Archive of Our Own

“No, finish your thought,” said Prosciutto, with the kind of dangerous personal attention that precluded dead bodies at his feet.

“Oh, that was my thought.” Melone waved his spoon and when nonchalance failed to suppress the looks, he feigned intense absorption in his yogurt. “This is really good. I don’t know why any of you don’t like yogurt.”

“It’s chick food.” Formaggio leaned on the wall by the mini fridge, eating other people’s snacks.

No one rose to his bait. “Yogurt is for women,” he restated and shoved an entire fistful of peanuts into his mouth as a sort of verbal underline. How much of this Formaggio actually believed and how much of it was to annoy Ghiaccio was unknown, but it got the desired effect.

“Goddammit, Formaggio.” Ghiaccio slapped an open palm on the coffee table. “You know food is food. It’s for whoever. If it was only for women, only women could legally buy it. It’s like … just because Kinder chocolate bars have Kinder in the name doesn’t mean they’re only for little kids!”

“Is that why you’re always hung up on the food names thing?” Formaggio closed one eye and looked into the peanut canister. “I said that to you one time about the Kinder chocolate. I didn’t even mean it.”

“Oh, you know you can’t say anything just one time and have it be forgotten with Ghiaccio,” Melone said, lightly, with obvious hope the shift in conversation dynamics had exonerated him from prior nastiness.

Ghiaccio glowered. “Those are my nuts too.”

“Your nuts? The nuts in my mouth are your nuts?”

Prosciutto pinched the bridge of his nose, listening to his fearsome, dangerous teammates chuckle at the type of joke the average teenager would find only mildly funny. Humor, Prosciutto often thought, was like steak. Both are claimed as subjective, but the matter was one of taste . A good bistecca alla fiorentina is eaten rare garnished with salt and a good joke doesn’t involve testicles.

(Unless someone’s being kicked in the balls, Prosciutto would concede. You’d have to be dead not to find that funny.)

“But, no listen.” Melone sat forward. “Do any of you know why yogurt is so good for your health?”

“It helps you shit?”

“No, it’s ‘probiotics,’ but good guess.”

“Why do you care about probiotics?”

“His Stand, Formaggio,” Ghiaccio said, as though this was obvious. “You said yogurt was something women eat a lot…”

Formaggio took a split second to derive a conclusion and made a disgusted face.

“You know Babyface works best with healthy mothers,” added Melone. Like that helped his case in any probable way.

Formaggio doubled down on his disgusted face and Prosciutto was ready to finish the conversation. He stood up from his chair but didn’t move any further.

At the sound, Melone whipped his head to meet Prosciutto’s eyes, like a crash zoom in an old kung fu movie. Prosciutto could almost hear the gong and the flutter of unsettled doves as they stared each other down.

“Finish your thought,” he said.

Before Melone could respond, the door to their headquarters opened. Pesci stopped in the entry, clutching a few paper bags and surveyed the tense atmosphere of the room.

“Am … am I interrupting something?”

“No,” sighed Prosciutto. “Come in; don’t leave the door wide open like that.”

Absolutely not believing him about interrupting a scene, Pesci hesitated, blinking, and then scurried in.

“I think I found what everyone wanted,” he said, settling the bags in a heap on the coffee table.

“I should have asked you to buy me more peanuts,” said Ghiaccio, pointedly, the moment Formaggio walked over to claim his purchase. Pesci reached across the table into a bag and tossed Ghiaccio a small package.

Ghiaccio caught the peanuts and grinned, but smiles on Ghiaccio always looked menacing and a little evil. “That’s why we keep you around, Pesci.”

“Certainly not for your kill count,” said Formaggio. Pesci looked away before his face grew bright red, clashing with his vibrant hair. Over Pesci’s shoulder, Formaggio made a circle with his hand and mouthed “big goose egg” at Melone and Ghiaccio.

