirt, or a lock of silver-white hair, but she could only see a distorted sky. She looked back to the room, to ask the awful question, and realized she had been wrong, horribly so.

The person who had died was Bucciarati. 

She could have sworn he had been standing with Giorno just a second ago, but he was slumped on the couch, too grey to be alive, blood trickling from his mouth. No . Trish stepped towards him, reaching out - before she could say anything Giorno spoke.

“Abbacchio.” His jaw was clenched, eyes red. “Dead”.

Trish turned to what she was sure had been Bucciarati’s corpse - but he was sitting up, gesturing to Giorno, to the stone he was holding. She must have been seeing things, a trick of the light. The relief that washed over her was far overshadowed by the grief.

Abbacchio was dead.

Abbacchio, the first one of them to look her in the eyes. Abbacchio, who had taught her how to bring herself back to the present. Who’d seemed to believe in her, even just a little bit.

She cast her mind back to when she had last seen him, there on the cliffs of Cala di Volpe. She hadn’t given him one last look. He hadn’t waved goodbye. He didn’t know he was going to die, and was looking ahead, probably, or at Bucciarati, who was walking just in front of him. And Trish hadn’t been looking at him at all.

Trish curled up in a chair while Giorno and Bucciarati found a new destination: Rome. No answers, just more questions. Giorno had quietly nestled into a corner and gone to sleep.  Bucciarati was staring at nothing. Trish went to leave too, to get some fresh air, but suddenly found she didn’t want to. In her mind’s eye, Abbacchio still had to be just outside. She needed the dust to settle before she left and his death was made real by his absence.

The stone with the imprint of her father’s face was laying casually on the coffee table, like a magazine. Trish picked it up. A face, certainly, but she couldn’t read any expression, anything familiar. Inverted as it was, pressed into grey rock, it looked like...nothing.

Abbacchio had died for this. 

Her grip tightened, the face deforming under her fingers. A wild impulse took her then, to summon Spice Girl and smash the rock into putty. The pink outline of her Stand’s fists shimmered just outside her own. 

Yes , Spice Girl snarled into her ear with vicious enthusiasm.

Trish gingerly placed the rock down on the table. Tantrums were a luxury they could not afford. Perhaps it could still be useful. 

She sighed, sitting down on the couch next to Bucciarati. He’d barely moved since they’d set off for Rome - Abbacchio’s death must have been hard on him. The two of them had seemed close, often talking together in low voices, mirroring each other’s movements. Bucciarati’s hand was resting listlessly on the couch cushion between them. Trish hesitantly put her hand on it.

It was ice cold.

Trish had heard of people dying of grief, at least in the soap operas she had sometimes watched with her mother, and she could believe that it was a real phenomenon. But no gangster would last long if they had that inclination, and Bucciarati was far too practical for that sort of thing. Even so, the greyness of his skin wasn’t just a trick of the light. She couldn’t quite see his expression from her angle next to him, but his eyes were open, dull, unblinking. He really was dead.

Trish’s heart dropped into her stomach. “ Bucciarati! ” She whispered urgently, only because she had to try once. She’d have to tell the others, they’d never make it without him, they were all going to die -

“Yes, Trish?” the voice was unmistakably his. Impossible . But then she recalled how the deep wound she’d noticed on his leg hadn’t seemed to want to bleed. How when she woke up in terror in the night, he always, always seemed to be the one on watch. How he had never seemed to be in the mood to eat since Venice. Since Venice. It couldn’t be, it didn’t make sense, but - “You’re dead.” the words tumbled gracelessly from her lips before she could soften them. 

Bucciarati’s eyes turned to meet hers, then his head followed. The movements were unnatural, a touch too slow, too stiff. Trish barely stopped herself from recoiling. His expression, too, was strange - eyes wide, jaw tight, exaggerated by the grey cast of his skin and the abnormally dark circles under his eyes. 

It was despair, and it was horror.

Confident, untouchable Buccarati was afraid.

The sheer wrongness of it wrapped around Trish’s heart, dragged her down into terror alongside him. They silently stared at each other, unmoving, for a minute or so, until Trish’s treacherously living body caused her to blink.

The small motion broke the spell. Bucciarati, perhaps only realizing now that he had forgotten to compose his expression, sat up straight as an arrow and used his free hand to smooth his hair and brush away sand from his suit. He spoke evenly, face blank: “I am sorry to have upset you, Trish. Please don’t worry about me.”

