#ck fics

II The newbie, who was just recruited last month, is a tall man with already-grey hair, who always wears black no matter what gang function he’s attending. He’s quiet, and most of the other men in the gang give him his space. It’s only by proximity, being sent on many of the same missions, that Bruno gets to know him. His name is Leone Abbaccio. He is an unusually good shot for a new recruit. His stand, as Bruno’s come to call the strange powers that all members of the gang seem to possess in one way or another, is some sort of tracking ability he doesn’t like to use around others. “You’re really comfortable with a gun, aren’t you?” Buccellati asks him once, when they’re driving back into the city alone after another assassination. “So, what were you in your past life?” There is a long hesitation before he responds with the bare minimum. “Police officer.” “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that.” “Oh yeah? Heard it all? So what were you?” “Me? I was nothing. They plucked me up before I even knew what I wanted.” Abbaccio stops gazing out the window, and turns to look at Buccellati, his mouth pursed in confusion. “I was twelve,” Bruno clarifies. “Damn,” Abbaccio says, slumping back into his seat. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can say. III Bruno’s flatmate disappeared under unclear circumstances. This happened a lot in the gang, some drug dealer or pimp would be taken in or killed by rival groups, and their absence wouldn’t even be noticed until their fellow gang members realized they hadn’t seen so-and-so for about a week. This often happened within their first year of working for the gang, and Polpo coldly described it as separating the wheat from the chaff. This would have been completely unremarkable if this had been the circumstances. But Bruno’s flatmate had been in the gang almost as long as he had. He was experienced, and most importantly, had seen this kind of thing happen hundreds of times. He would know better to be lured out and ambushed. He could probably hold his own against at least five men of lower rank. Polpo makes sure to let the Naples division know that the boss is very troubled by this disappearance. Bruno was not particularly moved by it. The very day some remains still clinging to rags of his now-ex flatmate’s clothes were found in a canal leading out to the sea, he called Abbaccio, asking if he’d like to move in and split rent with him. It would be a huge favor, actually. “You can even use his furniture if you’d like.” He said, his smile pressed against the receiver. His other hand is tented protectively over a city guide for Amsterdam, splayed facedown on the table. IV The problem is he can’t bear to leave his father behind, but his father can’t be moved. If his father improved, mainly, got out of the coma and could leave the hospital, he’d be much less at the mercy of what Polpo could do to him if he thought Bruno was straying from the path. But if his father was still in a coma, it was almost as if an invisible leash pulled at him, causing a sinking feeling in his stomach if he even left the city where the hospital that was monitoring his father was located. He probably knew enough about other cities in Europe and even on other continents now to be able to disappear well enough on his own, but it wasn’t worth leaving if he’d be letting his father die in the process. No matter how tempting a chance at a normal life was, there was no way he could make that tradeoff. Abbaccio adapts well to his new living arrangement. He and Buccellati have similar habits, go to bed at a similar hour, and the first choice for takeout is always, unanimously, pizza. He also makes sure not to let his gaze stray to the names of the cities on the covers of the books Bruno keeps all around the apartment. The first time he did, Bruno shot him a chilling glare, and that was the end of it. He never asks why he always seems to have one at hand, in fact, he just acts like they aren’t there at all, and that only seems to enrich their friendship. V And then his father was, suddenly, responding well to treatment. Weak brain waves strengthened as if they were blown against the shore by a fortunate wind. His eyelids began to flicker, maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was finally beginning to sense the warmth of his son’s hand. His blood-deprived brain was healing, everything was looking up. The doctor decided that he’d reached a level of brain activity where some electrical impulse stimulation could bring back basic capabilities. His eyes could be jolted open, he might regain speech and simple motor skills. It’d happened before to patients that have been in comas longer. He said all of this sounding genuinely enthusiastic. It was contagious. In the office, after hearing this explanation, Bruno laughed, and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” “There’s just one surgery, it inserts a device we call a “brain pacemaker.” It’s been done at this hospital several times without any problems to patients with a whole range of symptoms. I’ll be overseeing it myself. I hope you feel comfortable trusting me with your father.” “Of course.” VI Something’s gone wrong. A hush falls over the waiting room when a doctor comes out, carrying two cups of coffee and looking exhausted. Everyone’s hope is, maybe selfish, that this isn’t for them. He makes eye contact with Bruno. “Mr. Buccellati, would you come back to the office with me?” Buccellati’s stomach shrinks, the whole room feels cold. His