"You made sure to put extra powdered sugar on the sfogliatella, right? I like a whole bunch!"
"Yeah, that's the best part!"
"Of course I did. Send my regards to your mother, you hear? Off you go."
As the confectioner cheerily waved goodbye to the two rosy-cheeked kids spilling out of his shop, Officer Abbacchio couldn't help but smile. You see, from this little shop, one could see the entirety of the bay of Naples, down to the azure blue sky melding with the shimmering sea. Colorful buildings dotted the coastline, only interrupted by Vesuvius' imposing presence way off in the distance. If one were to turn and face inland instead, they'd get an equally clear view of meandering footpaths and stately historical buildings leading up to the sheer cliffs and lush greenery of Campania's inner beauty.
Leone had only started to patrol in the neighborhood for the past two weeks, but from the view alone, he felt he had struck gold. Even if he was a little bored. It felt like a mixed blessing; His partner had been the one to suggest he take the temporary reassignment while another officer was on vacation. Plus, if it hadn't been for this movement, he was certain he'd be at his wits end at his old post.
Many a night he would come home, about ready to tear out the tufts of buzz-cut hair that remained on his head because of his chosen profession. As he turned a corner into yet another shaded alleyway, he tipped his hat to an old woman, who smiled in return. See, common decency like that. Where has it gone in the rest of Naples? He thought to himself, sighing out loud. A common thread that would so often spiral into something much more disillusioned, even trigger-happy. He'd walked up two levels at this point, arriving at an empty and sun-baked piazza that would fill up at night with curious young people out on dates.
His partner told him not to dwell so much on the past, but was it not the truth? An inadvertent scowl crossed his face as he overlooked the bay from this higher position, a cloud crossing overhead. Every night at his typical post would leave Leone with a bitter taste in his mouth, regardless of what nonsense unfolded. Some days he'd wonder what the point was altogether-
But, the officer reminded himself starkly, the harmony of a neighborhood like this could be enforced in the rest of town. It wasn't naive, it was how the world worked. He'd straighten out Naples, one day, one footpath at a time.
So, until the month was over, Abbacchio decided he would savor this break of pace.
As golden hour set in, Abbacchio found himself making his way back down the hill to where he began. Maybe he'd bring a sfogliatelle home for desert that night-
"P-please, have mercy!"
The distressed cry was punctuated by the sound of a gut-wrenching impact echoing across the bricks and concrete. The carabinieri 's blood ran cold, and he found himself entering combat mode through sheer muscle memory before he even knew it. It sounded like the confectioner from earlier, was he being attacked? What sort of sicko would attack a shop owner in broad daylight like that? Abbacchio had only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, the officer peaked around the corner, his eyes widening at what he saw.
The confectioner kneeled next to his shopfront, a puddle of greenish liquid still spilling from his maw. His hands shook as they crossed together, meekly begging for reprieve at the man standing above him.
"You have dues you owe to the famiglia. Did you really think you could skimp on them?" The standing man's voice rang out, androgynous yet so firm in its conviction that goosebumps rose all across Leone's skin. Beneath sharply bobbed hair, his posture was slouched, hands in impossibly white suit pockets with a spotted pattern running along the bodyline. It was the posture of a predator ready to strike once again.
"I have no more m-money, I'm telling you the honest truth, Bucciarati-"
Abbacchio flinched as the confectioner was struck again in the stomach, the mafioso's name ringing countless alarm bells in his head. Bucciarati, the gaudy douchebag who worked for Polpo in the prison by the shore. Just another Passione bigshot, now out to harass the fine citizens of this town into submission.
"Don't you dare try to lie to me, scumbag," He sneered, thrashing the man's head with a vice grip on his greying hair. "I know you're peddling cocaine like it's candy to the kids around here. You make my skin crawl." Bucciarati turned his head away like he was smelling something rotten, his jet black bob swaying to follow the movement.
The man wailed, the revelation seeming to hit him and Leone both like a sack of bricks. Was it really true? If it was, who was in the right here? He'd never heard of a Passione member denouncing their own drug trade before. Was Bucciarati really even with such a gang? It was like he was doing his own job. If so, was he doing it better than Abbacchio-
Don't be such a pussy. You are the law, Abbacchio snapped back to this thought. If he didn't step in, who would?
Readying his pistol, Abbacchio turned the corner and ran out. "DROP HIM RIGHT NOW!" He shouted, aiming his gun directly between the gangster's sparkling gold hairpins.
Bruno's head slowly turned to face Leone, deep-set eyes staring past him. It was an inscrutable expression, one that reminded the officer of a wildcat.
Bucciarati threw the man aside by his hair, who crumpled fully to the ground like a puppet. The mafioso began to walk towards Abbacchio, gaze now unshakeable. "STOP MOVING! GET ON THE GROUND, NOW!" He barked again, his own voice grating in his ears more and more with each word. But the gangster wouldn't stop his approach. "STOP OR I'LL SHOOT," Abbacchio warned, heart beating in his ear like a locomotive.
The tips of Bruno's lips only curled up at him like a fox. He took another step forward, and the carabinieri let loose. A bullet flew towards Bucciarati at mach speed, but just before it made impact, he brushed at it, as though he were swatting away a fly. The ricochet of metal rang out almost as loud as the gunshot itself, and for a split second, Abbacchio could've sworn he saw the bullet split in two at Bucciarati's feet.
Before Abbacchio had a chance to fire another shot, a flash of metal and skin knocked into his hands, his gun clattering to the ground in two perfectly divided pieces. Surreal and useless.
