A fluorescent bulb flashes. Once, twice, three times. Bucciarati only looks away from the spackled ceiling as a housefly lazily buzzes in his line of sight. The bulb's light has burned into his eyeballs momentarily, and as he blinks to take quiet focus back of the room, the blind spot and accompanying halo of blue and purple surrounds each face present. He does another headcount.

 

To his left, a middle aged man, a capo, named Salvatore Stracciatella. His prickly salt-and-pepper beard trails all the way to the tops of his cheeks down to his goitre, and he nurses a shotglass of scotch while the butt of his cigarette burns out in a chipped ceramic ashtray. To his right sit three other capos, men that Bucciarati can't be bothered to remember the name of. He's the youngest, lowest ranking man here, and they all know it.

 

All six of them are cramped in the dining room of Mrs. Stracciatella's apartment, nestled deep within the brutalist heights of the Vele di Scampia. They sit on barstools, folding chairs, whatever they could find as they came in. It's clear the older woman isn't used to having guests. But Bucciarati doesn't mind. She made it as nice as she could, spreading out this faded tablecloth with begonias and bluebirds dotting the edges. The pattern swirled towards the center of the table, moth-eaten holes here and there until-

 

They call it Cobret , because of its momentary euphoria like a cobra's bite. All wrapped in plastic like little hard candies, stacked in a pyramid. They even give it out like candy, for the right price. Dangling their hands through rusted guardrails to the grasping wretches below, something to tide them over no matter what point in life they're at.

 

It's been the elephant in the room for Bruno since he arrived tonight. Or maybe it has been since he first learned of Passione's direct involvement in the drug trade. It's easier to compartmentalize things he doesn't have the heart to handle. He gets more work done that way.

 

In any case, he wouldn't have been caught dead here if it hadn't been for Polpo's iron insistence. He remembers the conversation vividly, indulging in that fetid daydream since anything is better than being here.

 

The flickering orange bulb of the apartment shifted to the cold, clinical light of the capo's cell, everything gargantuan and custom-made to dwarf Bucciarati as he zipped his way in through the glass.

 

"My dear paisano Salvatore has called me to his home, Bruno. It's a shame I can't go and help him out with his little, oh, administration trouble. You'd help a friend in need for me, wouldn't you?" Polpo's orders were often coded, lathered in formalities as much as the steak frites in gravy he gobbled down between each word.

 

"I'd prefer not to." Bucciarati closed his eyes, careful not to shut his lids too tight lest Polpo catch on to his discomfort. If it was a discussion to be had in a capo's home instead of a restaurant during the day, it wasn't business he wanted to concern himself with.

 

"Phewww... Don't be like that, Bruno. A change of scenery is good for a man. What I wouldn't give to have a bit of Mrs. Stracciatella's cooking... Having it brought to my cell just isn't the same, you know?" The pout was unbecoming of a man of his status, but indicated just how much power he had over the situation.

 

"I understand, sir." He hoped his response hadn't been too hasty. Part of him didn't care if it was.

 

"Good. Then you understand you'll be going on my behalf. You'll be in my spitting image!" He chortled, a bit of spittle leaking from his cavernous mouth. Bruno's upper lip twitched imperceptibly.

 

"So, what do you say? " He leaned down, a blubbery face overwhelming Bruno’s personal space and any chance to say no. Polpo had never been asking. He'd simply been describing what would happen anyways.

 

"...If you insist, Polpo."

 

Unsettlingly jolly laughter sent a chill up Bucciarati's spine in the present, just as it had then.

 

"My boys sold three cases of the stuff last month over by Toretta-Scalzapecora. Seems to be spreading word outside of Scampia faster than we thought."

 

Stracciatella marks an 'X' to the northwest of Naples proper on a map, his scotch now empty. It's outside of Polpo's territory, but Bucciarati recalls a number of hotels around there. Temporary housing for the innocent and the damned.

 

The expansion of this business to the fringes of the city makes Bruno's stomach turn. He hasn't said a word tonight, nor was there anything really to say; He went mainly as a formality, a show of goodwill on Polpo's part. But even if he thought it was appropriate, there was nothing he could say to change the inevitable unfolding at this very gathering. There was nothing he could say to change the past, either.

 

He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again.

 

Two years since his father's passing is coming up, after all.

 

"We've already lined up some boys to distribute the leftovers down at the Via dell'Epomeo, so our work here is done," Stracciatella crumples the map up unceremoniously, each crinkle sending Bucciarati's senses into overdrive.

 

Via dell'Epomeo, home to a number of casinos Polpo overlooks. Casinos him and his men- his actual boys, teenagers - collect from. Polpo already went over my head, the young man realizes distantly.