Prosciutto was long since used to Formaggio’s biting sense of humor, unlike Pesci, who took to that sort of ribbing like a fish to a dry stretch of beach. He’d be the first to admit Pesci needed to toughen up (and how!) but the road to self-esteem and courage wasn’t paved by being an asshole. Moreover, it wasn’t supposed to be paved by Formaggio anyway , no matter the method. That was Prosciutto’s job. Pesci was his project, his protégé and he’d be damned if he let anyone but himself call Pesci a mammoni .

“What is this?” Prosciutto said, catching Formaggio’s eye. “A video game? Our group’s success isn’t about solo competition. If it was, we wouldn’t have to back you up in the event shrinking something didn’t work.”

“That’s a low blow,” Formaggio protested but didn’t exactly deny it. He slung an arm around Pesci, who, having had his back still turned, jumped at the sudden touch. “He knows I’m joking, right?”

“You mean me or bro?” said Pesci.

“A general ‘he’.” Formaggio shrugged. “But Prosciutto’s just on edge. He knows when I’m kidding.”

Pesci cocked his head at Prosciutto. “What’re you on edge about, bro?”

“He was about to beat Melone’s ass for being a fucking pervert,” Formaggio answered for him.

“I knew I didn’t imagine murderous intent when I walked in!”

“I wasn’t about to beat his ass for being a fucking pervert,” said Prosciutto lightly. “If I did that, I’d never stop hitting any of you. I just want to know what exactly made him come to the conclusion that Stand powers are based on sexual urges.” He shifted his attention back to Melone who didn’t seem thrilled being back in the hot seat but took it with grace.

“Fetishes,” corrected Melone. “I think Stands are based on our fetishes.”

“All right,” said Prosciutto. Melone failed to hide a sharp intake of air as he stalked over and loomed, hands on the chair arms, face close enough to feel Melone let out the breath he’d been holding. “Let’s be specific. What about me makes you think I’m into fucking old people?”

Ghiaccio barked out a laugh as Formaggio muttered, “There it is.”

“Is that what you’re offended by?” asked Melone. “The insinuation that you’re into geriatrics ?”

The word ‘geriatrics’ absolutely sent Formaggio and Ghiaccio (and Pesci, the traitorous little bastard!) At least Pesci, for his part, attempted to cease amusement at Prosciutto’s backward glare while the other two only laughed harder at his annoyance.

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to Melone. “That’s absolutely what I’m offended by.”

“Well, don’t be offended,” said Melone, sliding down in the chair to get away from Prosciutto’s unerring gaze. “I’ll explain my theory if you go sit down.”

Prosciutto remained standing.

Melone coughed. “Stands are an expression of the soul, right?”

“Right.”

“And you have the Grateful Dead.”

“I do.”

“You can’t help but give me that impression, especially since you dress like a gigolo.”

Prosciutto slapped him. Dispassionately, but hard enough to snap Melone’s head to the side.

“Why always the violence?” Melone groaned, as if anticipating (inviting?) further rough treatment.

Prosciutto lowered himself back into his own chair, satisfied. “It’s the only way any of you learn.”

Formaggio and Pesci scrambled to find somewhere to sit as he walked past. That too was satisfying.

“You’d make a terrible father,” said Melone, as soon as Prosciutto was far enough across the room. He sat up, a hand cradling the red mark blossoming on his cheek. “I’m glad I’m the one with Babyface.”

“Explain that one then,” said Formaggio.

“Explain without incriminating yourself,” said Ghiaccio. “You probably can’t, right? Or your theory is full of shit.”

Melone held his hands up. “I’ll admit maybe I’m basing this on a bit too much speculation.”

“A bit?” said Prosciutto. “By your logic, Pesci is sexually aroused by fish.”

“Bro!” said Pesci, with a look of scandal.

“Shut up, Pesci, I’m defending your honor.”

“I don’t think I want my honor defended anymore!”

Prosciutto took pity on him and looked back to Melone. “Like Formaggio said. Explain your theory.”

“There isn’t um…” Melone paused. “My first thought was maybe you’re gerontophilic—”

“Excuse me, I’m what?”

“Into old people. No, don’t get up, we already discredited that one!” Melone put his hands back up again, asking for mercy rather than surrender. Prosciutto allowed the mercy and gestured for Melone to continue.