hands begin to shake like he’s freezing. When he takes the coffee from the doctor, the man who’s seen his father through almost every checkup and procedure, he puts it down immediately. He’ll spill it if he tries to hold it. He knows this doctor. He’s seen him through good news and bad news. This is very, very bad news. “I’m going to be frank, since we’ve both been trying to help your father for so long. I don’t know what happened. When we did the test pulses, it was like 20 seconds worth of the electric pulses entered the brain in only 5 seconds. We’ve taken the machine away, if it’s a malfunction I’ll testify on your behalf for however much you can get out of the manufacturer, but if you need someone to be angry at now...” “What? I don’t understand.” “Something happened. Your father lost all brain activity instead of having it stimulated. Like I said,” When Bruno manages to look at him, he can tell the doctor is just as shaken and confused as he is. “If you need someone to be angry at now, be angry at me.” Bruno doesn’t indulge him, and instead, after doing the bit of paperwork asked of him, says he’ll go home. Come back for the funeral arrangements tomorrow. He needed time to process it. When the doctor leads him back out to the waiting room, Bruno takes a glance back to the operating room, hoping he wouldn’t have to see his father’s vacant body being carted out, but also unable to help looking. Instead, he sees a short kid, definitely not in scrubs, with his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail exiting the room. “Wait, why the fuck is there a kid back there?” He asks, grabbing the doctor’s shoulder and turning him towards the operating room. But whoever he saw has already disappeared. VII Abbaccio handled the situation like he had whenever one of his friends on the force had lost someone close to them. Take them out for a drink, try to give them one last calm evening, one last night of peaceful rest before the long struggle that came with informing friends and relatives, organizing the funeral, mourning. It was his own coping mechanism as well. It was probably the best thing for Bruno, he thought, since right now he seemed haunted every time he looked at the stacks of city guides that still sat around their apartment. They started out sitting at the bar, with a beer each. Before Abbaccio could ask if Bruno wanted to talk about it, Bruno finished his drink, and moved on to a second beer. He went through that quickly too, and then started ordering hard liquor. “Woah, slow down.” Abbaccio had only ever seen Bruno accept a glass of wine with his dinner, if it was even offered. He’d probably never had this much in his life. “Come on, talk about it. Don’t do this to yourself.” Bruno’s shoulders were slumped, almost as if he was going to lean down and take a nap on the bar, but his voice was surprisingly clear. “My father’s dead, my mother’s already remarried with two kids in Rome, honestly, who’s there to worry about me if I put a few nails in the coffin this way?” “Okay, when you start talking like that, you’ve had too much.” Abbaccio threw his arm over Bruno’s shoulder and pulled him up. “Come on.” He struggled to steer his friend on the narrow sidewalks, especially since Bruno kept pulling away to look behind him. “No one’s following us. Calm down.” “I keep feeling like there’s someone behind me.” “We’ll be home soon.” Bruno turned around one last time, and he finally caught the kid, in the same ratty purple sweater, staring at him from the opposite sidewalk. Abbaccio felt him pull away even more suddenly than the last time. “Come on Bruno, stop it.” “It’s the fucking kid from the hospital.” “What?” VIII As he runs at the kid, his fist already cocked back, time seems to slow. The kid just stares at him, doesn’t really make any effort to lift his arms in defense or step out of the way. Bruno’s lunging forward, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t seem to get any closer, and then suddenly he’s barrelling past the kid, slamming into the stone wall behind him, almost like he ran through him. Bruno crumples to the sidewalk. His whole shoulder feels like a gigantic, numb ache. What just happened? Had he really had that much to drink? Shit. Abbaccio’s there in a few seconds, roughly pulling him up off the ground and slinging one of his arms over his shoulders again. “I’m really sorry,” Abbaccio says, quickly apologizing. “It’s okay. Mr. Leone, Mr. Buccellati, right? I’m in Passione too, I hope we can be associates for a long time.” Buccellati laughs under his breath. “Yeah, okay, why don’t you try and make friends with us later, kid.” Abbaccio, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything, just guides Bruno down the sidewalk as he had been. From behind them comes the same, childish voice. “Goodnight!” IX When Bruno woke up where he was unceremoniously dropped on the couch, he only remembered taking a swing at the kid he’d seen in the hospital, and missing. He remembered, as he would every morning until it became reflex, that his father was gone. His head throbbed as he thought of the calls he needed to make, informing his mother, funeral arrangements. A giant, painful bruise was forming on his shoulder where he’d hit the wall, and his stomach was churning strangely. Never again, he thought. The previous night would be the last time he would drink, the last time he would let his anger get the best of him, and the last time he would entertain the thought of breaking off from the gang, for a long time at least.