Trish wouldn’t let herself be dismissed this easily. She had said he was dead, and he hadn’t said no. So it was true. Bucciarati was dead, like...a zombie , although the word seemed insultingly wrong for him. His body was a corpse, but his mind, his soul, were present. And she could only imagine that such a situation must be temporary. 

“How long do you have?” Trish half-whispered, before she could think better of it. This was her least favorite question in the world. She’d asked it before, and every time had gotten an answer: An “I don’t know”, then a tentative estimate. Then a clock would appear ticking down in Trish’s mind and would never leave it, even long after it had hit zero.

“I don’t know,” answered Bucciarati on cue. “But I can assure you that I fully intend to see this mission through to the end.” At the pace things were happening, Trish figured this meant days. A week at most. In a week, her father would be defeated, or all of them would be dead.

Bucciarati would be dead either way. Bucciarati already was dead.

“I’m sorry,” Trish whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Don’t be,” said Bucciarati seriously. “I’ve long since learned to accept my own death as a possible outcome. If this is what fate has decided….so be it. I’m grateful that I’ve been able to keep moving, if only for a little while longer. Most don’t get that chance.”  He didn’t sound bitter, but Trish had to assume he was lying to reassure her. It couldn’t be possible for anyone to be ok with this. 

“Does it hurt?” Trish asked, wondering where her sense of tact had fled to. But she had to know - Bucciarati was dying for her, hurting for her . Guilt spun in a whirlpool in her mind, demanding to be fed.

“No. In fact, I think I’ve lost most sensation in general. It’s already proven useful in battle,” Buccarati said with a little smile that quickly faded. “It is...unnerving, somewhat. But not painful.”

For Bucciarati to admit to “unnerving”, the experience must be horrific, even if it wasn’t technically painful. Trish suddenly became intensely aware of the life within her - her nervous heart beating, pulse racing, the feeling of cloth and air on her lightly sweating skin, blinking and breathing and living. Things she’d been feeling for her whole life, sensations she was so accustomed to she barely noticed them. What would it feel like if that all just - stopped? And it had been days since Venice, and he was so very grey...Bucciarati didn’t smell like rot, but what if he could feel himself decaying? Trish felt ill.

“Trish.” Bucciarati interrupted her dark thoughts, gaze turning towards Giorno. Giorno, whose entire being projected life , even while sleeping - the rosy splotches on his cheeks, the rise and fall of his breaths, the twitches of his fingers and eyelids. 

“I truly hate to put this burden on you”, Bucciarati continued, “But I must ask you not to tell the others. Please. It would upset them and jeopardize the mission.”

This was a shock. Trish had naturally assumed that she would be the last to be told anything - but, of course, she had figured this out on her own. She would have predicted that she’d have been happy to know some exclusive information for once, but she just felt guilty. The rest of his team - Mista and Narancia, at least - had known him for much longer. Didn’t they deserve a chance to say goodbye? Didn’t Bucciarati deserve to go through this with the support of people he actually knew?

Trish wanted to say that this was more important than the mission, but all of their lives hung in the balance. She could see how he might be right, and the truth of it was painful. And who was Trish to turn down Bucciarati’s dying wish? She owed him more than she could ever repay, but she could give him this.

“Ok,” she said. “I won’t.”

Bucciarati let out a low sigh of relief. “Thank you, Trish.” He turned away from Giorno, back to staring straight ahead, and went still. More still than anyone alive could be.

Did he want to be left alone? Trish wouldn’t want to be alone, in his position, but maybe he was just a different type of person. Was her presence annoying him? She had comforted the dying before, but how do you comfort the dead? 

Her hand was still resting on the back of his, lying limply on the couch. She squeezed it gently, then felt stupid. Bucciarati had said he’d lost most of his sensation - he probably couldn’t feel it. He probably hadn’t known her hand had been there at all. Maybe she should just leave. Maybe she really was just bothering him.

But then, Bucciarati’s hand slowly turned upward and squeezed Trish’s hand back, feather-light. They sat side by side, staring forward in the last moment of stillness they might ever have while Rome raced towards them.

Another fight, another agonizing wait in the turtle, another moment of respite. This time Trish shared the turtle room with Narancia, recovering from his injuries.

He seemed entirely unconcerned that Bucciarati had just ordered him to die.

It was the principle of the thing, she supposed. She didn’t know why she was so upset. So what if Bucciarati was a cold man? He’d spoken and acted coldly the whole time she’d known him.  But. But he’d offered her his hand. But he died for her. Did he think it was worth it? Did he like her, even a little? She couldn’t imagine ever being able to ask him those sorts of questions. It didn’t matter anyway - he was going to be gone, soon.