“And then I realized that Illuso is into voyeurism—”

“I am not !”

They all collectively startled as Illuso’s offended voice boomed out of nowhere. A second later, an angry face came with the shout, as Illuso leaned out of the mirror, bracing himself on the wall. At first glance, it’d be easy to mistake Illuso as coming in from a window. At least until you noticed his reflection, and —more uncannily still— the reflection of the room in front of him.

Illuso’s expression changed from annoyance to triumph at effectively scaring his teammates. That didn’t happen very often and he apparently took the pleasure when he could, the rat bastard.

“We’re supposed to believe you're not a voyeur?” said Formaggio, voice flat. “When you’ve been there the whole time.”

“I haven’t been here the whole time.”

“Long enough to hear the conversation?”

“I was coming to send a message that Risotto is finally on his way.” He gave a haughty shake of his head, as though their leader sending a message through him was some matter of importance and not convenient proximity. Risotto’s small apartment was near Illuso’s even smaller apartment. What dubious superiority.

“Then why didn’t you come in?” snapped Ghiaccio.

“I was going to, but I heard the conversation and was going to let Risotto walk in on all of you talking about fetishes like a bunch of weirdos and then I was going to laugh when you got embarrassed.” Illuso glowered. “Then I had to be slandered and throw my hand, Melone.”

“It doesn’t bother you, though?” Ghiaccio replied. “That you’re just sitting there, listening to all of us?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Like Melone said, he’s a voyeur. He’s got a Stand made for it.”

“Oh, don’t you start on me, Formaggio!” Illuso slapped his hands on the wall, his hair fluttering around his shoulder. The effect would’ve been comical had half of him not still been stuck in a mirror. “You’ve got no room to talk about Stands. Or maybe you do, Little Feet makes you pretty tiny—”

“I’m not gonna rise to shitty bait like that,” said Formaggio, with a dismissive hand wave.

“You’re not gonna rise to anything."

“Shut up,” said Prosciutto. “Both of you. And get out of there, it’s creepy.”

Illuso bristled but climbed out of the mirror without argument. He did throw Melone a sour look before standing against the wall and folding his arms.

“That makes two for two,” said Ghiaccio. “For someone who claims to know a lot about shit like that for his Stand, you’re terrible at guessing fetishes.”

Melone blinked at him innocently. “It’s called temperature play. That’s what you’re into, right? Ice melting on your skin, hot wax. Whether you’ve actually done that with someone or just fantasized about it—”

“Fuck off, Melone!” Ghiaccio spluttered. His put a hand over his reddening face. He didn’t even try to deny that Melone had obviously hit onto some truth and was wholly unprepared for it. “I was just making a fucking joke but insinuating something like that is below the belt.”

Melone dropped his clinical act and smiled, devious. “It’s all below the belt.”

“How the fuck can you sit there and tell me that with a straight face?”

Melone turned back to the group, pleased that every eye was on him with looks ranging on an emotional gradient from impressed to horrified. His intention of holding court was temporarily waylaid by the simple act of Ghiaccio leaning forward and placing a hand on Melone’s bare upper arm.

“Owww, shit, that’s cold!” he gasped, wriggling away from the offending touch. “What is with you guys today and the violence? At least Prosciutto had the decency to hit me! We’re not supposed to have Stands out in the safe house.”

“What?” said Ghiaccio, reaching over and poking Melone arm with what was apparently a very cold hand courtesy of White Album. “You’re going to tell Risotto on me?”

No one stopped Ghiaccio, but after a few seconds of furious tussling, Prosciutto commented, “All right, any colder than that and you’re gonna come away with some of his skin.” Not a bad lesson, but Risotto would be here soon after all and probably wouldn’t have much appreciation for childish antics.

“Fine,” said Melone, pushing his hair back from his face in an attempt to gain some dignity. “My theory was wrong and I apologize for trying to insinuate you’re all deviants. Is that fine?”

