#archived version

A/N: here's chapter 3! sorry for the wait— this one’s on the longer side

“It is so nice to see you,” you said, smiling as you stiffly returned her embrace.

“It’s been nearly a decade since I saw you last. I am happy to see that you’ve outgrown that horseface from your teenage years.”

“Zietta Teresa, you are too kind, you replied, clasping your hands behind you and clenching your fists so tight that your fingernails dig into your palms.

It’s at this moment that Frida returns from the restroom, and upon seeing you, quickly grasps your hands and frets over the bags underneath your eyes. You brush off her comments, assuring her that you’ve been getting just enough rest. There was certainly no need to tell her that you and Giorno stayed up all night struggling to get Giuseppe to sleep.

“Please tell your husband that I was asking after him,” was all Frida said in reply before redirecting her attention to Teresa.

“Oh?” Teresa’s eyes darted to the rings on your left hand, and then to Fugo who silently stood at the doorway, waiting for your signal to return to the car. “Then I suppose that young man over there would be…?”

She shrewdly waited for you to fill in the blanks for her, to divulge more information, but you had no intention of disclosing any details regarding your personal life. You notice the way her lips tightened in irritation and settle on giving her a few crumbs.

“An escort,” you started. If there was one thing you’d learned from this woman, it was to provide her with as little detail as possible. “My husband and son are both home.”

“Married!” Teresa gasped and immediately took your left hand, inspecting your jewelry with the utmost curiosity. “He must be a very affluent and important man; not many are able to meet with Frida privately, much less have her personally oversee mere alterations…” She gives your hand a light squeeze. “And to have a son as well. It seems you are very blessed.”

“Just so.”

You both exchange contact information before you leave—though not voluntarily on your part—and despite Fugo’s eagerness in assisting you with your clothing, you carry all of your new garments yourself, hoping you’ll be able to hide your scowl under the heaps of garment bags. Speaking to Teresa Conti was draining, though no one else needed to know that, especially not Pannacotta Fugo or Guido Mista or Narancia Ghirga.

Fugo often carried out business for Passione outside of Napoli, and so once your bodyguards had been injured (at a popular nightclub, much to your embarrassment), Giorno requested that his friend return to Passione’s headquarters, reassuring his friend that several soldato would take over his posts. Fugo had been under the impression that something was wrong, but accepted his mission with the utmost fervor upon learning of your previous security detail’s incompetence. Narancia and Mista were also assigned to protect you soon after this.

Giorno’s friends found it amusing that he had taken additional measure in ensuring your safety. He could have appointed other gang members to watch over you, but he chose to ask his strongest and most valuable associates to carry out this task. Mista, Narancia and Fugo had very powerful stands. To have them all watch over you at the same time seemed rather excessive.

Of course, Giorno insisted that it was simply his duty as your husband to ensure your safety, and who were they to question their boss’s orders?

Mista sat in the passenger seat in the front of the car, and every so often he would watch you from the rearview mirrors. The others would also occasionally glance at you, leaving one question hanging in the air between the three of them—what had spurred Giorno’s sudden concern for you?

“You and Alfonsi’s wife know one another?” Giorno asked curiously.

You both sat there in the parlor of your suite, helping yourselves to tea for the second time today while Giorno held Giuseppe. Your new clothes lay on the chaise, and while Giorno had paid a visit to inquire about your appointment with Frida, he’d since found himself engrossed in this sudden development.

“I’ve known her since I was a young girl.” You said. “Teresa Conti is an art curator my father once romanced.”

Of course, by art curator, you meant thief. Teresa Conti worked as an art curator by day, and in the evenings she would organize heists to rob her own exhibits. She’d stolen many items—paintings, sculptures, and even jewels handed down in the Royal families of Europe. She also owned a very prominent fine art foundation, which put her in the proper social circles to gain clearance to sought after pieces.

She was not powerful or strong but her intelligence and ambition made her very dangerous.

“She’s stolen art for decades, Don Giorno. I’m certain that’s where most of their money lies…”

“If I remember correctly, you said that ‘money and status are akin to power.’”

“I did,” You said, rising from the chaise to tidy the table in front of you.

“Perhaps we should relieve them of their private collection.”

“Well, we certainly could rob them and leave it at that. Or… We can take some of their stolen art, sell it, and deposit the money in an account in Alfonsi’s name. They’d be thrown into jail in less than a day, and I’m sure no one would want to work with an idiot who was stupid enough to get caught.” You said as you looked through one of Giuseppe’s storybooks.

Giorno does not say anything, staring after you dumbly while you flipped through the story books in mild disinterest. He’s sat there for so long that Giuseppe’s begun to play with his braid.

“Well,” He began to draw small circles on Giuseppe’s cheek with his finger. “I suppose stealing all of it would be excessive. If the police find one valuable necklace, it would be more than enough to justify a search warrant on their home… In which case, they can do the remainder of the work for us."

“Astute as always,” You said with the faintest trace of amusement, closing the picture book and hugging it to your chest.

He sighed and ran his fingers through the ends of his braid, ignoring your taunt. “I try my best to keep up with you.”

Giorno takes note of the hour, and seeing that you have become rather drowsy, leaves the room with Giuseppe, requesting to break fast with you in the morning, to which you oblige enthusiastically—a soft “Yes, of course, but do be on time,”—and he bids you good night shortly after.

You both sit at breakfast the next morning, and when you finish he notices that you're assisting the staff in clearing the table. He asks the maid if you’ve always helped them with such small tasks, which she confirms with a shy nod.

“Signora Giovanna is a bit of a pedantic; extremely picky when it comes to cleaning… She was adopted, you know, probably lived on her own in a dump before all that.”

When she'd put it that way, he could see why you might want to keep your living space as tidy as possible. It certainly explained why your room was always well kept and rarely needed cleaning.

She threw a cautious glance over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “As the story goes, she was a runaway and picked at people’s pockets in Roma. The most popular version involves her father; apparently she nabbed one of his wallets and he caught her, dragged her kicking and screaming to his home in Palermo and adopted her soon after.”

Giorno meant to ask your father about this when he visited, though he'd been distracted by the late wedding anniversary gift your father meant to send months ago.

“I missed your second wedding anniversary, but I hope you’ll enjoy looking through these.” He’d said with a soft smile. 

Giorno and his friends spent the following hour poring over the photographs your father collected. They were carefully and thoughtfully arranged in a series of photo albums, all bound in soft leather and each numbered by year. Mista and Narancia found one particular photo that was interesting.

“Don Vittorio… did you have a son at one point?” Narancia scratched at his temple.

Who on earth was this young boy? He looked scraggly and irritable: sallow skin, hollow cheeks… the cold glare in his eyes was most off-putting.