Narancia had dismissed her concerns about Bucciarati’s demeanor and had gone to sleep. He’d woken up when Giorno had left to heal Mista, already looking much better than he had before, and was staring up at the ceiling contentedly, tapping out a drum beat with his fingers.

“Narancia. You said you ‘know how Bucciarati is’. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh, you’re still thinking about that? What are you so upset about, anyway? We’re all fine.” Narancia shrugged.

How is he being so nonchalant about this? “You work for him, right? isn’t it messed up that he doesn’t seem to care if you live or die?”

Narancia narrowed his eyes. “That’s not true. Bucciarati totally cares! But he’s our boss. He has to be tough, you know?” He pointed a finger at her. “You’d be dead if he didn’t care.”

Trish wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her head on her knees. “He doesn’t act like it,” she muttered sullenly.

Narancia nodded. “He’s not the touchy feely type. Or the type to say mushy stuff. But you can tell by what he does. He was the first one to ever really care about me, after my mom died. When I first met him, I had this really bad infection, and he took me to the hospital and got me fixed up. Just because he was there, I guess. I wasn’t even part of the gang, then.”

Trish tilted her head in suspicion. “Maybe it was just because he wanted to recruit you?”

“Ha! I wanted to join up right then, but he yelled at me to go home and go back to school. Said he’d beat the shit outta me if I didn’t.” Narancia said cheerfully. “But it was just ‘cause he wanted me to live a good life. That’s why I’m here. You know, he’s really my hero.”

Narancia’s eyes were shining with adoration.  Your hero is dead , Trish thought miserably . He didn’t know, and Trish had promised Bucciarati that she wouldn’t tell. I’m sorry, Narancia . If they were both lucky enough to survive this, Trish wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to look him in the eyes again.

Trish didn’t want to talk about Bucciarati anymore, so she changed the subject. “You know, I don’t really know much about you. I wish I knew more. If you wanna talk about it”

“Hey, you do? You should have asked!” He was beaming. “Did you know I made up those dance moves we were doing on the boat? Did you like them?”

"I did." Trish smirked. "Bet I can do them better than Giorno did.”

Narancia’s eyes widened. “No way you even remember. I’m calling your bluff.”

Trish got up and started to perform the moves with panache. Narancia gasped, then  started beatboxing to accompany her. Trish held the ending pose for a few seconds, then bowed as Narancia whistled and clapped, laughing in delight.

“Trish, you have to show Mista, he’d lose his shit! You did it all perfectly! Way better than Giorno, for sure!”

Trish grinned. “I used to love making up dances when I was little.”

They began to discuss their lives. Narancia talked in rapid-fire bursts, like the way Aerosmith attacked. Details about the tragic and mundane casually interspersed. Immediately after he told her a story about a friend who had utterly betrayed him, he pulled her into a wonderfully mundane argument about whether mushrooms belong on pizza. His mother had died after an illness, Trish learned, just like hers. By the time they reached the Colosseum, Trish knew more about him than all of the others combined.

And then she felt it, an icy certainty in her heart, a pull towards doom. 

Her father was nearby.

Whatever happened now would be the end of it.

Trish left the turtle for what she was sure would be the last time, Narancia close behind. She didn’t look back.

When Trish first laid eyes - eyes that were not her own - upon the face of her father, Bucciarati’s soul was wearing it. Like this, devoid of cruelty, Trish didn’t feel at all what she had expected. She saw the way that the shape of his chin, his nose, looked like hers and she felt nothing. It really was just a face. His voice, too, meant nothing, wrapped around Bucciarati’s words. Just the voice of a man.

When Narancia died, Trish felt some part of her falling, down, and down, and knew that it would never stop. She desperately tried Abbacchio’s trick - Giorno’s eyes shining with tears, the sound of Mista crying with her own voice, The feel of the stones beneath her hands slick with blood…

Well. He had warned her it wouldn’t always work.

When Mista ran towards the Colosseum, exclaiming about healing Bucciarati. Trish nearly stopped him. She looked to Giorno, hesitantly. He’d been so commanding, so terrifying, not minutes before. Now he couldn’t look either of them in the eye, with nothing but sorrow on his face. So he had found out about Bucciarati, too.

Was Trish too much of a coward to tell Mista that Bucciarati was already dead, or would it be too cruel to tell him that he was the only one left who didn’t know?

In the end, she stayed silent.