There was a general murmur of agreement, but in typical Melone fashion, he wasn’t done . He was never simply done . Morbid curiosity concomitant with a lack of boundaries didn’t lend itself well to ever being done .

“However,” he continued, because of course. “Let’s play a game. I’ll try to guess what you’re into based on the simple act of knowing you.”

“That sounds like a terrible game,” said Illuso, who looked a bit nervous.

“Are you afraid he’s going to guess right?” asked Formaggio.

“I don’t want him guessing at all, because it went so well before.”

“I was going on Stand abilities and ah … perhaps some other less accurate impressions before—”

“So, that’s just it then?” Prosciutto glanced at Pesci, who had mentally checked out of the conversation and was reading the ingredients on his chip package. “We’re going to sit in a circle and you’re just going to try to read too much into us?”

Melone's demeanor shifted into something more businesslike. "The most important thing besides health for a mother to use with Babyface is how incompatible she is with the target, if I'm using Babyface to track. Which is usually, so very important. It works in a lot of ways. Temperament, blood type, Zodiac, sexual preference. For Babyface to work properly, I have to have intel on who will create the son. For the mother, a lot of guesswork is involved.”

“In short?” said Prosciutto, trying to keep his expression neutral regarding Babyface.

“In short, I’ve gotten very good at reading sexual preference from behavior.”

“Let’s make some stakes then,” said Formaggio.

Melone leaned back in his chair. “What do you suggest?”

“A betting pool.” Formaggio pointed to the central table where their snacks had momentarily been neglected in the prior chaos. “Each of us puts some money in. You guess right, the money stays in. You guess wrong, you gotta match the amount of the bet and we get our money back. In the end, you get what’s left in the pool. Or…”

“So, either I get paid or you do?”

“Pretty simple. Either you win a whole lot or lose.” Formaggio smiled a predatory shark grin. “You confident enough?”

“Is everyone else on terms with these odds?” Melone asked, in lieu of reply. At the room’s general acquiescence, he spread his hands. “Place your bets, gentlemen.”

Prosciutto reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his wallet. Like everyone else’s, it was lean. If this were one of those old, asinine black and white cartoons, the wallet’s stomach would growl when he opened it. Nevertheless, he put down ₤10k, the bare minimum to not look cheap.

After the shuffling was done, Prosciutto’s ₤10k was matched by Formaggio and Illuso’s ₤10k, ₤5k from Ghiaccio who explained nothing and … a chip bag.

“Pesci, are you broke again?” asked Prosciutto, who's anticipatory lecture lost steam under Pesci’s agonized, desperate look.

“I just—” Pesci looked away. “Not really up for playing the game.”

“Pesci.” Formaggio sat up.  “I'm just gonna ask you something straight.”

“Uh huh.”

“Man to man.”

“Okay.”

“Pesci, are you a virgin?”

Pesci paled. “No, no I'm not—”

Prosciutto massaged his temples. He would let Pesci handle this but ready himself to... talk to Formaggio the way he had with Melone. (Prosciutto talked with gestures and his criticism, like his praise, was often served backhanded.)

“I’m not asking to be an ass, really,” said Formaggio, who was usually asking to be an ass but sounded sincere this time. “If the answer is yes, I just think I have a great idea for a gift.”

“I'm not,” said Pesci, quietly. He paused and looked at Prosciutto, who nodded. He wasn’t sure what kind of nod Pesci took it for, but it gave him the confidence to divulge something that only Prosciutto knew.

“I was seeing a girl,” Pesci continued, “before I … joined La Squadra. I actually joined Passione not too long before that. With my Stand being, y’know, something like Beach Boy, I got head-hunted.”

“She didn't…?” asked Formaggio. He mimed a quick but tasteless series of death charades.

“No, no!” Pesci waved his hands. “She's not dead—”

“Even worse,” said Melone, solemn. “You had to break it off with her when you joined, didn't you?”

“Wait, wait . How in the hell is ‘breaking it off’ worse than death?” Ghiaccio said in one of his varying levels of shriek.