 

Drugs in his territory, distributed to his people. The same ones who look at him like he's their Madonna Addolorata , when he's the deliverer of sin itself. Sits amongst it with fine liquor and cigarettes.

 

"Wait," Bruno's yelp startles everyone in the room, even himself. The word left his mouth before he had the chance to gather his composure, like every other time this specific chord of his is struck.

 

Except now, it isn't in response to Fugo and Narancia's mindless bickering, but to four superiors who could have him tossed into the bay as fish food before the clock strikes ten.

 

You made the wrong decision, again. Bucciarati's self-critic reverberates in his brain as all eyes in the room bore into him, absolutely unreadable. Maybe not even human, and more like wolves, predators ready to silence dissent.

 

What were you even thinking? You can't stop this. No one can. It seemed Bruno needed this drilled into his skull as plainly as possible. He was powerless to stop the machine that churned out his father, and now, it would churn him out too. You'd think more than half a decade in this lifestyle would've taught him that sooner.

 

The young man coughs, sputtering. "Ahem, what I meant was, that was all Polpo wanted me to confirm." A last-ditch, desperate attempt to stay afloat. This is what total humiliation feels like.

 

The room stays silent for a moment longer, before Stracciatella bursts into crackling laughter. "Hah, good one, kid! Bit of a klutz with words there, but you do as your capo says." The other men laugh too at the adolescent display, while Salvatore pats Bruno once, twice on the back, so hard that he flinches. They don't seem to notice, though, as they pile out to the balcony for another smoke, the formal meeting having concluded.

 

All that's left at the table is Bruno. Or maybe just a zipped-off husk that looks like him.

 

His ears are ringing from the combined experiences of the night. Each motion he makes has to be telegraphed in his brain; Stand up, push your chair in. Dust off your suit and head to the door. He stands, wobbling like a newborn fawn. You got sloppy.

 

As he reaches the peeling doorway, he looks over into the mildew-rendered kitchen, and sees Mrs. Stracciatella. She's about as prototypical of an Italian nonna as someone can get, a round woman with voluminous grey hair tied into a bun on top of her head. She hums a tune with a dimpled smile, drying dishes from the hor d'oeuvres they all shared earlier.

 

How could a woman like that give birth to someone like Stracciatella? The thought enters Bruno's typically galvanized mind with little resistance. Such cruelty, such inhumanity, it must be learned. A product of the environment one unfortunately finds themselves in. Like this, she's no different than the little old ladies he's used to helping on the street every day.

 

"Mrs. Stracciatella," He calls out, voice hoarse to his ears. She ever so slightly turns to look at him, carefree. "If... If you need me, just let me know, alright?" The phrase gives Bucciarati deja-vu. It takes him a moment to remember from where, but it seemed to be the words he gave his father, too.

 

The woman snorts, and turns to keep drying dishes. "And if you need to kill yourself to keep Omertà , do it in the bathroom so the blood doesn't stain the carpet, hun."

 

The casual sickness of her words snaps the very last heartstring Bruno had zipped together for that night. It was surprising there was any hope left in him at all. He doesn't say goodbye as he slips out the door.

 

Going down the concrete stairwell two steps at a time jostles Bucciarati's body uncomfortably, but it isn't so overwhelming to not notice Black Sabbath's presence finally slither off the premises. Polpo had been watching him the entire time, like he figured.

 

When he finally gets to the car, it's the only one left in the lot at this hour. Abbacchio had been waiting for him.

 

You'll want a chauffeur after a meeting like that. Trust me, Bruno. The use of his first name shut up any qualms Bucciarati would've felt like raising at the time. He wishes he could feel more grateful in the moment.

 

Slamming the passenger door shut, the younger man's vision drifts to Naples' skyline through the windshield, flickering yellow lights tapering and merging with the reflection of the slivered moon in the bay.

 

He distantly wonders if he only gave the old woman his blessing to feel better about himself. Or maybe he thought she was like his own father. Bucciarati's eyes catch Abbacchio's staring at him in the rearview mirror, eyebrows pressed in concern.

 

Bruno knew Leone was the only person who could possibly empathize with him. He was the only other person who could ever understand having your soul crushed and spat out onto the pavement like that, humiliation and all.

 

"...So, how did it go?" Abbacchio's gruff manner of speaking is hushed, like it always was when they were alone. No part of it hurts Bucciarati's ears. It could easily be called soothing.

 

Even so, he can't hold it in anymore.

 

Bruno throws his arms around Leone's neck, burying his face in displaced silver hair to quietly sob.

 

Abbacchio's eyes go wide. He expected a rough night, but had never seen his companion like this.

 

All the elder can do is put his arms around Bruno softly in return, holding him as the only feeble comfort he can offer.