#ilfated

he is almost always dressed in black these days as of late. his father commented on it recently -- worried and well - meaning in his own obtuse way, he'd said it was droll -- and now the man he thinks closely as a brother. only now does he comment, or perhaps, only notices for the first time after all this time. a small smirk appears on his lips. jackass, he thinks fondly.

❝  it was always my color. ❞ he counters with a relaxed shrug. together they stand as a solid contrast -- bruno dressed in white, saint - like and beloved. he, sullen and black, becoming one of the shadowy pillars of passione. this is how it was always meant to be ; one who would be the face, the other would be the true force. the heir & the spare. though they never call themselves that, not in this life.

they are of equal standing, in this life. raised like brothers, side by side.

the grip around their forearm is not meant to hurt them, and if it is, that is a complete accident. he takes a moment to gather his composure once more and relinquish the hold. don't, a word of protest whispers within. if he lets go, he will lose them. that is what part of him is convinced as the dread seeps in like a shadow.

❝  this not only concerns you. ❞ he says in a low tone which only they are able to hear. ❝  and you know that. ❞

even if anyone were curious enough about this heated quarrel and attempted to eavesdrop, they wouldn't gather much. metallica is on alert, listening for any unwanted presences anyway. but he doubts that any attention is being paid; formaggio is dead. pesci is stifling tears, utterly heartbroken. illuso entered a reckless fit of rage, smashing furniture pieces until grateful dead was forced to subdue him. prosciutto is pacing and smoking, smoking so much these days, and distracting himself with rethinking details of their plan. ghiaccio is calm, eerily calm, scarily calm. that only means he will break down later.

and risotto wants to help each of them in whatever way he can, he truly does. but he is only one man and he is not enough. half of his men blame him, but won't say it to his face. the other half look to him for all the answers, which he does not have. there is so little he can do right now that it eats at him. formaggio is dead. it is his fault. everything is quickly falling to chaos. all he can do is prevent losing anyone else. and right now, the first reactive instinct makes him want to keep them close by his side, at all times. take no chances. but of course, they take issue with it.

incensed, he flies into a rage at the other's impudent response. being ambushed by someone of risotto's size must be a rather frightening thing; in a swift motion he ambushes the other man, slamming him against the nearest wall without care if he's knocked the breath out of him. he hopes his head slams against the surface, he hopes it'll knock some fucking sense into his ignorant head. fuck you? the audacity of him, the spoiled brat of the two. risotto nearly bites down his tongue to stifle a laugh. no, fuck you, bruno.

❝  don't give me that shit, 'the woe is me, it was thrust upon me' act. i see right fucking through it. ❞ he grabs fistfuls of bruno's pristine, pinstripe suit and nearly throttles him as he speaks. ❝  you knew what you were doing. ❞

they were thrust into a rigged competition, one which risotto was never going to win. bruno always had the advantage, and he played it. he would've been a fool not to do so otherwise. for that, risotto respected him. and now that effort has paid off, hasn't it? he's come to claim his stakes, he has every right to. it's this. . . this pansy ass step back, the audacity to shrug his shoulders and feign innocence, that pisses risotto off most.