Poseur

The little trattoria on the corner of Versace and Firenze was always pleasantly empty, though never enough to put it out of business. The smell of baking bread perfumed it, small, dark, tables pressed up against walls with floral arrangements as centerpieces. Leone had only been there for pleasure a few times with Bruno, when his husband strongarmed him into eating something after particularly long bouts of accidental self-starvation. The American snack food in the pantry is just as filling, and it's several kilometers closer, he argued, but Bruno saw through his token resistance same as he always did and dragged him out of the house anyway. For business, on the other hand, he showed up every other week on Tuesday at exactly noon in order to collect the protection money owed to Giorno's new Passione. Narancia jabbered at his heels, chattering on and on about some prank he'd played on Fugo. Abbacchio nodded along with the appropriate amount of attention that wouldn't make the ratboy punch him in the stomach to see if he was really listening. He checked his watch as he hovered outside the door; right on time, as usual. Running a hand through his hair, tossing it over his shoulder in an ornery fashion not unlike that of a bad-tempered show pony, he darkened the step no longer and slipped inside with Narancia in tow.

A white-haired (like him, though Abbacchio's was unfortunately a few decades too early) elderly gentleman and a young girl (probably related, they shared the same eyes) perked up at the soft chime of the bell over the door. "Signore Abbacchio," the grandfather's eyes flicked back and forth between the man standing by reception and the place under the counter where he kept the fee. "You're... on time."

"Good afternoon," he stood in front of the cash register and didn't stare down the old man so much as he simply allowed his height and resting dissatisfied expression do the work for him. "You know what I'm here for. Let's make this quick. My Capo tells me you owe less than usual, only a hundred euros. So, if you'll give it here, me and my..." The ratboy was gone, missing, as if he had never been with Leone at all. "Never mind, fork it over and I'll be going."

"But didn't you send someone earlier?" the kid piped up.

Leone blanched. "What?"

"Yeah, we were kind of surprised too. I've been told you're always here at noon, so, boy, you can imagine my surprise when some gangster came in a half hour too soon. Grandpa wasn't even behind the counter yet!" The girl was fearless and didn't even flinch under his glare. Leone would have admired the quality were she not building him a clusterfuck to untangle. "He said you sent him, but we were a little suspicious."

"I didn't send anyone," he stated dumbly.

"What? But he came in here all nuts, with his knife, and the crazy clothes, and the groupies...." Now, that wouldn't do. The district they found themselves in was his. Who did this small-time wannabe think he was, threatening Leone's people? A child too? "He said he'd gut me like our fish, and I figured, 'hey, that sounds pretty gangster!'-"

"Bernadetta, stop talking," the grandfather gritted out through his teeth.

Leone bit the inside of his cheek so hard it hurt and swallowed the laugh that threatened to spill. "No, let her continue. A real gangster would've just used a gun."

For someone caught up in the middle of a robbery, Bernadetta looked positively delighted. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

"No." Bernadetta opened her mouth to say something else, but Leone cut her off. "This is irrelevant. I'm going to figure this out."