“In terms of closure,” Illuso replied, making a show of covering his ear in annoyance. “Do you have to be so loud to be that literal, Ghiaccio? Talk about virgins.”

“Illuso, don't fucking act like the only time you've ever been face-to-face with a human woman isn’t because you were on the other side of her mirror—”

“Gentlemen, please!” said Melone. “I know tensions are high and we’re learning some truly stunning facts about each other but if we want to finish this before Risotto comes, we have to focus.”

Illuso made a noncommittal noise. “Sorry for calling you a virgin, Ghiaccio,” he said, only sounding about half-sarcastic. “We should have a united front against the real enemy.”

Ghiaccio joined him in delivering Melone a real death glare.

“If looks could kill…” chuckled Melone, whose nervous half-smile and tone of voice didn't match the verb he was trying for.

“...then we wouldn't need Stands,” said Formaggio. He looked less sure of himself, holding a more defensive air. Perhaps Pesci’s confession humbled his swagger. Regardless of the reason for it, Formaggio lifted his chin in what he probably figured was a brave, noble way and said, “Hit me first, Melone.”

Melone’s demeanor was serious again, but with a tinge of perversion, akin to a researcher lifting a scalpel to a hapless subject. No more businesslike. A mad scientist in mixed company.

“Not macro-micro stuff,” Melone began. “I'll just say first off. That seems obvious given your Stand but—

“What is macro-whatever?”

To Formaggio’s confused face, Melone said, “Assume every phrase you don't understand is a fetish you don't have.”

Formaggio, who didn't seem sure he wanted an answer, cocked his head to the side and squinted. “Yeah, but what is it …?”

Melone told him.

“That's just … how can something like that be popular enough to have a name?”

Melone shrugged. “Human sexuality is a mixed bag. You'd be surprised. There are probably magazines for it.”

“Really?” Formaggio’s disbelief suspension ended abruptly at publications, for some reason.

“There are magazines for everything,” Illuso interrupted, his voice a vague, unspoken challenge: trust me on the magazines, don't make Melone elaborate. Prosciutto colored himself surprised; Illuso spoke with the weariness of one who'd been damned to the same fate in the near past.

Formaggio took the hint. “All right, enough beating around the damn bush.”

Melone looked him squarely in the soul. “You like tits. Who doesn't, right? But your entire focus is almost certainly always here.” Melone cupped his own pecs to demonstrate. “It's to a degree you’re not sure you want to delve into. In the heat of the moment, you’ve asked a girl to smack your ass and you called her ‘mom.’ Was she mortified or were you?”

Formaggio looked, in a word, horrible. He covered his mouth with a clammy hand. “No,” he finally choked out, after a long moment of silence. “She … she was into it.”

Melone clapped his hands and sat back, like a magician whose rabbit was unquestionably in the hat. Except he pulled a secret from a man’s id, so instead of impressed his audience was circumspect.

“Prosciutto!” said Melone, too jovial.  He slid his winnings from Formaggio into a pants pocket, not even waiting til the end to collect.  

Despite every instinct telling him to pull out Grateful Dead and murder Melone in cold blood, Prosciutto found himself catching his gaze and holding it without an outward flinch.

Melone looked away and cleared his throat, presumably mustering up the courage. Good.

“You're into drugged sex,” he said, looking back at Prosciutto with a new sort of confidence. “Not your partner, but you. Having sex while high is your greatest pleasure, even if it's rarely indulged. In fact, you're probably thinking that it's specifically doing a big fat line and then getting your dick sucked by some pretty girl whose name you only remember the first letter of. That and being called ‘daddy.’”

Melone took a deep breath and looked around. “What is with you guys and the … complexes? Does ‘Oedipal’ count for either parent? ”

Prosciutto felt like he wanted to die.

“I didn't know you did hard drugs, bro,” said Pesci,  good, ol’ Pesci not judgmental, but curious.

“I did,” Prosciutto snapped, but regretted it and softened his tone. “But do you know how much I make a year? I haven't been able to do coke since college.”

“I didn't know you went to college, bro!”