“Now that,” Your father chuckled. “That is a very long story.”

Giorno brought the photo closer to his face. The child must have been a twelve year old, with a horrendous bowl cut and a long face.

Fugo peered at the photo over Giorno’s shoulder. He’d seen those eyes somewhere before, though he couldn’t remember where exactly. “Would you be willing to share it with us?”

Your father fiddled with the rings on his fingers, pacing in front of Giorno’s desk and grinning broadly. “He’d stolen my Maserati when I had dinner in Roma one evening with Teresa Conti. It had plenty of valuable merchandise, and I’d watched him take off with all of my possessions. I never left my seat to stop him either—I was blinded by the balls on that brat.”

He explained that that same insufferable child dumped the car somewhere on the outskirts of Roma, not knowing that the car itself and its contents belonged to a very dangerous and powerful man.

Your father ran his fingers over the same photograph, smiling to himself as he recounted those first few days. “I made certain to find him, to tell him who I was, what I was capable of, and that he owed me a great deal of money. Of course, after I’d gone on my spiel, I realized that the person whom I had scolded was not a boy, but a girl. A grumpy and extremely irritable young girl.”

Girl?

Giorno rose to his feet and took the wedding portrait on his desk, comparing it to the photograph in the album. His eyes darted back and forth between the two images, but he could find no resemblance. A long gaunt face, matted and greasy hair, the hard glare in your eyes… It was such a stark contrast from your calm and poised demeanor. That couldn’t possibly be you… Could it?

The other three broke into violent bursts of laughter. Mista clutched at his aching stomach, Fugo trembled where he sat and Narancia was on the verge of tears.

“I never would have guessed that that was your wife, Giorno.” Mista wheezed.

“It’s the hair! No, the horseface!” Narancia chimed in, waving a finger at the same photograph.

Fugo slapped both of them on the back before throwing a few nervous glances over his shoulder. The last thing they needed was for you to walk in on them. He could only imagine the horror you’d face upon discovering these embarrassing photographs. Hopefully, you would be too busy with Giuseppe to consider visiting Giorno’s study.

Their laughter, however, carried all the way to the bottom of the staircase. You’d heard it on your way to your room, as did Giuseppe, who happily gurgled in your arms upon hearing Mista and Narancia.

He was growing much faster than you had expected, and he’d only recently began to run (he'd been walking for months now), though he'd often stumble and fall to the ground mid sprint. Staircases were also proving to be dangerous for him, so Giorno still thought it best to have Giuseppe carried up staircases until he could walk up them properly and you agreed. You do, however, come to the conclusion that Giorno made this suggestion so he may continue doting on his son, but you knew better than to tease him and his fatherly instincts.

“I suppose we ought to visit your Papà now…” You said, steadying him against your torso as you walked up the remaining stairs.

You carefully set your son to the ground at the top of the staircase and watched as he made his way to his father.

As one would expect from any of child of Giorno Giovanna, Giuseppe quietly knocked on the door and waited to be invited into his father’s study. Giorno had done a great deal of work to ensure that Giuseppe would remain a sweet and well-mannered young boy. His son may have been a mere toddler, but he was already the perfect gentleman.

“Ah—GioGio!”

Fugo and Narancia cheer when they chance upon their small companion in the doorway, but once they catch sight of you approaching, they settle down and straightened their posture. You greeted them with a friendly “Buon pomeriggio,” as you passed through the doorway and minced your way to your husband. Everyone was adjusting their posture and seemed apprehensive about your intrusion.

Your father, however, intercepted you before you reached Giorno and embraced you. “I have not heard from you in weeks. Are you well?”

“Yes, I am.” The sound of your voice was muffled against his jacket.

He pulls away, grasps you by the shoulders and eyes you with a certain playfulness. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten to contact me because you’ve fallen madly in love with your husband?”

You snorted. “Falling in love is for children, Patri. Perhaps you didn’t know this, but adults simply decide whether or not they want to love someone.”

“Forgive me, tesoro. Let me reword it for you—have you “decided” to fall in love with your husband yet?”

You scarcely knew your husband. You did not know about his childhood, his family, if he was rich or poor before he joined Passione. The only personal information you knew about your husband was that he fathered your son (he had a birthmark the shape of a star at the base of his neck, if you recall), and that he had suffered many losses to become the Don of Passione. The rest may as well be a mystery.

And how could you ever be in love with someone you barely knew?

This is not to say that you held Giorno in contempt; it was quite the opposite. You liked him, enjoyed spending time with him, and you loved the son you both shared. You were friendly acquaintances who occasionally partook in the pleasures of the flesh but this did not mean that you were in love with each other.

Love was passionate—at least in the movies you had seen and the books you had read and the couples you’d observed in public. None of that, however, existed between you two.

Neither of you embraced the other passionately or professed your undying love for the other or shared heartfelt conversations after making love: you silently parted ways each time, and the closest either of you had gotten to “I love you” was “I find you incredibly competent,” and “you are a good person.” You’ve both silently come to the agreement that you liked one another, but neither of you had ever dared to say it aloud.

With those thoughts aside… you vaguely recalled hearing laughter before entering the room. What on earth was so entertaining? You ambled along the room, scanning the area for any possible object of interest when you discover those horrific photo albums scattered across the room. 

“Who gave you these?!” You asked, plucking one of the albums from Giorno’s hands and cramming it into a shelf.

Your father fiddled with your hair and smiled. “I thought it would be a thoughtful wedding anniversary gift. Your husband and his colleagues are enjoying the memories.”

They had probably seen more than enough, but you dragged your father out of the room anyway. You made certain to softly pull on the door before glaring at your father. “What on earth will he think of me now?” You hissed.

”They are only pictures, tesoro. And do not be alarmed, but…”

Your heart dropped when he pointed to the door behind you: the door hung slightly open, and you could faintly distinguish the outline of Giorno’s silhouette through the cracks. You fear how much he and the others may have overheard but walk away quietly, shutting yourself into your room until later that day.

And what a shame—Giorno was going to offer you a compliment.

 Dinner was often silent for the two of you, though neither of you seemed to mind as it gave you both the opportunity to relax and spend more time with your son, whom Giorno now fed.

He recently dismissed the nurses from their feeding duties, declaring that he was not so kingly that he could not feed his son himself. He may have been unable to share the burden of breastfeeding Giuseppe with you (for obvious reasons), but now that Giuseppe ate soft foods, Giorno could finally relieve you of feeding your son.

Giorno could tell you were staring at him as he fed Giuseppe and wondered why you hadn’t spoken yet. Then he remembered your outburst earlier that day and wondered if there were more to the stories he’d heard from the maids and your father. He was itching to learn more.