The sun was blasting full-force through the hotel window at 6AM. This woke Bruno up, but Trish was still sleeping in his arms, oblivious. She was in the same position as he last remembered her, curled up tight against his chest, almost like a pillbug trying to hide. He crawled over her, letting her sleep. It was still three hours until they needed to be at the train station anyways. Bruno changed his clothes, washed up, put on his shoes, and quietly left the hotel room. It felt strange to him, not comforting, to wake up with someone else in his bed. The last memory he had of such a situation seemed like it was from another life. Because he cared so much for others’ happiness, any relationship beyond friendship had ended, invariably, due to guilt on his part. A murderer, criminal, uneducated, scum in many respects, he felt like he could atone for these things by loyalty and kindness, but feeling anything more for someone else seemed like an imposition. All these thoughts again. God, he needed a walk. He stopped at the first chapel he came by that was open so early. Only a few elderly people sat hunched in the pews, and there were no tour groups yet, so he’d be spared from the constant fluttering of camera shutters. Around the nave were several small chapels. One had a statue of the virgin mother and a coin slot for donations. Bruno dropped a 2 Euro coin in, and the statue was bathed in yellow light from an overhanging spotlight. He knelt at the bannister, not quite praying, but resting his head on his hands. He didn’t often pray, in the formal sense, but this was often how he sorted his thoughts. It was a quiet place where other people would leave him alone, one of the few places he could concentrate that also reflected well on hm. Trish. She probably didn’t mean anything by it. She was feeling miserable, nervous, cold. Wouldn’t anyone seek out some sort of comfort in that state? In that case, he’d done the right thing. She’d feel better now, presumably, and that would be the end of it. But what if? He was so thrown off balance, suddenly completely unsure of how to treat her. Going back to the room seemed daunting now. Maybe this reaction meant he was hoping all along that there was something to all the things she did to try and get a rise out of him. Being picky, demanding, dramatic, maybe that was just how she’d had to squeeze affection out of people in the past. Bruno heard the faint sound of the light flickering off. He tried to clear his mind, come to a simple conclusion. He could still take care of her, just the same as before. Nothing had changed, for now. But it would. The paths of their lives were irreconcilably different. Any attempt at a relationship he could imagine would be like all the others, temporary, disappointing. If she wanted anything more, as much as it might hurt her in the moment, he would have to turn her down. She would find someone more like her, who had a chance at being able to protect her happiness, more permanently. He stood. His mind was made up. See? There was no need to panic, he thought as he left the chapel. You knew exactly what to do. Trish was still dozing when Bruno got back to the room, but had sprawled out as well as she could on the tiny bed. Bruno had gotten some slices of pumpernickel toast for himself from the breakfast bar downstairs, a croissant stuffed with Nutella for Trish, and two cups of black tea. He set the food on the nightstand and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze to wake her up. “Good morning. Ready for Naples?” Trish just groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head. “Come on, you slept like a log. You’ve got an hour to get ready.” Bruno picked up his cup of tea and plate of toast. “I’ll give you some privacy so you can shower and get ready. I got you some food, too.” Trish immediately poked her head out from under the covers, then sat up to examine the pastry. “Oh my god, wow! This looks good. Thanks.” She turned to look at Buccellati. “Are you already done getting dressed?” It seemed like an odd question, since he was clearly still wearing his jacket from the walk. “Yes, why?” “Your hair’s not braided!” Bruno shrugged. He had phased out that part of his hairstyle when he’d stopped working for the gang. “I haven’t worn it like that in a while.” “Oh come on! It’s your signature look.” “Really?” She reached up and placed the tips of her fingers on either side of his part, and ran them down the length of his hair. The strange contact made his stomach sink. “Really. Now let me braid it for you.” “Why would I trust someone with short hair to braid my hair?” She scowled at him. “It can’t be that hard.” “You’d be surprised.” He let her try, kneeling in front of where she sat on the bed. She fussed over it for at least twice as long as it took him to do it, and he did it without