When Mista saw that Bucciarati was dead, when he desperately tried checking his pulse and pounding on his chest, when he begged Giorno on his knees to heal him, when he screamed so hard the sound ripped through her chest, Trish thought she might have made the wrong choice.

They left Rome before the dawn had finished lightening the sky. Giorno had stolen a car and was driving them back to Naples, where the true seat of Passione was. He’d made some brief, scattered plans with Mista, but they hadn’t gone into any details. There would be time for that later. 

The turtle sat on the backseat next to Trish. Polnareff was inside, silent. Coming to terms with his own death, most likely. If Trish had any strength or energy left in her, she might have gone in to comfort him. She leaned her head against the window, idly watching the still-golden clouds. She normally liked to find shapes in clouds, but all that she could see now were the faces of the dead. 

“April is the unluckiest month,” said Mista after nearly an hour of silence. “Because it’s the fourth one. But the unluckiness peaks early, in the first week. It’s April 6th today, if you didn’t know. It’s smart to always know what date it is.” Trish hadn’t known what day it was. She’d lost track.

“I’m always on edge in April, but I get through it,” he continued. “I was born under a lucky star. I always make it through, you know, ‘cause I’m such a lucky guy.” Mista’s voice broke. He’s the only one left , Trish realized. Fugo was gone and Giorno was new.

“You don’t know anything about them, do you? You should.” Mista’s voice was a little bitter. They died for both of you , Trish could hear him saying.She wouldn’t blame him if he had said it - it was true. Trish met Giorno’s eyes in the rearview mirror and found that his expression of pain and guilt mirrored her own.

“I always tried to get Narancia to watch movies, but he never did. Said they were too long. Had the patience of a fucking gnat,” Mista laughed roughly. “But he could listen to music with his eyes closed for hours. Just dancing around.”

He leaned his head against the window. “Bucciarati acted so professional all the time, but...it was ridiculous, but he hated beans. He wouldn’t pick them out of stuff like a kid, but...one time Narancia cooked him pasta e fagioli just to see what he would do, ‘cause he’s too nice to turn that down. And I swear we watched him like a hawk, but he ate the whole thing and acted like he just loved it. So after he left Abbacchio replayed him with Moody Blues and he just ate around the beans somehow until it was nothing but beans . Then he used Sticky Fingers to zip the beans into that void he makes, without us noticing! That was one of like 3 times I saw Abbacchio laugh for real.” Trish found herself laughing too, a little, despite the pang of grief that accompanied the knowledge that she’d never really get to see them that way, casually eating meals and pranking each other. 

“Know what’s wild?”, Mista continued. He was getting more animated, gesturing increasingly wildly as he spoke. “Abbacchio used to be a cop. I bet you didn’t even know that. Bet you’re wondering how he ended up with us. It’s a sad story, but it’s a good one, so I’ll tell it.” He did, and he told others too. Scraps of conversations they’d had, funny moments, tense missions. Each detail felt precious, too heavy to hold. Trish placed them carefully into her memory, where they shared shelf space with Trish’s own memories of them, precious and few - a smile, a word, a hand, a stopped clock. 

When Mista ran out of words and pulled his hat low to hide his eyes, Giorno spoke up. “I, Giorno Giovanna, have a dream. To build a world worthy of their sacrifice. Everything I do will be dedicated to their memory, the ideals they stood for. I hope that my actions will make them proud.” It might have sounded hollow and trite from anyone else, but from Giorno the words seemed beautiful and solemn.

Mista put a hand on his shoulder, eyes shining. “I know you will.”

Trish felt like an intruder. She had no such words, no grand dreams to dedicate to their memories. All she had was being alive. She wasn’t sure how that could make them proud.

Giorno made Trish wait for a few weeks while they took care of leftover enemies and stabilized Passione. Trish didn’t ask about the details. She didn’t care to know. She stayed in the elaborate mansion just outside of Naples that Giorno had acquired along with control of Passione. She didn’t leave, except to sometimes walk through Giorno’s increasingly elaborate garden. The mansion’s furnishings were very similar to that of the turtle room. Maybe it was her father’s aesthetic style. Trish wasn’t particularly impressed.

She went into that room, sometimes, when she was feeling particularly lonely, to talk to Polnareff. He was kind, and looked her in the eyes, and told wonderful stories without skipping over the sad parts. He listened attentively to her own stories, even when they were all sad parts.

“I’m sorry you have to be stuck here”, Trish said to him, curled up on the side of the couch. “This room is kind of...restrictive.” Even now, safe and calmly chatting, the walls closed in around her uncomfortably.