“Y/n,” He said. “How did you get your hands on your father's car keys?”

He imagined that the restaurant valet kept a close eye on your father's belongings. How had you managed to pull it off?

“By power of persuasion, I suppose.” You said, lowering your eyes. There was, of course, another reason, though one of your attendants comes rushing in as soon as you are ready to elaborate. “There's also the fact that—”

“Signora,” She shyly steps past Giorno and Giuseppe and hands you a letter.

“Who on earth sends mail in the evening…” You set down your cutlery and rise from your chair.

It was an invitation. An invitation to Teresa Conti’s highly esteemed fine art gala. This was the kind of event that other Dons and other powerful and wealthy figures attended. Giorno would certainly gain more contacts by attending.

“We’ll be meeting plenty of my father’s friends there. They seemed wary of you before, though I’m sure that they’ll take a liking to you soon enough. I like you, and I rarely ever warm up to people…”

The last few words die in your throat. You slowly redirected your gaze to your food and continued to eat, choosing not to speak for the rest of the meal. Every so often you would try to steal a glance at your husband, only to find those piercing blue eyes staring back at you.

“You’re very talkative today, Y/n.” He said.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

In a desperate attempt to divert Giorno’s attention, you gestured toward his mouth and tell him that a piece of spinach has wedged itself between his front teeth, and he falls for it, much to your amusement. You quickly spoon the remaining risotto into your mouth, trying your hardest to contain the laughter building in your chest when he rises from his chair to fix his appearance.

Once your plate is cleared of all food, you excuse yourself from the table, muttering something about responding to Teresa and thanking her for the invitation. In the corner of your eye, you can see that Giorno is still searching for that supposed piece of spinach, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

It’s not until after he’s picked at his gums for five minutes when he realizes that the spinach was a distraction. He then shifts his gaze from his teeth to Giuseppe in the mirror and the sight of his son brings a smile to his lips. The three of you made for an interesting trio.

A family, as it were.

He slowly made his way back to the table, and, seeing that no one else was around, threw himself into a chair and began to eat dinner himself.

“Your Mamma is too clever for us, Giuseppe.”

Mista had seen the entire exchange and joined Giorno at the table, throwing a smug grin at his boss and patting him on the shoulder.

Giorno began to play with the risotto in his dish. “I never should have let any of you take up residence here.”

“We’re only here because of your concern for your wife.” Mista said. “Still think you’re not in love?”

“It’s not love, it’s just a friendly partnership.”

He ignored Giorno and leaned over to Giuseppe, making silly cooing noises before relieving Giorno of his baby feeding duties. “Ah this son of yours is just too cute.”

“Please leave and watch over her, Mista.”

“Her suite is the safest part of the house. I don’t need to watch her right now.” He continued to spoon more food into Giuseppe’s mouth before looking at Giorno. “Besides—I think you’re in desperate need of my love expertise.”

“What advice could you possibly give me? You’re not even married.” Giorno set his spoon into its dish once again and folded his arms across his chest.

“I fiori! I cioccolatini!” Mista grabbed Giorno by the shoulders. “Belle ragazze love those things, don’t they? I’m sure she’d appreciate those. Take your relationship a step further.”

“Y/n is not just a bella ragazza. Cioccolatini and fiori may work for whoever it is that’s stupid enough to let you court them, but the mother of my son deserves something more substantial.”

“Oh?”

Mista grinned sharply at Giorno, who shot the capo another foul look before excusing himself from the table.

“Me?” You laughed. “I can’t possibly… I’m certain your plan will be much better.”

The others looked to Giorno in confusion. Why was he inviting you to speak up? What on earth gave Giorno the indication that his wife could handle planning something like this?

Mista thought Giorno’s fixation on you was merely connected to your “nightly meetings,” but apparently he was wrong. It seemed you and Giorno were not fucking, but rather scheming behind closed doors. At the very least, that is what he had come up with.

Giorno pressed his lips into a slight frown. “Your father said you were frail and passive but I can see now that you’re neither of those things. You know more about these people than any of us do. Your opinions are valuable to me.”

Giorno knew you were smart; others may have interpreted your silence as an absence of intelligent thought, but he’d seen how calculating you were. You were far from being vapid or dull, always observing, always listening, always quietly processing the environment around you. You learned a great deal about gang business just by observing your father and his men at work. It had taken him the better part of two years to notice, but he now knew that you had plenty of your own opinions, and all he wished was for you to share them with him and his men. It seemed a terrible waste for you to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Your husband’s trust in you stirred something in your heart—he may have been the first person to acknowledge your intelligence, the first person in years to encourage you to use it, the first to suggest that it was one of your best traits. He did not seek to silence you. He wanted to work with you.

Perhaps you would reward his faith with useful advice.

“Well I suppose we can sneak the three of them into the gala, seeing that the Conti's will be hosting it at their home.” You slowly rose from your chair and gestured towards Narancia, Mista and Fugo. “And as you mentioned last night, they’ll only need to get one of the necklaces. One that’s big enough to warrant more suspicion with the authorities.”

You and Giorno would simply entertain and distract Roberto and Teresa as the others grabbed a few pieces of stolen jewelry. It was, quite honestly, a very simple job. She’d always looked down on you, so there was little reason for her to suspect you. No one seemed to think much of Giorno for reasons you had yet to understand and while this was normally vexing to deal with, he could now use it to his advantage.

Narancia scratched at his scalp and yawned. “Do we have to steal all of their crap and frame them? Can’t we all just go to this party and have fun instead?”

“No.” You and Giorno froze—perhaps you had only imagined it, but… had the both of you spoken at the same time?

“That was strange.” said Fugo.

You were ready to move onto the second phase of the plan when a shift occurred in the room; Giorno catches sight of something behind you and bows his head. The others follow suit.

A pair of large hands crashed onto your shoulders, squeezing them lightly. You flinched at the sudden contact. Of course—if your father were visiting, he’d finally be able to attend Giorno’s meetings himself.

“Fret not. Since I am here, you won’t have to suffer through this meeting. I’m sure Giuseppe will be pleased to spend more time with you.” You stood there, frozen. Your father had forbidden you from participating in his affairs. Would he police Giorno on this? “Run along, now.”

You unconsciously sucked in your breath and replied, “Se, patri,” before bidding your farewells to everyone and offering Giorno a quick nod. “Don Giorno,"

While your husband was far better at reading other people’s behavior and body language than you would ever be, even you could sense his annoyance from his stiff posture and blank stare. You stood there in the doorway, wondering if you ought to say something else to him.

Your father noticed that you had not moved an inch from the door. Your lips were slightly parted, as though you were ready to say a proper farewell to your husband.

