Death (no longer exists)

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"Love of mine,

someday you will die,

but I'll be close behind,

I'll follow you into the dark".


Leone Abbacchio is died.

Bruno Bucciarati clenches his fists, his nails sinking into the palm of his hands. He cannot look at the lifeless body that, a few moments before, was his second in command. His best friend.

Bruno stays still. He doesn't move a muscle, not even to pretend to breathe, as he does now so as not to worry his team. The words of the others are background noise in the chill of his mind.

There is nothing more to be done for Abbacchio. He has died in the name of the mission they have to carry out. To remain there is only to make his sacrifice vain. This is not time to mourn him. They're only wasting time – precious time.

A true leader always knows what to do.

Bruno knows very well what to do – and he knows he will do it.

A true leader takes care of the living. A true leader takes care of Trish.

He hears himself pronounce the most absurd order in the world. The rational one. The one for which no one would reprimand him.

He hears – as if in a dream, as if underwater – Narancia's cries, his tears broken by prayers.

Bruno repeats. He orders.

He does not listen to reason – not this time.

Soon you will join him.

A thought that is of no consolation.

Soon you will join him, but nothing will ever be the same again.

Because Leone Abbacchio is dead, and Bruno Bucciarati before him, but at this moment, in the depths of his heart, Bruno curses Giorno's power that allows him to still move on this earth, to walk one after another of the steps that lead away from him.

He does not tremble, and it is right for a dead body. He bites his lips bloody, a rivulet staining his chin, but he cannot smell nor taste it.

As he walks away without looking back for the last time at Leone Abbacchio – his second in command, his best friend, Leone – Bruno Bucciarati can't feel anything.

His soul no longer exists.


"No blinding light

or tunnels to gates of white,

just our hands clasped so tight

waiting for a hint of a spark."


***


It was cold that night. The wind was whipping Naples, hurting cheeks and lips. But the city wasn't intimidated by it: a stream of people had poured onto the seafront, thanks to Christmas just around the corner, the rush for presents and the inevitable Saturday struscio 1.

Bruno quickened his pace and pulled his scarf around his neck. He was returning from the umpteenth task of his job, which had recently tended to make him increasingly tired.

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