“Well, I didn't graduate obviously because I’m in the goddamned mafia.” He was careening toward some bad mental territory and he would be damned if he would visit it right here and now.

However, that was the thing about compartments. You could always shove everything right back in.

Prosciutto instead smiled and could see the effect by the collective recoil.

“Take your payment,” he said, politely. Melone reached down to retrieve it without taking his eyes off Prosciutto’s, skittish, as though he suspected the ₤10k was booby-trapped.

If only it were. Prosciutto hadn't smoked in six months but he needed a cigarette.

Melone surveyed his last two victims, as it was unremarked upon but agreed that Pesci didn't have the mental fortitude for this type of trauma. Illuso and Ghiaccio both had redemption in the stakes for different reasons and both were either over-confident or feeling masochistic. In Ghiaccio’s context, he probably thought Melone had played his only hand, so to speak.

It had occurred to Prosciutto that he could have said no, laughed at Melone’s feeble attempts at a kinky cold reading. But his body betrayed him, his instant shock and humiliation betrayed him. There was no poker face against Melone. There was only nature, dirty, dirty nature.

The poor bastards. They were probably thinking they'd be the only ones Melone couldn't read. Prosciutto was once like that.

“As to you Illuso,” began Melone, “I won't be in the business of out—”

At that moment, the door opened and none of them was ever so glad to see a pair of red eyes with black sclera judging the shit out of them.

Risotto’s look, to be honest, was more curious than judgmental but Prosciutto was going to be seeing judgment everywhere for probably a week. If he wanted the weird sort of Catholic shame wherein one isn't sure why one is guilty (or of what) but they feel they should be, he knew where to find it. And he sure wasn't going to start going to confession for the first time since middle school.

“So, what's...?” Risotto gestured to the table. Only ₤18k and a bag of chips there, but everyone had the posture of gambling to support it. “Are we betting on something?”

“You could say—” Melone was cut off by Illuso striding forward and making a universal sign for “shut up and listen.” He glanced back and forth furiously between a perplexed Melone and Risotto, who was locking the door.

“I think I speak for both—” Illuso’s eyes trailed to the chip packet. “All three of us when I say you win what's left if you have the balls to read Risotto.”

His wicked smile spread to Ghiaccio, and to Formaggio who knew that Melone (unfortunately) had the balls. Pesci merely looked apprehensive.

Prosciutto didn’t share the smile or the apprehension, but he hoped whatever followed would have a modicum of retribution. It could play out one of two ways, he figured: either Melone hit the nail on the head and ended up with nails in his head, thanks to Metallica or he missed the mark and Risotto was confused and he won everything. It really depended on the audacity of whatever Melone said.

Therefore, it was with combined bravery and stupidity that Melone turned to Risotto when he took the de facto head seat and said, “Bloodplay. More into receiving since you're kind of a masochist but you don't mind switching up.”

Risotto threw him a long, cool look. Melone squirmed.

“Well, yeah,” Risotto said, before turning back to the others. “I didn't mean to be late, but we have a few things to—” He paused, and took in their astonished faces.

“Is that what you were betting on?”

“Kind of,” said Melone, wringing his gloved hands in a surprising amount of discomfort.

Maybe not that surprising, Prosciutto would admit. While Risotto was a level-headed guy and a fair leader, he was … well ... unfathomable . His expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts and he said nothing, for the entirety of what was most likely the longest thirty seconds in Melone’s life. Discomfort seeped in, like a haze over a stagnant pond. Likewise the tension hung heavy in the room like stifling humidity. Prosciutto had a passing urge to loosen his choker.

Then Melone, content with the perhaps temporary lack of razors bursting from his cheeks, sought to offer clarification.

“It's a long story,” he said. “And … basically, I do win for guessing that. You're.” Throat clearing. “Into bloodplay.”

Risotto mulled this over. “It should be obvious, right?”

“Obvious?” echoed Melone.

“I mean, given I have Metallica. Stands come from that part of us. You know—” Risotto paused, as if thinking of the right terminology. Luckily, his subordinates were waiting with thoughtful suggestions in varying levels of taste.