It was truly touching to him, but Don Vittorio Andolini would not have his daughter (adopted or not) idle about whilst they carried out business. “Shall I escort you out, tesoro?”

“No… I will take my leave now. Mi scusassi, patri.” And with that, you dragged your feet along the floor and closed the door behind you. Your eyes meet Giorno’s just before the gap in the door fully closes.

Don Vittorio sighed and took a sip from your teacup. “She’s a clever little thing isn’t she? Far too clever for her own good... We would do well to keep her out of our business affairs.”

The words may have rolled off his tongue easily, but Giorno could sense the veiled threat behind your father’s words.

“If there’s one piece of advice I’d like you to adhere to, Don Giorno, it’s to never mix business with pleasure. Keep your wife out of this nonsense and wait until Giuseppe grows into a young man before you expose him to your work.”

“May I ask why?” Giorno’s prying question caught your father off guard. “As you have said before, we’re family now. I’d like to be a good husband… and a dutiful son-in-law.”

Those last few words seemed to do the trick. Don Vittorio poured himself another cup of tea, and if he was uncomfortable from all the staring Giorno and his men were doing, he did not show it. He silently helped himself to two more cups before replying to Giorno.

“I had a wife and son once but they were taken from me. My capos and consigliere berated me for my recklessness and it still haunts me… I never thought I would have children again. When I welcomed Y/n into my family, I swore to keep her out of anything business related, that I would protect her. I expect you to do the same. She will not be assisting you with whatever job it is you’re trying to pull.”

“Of course, Don Vittorio.”

Your father then gestured for Giorno to continue his meeting, leaning forward and giving his son-in-law his undivided attention. He’d even given his own contributions and made sure to credit and praise Giorno when necessary.   

In spite of all the rumors they had heard of Don Vittorio being a tyrannical and dogmatic Don, Giorno and the others found him to be an extremely patient and supportive business partner. He often listened to their ideas and only offered advice when it was asked of him. He also referred them to certain associates of his who could help as far as surveilling any suspicious drug-related activity in and out of the city was concerned.

Most importantly, however, Don Vittorio made certain to stress the gravity of politics in the world of organized crime. Shootouts and other scuffles were a rarity now; most gangs were relying on scheming and treachery to vie for domination. It was a game for power that required caution and quick discernment in any given situation.

Part of this game meant dealing with other players—Napoli was but one city in Italia, and there were many other gangs spread across the country. Many other Dons were unsure what to make of him, and while they certainly never held Passione and its mysterious past Don in a particularly positive light, Giorno’s rapid ascent to power made them extremely suspicious (and perhaps frightened) of him. He’d caused an uproar among the elites.

When Passione and Cosa Nostra formed a marriage alliance, everyone silently accepted Giorno as another powerful presence in their world, and while it was a very good start for Giorno and Passione, he still needed to personally forge relationships with the other families if he hoped to remain an influential boss and eradicate the drug trade in Italia.

“My business partners will be attending Teresa’s art gala but she and I are not on good speaking terms. I will be unable to join you and properly introduce you to them myself. My daughter, however, should be able to help you in that respect. She’s quite popular with them.”

And so it was settled—it appeared as though you would be attending the gala after all.

Giorno made a visit to your suite when the meeting ended, knowing you would take your afternoon tea there when the weather was not permitting. He hadn’t even set one foot through the doorway before he overheard your father harshly scolding you.

He knew that it was rude to eavesdrop but perhaps listening in would allow him better insight in dealing with this minor setback. Unlike your father, Giorno did not want to lock you away or shelter you. It was a waste of your talent.

He leaned on the door frame, training his eyes on your reflection in a nearby mirror.

“You have a duty to your husband and your family.” Your father said. “You are Don Giorno Giovanna’s wife, the mother of his son—not his consigliere. Do not meddle with his business affairs.”

“I was not meddling,” You said quietly. “I was invited to contribute.”

“Invited? Y/n… You need to think about your safety. Gangs are not a playground. This business is not a game that you can take part—”

“This is becoming one of the most boring conversations I’ve ever had,” You snapped, eyes drifting down to inspect your lacquered nails in an effort to avoid your father’s fiery glare.

“Y/n,” He started.

“Patri,” You shot back.

Giorno readied himself to watch you undergo another round of criticisms, but much to his surprise, Don Vittorio couldn’t find it in himself to return your insolence.

It seemed your father understood your aggravation, that you wanted to help, but as a father, he needed you to understand—he would not allow you to take part in gang business. Your safety was paramount to him.

Your father was, however, grateful that no one else was there to bear witness to your informalities towards him. What would the other men think if they saw his daughter use that tone to speak with him? He tried not to dwell on it too much.

Eventually he held his breath, closed his eyes and waited, but even with his eyes closed, he could feel the tension between the both of you. He could not bar you from attending the gala—Giorno needed you there, after all—but he could petition you to simply play your role as Giorno’s dazzling wife.  

“No funny business.” He said. “You are only escorting him and introducing him to my associates.”

“'I am only going to escort him,'” You repeated plainly.

Your father rose from his seat and padded into the hallway, muttering under his breath. “That child… When will she learn…”

Your father only just noticed that Giorno had been standing near the doorway, though he didn’t bother to ask whether or not he had overheard anything; instead he gave his son-in-law a polite nod before retreating to his guest rooms.

Giorno entered your parlor and was pleased to see that another set of china was already waiting for him at the table. You waved your hand languidly, beckoning him to take his seat.

“How much did you overhear?” You asked as he wrapped his fingers around the teapot.

Giorno froze, midpour. “I beg your pardon?”

You pointed to the same mirror he’d used to spy on you. “You’re very hard to miss. I‘d recognize that suit of yours anywhere.”

“There’s no hiding from you, is there?” His lips twitched into a satisfied smirk. “I heard enough.”

You tensed the muscles in your jaw and straightened yourself, a wall bracing itself against another gust of strong wind. Was he going to scold you too? You’d had enough with men ordering you around today.

“I need your help with the heist.” Giorno sees something like excitement flicker in your eyes, and hope begins to unfurl in his stomach.

“That I cannot do. Women do not work in gangs, Don Giorno.” You said, lowering your eyes and wringing your hands.

Giorno chewed on his lip in agitation. He never quite understood the Mafia’s dated system.

Women could be just as competent as men—for Christ’s sake, Trish held a pivotal role in Giorno’s adventures, and they had only been fifteen then. Women were more than the mere accessories and status symbols that mafiosi made them out to be.

This system disregarded your intelligence, your maturity, your wisdom, and your cautiousness. It reduced you to a mere possession. It demanded you to spend the majority of your days as a mother and wife. It was a dull existence in comparison to what laid ahead for Giorno.