“Ah! It’s not so bad. It’s pretty fancy!” Polnareff looked around with an easy smile. “Besides, I chose to be in here. I can poke my head outside whenever I want, and this turtle can move surprisingly fast!” He looked back at her with eyes that were a bit too knowing. “I would assume that would make a pretty big difference in how this room feels, eh?” 

Almost precisely a month after taking over Passione, Giorno summoned her to tell her she was free to go wherever in the world she wanted, and he would gladly pay for it.

She’d been thinking about it, and already had her answer at her lips: she was going to Milan. She listed a lot of compelling reasons for this decision to Giorno, except for the most important ones: it was far away, and she had never been there. It was practically the only city left in Italy without ghosts waiting for her.

Giorno said it was a wonderful plan. Then he offered her a house in Naples. “For if you ever want to visit.” Trish began to protest, but Giorno quickly interrupted her:

“It was Bucciarati’s.” 

Trish’s words died in her throat. 

Giorno continued, “We found the deed while going through his things. It wasn’t his main residence. It’s in a good neighborhood, near the beach.”

“Giorno - I can’t -” Trish began, but Giorno interrupted her again.

“We have no other use for it. I - we - I want to give you something, Trish. It’s yours. Even if you never use it.” he dropped his businesslike tone.

“But -”

“I think he’d want you to have it,” Giorno said earnestly. He held out the keys, and Trish took them, even though she planned to never go. 

Trish started packing the day her flight was to leave, and finished within twenty minutes. Giorno had provided anything she’d asked for in the past few weeks and then some, but everything she owned still fit into one tiny suitcase. Well, everything she owned, minus a house. Her flight wasn’t until the evening. She’d already said goodbye to everyone. There was nothing else to do, so she went.

Trish had thought entering the house would feel invasive. The decorations seemed generic, ocean and fishing motifs, classic for a house by the sea. If it revealed anything about Bucciarati, Trish didn’t know what it was. The only thing that seemed possibly related to him was the color palette, but even that was basic - white, black, and ocean blue, accented with gold.  If the house was haunted by any ghosts at all, they were benign and unobtrusive. Undetectable. Maybe one day, this space really could feel like her own.

Even so, she didn’t regret her decision to leave the city. Call it healing or call it running away, she needed distance. But although she hadn’t intended on ever coming back to visit, Trish found herself beginning to make plans. Perhaps for the holidays, when Milan got cold...perhaps for a week next spring...

Trish’s first single came out two years to the day since it had all ended in Rome. The idea of her music, her words, her voice being out there for everyone to hear made her feel unbearably exposed. She had performed in front of people before, but this was different. Perhaps it was the loss of control - when she sang in front of a crowd, she could see who was there, and the music was a fragile and temporary thing, dissolving when she went home for the night.

She had been performing at a cafe the day she’d been “discovered” - you have what it takes , they had said, you could be famous. Though the idea had always been something of a pipe dream of hers, Trish had hesitated. Everyone would know her face, her name. That kind of situation would be her father’s worst nightmare.

So Trish had said yes. It was frightening, but it wasn’t her worst nightmare by a long shot. 

And now her first single was out there in the world, and she wanted to close her blinds and hide under the covers. So instead she grabbed her purse and walked out, down to where the best shopping was, and ignored the urge to go back, go back, go back where it’s safe . That voice had gotten quieter over the past few years, and now was a whisper more often than it was a shout.

Perhaps, in this way, it would never really be over - Trish killing, and killing again, the part of her that wanted only to run and hide. Each battle got easier, although they still were battles. Maybe one day, it would be like swatting a fly. 

She wandered past windows and department stores, distracting herself by gazing at pretty things. Earrings that looked just like cherries. A brooch shaped like a dolphin. A bracelet that looked just like -

Just like a zipper. The gold was even the perfect shade. It made sense that a bracelet like this would exist. It was funny how, in a different world, Trish might have glanced at it and simply thought cute and moved on.

She bought it.

Her memories of Bucciarati were few, all things considered. A hard expression, and a soft one. An aloof word, and a kind one. A warm hand, and a cold one. 

She was only alive because of him.

She slipped it over her left wrist. It slid to fit snugly right over the thin white scar that circled where her hand had been torn off by someone who had never cared about her. And where it had been mended by someone who had.

How do I stop looking back, Abbacchio? How do I move forward and upwards, Narancia? How do I put myself back together, Bucciarati?

Did you figure it out on your own? 

Do you think I can do it, too?

I think I can.