looking. “Are you alright up there?” “Almost done!” When she was done, he could tell that the braid was horribly crooked, just from how certain sections yanked at his scalp and others felt loose. He took a look at it in the mirror, though, just to humor her. “Awful.” That was the verdict, and he immediately began undoing it. Trish had insisted on arriving in her new dress. It was short, frilly, metallic silver, a lovely party dress but ill-suited to the flurrying weather outside. She shivered the entire walk to the train station, and a good while on the train, too. Their car was mostly empty, so when Trish got out her sketchbook, she asked Bruno to turn slightly towards her. “I’ll try drawing you.” After a second she frowned. “Could you try smiling a bit? …No, that looks too forced. I guess I’ll just have to draw you looking all wrapped up in your thoughts, as usual.” She gave up on the drawing after a few minutes. When they disembarked in Naples, the snow was coming down heavily. Luckily it was only a five minute walk to the Baroque ex-government building Giorno had bought to use as Passione’s new base. “Just looking up at the front of a building like this makes me nervous,” Trish said. Almost too gently to notice, her hand briefly slid into his. Against his better judgement, Bruno gave it a light squeeze, then rang the doorbell. As if they were both given a signal, their hands pulled away from eachother at the same time, and they waited for familiar voices on the other side of the door.

Trish finished getting her hair dyed and had picked out a suitable, if not ideal, party dress by 10 PM, but she braved the cold and stayed out until a bit past midnight, when she assumed Buccellati would begin to get concerned. At exactly 12:15, as if to spite him, she returned to the room. He was seated on the bed, idly shuffling a small stack of museum brochures he had lifted from the lobby in his hands. “Bored?” She said, dropping the shopping bag at the foot of her bed. Bruno looked up. “Your hair looks nice.” “I know.” Trish quietly changed into the T-shirt and sweatpants she usually wore to bed, went to the bathroom, and then clicked off the single bedside lamp that lit the entire tiny room.  Bruno folded his arms and laid down on his side, closing his eyes tightly to try and blot out the city lights that still shone in through the room’s window. After a few moments, he heard the soft sound of Trish’s footsteps and then felt the weight of her body sitting towards the middle of his bed. He opened his eyes, trying to understand her glum expression in the half-light. “Why didn’t you come with me?” She asked when she noticed his eyes were open. “We were getting on eachother’s nerves, I felt like you needed some time to yourself, that’s all.” The weight shifted, and she was lying down next to him, her head curled into his chest. “I feel like shit.” She was still shivering, from staying out in the cold for so long, and sounded on the verge of tears. Buccellati uncrossed his arms and put one around her curved shoulders. “Are you sick?” “No, I just feel stupid. I made myself stay out late trying to get you to worry about me...” “That is pretty childish.” “Am I really that annoying?” “You’re usually fine,” Bruno said, then, jokingly, “Sometimes I just wish you would warn me before doing something like this. I could have got a room with one double bed for less than this one...” Trish sat up instantly. At least this time there was an amused smile on her face. “That would be weird.” She frowned, looking confused. “I guess this is kind of weird.” Trish stood and turned back towards her bed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--” Buccellati didn’t often do things impulsively, but Trish was still upset, about what, he wasn’t sure. Making her happy, protecting her, seemed as much a part of his job as it did three years ago. He reached out where he thought her wrist would be, and his hand closed around it. “Wait, it’s okay.” Trish hesitantly returned to sitting on the side of the bed, then carefully lowered herself to lying down next to him again. “What’s bothering you?” Bruno asked. “I’m worried everyone’s changed,” she said after a few seconds of consideration. “I’m worried we’ll just bicker and get annoyed with eachother and not get along in our weird way anymore.” “That’s silly. Trust me, no one’s changed that much. Just try to sleep, so you don’t end up grouchy tomorrow.” Bruno put his arm around the girl’s shoulders again. Still a girl to him, even if she had grown. Maybe it was blind optimism, but Buccellati really wanted to believe that nothing had changed between friends. Still, lying next to him, that was just evidence that things already were changing. He could smell the scent of bleach from Trish’s freshly-dyed hair, just below his nose, and his eyes started to water.