Marriage and motherhood, of course, was difficult and vital (and fulfilling) work. Giorno knew this. And yet, he still wanted more for you. You deserved to be more than just a mother or wife. Giorno did not care if it meant defying your father or the centuries-old system—he’d already taken any chance you had at finding happiness and love; he would not rob you of your identity as well. You’d made Giorno happy by loving and caring for his son, and it only seemed right that he try to bring you some happiness himself.

“Please consider it.”

A vein pulsed at your temple. Is this how he became a Don? By fighting the nature of things, and irritating everyone he met? You could see now a glimpse of his legendary persistence. Your husband was the kind of man who never backed down from a challenge, even if it meant disregarding rules and tradition.

You respected him for it, but breaking rules was not something you did. Giorno would have to accept this.

"'Famigghia, duviri, unuri'—these are the unspoken rules of Cosa Nostra.” You said quietly. Giorno raised a brow. It seemed he did not understand. “I will do my duty as a daughter, and honor my father’s wishes. I cannot help you.”

And still, Giorno presses on. “Then I will fulfill my duty as your husband, and urge you to choose for yourself. You are a person, Y/n. You have the right to do whatever you want.”

“Yes,” You blazed, angry now. Why couldn’t he see? “And I have chosen to do what is expected of me.”

Giorno ceases any further discussion on the matter, though you can tell from his hunched shoulders and sudden disinterest in sweets that he is still processing what you’ve just said. Silence hung awkwardly between the both of you for what seemed to be the longest five minutes of your life.

You had always silently taken up the burden of being your father’s daughter. Always abiding by the unspoken rules in this criminal world—you were the perfect daughter. You were happy enough knowing that you did what you could for your family.

But Giorno saw more in you than just a daughter, wife, or mother. He saw a partner. The thought never crossed your mind before, but now that he’d hammered it into you, you can’t help but consider the possibilities he offered. You could do more than just smile and wave and charm—much more.  

“Fine.” You said finally. “I will provide you with counsel.”

Giorno does not say a word; he does not hide behind flowery speeches when he’s in your company. You’ve since learned to read his body language, but today seems different. His eyes crinkle slightly, lips lifting at the corners. Had he ever smiled at you like that before?

The rest of your afternoon tea goes very well, and to your surprise, Giorno samples and finishes every item on the trays. He’d even asked one of the maids to send more scones and lemon cakes to his study on his way out.

 “Mia cara,” She said. “You must wear it draped around the arms! You have lovely shoulders—do not cover them up with this cape.”

And so you shyly tugged down the fabric and bared your shoulders, wrapping the cape around your arms. Frida stood behind you, and after scrutinizing every detail of your outfit, realizes that your current footwear is not suitable and trotted out of the room to lend you a pair of heels. You frowned as you looked into the mirror. You’d never felt so exposed in your entire life.

It was a cape with sleeves and a long train, lined with luxurious fur, weighing in at approximately fifty pounds. If the sheer weight wasn’t enough to discourage you, Frida planned on squeezing you into a dress that bared your shoulders and the top of your bosom. The cape was essentially a glorified stole, draped around the shoulders, leaving much of your neck, shoulders and chest exposed for the world to see. Funny that you and Giorno have switched attire for this event; your chest would be exposed, and his would be covered for once.

You stood in front of the mirror for a few seconds, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Giorno could sense your discomfort, though he wasn’t quite sure what he could do to make you feel at ease. He fumbled with the lapels on his patterned satin tuxedo, stealing glances at you every now and then.

You looked very pretty. “Y/n—“

Frida pushed past him then—seven pairs of heels in her arms—and fretted over your appearance for nearly half an hour before calling Giorno over to the mirror when she’s pleased with her work. She makes several great sweeping movements with her arms and mouths a few words to Giorno, who interprets her gestures as a signal to stand beside you.

She examines the both of you for a few minutes, pacing about and adding pins every now and then before grinning broadly. Frida dragged Giorno to the side afterwards and provided him with instructions before sending him off to change clothing.

“You both look lovely. Now you’ll need to come back for these in several days. There’s still plenty of altering to do on these.”

Giorno meant to approach you afterwards and compliment you to quell any of your insecurities, but the words are lodged in his throat when he catches sight of you swaying in front of the mirror, inspecting your appearance and smiling at your reflection. It appeared as though you wouldn’t need any reassurance after all.

Frida smiled at the sight and, noticing Giorno was too awestruck to provide comment, whispered, “I never did put that piece on the runway—none of the models could handle it. But Y/n… She wears it with the grace of a queen.”

He smiled at this. What was a king without his queen?

End note:

A/N: Sorry for the wait! I've had trouble figuring out what direction I wanted to take for this story, but after a few days of watching movies, game of thrones, fullmetal and reading books, I've gotten the inspiration I needed.

Giorno was very busy; being in charge of a large organization like Passione was proof of this. The two of you barely interacted with each other, so you never knew whether he spent time with Giuseppe, but you’d overheard the maids gushing about him one afternoon.

“He is a very loving father.”

“I notice he always begins and ends his day with a visit to the nursery.”

“The way Don Giorno cradles the baby and talks to him...”

With that being said, you’re taken aback by his sudden display of affection and though it feels rather awkward and forced, you find that his embrace is warm and protective. 

Soon after this strange episode, you approach Giorno and express your desire to connect with him. You’re happy when Giorno tells you he feels the same way.

“I’d like for us to become closer… If not for our own sakes, then for Giuseppe’s.” It’s the sincerity behind his words that moves you. He truly cared about his son. About Giuseppe.

“Yes, I’d like that too,” you hummed softly, eyes lighting up.

So by the advice of your aunties—and, the advice Giorno receives from his team—you resume holding regular “nightly meetings.” They all emphasized the use of sex as a vital tool in developing intimacy, but after doing this for four weeks, it didn’t seem to be the case. Holding these meetings more frequently doesn’t seem to be any helpful either, much to your shared confusion.

Regardless, your straightforwardness astonishes Giorno, and after you encourage him to be more vocal about his preferences, you both start to enjoy your evenings a little more. After a few nights, you find yourselves experimenting in the bedroom. One time you’d even surprised him with an entire lingerie set you’d bought earlier on in your marriage.

He’d noticed your discomfort and immediately stopped pressing those feather light kisses on your collarbone. “That can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“It isn’t,” you reply bitterly. “I thought it would suit me better…”

“It does,” he says reassuringly. “You’re pretty no matter what state you’re in, though I’d much prefer to see you bare instead of wearing that leather corset.”

After realizing what he’d just implied, he fell silent. You quickly steal a glance at him and see that his cheeks have turned pink.

Hoping to break the silence you quietly (and blandly) say, “Don Giorno, I believe the correct term is ‘bustier.’”

