⊱ IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY?"
"Yes. My Boss won't let you go otherwise."
"Maybe you shouldn't. You don't really need to be there."
"We started this together and we're going to end it together."
"I could just tell you what happens."
"We're already halfway there. There's no point in arguing now, kid."
Fugo let out an annoyed huff. Even though you couldn't see it, you could perfectly imagine the scowl he wore right now.
Mista had recovered quickly after your conversation last night. He had ducked out sometime in the early morning and made a few calls. He had also acquired a beaten down car from somewhere, and now the three of you were going to speak to his Boss.
You were sitting in the backseat with Fugo, your hands folded in your lap.
You were also blindfolded.
"For confidentiality's sake," Mista had told you. "You can never be too careful."
"But he'll be able to see just fine," you said, pointing at Fugo.
"I'm a ghost," Fugo said.
"I also trust him to keep his mouth shut," Mista said. "He swore on his grave that he wouldn't blab."
"I did no such thing." And then Fugo muttered something like, I don't even know where my grave is.
Regardless, you had put on the blindfold Mista handed you and gotten into his car. You were acting cavalier now, but really, you were trying to hide your rising panic. You had a sinking feeling that you knew where Mista was taking you, who he was taking you to meet. He and Fugo had danced around whatever Fugo had been involved in, but it was starting to become clearer.
You couldn't voice it aloud because then it sounded absurd and you knew Fugo would continue to deny it. It sounded like something out of a crime novel but—
Cars on short notice. Chases, blood, people to call. Boss with a capital B.
Fugo was in the mafia, wasn't he? Or at least some kind of criminal organization. It was both the stupidest explanation and the best one. It explained all of the people Fugo knew and their guardedness around him. The threat that everyone seemed to warn you about. Fugo's own reticence to talk about any of it. While it explained a lot of your questions, you didn't know how to feel about it. Fugo wasn't a quiet college student but an organization member. If he was seeking revenge for his murder, he wouldn't be the only one. If you did something wrong, would the ire of an entire organization be upon you?
You could be wrong. You wanted to be wrong. Maybe Fugo had just been working as an errand boy somewhere. Maybe Mista's boss was just eccentric. It didn't have to be the mafia.
"We're here," Mista said as the car came to a stop. You made to get out when he cleared his throat.
"I just want to make a few things clear with you."
"Okay."
"Whatever your hear today doesn't leave this building. You will repeat it to no one. You will be expected to forget the people you see. There is also the possibility that you could be targeted for the information you hear. Are you prepared for that?"
"Targeted how, exactly?"
"There may be threats on your life."
Mista said it directly, a statement of fact. You wanted to laugh it off but the air inside the car was stifling. Mista was dead-serious.
"Yes, I am prepared for that."
"I'm sorry that you have to deal with this, but it's an unfortunate byproduct of the nature of our organization." Mista let out a breath. "I hate all of this grim warning baloney. It's probably the worst part of my job."
"Let's go then," said Fugo. "We should get this over with."
Fugo took you by the elbow and led you out of the car. Mista didn't let you take off the blindfold until you were actually inside of the building.
You had no idea where you were. The walls and floor were grey and there wasn't a window in sight. You were standing in front of a stairwell, and how far it went down, you couldn't tell.
Mista went down first. You followed after him and Fugo brought up the rear. The sound of your footsteps ringing off of the walls grated at your nerves.
You finally arrived in a small room, sparsely furnished with a table, a few chairs and a bare lightbulb overhead. Two people were already seated at the table.
And you recognized both of them.
Narancia's knee was bouncing erratically, nervous energy coming off of him in waves. All of Giorno's golden hair had been bound and hidden beneath a dark fedora, and it shielded his expression from you as you approached the table.
You weren't surprised, not really. You supposed you should have been relieved.
And Narancia said "Boss" was only a nickname.
"Mista, you're alright!" Narancia exclaimed, springing out of his seat. "What happened? You didn't show up like we planned."
Mista sighed. "I, uh, knocked on the wrong door."
"You meant to knock on Narancia's door last night?" you asked flatly.
"I wasn't aware you were neighbours. It was an honest mistake."
"We're still waiting for one more person," Giorno said quietly. "Please bear with me."
No sooner had he said that before you heard someone else coming down the steps.
"Oh good," said Bruno. "We're all here."
You waited for everyone to sit down. All of these people that Fugo had known and that you had met. All of them linked seemingly by coincidence.
A coincidental organization.
"Tell me what's going on," you said. "Honestly this time. Tell me what happened to Pannacotta Fugo."
Everyone looked towards Giorno. Even without being told, you knew he was the one in charge. The Boss with a capital B. "The short version of it is that we don't know," Giorno said eventually.
"Don't give me that. We're all here already, what do you still have to hide?"
"I'm not hiding anything. That's just the truth. We don't know what happened to Fugo. That's what we've been trying to find out for the past few weeks."
"Actually, for a while, we thought you might have had something to do with Fugo," Bruno said.
"Me?"
"Yes. You showed an especial interest in him all of a sudden when you had no prior association with him. It was suspicious."
You opened your mouth and then closed it. You supposed that was fair.
"I suppose before we explain any further, you should know who we are," Giorno said. His voice was remarkably calm. Placid. As though he were reading words off a script.