The next morning, the ferry set out on time, uneventfully. The water was incredibly calm, that and the morning fog were the only notable aspects of the journey. The fog seemed to settle around the ferry as they left port, making a bubble around them. Most of the passengers were alone, quiet. Typical for an early morning trip. Even though it was a bit chilly, Trish and Bruno ended up sitting on a bench out on deck. Their bags were tucked underneath the bench, between them, but Trish had pulled out her sketchbook and began doodling the few other passengers. Bruno mostly looked out over the water while she drew, so she wouldn’t get self conscious, but when she slid the pencils into the wire binding and leaned back, letting her head rest on the back of the bench, he took a peek. “Are you planning to go on to college after you finish school?” “Yeah, I’ve applied to a few. Illustration.” “So you want to do fashion magazines?” “Why does everyone assume that?” Trish sat up with a scowl and closed the sketchbook. “No, I was thinking more like...” She paused, reaching for her bag under the bench to put the sketchbook back, only continuing when her face was turned away. “...children’s books.” “Really?” She sat back up. “Is that silly? I mean, of course it’s not. But what, do you think it’s silly?” Trish stared at him, confrontationally. She got so intense, even when she was just a little annoyed. Buccelati had negotiated with dangerous criminals and faced assassins, but he was beginning to remember why taking care of Trish stuck out in his memory as one of the most troublesome jobs. “No, it’s just... I remember you asking for fashion magazines to occupy yourself, not books.” “Oh,” Trish’s angry expression subsided. “Well I only thought about it after all that. My mom was busy all the time since she was a single mother, but she always made sure to read to me before bedtime. I got so wrapped up in being dragged around Italy right after she died, I realized when I got back to school that I never really got to do anything to... honor her memory. So I want to make books for kids, make them as happy as she made me, you know?” They were both quiet for a bit, the soft sounds of the sea and other passengers milling about filling the silence. Trish jumped when she felt Bruno’s hand give hers a comforting squeeze. “She’d be very proud of you.” Trish managed a smile, maybe forcing it a bit. “How about you? What have you been up to?” “Not much. I officially left the gang after Giorno took over, but I still do some harmless errands for him. Like this.” “And?” “What do you mean, and?” “Well, come on, Bruno! It’s been three years. There has to be something interesting that happened in your life.” Bruno leaned back in the bench, folding his arms and staring off into the fog. “There’s really not. I guess I was so happy to get out of a situation I hated, I’ve kind of let my life become aimless.” “You really hated being in the gang?” “When I decided to take things into my own hands and protect you from the boss, it was the first time in years I was sure I was doing something right, rather than just following orders and hoping no one innocent would be hurt. That’s how it was. Giorno’s cleaned house now, things are a lot better, but there’s still some groups that think the profits from things like drugs and prostitution are worth going behind his back for.” He sighed, shifting a bit on the bench. “I have no doubt he’ll take care of them all eventually, but I couldn’t take any more of it. Sorry. We can’t seem to get away from uncomfortable subjects, can we?” “It’s fine,” Trish said, smiling. “You still sound like you need a hobby or something though.” “I’m trying to teach myself to cook, I guess. Is that good enough?” “Cooking? That’s not a hobby. That’s something any grown man should already know! Come on, what do you like to do?” “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never had the chance to think about it.” This seemed to bother Trish more than his mistaken assumption about her drawings. “Are you for real? As nice as you are, Bruno, you can be a little boring sometimes.” He shrugged. “I’ll figure out something to do, eventually.” That was the end of their conversation until they reached port. As the ferry came closer to the Italian mainland and the sun rose higher in the sky, the fog dissipated, but a blanket of gray clouds still dominated the sky. “Maybe we’ll have snow for Christmas,” Trish commented as they waited for the car that would take them south to Rome. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” “It’s still a long way to Naples, so I hope it holds off,” Bruno replied. Trish rolled her eyes at him. “You’re so practical.” A car pulled up, and the driver waved to Buccelati. He must have been some lower-level member of Passione, Trish didn’t recognize him at all. “Here’s our ride. And I hope you’re okay with pizza as soon as we get there.”