“The dick?” asked Formaggio.

“The dark side of the soul?” asked Illuso.

“The heart?” asked Pesci.

“The place where the goddamned arrow stabbed us?” asked Ghiaccio.

“The light side of the soul?” asked Illuso, taking an unauthorized second turn.

“It's the place where you bury shit,” Prosciutto growled.

“The … Catholic part of you, bro?”

“Not me, Pesci, a general ‘you’!” Prosciutto looked away, feigning annoyance. If he gave anyone a centimeter they’d run a kilometer with the intrigue of Prosciutto having a ‘Catholic part.’

“Prosciutto’s right,” said Risotto. “I was thinking of the subconscious. I'm sure that’s what you'd call it.”

After the “ohhhh” made its way around, Risotto continued. “It's been said that Stands come from the deepest parts inside of you, like a reflection of the soul.” He looked down at his bare hand sitting on his thigh, probably thinking of Metallica wiggling and squirming inside his skin. “There's a lot going on we can't even control in ourselves, so who knows what part of you the Stand is reflecting.”

Melone smiled. “So it could be a sexual side.”

“Shut up, Freud,” snapped Ghiaccio, but without rancor. “He's not confirming your theory.”

“You know,” said Melone, at large and not replying to Ghiaccio. “Everyone remembers Freudian psychology regarding sexual urges as, like, wet dreams or wanting to fuck your parents …” He rested his chin on a closed, gloved fist, blinking with all the innocence of a black mamba sliding behind small rodents in the forested savanna. “Which, given what I dug out of all of you, it might as well be.”

There was a small uproar and no small amount of ‘fuck yous.’

“Hey!”  

Risotto didn't need to say anything much louder than speaking volume to get silence; the deep timbre of voice rumbled with enough warning.

Everyone fell into a guilty quiet.

“I don't care if Melone thinks you want to fuck your grandmothers ,” Risotto said, with enough emphasis to show exactly where his patience meter read. “We’ve got some really important business to cover. The boss wants three different people dead and at least one of these missions will be a group effort.”

And like that, they were deadly professionals again.

“The boss gave us all week, but if we finish before Thursday, we’ll probably get paid on Friday.” Risotto gave one of his fleeting, wry smiles. “Then you have all weekend to indulge in whatever gross shit Melone thinks you do.”

Prosciutto brightened, despite himself. Three jobs meant he could make his rent this month, but three jobs meant the boss wouldn't call upon them for a while, given his penchant for letting them know their place. Bad for the ego and bank account, but a near guarantee of a free weekend.

Melone might think Prosciutto doth protest too much and he was right. Not that he was a gigolo or something but this weekend if he wanted his dick sucked the right way, he’d have to pick up an older woman at the club. No more than fifteen years his senior but old enough to be flattered by a young man like himself bypassing the girls vying for his attention. (They always were; whether it was his looks or the fact that he held himself like a sugar daddy was unknown. Didn't matter. He needed a sugar daddy as badly as they did.) And old enough to have money, maybe her husband's she doesn't mind throwing around, and she could buy him coke .

It'd give him something to confess on Sunday to Father Whatever-the-name-of-the-priest-in-the-church-nearest-his-place-was, because he couldn't confess any of his real guilt, if it even existed. And it worried him more that it might not.

Prosciutto couldn't be honest with a priest no more than he could himself. And none of them were honest— Illuso definitely masturbated while spying on Sorbet and Gelato. Ghiaccio definitely liked ice cubes over his nipples. There was a brief gleam in Formaggio’s eye when told about some shrinking fetish (maybe a fantasy he'd pulled a shame wank to and didn't know it was a thing , or maybe it was new to him.) Melone never denied anything but given his Stand, the less to deny the better. Pesci liked making love in missionary with a long term partner, all the lights off.

And Prosciutto, much like the rest of them, had desires unacknowledged but not unattended. It was all buried down in the place inside him with guilt, classically conditioned erections, his life prior to Passione, that Catholic part, questions, fears — the place such a useful monster as Grateful Dead came from.