Archive of Our Own ^beta

September 27, 2024

“What do you mean you're not coming?”

Even with his back turned, Abbacchio could sense Fugo’s dissatisfied frown. Much the same as he could tell exactly who was on the other end of the call without being privy to the full conversation—the dip and drawl of Mista’s inflection gave him away before Fugo put him on speakerphone.

“—can’t do it, man. Double fours is supremely unlucky! I’ll FaceTime him tonight, after you all do your surprise thing.”

It wasn’t as if any of the men present hadn’t seen this coming. Mista had been singing this exact song for the last quarter-century, though he’d probably lose his mind if anyone phrased it that way, Abbacchio thought with a wry twist of his lips. He threw a scornful glance over his shoulder and Fugo rolled his eyes right back. 

“Dude, nobody gives a damn about your superstitious bullshit,” Narancia groaned as he flapped open a blue and white tablecloth and draped it crookedly across the dining set.  “Plus, Gio is coming and you’re supposed to be his bodyguard, aren’t you?”

“Gio will understand. And so will Bucciarati! ”

Fugo set the phone down at the head of the table next to a modest pile of wrapped gifts and straightened Narancia’s handiwork before the other returned with a stack of plates. “What exactly are you planning to do in two years when it’s your forty-fourth?” 

“I’m skipping it. Straight to forty-five, do not pass Go, do not collect three-hundred thousand lire.”

“Even I know that isn’t how numbers work…” muttered Narancia as he doled out the place settings, though the clatter of flatware didn’t quite drown out Mista’s bleated protest, a sing-song denial that he couldn’t hear the facts presented.

Abbacchio listened to the bickering of his juniors without comment, busy fighting and losing a battle with a singularly stubborn length of golden streamer that refused to stay taped to the textured plaster wall. He turned to dig through the sideboard for the box of thumbtacks.

“What about Trish, huh?” Narancia tried. “She’s on her way down with the kids right now . You gonna miss out seeing your nieces? Your godson ?”

An impressed smirk tugged at the corner of Abbacchio’s mouth as he rummaged through the junk drawer. Narancia’s puppy dog eyes may have become less effective with every passing year, but he hadn’t yet lost the ability to drop a payload of guilt with deadly precision. 

The speaker crackled with Mista’s piteous whine. “Aw, man, don’t do me like that. Now I’m gonna have to bring them extra presents at Christmas.”

“If Trish doesn’t disinvite you, you mean?” accused Fugo. 

“She wouldn’t! ”

“Ohoho, you kidding? She absolutely would. We’re talking about the woman who nearly opened my throat when we first met, all cuz I told her not to clean a bathroom, remember?” Narancia recounted with disturbing fondness.

“I seem to recall it somewhat differently…” 

“Yeah, she almost broke your arm first.”

“What can I say? My babe’s a badass!”

Tacks acquired, Abbacchio returned to the wayward party decor and secured the ribbon in place, doubling back to rehang the rest of the bunting while the others prattled on the way they always had whenever the team assembled without supervision. They weren’t the kids they’d once been, but somehow their antics still managed to make him feel like the only adult in the room. When he was certain none of the trimmings would fall before their guest of honor arrived home, Abbacchio took a step back to admire the fruits of his labor for a moment. 

Now, to put a pin in this rapidly-derailing conversation before the point was lost entirely.

Abbacchio picked up Fugo’s cell, the screen still bright with Mista’s contact photo on display. Grainy by modern standards, he could guess the picture hadn’t been updated since camera phones had first come available, and the gunslinger’s fingers thrown up in a peace sign only further dated the image. Quite the ironic gesture for a mafia hit-man to flash.

“Alright, everyone shut up,” Abbacchio interjected. The trio did as they were told without argument, small testament to maturity gained (finally) with age. “Mista. I let it slide when you didn’t show up for my birthday this year, because, frankly, I didn’t care. In fact, I’d prefer if you all left us alone a little more often.” 

A peaceful retirement , Bruno had said when they moved south of the city, a quiet retreat from their old lives . Narancia booed and blew raspberries, pitching one of the linen napkins he’d been folding into sloppy origami sail boats in Abbacchio’s direction. He continued:

“But this is Bruno, and all this family shit is important to him. Which makes it important to me.”

“Listen, I know that, but you gotta understand! That’s two forty-four year olds under one roof! FOUR FOURS, ABBACH— ”

He didn’t bother raising his voice to override Mista’s feeble excuse. Rather, Abbacchio dropped his pitch low, deliberately enunciating every syllable through clenched teeth to ensure there was no mistaking his intent. 

“So either you get your ass down here, or I will come collect you . And if you make me miss my husband’s surprise party, I swear I will drag you under every ladder and in front of every black cat from Salerno to Sicily, hai capito ?”

A prolonged silence followed his oath, the only indicator that Mista hadn’t disconnected the call was the pixelated replica of his dimpled smile still on-screen. Narancia had clapped a hand over his mouth to contain the laughter that shook his shoulders, his eyes alight with sadistic glee, and even Fugo’s scarred face split into a devilish grin. He held out his hand for his cell and Abbacchio passed it over. Fugo tapped the speaker button once more and raised the phone to his ear.

“So we’ll see you in a couple hours?” He asked. A thumbs up confirmed the final, hard-won RSVP. “Great, because we’re still setting up, and I need you to pick up the pizzas on your way over. They’re already paid for, don’t worry. Should be a couple half-meters, margherita and capricciosa .” Fugo paused to listen, Mista’s response reduced to a fly buzz on the other end of the line. “You know, if you’d responded to the group chat you’d have gotten a say in the toppings, but sure, I’ll call and add a single for you. How does quattro formaggi sound?”

He hung up, cutting Mista off mid-screech.

No matter that he’d been out on the boat all day, the moment Bruno unlocked the door with his key instead of his Stand, everyone hiding within the house knew they’d been found out. Like the party, that was no surprise either. Nothing in Napoli happened without Bucciarati catching wind of it. 

Still, he feigned shock when they leapt out and shouted, a delighted sparkle in his eyes that would remain for the entirety of the evening. And when Giorno toasted to forty-four more years, even Mista raised his glass without hesitation.