Not since she was in nursery school had Trish been picked up at the end of the day. Having only one parent at home for most of her childhood usually meant she had to walk back on her own in the afternoons, but today, on the last day before winter break, she had someone to look for outside the school. Of course, he was there on time. Three years out of the mob, and Bruno Buccelati had still not taken on the laid back pace most Italians were known for. He always made sure to be 10 minutes early for any meeting, whether it was sensitive business for Giorno or simply accompanying a friend like this. He waved as he noticed Trish awkwardly waddling towards him, a duffel bag over one shoulder and her satchel over the other. He couldn’t help but crack a slight smile at how she was dressed. A plain, grey sweatshirt seemed drab for her, but a bright pink pleated skirt and boots with chunky knit socks spilling over the top, well, that wasn’t too far from the girl he’d met during his last mission as a member of Passione. As she got closer, he could see brown roots springing up beneath her normal pink haircut, and where it had gotten slightly too long in the back she had pulled it into a stubby ponytail. Even though Trish seemed a bit spoiled and fixated on keeping up with high fashion most of the time, she could forget it all in favor of working when the situation, like end of semester exams, called for it. “How did your last exam go?” Bruno asked as Trish came within earshot. “I’m finished!” She groaned, dropping both bags to the ground next to her and stretching her arms out to the side, nervously, but like she had visualized it beforehand. Stay calm, she’d told herself. It’s been a while, but they’re all still the same people. “That’s all I care about. I don’t want to talk about school anymore.” She breathed in sharply and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his waist, a quick, awkward hug. “How are you? Hm?” She began to pull away but didn’t expect to feel his arms fall around her shoulders. “Bruno?” She looked up, and felt his hand brush her overgrown bangs to the side, followed by a light kiss on her forehead. Her stomach instantly curled into a knot. “Hey!” Trish ducked away under his arms and picked up her bulging duffel bag. “Don’t do that, like I’m a little girl or something.” She handed the duffel bag to Bruno and threw the satchel over her own shoulder. “Sorry, it’s been awhile.” He turned away, walking over the cobblestone sidewalk that was slick from the misting rain. It was a bit chilly, not cold enough to snow yet, but appropriate weather for the start of a winter break. Underneath his hooded, black and white print jacket, Buccelati had on a black turtleneck sweater to keep warm. “Come on,” he said to Trish. “I have a taxi waiting, they’ll take us to the ferry.” Bruno gave his instructions to the driver, and then climbed into the back seat where Trish was already waiting, fiddling with the strap of her bag which was sitting on her lap. “Everything alright?” She asked. “Yes, we’re headed to the port at Golfo Aranci. We’ll stay in the hotel there for the night and take the first ferry in the morning.” “Well, I don’t know if it fits in your schedule, but I have to get to a hairdresser before I can even be seen in Naples,” Trish said. “And I’d like to buy a new dress for the Christmas party.” The hairdresser was her main concern, though. She knew that Mista would probably tease her relentlessly if he saw her with her hair in disarray like this. Hell, maybe he’d be shocked. Trish didn’t doubt that he might be stupid enough to think that her hair was just naturally hot pink. “We’ll have time. When we get to the port it’s a few hours’ car ride to Rome, we’ll have an evening there before we catch the train to Naples on Saturday.” “Okay, sounds good.” Trish sank a little deeper into the seat of the taxi. The last few exams, and the all-nighters leading up to them, had left her feeling like a walking husk. After a few beats of silence, Bruno tried to drum up more conversation.“You have one more semester left, right?” “Yep.” “And you’re in the arts program, if I remember correctly?” “Mm.” A mumbled assent. It was only around 4PM and she was drowsing off. “I’ll tell you all about it later, ok?” She leaned against the window, and then, when the car went over a bump, hit her forehead on the glass and sat up in a daze. “Here.” Bruno slid out of his jacket and handed it to Trish, who balled it up to use as a cushion for her head. “Thanks.” She barely formed the word before going back to sleep, this time for the rest of the ride. Three years ago, after Giorno had become the boss and the entire mafia had been restructured, it was decided, as the result of a little recon, of course, that it was safe for Trish to return to her hometown, live in her own apartment, and finish upper secondary school. Parting with the gang was hard, but she was also excited to get back to a normal routine, and hopefully finish school as planned. Since then, the members of Passione she was friendly with had visited if they had business in the area, but this Christmas would be the first time they’d all be together.