His eyes soften at your plain-spoken correction, and suddenly it’s your turn to stutter and avoid eye contact.

For the record, the rest of the night goes off without further interruption once you discard the lingerie.

Emotional detachment and lack of an initial crush on Giorno has always helped you in speaking with him rather candidly though you never would have expected it to be useful in this context. Perhaps starting your relationship the way it did has its perks.

In any case, you were enjoying the friendly and unguarded banter slowly developing between the two of you. You suspect Giorno feels the same because the both of you can now converse beyond your usual “Buongiorno” and “Come sta?"

Though, if either of you were to currently assess your relationship, you would still agree that sex with each other—despite being quite delightful and pleasant—proved to be inadequate. What would be the key to bring you both together?

After a particularly strenuous romp, you find yourself getting rather comfortable in your bed. In the corner of your eye you can see that Giorno is getting ready to retire to his own suite, pulling on a robe and tying his hair away from his face. Just before he leaves you call out to him.

“Don Giorno.” He looks over to you with curiosity. Usually you two would part in silence. “Do you think sex has helped at all?”

He lowers his eyes and exhales. “No, I don’t think it has.”

“I didn’t think so either,” you reply dejectedly.

Much to your surprise, he retraces his steps back to the edge of your bed and seats himself by your feet. It appeared he was about to disclose some important, sensitive information with you.

“The men on my team suggested that I initiate physical intimacy,” he starts. “I apologize for speaking about you in that context, especially without your permission. I’ve never had to worry about matters like this, and truthfully, I was desperate to find some—“

He notices you wrap your arms around your quaking shoulders and immediately pauses. Were you crying? His heart nearly drops to his stomach at the thought of making you cry but when he studies your face, he finds his answer. The subtle upward quirk in your mouth tells him you were simply smothering a laugh.

He’d never seen you laugh before. In fact, no one in this house had ever seen or heard you laugh. The both of you have been married for over two years, but today was the first time he’d seen a break in that poised and refined facade you’d put on. The fact that he had been the one to bring a smile to your face—albeit in the middle of discussing something rather serious—pleases him immensely. If only he could find a way to do it again. He’d certainly like to hear your laugh. At the very least, it would dispel some of the guilt he felt for discussing his marital life with Mista and Narancia.

“Forgive me,” you chuckled. Your shoulders are still fighting to contain the laughter in your chest. “I find this all rather funny. You see—my aunties had given me similar advice.”

“I suppose that is rather funny,” he says amusedly.

Giorno doesn’t necessarily laugh but you catch him smiling on his way out. You see it just before he closes the door behind him.

The following morning you both come to an agreement: while you certainly wouldn’t cease any nightly activities, you would both have to try other methods. Sex has become a bit of an amusing experiment for you two, so you would use it in combination with other means to connect with each other. At the most, you meet about once a week, and the meetings are always scheduled, much to your satisfaction.

One morning, you rise from your suite feeling particularly well rested. There’s even a delightful bounce to your step as you walk through the house and towards the nursery. You quietly slip into the room to greet your son, only to find that he isn’t in his crib. Your heart races and mind scrambles. Sweat starts to form on the palms of your hands. You’d left him with one of the nurses the night before, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

You always greeted your son in his crib every morning. You were also always calm, always collected in a number of tense and stressful situations, but when it came to family—no, the people you loved —you often succumbed to panic.

Not wishing to alert any possible kidnappers in the house, you quickly make your way to Giorno’s suite. Yes; if anyone could stay calm, it would be Giorno.

Had this been any other day, you would have had the decency to knock before entering, but this was an emergency. Giorno’s privacy would have to be violated for a few minutes. He would understand; his son was in danger after all!

You push through the doorway to his bedroom and breathlessly pant, “Don Giorno, Giuseppe has been—”

Your heart catches in your chest. The only greetings you receive are barely audible snores. There, under the soft blue sheets and blankets, lay your husband and son. A small tuft of black hair—undoubtedly belonging to Giorno’s son—peeked out at you from underneath the covers, and not too far away was Giorno himself. The two of them are fast asleep and huddled rather close to each other.

You softly pad your way through the plush carpeting and walk to the side of the bed, kneeling mere inches away from Giorno. His hair was an absolute mess. The curls are long gone, most likely from the tossing and turning he’s done in his sleep and the coils that usually sat atop his head are loose, just barely covering his eyes. When you take a closer look at him, you can’t help but notice the perfect slope in his nose or the way those soft, full lips parted with each breath.

He looked rather peaceful like this. You’d always seen Giorno as ethereal and untouchable, but seeing him now—unguarded, disheveled and sleeping peacefully—strikes a pleasant chord within you. For once, he looked very normal. Seeing Giorno like this is endearing, and you suddenly felt bold enough to run your hands through his hair. You’ve always wondered how it felt, and you figure you should take your chance now, while he’s still sleeping.

Not wishing to disturb him from his peaceful slumber, you gently comb your fingers through his hair, running the tips of your fingers through the ends and eventually making your way to the roots. You softly hum as you do this, not realizing Giorno’s eyelids are slowly drooping open and closed.

At first Giorno was unsure if he were dreaming. For a moment he felt as though he’s surrounded by abundant warmth and finds this sensation incredibly pleasing. Once your fingertips reached his scalp, however, his eyes snapped open. You’re startled by this and recoil immediately, hissing when you harshly draw back into the wall behind you.

You stare at each other, and Giorno looks back and forth between you and the entrance to his room. He’s noticed that the bedroom door is still hung open. You must have entered when he was asleep, though it doesn’t exactly explain your sudden appearance. You never came to his room unless you had something to discuss with him.

“Is…” He stared after you, eyes still drowsy and adjusting to the light coming in through the windows. You notice he’s still half asleep, that his usual eloquence has been replaced with inarticulacy. Words are not coming easily to him at the moment. “Is everything alright?”

You nodded slowly, rising to your feet and returning to his bedside. “I... worried that Giuseppe might have gone missing and thought to go to you first.”

You look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll explain why Giuseppe is sleeping there instead of his crib. Truthfully, you’re delighted that Giorno’s taken further steps to spend time and bond with his son, but it still confuses you.

Apparently Giuseppe hadn’t warmed up to Giorno until last night. “He’s constantly looking for his mother,” Giorno explained. “For you.”

Before, Giorno would simply hold his son and talk to him, but Giuseppe’s mind would be elsewhere. He was always restless, searching for you when you were not with him. Last night, however, Giuseppe had settled into Giorno’s arms.

“We sat in silence for a few minutes, and when I stood to return him to his crib, he was already fast asleep.”

When Giorno finally experiences the breakthrough with his son, he couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste. He carried Giuseppe off to his room, and that’s where they spent the night.