"What were you hoping to prove here today, officer?" Bucciarati cocked his head to the side, hands sliding into his pockets as quickly as they had left. Danger absolutely oozed out of the mafioso with each stride he made, invading the officer's space as he stood like a deer in headlights.
What just happened? He disarmed me like it was nothing. He destroyed the first fucking bullet, for Christ's sake! Abbacchio's eyes could only switch between the patchwork of his weapon on the ground, to the confectioner's sprawled out body, then back to Bucciarati's approaching form. One that looked all the more sophisticated and haunting up close. For a moment, Abbacchio thought he was fucked. He was mesmerized, completely out of his league in this battle.
And yet...
"You Passione lot think you run this town, but you're the sacks of shit who make it live in fear," Abbacchio finally snarled, pure vitriol bubbling up to overcome his paralysis in the face of ermine-clad danger. Bucciarati looked unimpressed at his words.
"Is that so? Then maybe you should do your job in the first place, carabinieri . Or are you too busy lining your pockets with that bastard's cocaine money to care?" Inky black was filling up Abbacchio's vision, smothering him without even making contact. "Or maybe, you'll parade around that you beat a gangster black and blue like he deserves, then go home and beat your wife all the same." Bucciarati's upper lip quivered, his eyes boring holes into Abbacchio's very existence. Laying it all bare with no effort at all.
"You're pathetic , officer."
With an unceremonious grunt, both grown men were thrown to the ground before either even knew what happened. Something snapped inside of Abbacchio at that quip; something personal that felt deeply wounded in a way he hadn't felt before.
No, that would be incorrect... This part of him was slowly chipped away at with each passing, draining day on the job. Slowly, achingly bruised with each ungrateful remark or criminal sneer that got to walk free.
It took Bucciarati's piercing glare and unapologetic words to zip apart Abbacchio's very soul, and he wasn't going to take that sitting down.
" You're the pathetic one, you weaseling little punk. You and your shitty gang will die in the gutter all alone, just like every other upstart who thinks he's something," The gruff words were punctuated by Abbacchio's rough hands throttling Bucciarati's smaller form left and right, the gangster gasping for a breath while wriggling to get free. Their bodies were pinned together against the concrete, pure adrenaline filling Abbacchio's physique to the very brim.
In the deep recesses of his mind, Abbacchio knew this was an abuse of power, a show of force that his training and commanding officers would call absolutely unnecessary. Going out of his way to hurt someone smaller and weaker than him.
But what did those dusty books and rambling captains know anyways? He would do his job, even if it killed him. If he had to enforce the law by setting an example, he would gladly do it. It just so happened that this... "example" wounded his pride personally.
An "example" that, as Leone finally blinked while holding in place, looked not much younger than him. For that split second, Bruno's eyes flashed helpless, filled with a shade of unknowing fear asking the officer, why?
Abbacchio didn't know how to answer that unspoken question. And in the moment before his stupefaction could convert itself into further "justified" brutality, Bucciarati's face contorted into its own wellspring of rage, kneeing the carabinieri directly in his groin. Abbacchio's entire body shook as he gasped like a dying man, losing his balance and falling to the side, letting Bucciarati slither free.
The gangster wasn't finished with him though, and raised his leg high like a football player before landing a kick so hard into the officer's gut, it felt like Abbacchio was being split in two.
Bile spilled out of his mouth just like the confectioner's earlier, and the edges of the officer's vision began to get fuzzy as he groaned, curling up in the fetal position with no fight left in him.
The last thing Leone remembered before blacking out was Bruno's conflicted gaze at his form. It was a hesitant sort of pity that seemed to trouble the gangster more than it should've.
The difference between the two men, though, was that Bucciarati seemed to swallow this pity in full, loudly spitting on Abbacchio's defeated body in utter disgust and slinking off, out of sight.
Maybe I'm the one who will die in the gutter, he pondered, before the swirl of the sky and clattering footsteps gave way to darkness.
"...Wake up, officer, ouugh, good heavens... Please, wake up!"
The first thing Leone hears as he comes to is the squeaking voice of the confectioner. The first thing he feels is deep, excruciating pain in his entire torso.
Both things seem so out of place from the last images in his mind of little kids running off with their pastries, and a bright sunny day in Naples, blue skies against sheer white cliffs, white like the suit of-
Abbacchio groaned as he sat up. That Passione fuckface just had to ruin his good thing here, didn't he? All of the disdain of the afternoon began to soak back into the officer. He should just accept it as an inevitablity at this point.
"Ohh, thank goodness you're awake! You really saved me back there, I thought I was a goner. Ouuugh, but my stomach is still hurt..." Leone looked over at the confectioner, his eyes widening as more memories came flooding back.
The citizen in front of him looked like any other who lived under the bright, Mediterranean sun. Except, he wasn't. Bucciarati had indicated as much.
Sfogliatella with extra powdered sugar, huh?
If only he hadn't been so naive.
Officer Abbacchio jumped up, dragging the man to his feet with him as he fumbled once, twice, to reach for his handcuffs. "Y-you're under arrest," He said, mustering up a croaking voice of authority that certainly didn't sound it. "Under suspicion of drug dealing." The confectioner's mouth flapped open and close, speechless at the whirlwind of events.
"You're pathetic, officer."
The words rang out in his head like a mantra. Leone wiped his cheek, damp with Bruno's spit from earlier, turning on his walkie-talkie for backup in disgust. Disgust with the confectioner, disgust with Passione, disgust with the whole of Naples.
But most of all, disgust in himself.