The story of the seamstress who dressed the Bucci gang.
Takes place before the events of part 5.
Mostly a Bucci x oc but Mista slips in there sometimes 🤭
Curse word warning: contains lots of f-bombs
This book is not about horses 🤪
Luca sat on the bench next to Bucciarati and set the suitcase down with a loud thunk. "Bucciaratiiiiii," he practically sang and leaned forward on his shovel, "Polpo's really impressed with your work the other night. Especially using such a cute date as an alibi..." Luca smirked a sleezy grin. "I mean, we all know you're ruthless, but that's next level! Polpo loved it. Nobody suspects Passione's involvement at all. I mean, with the whole choking to death thing, how could they?"
Bucciarati let out a short grunt in reply, crossing his arms over his chest. Luca's shit-eating grin was getting on his nerves. "Anything else?" he asked.
Luca used his shovel to push himself into a standing position. "Well, if you do change your mind about the pimp thing, I got some used-up merchandise I could sell ya for real cheap. Also," Luca leaned in, "Some of my girls been dying lately, ya know, murder. Some guy's getting his rock off killing prostitutes. Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious." Luca wiped his eye and left, dragging his shovel and leaving the suitcase behind on the park bench with Bucciarati.
Bucciarati's blood was boiling. He scoffed in disgust before grabbing the suitcase and heading home.
~*~
Bucciarati popped the suitcase open on his kitchen counter and eyed the stacks of money inside 💵 💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵
Killing sure did pay well. He sighed. This money really belongs to Lira, he thought. But I'll take my cut, too. He winced, remembering how he melted into a puddle in Lira's arms. God damnit, why does Wild Horses get me every time? I'm an idiot.
He searched the kitchen drawers before pulling out a large, soft-sided Lisa Frank lunchbox with a cartoon leopard and pink-orange tiger stripes. He unzipped it, trying not to breath in the weird smell that these lunchboxes always had. He then methodically transferred stacks of money to it until it was nearly bursting and he could barely zip it shut. That's over half, he thought.
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Bucciarati leaned his elbows on the counter and buried his face in his hands. His fingertips grazed the pillbug hairclips and he groaned. There was no way he could face Lira after crying into her hair like that. The car ride had been a bit too silent after that, with Fugo and Abbacchio too afraid to ask after seeing Bucciarati's puffy eyes. He barely mustered a "good night" when they dropped her off at her place. I can't take this money over, he thought. I'll just have Fugo do it.
~*~
Fugo walked into Lira's shop in jeans and a tshirt, holding a plastic shopping bag in one hand with the colorful lunchbox on his shoulder. "I didn't think that bag was really your style," Lira laughed when she saw it.
"It's for you. From Bucciarati," he said and dropped it on her desk, the weight of it obvious.
Lira unzipped it and looked inside. Shock spread over her face as she quickly slapped it shut. "This is my payment?" she asked in part awe, part fear.