You give him a small smile and nod in understanding. It’s in this moment that Giuseppe finally awakens. He looks at the both of you with those large blue eyes.

“Papà,” he called.

You and your husband exchange looks of bewilderment. Had you imagined that?

Giorno looks astounded. “Has he… ever spoken before...?”

“He hasn’t,” you whispered in reply, "not before today, at any rate."

Seeing the two of them next to each other warms your heart to no end. Seeing your son share such tender moments with his father—your husband, you reminded yourself—it felt like a wonderful dream. You hoped it wouldn’t end anytime soon.

You observe them from where you’re sitting on the bed, and notice that the both of them had that same peaceful and quiet air about them. Giuseppe really took after his father. You scoot closer to where your son is resting and greet him.

“Buongiorno tesoro,” you cooed affectionately.

Giorno watches as you lay your head in front of Giuseppe. By instinct, your son reaches out and plays with your hair, laughing in amusement when your hair starts to cover your eyes. Amidst the hair covering your face, Giorno can just barely discern the outline of a smile, but his vision focuses on the clock just behind you. You’re both ten minutes late to the meeting.

He immediately straightens up and the sudden change in his demeanor alerts you that something is wrong. It is not until he emerges from his closet fully dressed that you realize you were running late to the small council meeting. You quickly take Giuseppe into your arms and hand him over to the maid, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he’s taken to the kitchen for breakfast.

Giorno is surprised to find you waiting for him outside his door. The two of you descend the staircase in silence, hoping that Mista or Narancia are running even later than you are.

Giorno holds the door open for you, standing aside to let you in first. You reluctantly enter before him, knowing you both will be subject to the others’ entertainment. Giorno’s hair is still rather disheveled, despite being hastily pulled into his usual braid, and your clothes were wrinkled from stretching out on Giorno’s bed earlier. Unfortunately for you, the others have already taken note of the small changes in your appearances.

“Is it safe to say you two were discussing 'sensitive information?’” Sergio asked smugly.

“A lady never tells,” you replied dryly, helping yourself to a cup of tea before eyeing him down with that quiet sternness the others have come to know you for.

In all honesty it was your reserved and taciturn nature that quietly intimidated them. In some ways they can see why you and Giorno had been paired off to begin with. Why you two never hit it off immediately, they will never know.

Giorno smirks at this exchange, and for a second he finds himself unearthing a part of him that disappeared after becoming a gangster—a part of the unguarded young pickpocket who pursued his dreams and never quite returned. He quickly catches himself and discards this attitude, slipping back into his signature composed facade. The others are still chuckling over your sudden quip, so you’re the only one who seems to notice it. You choose not to make any comments on it.

Roberto Alfonsi, a local politician, had recently gone back on one of his promises. Giorno allowed this man to remain in office so long as he agreed to certain conditions; Giorno was to be alerted of any suspicious activity pertaining the drug deals that were suddenly occurring throughout Napoli.

Politicians and policemen were the least trustworthy amongst his subjects, but in order to have a better sense of the city’s happenings, he understood that he would have to simply work with them. He was extremely displeased to learn that the mayor had not only withheld intelligence, but was allowing the deals to transpire in exchange for a hefty share of the profits. Giorno had only learned of the deals because one of his own men had overhead a group of policemen discussing the treachery and reported it to him, and this irritated him to no end.

You simply sat and listened as you usually did during the meetings. Sometimes you wondered why you even bothered attending, but your father had explicitly laid his terms in your marriage contract to Giorno:

“Y/n will attend all of your meetings. I will not be present myself, as I still have plenty of business to oversee in Sicilia but given the nature of our alliance, I ask that she sit in on these meetings on my behalf. I believe it to be fair, considering you now wield the power of Cosa Nostra in addition to that of Passione.”

Giorno had no problems with this stipulation though he could tell that you would rather be elsewhere. You seldom spoke to anyone during the meetings, and today may have been the first time you’d even made so much as a remark, much less a wry comment. He suspects that you have finally become comfortable enough to speak amongst these unfamiliar acquaintances.

He finds it amusing that he’s using this term to refer to Narancia, Mista and the other men present, considering he knows them all rather well, but you had never so much as spoken a word to them aside from “Buongiorno” and “grazie.” He reckons this change may be connected to your recent behavior towards him—while you were initially guarded and extremely distant with Giorno, you’d recently began revealing your bitingly sarcastic humor and candid manner of speech. He’s not sure if it’s simply the passage of time that’s helped or something else entirely, but he welcomes this change no matter how subtle.

As the meeting goes on Giorno and his team immediately settle on taking Alfonsi out and placing a new figurehead as the mayor. You immediately quirk an eyebrow at this, but upon remembering your place, you simply continue to stare into your empty teacup. You find that men don’t listen to their wives (or women in general), and you figure that the agreement only pertains to your compulsory attendance to these meetings. There was never any indication specifying that you were to actually participate in them. So you kept your thoughts to yourself.

With this in mind, you sit further back into your chair as the rest of the meeting rolls on. Everyone had recently returned from separate trips to Roma and Venezia, so this meeting would most likely run into the afternoon. Once everyone is dismissed you rise from your seat, only to be approached by your husband.

“You wouldn’t happen to be busy, would you?”

“Yes, I’m going to be taking my tea right now… Is something the matter?” you asked curiously.

“Would you mind if I joined you?”

You silently wonder why he’s bothered asking. This is his estate after all—he can do as he pleases. Aside from that, his request is rather unexpected; he’s never shown any interest in joining you for tea. Still, you make it a point to apologize for not inviting him to join you sooner, and much to your surprise, he dismisses it, saying he simply wishes to spend extra time with you today.

Although you’ve been married for quite some time, Giorno still manages to surprise you. He acts so differently from every other man you’ve met, and he’s constantly catching you off guard. Never had Giorno silenced you nor dismiss your opinions, and often at times you would catch him eyeing you, as if to gauge your reactions to whatever was going on around you. 

And while it was no surprise to you that Giorno would ask about your plans (as he often had before), the idea that he would ask to spend even more time with you made for an unexpected turn of events.

Giorno follows close behind you on the way to the terrace. The weather is pleasant today; it’s balmy and rather sunny outside and as you suspected, everything is already laid out, but only for one person. You immediately turn to one of your attendants and ask that they bring another place setting for the Don as well as an additional serving of all the treats laid on the tiered dessert tray at the center of the table. When everything is settled, Giorno immediately pours out some tea for you.

“I assume you take milk and sugar?”

You shook your head, much to his surprise. “I actually take it plain—before I lived with my father, I couldn’t afford any additives. I’ve yet to acquire a taste for them, if I’ll be perfectly honest with you.”

You note that Giorno himself has already put two sugar cubes into his tea and immediately forgoes the finger sandwiches to help himself to a chocolate macaron. “And to think that the almighty Don of Passione has a sweet tooth.” You say amusedly.

He plays along with your lighthearted jab. “And the Don’s wife seems to like plain tea.”

“Will you consider sampling the other items the kitchen staff has prepared for us? They’re actually not too bad at cooking.”

You do coax Giorno into eating the finger sandwiches and he takes an immediate liking to the cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches. He only barely touches the scones and makes sure to slather whichever ones he does eat with cream and preserves. Unfortunately, when it comes to desserts, he’s only interested in chocolate. You’d even caught him observing your untouched macaron and offer it to him.

“Do you like chocolate, Don Giorno?” you asked.

“It seems as though you’ve found your answer,” he replied with a shrug.

“I’ve personally never developed a penchant for sweets… the chocolate macaron is yours if you’d like it.”

Giorno accepts your offer immediately. "Thank you."

He seems to be enjoying his tea, and this amuses you even more; he’s added exactly two sugar cubes in each serving so far, which you find wholly unnecessary considering this blend contains dried figs and strawberries, which already naturally sweeten the tea. You wonder if he had any cavities as a child.

Eventually Giorno sets his teacup onto the table. “There’s something I‘d like to discuss with you.”

“What is it?” you asked, quirking a brow in question.

“I’ve never asked for your opinions during meetings, and I suppose this is because I misread your behavior. I assumed you were uninterested in the subject matter.” You eyed him with great interest as he continued to explain himself. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is… You’re free to express your own thoughts in that room, Y/n. I don’t want to silence you. Your input is just as valuable as anyone else’s.”

You nod at this, teacup and saucer in hand, returning his statements with a polite smile and say, “Thank you.”

Why on earth was he mentioning this? Had he seen you pull that face during the meeting? You could have sworn that you were as subtle as possible about it. You wonder if spending time with him and letting your guard down was a mistake.

“You can tell me if I’m wrong about the mayor, Y/n.”

Ah. So it was about the face you made.

Would your input truly have any value? You wondered. It was a tempting opportunity, and one that was well within your reach, now that Giorno was consulting you. The possibility of working with Giorno, however, had never crossed your mind simply because you believed that your arrangement was fine as it was. Being uninvolved in Passione and its operations was for the best. Apart from that, you’d made the decision not to get tangled up in family affairs a long while ago.

You looked into your teacup and began tilting it side to side, watching as the tea leaves clumped together along the bottom.

“Well…” you continued reluctantly. “Some people may disagree with me…” Giorno nodded, his eyes searching yours thoroughly. He gestured for you to continue. “But I think pain and humiliation are the most effective ways to discipline a business partner. Death is far too merciful as far as Alfonsi’s punishment is concerned.”

“Merciful?” he repeated questioningly.

You immediately correct yourself. “Tales of your strength are legendary, Don Giorno. You’re a cunning foe, and a ruthless fighter; I don’t mean to say that you’re softhearted.” You take another breath before proceeding. "However… if I’m going to be frank with you… operating as a Don in less turbulent times is vastly different than your trek to amass power. Killing people off simply because they refuse to work with you is rather careless. My own father does kill those who defy him, but I suppose it’s rather different, considering he’s much more established, and he rarely has to handle insubordinate behavior...”

You wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary or angered him, but when you glanced at your husband you understood that he was carefully considering your suggestions.

“What would you suggest?” After studying his face, you were sure that his curiosity was sincere, that he genuinely wanted to receive some advice from you.

“Money and status are akin to power, are they not?” You wait for him to express his understanding before continuing. “Strip him of both and no one will ever take him seriously again. He wouldn’t be able to betray you, much less anyone else.”

There’s no guarantee that the next person he puts into power will listen to him, that it might simply be a waste of his time. He appears to follow your reasoning, much to your satisfaction.

You then remind him that talent and strength alone are not enough to stay at the top. He would have to be smart about wielding his power. After all, Diavolo hadn’t been the Don of Passione for fifteen brutal years without reason. You even draw attention to the fact that this feat is even more impressive considering no one knew his identity for the better part of his reign.

“Although you have many people following you and swearing their loyalty to you, there’s other people who question you because of your youth. I think it’s rather stupid on their parts, but I’ll never understand the way the mind of an idiot’s works.”

Giorno visibly softens at your indirect compliment though you fail to notice this.

The truth of the situation was that although Giorno was talented and strong enough to acquire so much power at such a young age, it made people—older figures and individuals in particular—less willing to bow down to him. Many of them, upon Giorno’s acquisition of Passione, simply said “when your rise is this rapid, your fall will be rapid as well.”

You were of a different belief—Giorno’s ideals would gain favor with many people, and that would be stronger than any established reputation that came with old age and a family name. Of course, now that he was married to you it seemed as though he wouldn’t have to worry about not having ties to a powerful family.

“What you mean to tell me is that if I embarrass him, he would lose his legitimacy, and he’d no longer hold any real power... I see your point.”

You nod your head at this. “I understand you’re a man of action, but I think you’ll find that in this world, you’ll have to play the game by certain rules.”

Giorno briefly wonders if he’s sitting face to face with Abbacchio, if he’s still fifteen, if this has all been a dream. He imagines Bucciarati walking into the room to mitigate the impending argument, but he doesn’t; Bucciarati and Abbacchio passed away years ago.

He is not fifteen years old anymore—he’s twenty-three years old, and he’s married. It's his wife he is speaking to, not Abbacchio. For once, such advice doesn't sound rigid or ridiculously narrow-minded.

He imagines that his fifteen-year-old self would still be too headstrong to consider such a rigid way of thinking but he understands now that you and your father could provide helpful insight. The both of you were, after all, sitting at the head of Cosa Nostra, possibly the oldest crime organization in Italia.

When he asks how you would go about punishing the mayor, you pause. You were certain that you’d heard the name Roberto Alfonsi somewhere else before, though you couldn’t quite remember where. You quietly confess that you don’t have a detailed plan for him and ask that he give you time to come up with a solution.

To your surprise he simply responds with, “I look forward to hearing it.”

When you finish your tea, you quickly tell him that Frida Giannini has altered some pieces for you from Gucci’s latest collection, and that you would be picking them up personally today, as they’d just been completed. He leaves you to run your errands, and it’s only there in Frida’s office that you chance upon a familiar face.

“My how you’ve grown! I remember you used to have extremely short hair as a child, I used to mistake you for a boy. It’s all rather funny isn’t it?  Though I must say, you look so lovely now.”

There, standing in front of you is Teresa Conti, the wife of the very same mayor you and Giorno had just spoken about.

End note: