Your verdict was clear. The next chapter of your life would be opened with a closing sentence.

After a long drive, you finally reached your destination. Chained, you were guided outside the vehicle by two policemen. Before you rose the grandiose door of your eternal residence. It did not stand out; shy was its malice, neglected by the public. Just a set of raw hinges and two dirtied panels.

This was your gateway to the afterlife, and the afterlife was prison, the place where the muck of mankind was hoarded. As foul as it was, the residence couldn't have possibly hoped to host a character like you. Nothing was at its disposal to satisfy your basic human values. With not one possibility to keep you intact, decay awaited you, finely tuned like the decomposing of a long withered flower.

You'd been rotting from the inside, declining with every lackluster act of vigor you'd portray. Death was universal, repetitive, devastatingly mediocre. You accepted it so many times before, it felt more like a necessary state of living. Even now, it caved in, numbed you vividly.

Your senses landed in some state of anxious languor. You had never felt anything quite like it before. It was much like a dreamscape, presented through hazy ramblings of a dying mind. Through them, a stimulus was registered, so rough, so haphazardly unpleasant.

"You! Right there!"

And due to your infamy, you knew you were the one called out. You turned around, seeking whoever was it that wanted to agitate you once again.

It was a woman, in her forties, you'd estimate. She seemed like the usual sort you'd spot on the streets, not too pretty, but gravitating towards beauty with her accessories and makeup. She could've been pleasant for the eye, for all you knew. It was just that wrath contorted her face.

The policemen halted in their movements. Holding you in place, they allowed you to face this stranger. This, you estimated, was highly unprofessional, and that sort of behavior was no oddity. It was because of their lethargy that she got to speak.

"(Y/N) (L/N), I despise you from the bottom of my soul. You have ruined so many lives, lives of children, of wives, husbands, brothers and sisters, and my life," she exclaimed hurriedly, and yet, unbeknownst to her, she was wrong. She neared you, and you could see the wrinkles excessive fury had caused her.

She inhaled deeply. You observed as she fiddled with her purse. Then, without a warning, she swang it and hit you with it in one swift movement. You couldn't react until it was too late. All you could do was yelp and close your eyes, and indulge in the impact. Commotion resonated around you, utterly unbearable against the pulsating ache inside your skull. Down you bowed your head, diligently tame in this chaos.

Reopening your eye offered some insight into this hassle. Other policemen rushed to restrain the woman. For once, you were grateful they were doing their job. But why, why were you subjected to violence?

She was not taken away. The cops only held her further from you. In what ought to be satisfactory justice, they allowed her to persist before you, and deliver whatever a mourning soul had to state.

The explanation was finally offered. "You don't know me, but you must know my husband, Vito Gaglione. You killed him!"

Pits of dread swallowed what was left of your confusion.

His days were over. Many of yours wouldn't arrive either. You'd been long aware: it mattered not. If bashing a corpse would aid the woman, make her feel any better, then you'd let her do it. And offer her, although insignificant, although so deeply heartfelt...

"I'm sorry."

A weightless apology. The woman tossed it aside with a curse and resumed her barrage. It was so fiendishly forceful; her emotions were too heavy for her voice, and it cracked, it was high time it cracked. With coughs and croaked insults, she scolded even more.

You sensed the wetness of her spit on your cheek, and you flinched. Her hatred dribbled down your soul, deepening its wide chasms. Did she know, could she even assume what harrowed the abysses of your vibrating chest? Sprouting from inner oblivion, came a bitter thought, correspondingly as dark: you were willing to play the role of a murderer, to make a stranger feel better. How utterly ridiculous.

Because, what if she found out you weren't guilty? That the true monster was forever on the loose, that you were his victim as well? More devastation, more strain on many fickle hearts. No – you knew better than to ruin it all. You'd give her cheap satisfaction. She needed to have her fit. It was only healthy.

The policemen made sure you embraced all of it. The two that held you, did not move. A couple of meters away, the woman was restrained too. She managed to reach you in ways not physical, but certainly impactful. Vocal were her wallops, and yet they shook your very essence, rendered you wicked, and for it, defenseless. The cops knew that. That's why they let it be.

"I pray that someday, you'll feel the same pain me and my family went through. I pray that your ice, no, stone heart melts, only so you could know what it felt like," she cursed rightfully.

You held your handcuffed hands close to you. Prison would be snug.

"Can you even feel? Are you even human? Does this even reach you?"

Your many mistakes accounted for it, you thought, agony slashing your heart. Your vision became blurry due to the sudden woe.

But your mind was clear. The very affliction was your pointer.

"No," you whispered. The response came out naturally; it was what she needed to hear.

With a victorious stance, she distanced herself from you. The policemen let her go.

"Monsters like you belong in prison." She clutched the fabric above her heart. "You won't ever harm anyone else. You won't get the satisfaction. Ever again."

You could discern some solemn tone in her statement. You could not see it, but your imagination made sure to visualize it: she must've started crying.

Your flimsy facade crumbled in an instant. For weeks, your nerves had been molested like never before. No matter the ravaged psyche, your body continued functioning, albeit faulty here and there – and your next action was but an inherent reflex.

Thus, the empathetic reaction to pain equaled pain: trembling lips, familiar warmth in your face. A tinge in your nose. You blinked and just like that, your tears ran amok.

And you were devastated. With furrowed eyebrows, eyes screwed shut, your momentary relief turned hostile. Salt had already reached the tip of your tongue – indeed, the tears were all over. Down the cheeks, down the chin, elegantly collapsing alongside your tender demise. You regretted shedding them. Monsters ought not to cry; weakness turned them irresistibly humane.

Your next breath was hitched. That was not how things were supposed to be. You were supposed to be the murderer. And in some other, even more idealized setting, the woman was supposed to be home, with her family gathered. Her husband, alive. And everything should've been reversed, so very different –

You bit your lip. Nothing could be changed. Nothing could be done. Before your spiraling got haywire, you had managed to bring back some sense. The present was very focused on you, and your focus on it was loose. So, you looked at her.

The woman was staring at your melting visage. Mute. She mustn't know you weren't the culprit. She mustn't have a single speck of doubt inside her, that it wasn't a monster who killed her husband. It would be easier to comprehend... and easier for you to manage it.

But it was so damn hard...! It crippled you, the fact you could not do anything, not speak a single word to help. You were worthless, you were scum – and you were treated accordingly.

One policeman had evidently decided it was enough of this one-sided conversation, so he pushed you to move. "Alright, this shit is over, off we go."

You muttered yet another apology before being dragged away. The harsh tug of the policemen excluded any opportunity for you to do anything. Make amends – any amends. And, and the woman did not say her goodbye...! Wasn't there supposed to be a final farewell? Was she going to leave unsatisfied? Conflicted, confused? Due to your tears –

And you wept, for you could not help her. For it wasn't over. For none of it was over.

You were lucky that the policemen held you. Otherwise, you would've fallen on your knees and begged the woman to strike you. Would the revenge offer her as much satisfaction as the fact you would be locked up? Oh, it would certainly make you feel relieved -

You were shaking profusely. No, no, this couldn't possibly end that way. She had to get her justice...! She had to –

You even turned around, to look at the woman one last time. Some man, dressed in pure white (how strikingly symbolical), had come to, possibly, comfort her – as he should. Be it a son, a friend, or even a stranger, an angel was what she deserved. You may have lost it all, but she had someone to guard her.

This was the good end you were hoping for. A heavy exhale escaped your wet lips. As ever, you weren't hasty to move on.

Inside the building, you listened to the echoes of your disgusting sobs. All of them, nasty to the ear. You were looking forward to the moment you'd be left alone, unprovoked, unbothered –

"Oi, calm down."

And unnoticed. The policeman gripped your arm, making you wince. You could feel your throat tighten; no sob would break out, you wouldn't embarrass yourself anymore. You took deep breaths through your nose in hopes of getting quiet. You had attracted many odd looks – and you ignored all of them. It's not every day a prisoner turns all tearful before being imprisoned.

After walking through mundane hallways, passing the administration, you were asked to leave all your belongings inside a crate of sorts. You were given clothes to wear as a prisoner – colorless drapes to match the vapid atmosphere.

Seeing yourself in that suit, you knew you were fully introduced to your end. This was your final transformation. To complete it, a ceremony was performed: you were guided down the hall into your very own dirty little chamber, where you would be left to rot. This was your funeral. A disgrace meant for a disgrace.

Locked and left alone, you didn't pay much attention to your confinement. All you needed was a place to sit, and you had a chair and a bed to do that. You resorted to the chair. It seemed cleaner.

Sprawled over the table before you, you finalized your life. It was a peaceful ending. You had to be grateful, for you would get to rest before passing away. Not many could boast about that.

Blinks slow and weak, you stared ahead, knowing nothing would be seen. It just so happened that your eyes had your hands before them, to focus approximately on them. How silly, to think you once believed you could do anything and everything with them. But your present dictated a tale completely opposite, which you learned not to care about.

You thought of it oftentimes. Your indifference was akin to that of a suicidal person, except yours sprouted from emotions starkly different: the requited love of life. Its finest decadence.

For deaf ears to hear, you sighed. This was an interesting way to kill it.

You were drained, emotionally, physically. It was no wonder that your mind slowly emptied itself, leaving nothing but a heartthrob to fuel it. Consequently, your vision lost its strength, and all turned distant. Even the blackish grime of the cell's interior.

Oh, but the darkness was abusive. It tormented your tired eyes, disfiguring itself into unstable murk. The wall before you held subtle picturesque on its dirty canvas. The one your lingering consciousness painted; colors were sickly, gradations close to none, and lighting – abhorrently absent.

Morphing in and out of meaningless shapes, the painting was merely a result of your exhaustion. You were sane enough to know that. Drowsy enough for your vision to fail.

A notion pecked at your skull. Stuck in the back of your mind, it was but a startling possibility, nothing you wouldn't handle: Secco could easily manifest through the wall. What then? What then, once your reflexes are harshly tugged at? Once this repugnant dog latches onto you?

With the same elated apathy, you came to a conclusion you wouldn't fight back. You had long overstepped the threshold of nihility. Greeting the numbness like an old friend, you recognized haven for your lacerated, poorly maimed heart. Found out, phlegm was a proper place to stay.

You were simply out of luck. Fate had graced you with many wonders, then left you bare-handed at the time you needed her hold. The damage was done, and the damage done could not be repaired; wailing would be nothing but a waste of vocal cords.

No pessimism lifted your thoughts. No bitterness heaved them; likewise, no animosity was harbored. You were drained of strong sentiments at the very dawn of your predicament. Even bodily exhaustion prevented them.

The realization that your thoughts revolved around thoughts, themselves, was... fascinating, to say the least. There it came – a chuckle, faint, much like a cascading huff. Thus came a tinge in your chest, and you clenched your teeth because of the pain.

No matter where you redirected your train of thoughts, you would suffer. You were in an unorthodox state, and yet, your reactions were all orthodox. You were unable to adapt to this final stage of your life. Much like prey that would lay still before its predator, you became sedated as you lived through your death.

Everything was over. You'd lost, you could rest. You found your thoughts turning incoherent, and with closed eyes, you indulged in the peace given. Murmurs of the outside world reached you through the window. It was the only lullaby you'd ever hear from that point. The temperature was just right; a breeze would reach you every now and then, stroking you gentler than so many recent touches.

You had all you needed. Being alone, unprovoked, unbothered, unnoticed – you could finally forget and be forgotten.

Through that resolution, you were comforted. Your consciousness managed to drift off to a dreamless sleep.

. . .

The napping came to a sudden halt. An abrupt flinch followed, and so, the privacy of your solitude was broken. The door to the hallway had been opened with a creak, causing goosebumps to erupt all over your skin.

An unfamiliar scent filled your nostrils. You opened one of your eyes, and spotted a tray with food and a cup of water, placed on the floor by your side. Too bad you didn't intend to eat it.

Watching through the slits of heavy lids, you awaited the arrival of the guard, sure to greet him with an ominous stare. You hadn't bothered to move from the table – you still lay sprawled across it, your butt barely finding leverage on the chair.

After announcing his arrival with stern tapping of boots, the guard finally stepped in front of your cell. You could hear him mingle with the keys; their jingle and its echo scraped against your sensitive ears. Your brows knitted together, displaying discontent so.

The cell door was opened with yet another unpleasant creak. Next came the guard's words: "On your feet, girl. You've been released."

You reopened your eyes. Nonsense. Questions were already swarming inside your head – you opened your mouth, but didn't know what to say. This was ridiculous. You just let out a yawn, lifted yourself from the table, and sat up, staring straight into the wall before you.

Whoever chose to play this nasty prank on you must've found it extremely amusing.

"Hey, you heard me?" The guard wasn't too understanding of your weird surprise.

You looked at him, your grim expression unfaltering. "I'm sorry, the joke isn't funny."

His brows furrowed. "Why would someone joke about this?"

You weren't skeptical about this. You didn't even try to believe it. "Who bailed me, then?"

"The hell I know. Come on now."

"Hmm. Fine." You stood up, lifting your hands upwards as a surrendering gesture. You hadn't been walking or eating almost all day, so getting back on your feet resulted in slight vertigo.

And then, everything was reversed. You got all of your belongings back, dressed up, walked outside of prison and attained the title of a free individual. Just like before, you were alone, except now – you had no idea what to do.

With no true vehemence in your thoughts, you stood there, watching the sunset. Going home didn't seem too pleasant, although you did originally plan to return, because your parents insisted on that. Your friends, some of them were okay, but... your home would only bring you pain. This entire process caused many of your "friends" to lie about you to the media. Some of them actually believed the news. Even your parents were swayed, just slightly swayed – and it was enough for you to know that your relationship would never be the same.

You didn't want to come back there and face it all. You were too exhausted. You wouldn't handle it.

On the other hand, depending on yourself was oddly comforting. Having little to no ties. But what to do with that freedom...?

You wondered if they already eliminated your stuff from your hotel room. Maybe you would scavenge something and see if it's worth selling. What to do afterwards, however? Your face was all over the news, and with your criminal record, you could hardly get a job anywhere –

"Cold-blooded murderers usually don't cry when faced with the consequences of their killings. You must admit, that was peculiar."

Before you came a man you'd never consider an ordinary bystander. He was wearing a suit all white, decorated with zippers here and there – and in its middle was a heart-shaped hole, revealing a tattooed, toned chest. Above, a face stern, brimmed with a bob cut of dark hair, and on it, two golden hairpins, shimmering as remnants of light hit them. The sunset only emphasized his sleek beauty, and yet, you were not fazed by it.

Appearance as such almost made you think you were dreaming, or at least hallucinating. It took you a while to propel your focus and clear your thoughts enough to realize that this indeed was happening.

Important was the fact that he observed your breakdown. You bit your lip, then gave your bitter response. "There's always a first."

By his expression, you concluded he did not believe you. With a brisk raise of his brow, he offered you his take on that matter. "And this isn't one."

You tilted your head. "How can you be so sure?" All he did was shrug.

"So, you bailed me on a whim," you added without thinking.

"Now that's a bold guess. How can you be so sure?" His lips curled in what seemed like a sly smile – when paired with his steady gaze, you were right to feel this man knew more than he let on.

"Well... nobody else could've done it." You rubbed your eyes. Everything about this seemed so surreal, and your drowsiness did not help one bit with comprehending it. "I mean, it was just a guess."

"Yet you guessed right."

"Wait... so you –" It seemed as if you'd discovered the truth only now, and yet, it didn't change much on your internal plan. Coolly, as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred, you said what ought to be said. "Thank you. I owe you everything, signore."

"And you are very welcome." He gestured towards you with his right hand. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions. Everything will be explained – care to join me?"

The question appeared more difficult once you'd given it some thought. Although he seemed to possess no ill intentions, you knew he had his reasons behind bailing you. If waged logically, you were willing to owe him – for he was the who granted you this new life.

You turned around, sparing one last glance at the prison door behind you. Be your intuition right or wrong, you had no option but to go ahead. "Si. Thank you once again, signore...?"

"No need. Bruno Buccellati." He offered a hand for you to shake it. Staring down at it, you saw offers of lawyers and journalists alike, and null was the sympathy behind those formalities. Nevertheless, you shook it, equally devoid of any expectations.

There wasn't much you could uncover by fixating onto his azure eyes. Buccellati was a serious man whose inner peace gave great composure to his antics. That was the feeling you had gotten, yet chose not to trust. Calm or not, a man may be vile. Psychopathy lay in that exact idle state.

So it came as no surprise that you retracted your hand as soon as you could. Carefully, you eyed him, his austere face and the few, if any changes it made. You could feel your jaw clench as your perturbation grew.

"Scusi, Buccellati, how did you... even manage to do it? I'm certain prominent influence and, of course, money is needed to release a convict like me," you asked him at last, one of the many questions you withheld.

He gestured for you to start walking, which you did. "Indeed. I am a member of Passione, the famiglia that oversees the city."

Your heart skipped a beat. Streets before you faded out of focus, just for an instant, where dizziness stole away your balance – and you almost fell. Stumbling a little, which Buccellati noticed, you managed to continue walking as if nothing happened. This mafioso next to you asked you if you were alright, and you nodded, your gaze avoidant of him.

"You are familiar with Passione," he noted.

Shock gripped at your throat. It had turned tight, like a clogged, neglected, pipe. A simple hiss of a "si" was all that you wheezed.

Buccellati heard it, so he began his reply. However, he was interrupted shortly afterwards. An old lady on the other side of the street greeted him, waved at him, even seemed happy to have seen him – an event that occupied your thoughts.

Once his attention was no longer stray, he continued with your discussion. "Know that I mean no harm, signorina. All sorts of people are gathered under the famiglia's wing, and as it's always been the case, we do not get to choose who else shares our blood."

A statement that gave you no relief. With a nod, you acknowledged it, and asked, "But why take me in then?"

"Your case has caught my eye. Many things did not add up, starting from your background, coming to your described behavior, and lastly, the very logic behind your alleged murders."

"Fortune wasn't really on my side." Neither was Cioccolata, you thought sarcastically.

"Sadly, yes, and I found out why. When I dug deeper, I found out a member of our famiglia framed you for his murders."

The fact he knew about your innocence was shocking – and rather relieving. For once, you found another person who was sure that you'd done nothing, who didn't doubt you in the slightest. "But, there's more to it, no?"

"Naturally. I've read that you used to be a prodigal student. Your other qualities seem to be that of a virtious person as well – I got to witness that myself. Going the furthest of distances to appease the lady wasn't the product of your moral tiredness. It was a product of its vivacity, and incredible emotional intelligence. After everything you've been through, I must say it's a remarkable trait. But no matter your strength on that field, I'm certain you wouldn't last in prison for longer than a couple of days."

Your eyes widened. Sheer surprise sped up your blinking. The compliment was almost ironical, and his analysis spectacular. You found the gravity of his words to be noteworthy – this mafioso, Bruno Buccellati, must've been an extraordinary person as well. Yet you were certain all of these explanations had a catch. That being, that your freedom, although just, would not come without a price.

"Which meant I had valid reasons to bail you. However, given the circumstances, I can't have done it easily," he continued.

"Thank you, and I hope it didn't cause you much trouble." You attempted reciprocating his kind tone.

"No, of course not. Having faced this problem, I sought a possible solution and its cost. At best, it happens to be your devotion to the famiglia, in order to pay this debt."

Your heart sank. "I should become a member as well?"

"Yes." He nodded, peering at you. "Do you consider yourself capable of doing that?"

Did he spot your change in emotions, or was he merely asking about your competence? "Hm. You're asking about the dirty work?" He nodded, luckily.

You thought of all the possible things you would be doing, all of them very wrong and very illegal. You had never wanted to see yourself in this situation, and although you could do and handle these things – they would simply feel wrong. You couldn't bear living such in such an ambivalent state, especially if your sole purpose was to just... be bad. Unless you had something else to do. Which reminded you of the mafioso who had accused you of murder.

"If it's an order, I suppose I'll have to do it. I'll handle it, but... the man who put me into jail... he has a job, although he is one of you." Locking your gaze with Buccellati's, you harnessed a hard look. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that mean I'll also be able to develop a life of my own, outside the mafia?"

"You seem to have an opportunistic approach. I like that," he informed. Every time he mentioned a fact about you, you could feel you were being rediscovered for who you truly were. After so much time, you were no longer being dehumanized – and although you tried to suppress it, it felt so damn good. "And yes, aside from the services you'll have to offer and aside undeniable loyalty, you'll be able to cultivate your private life. So long it doesn't affect the famiglia, naturally. Disobedience, betrayal, are both severely punishable."

So, you could have hobbies, you could expand your interests – and just, work on yourself. Live normally aside from that job. That didn't seem too bad. "I understand. If that's so, then I'm positive I'll do well in the mafia."

"Despite the fact you might have a family and friends out there, thinking and worrying about you?"

You sighed. Coming back to them, although tempting, should be considered impossible. You were certain you wouldn't bear it – the very idea terrified you. You took some time to figure a response for Buccellati, for this truly was a delicate matter. And as you tried to devise it, you rationalized your membership in the mafia – and it seemed fine.

"Signore, I've come a long way. So did they. The process of this trial has severed some bonds I had in my homeland. As for my family... my parents have lost their minds too. The only thing I can do, right now, is to tell them I'm alright and explain what kind of life I'll be leading from now on. They'll know I'm fine, and that should be enough. There's nothing else I could do." You paused, having realized something. "How much money will I earn as a member of the Passione?"

"Enough to afford yourself a comfortable life."

There was more good in this situation after all – you'll be able to send money to your family, the very money you were supposed to earn as a hardworking student. Although you did not want to face them, you knew of their hardships, for once, they were yours as well. You were willing to help. It was the least you could do. "Molto bene."

Buccellati certainly realized what your intentions were, for he too seemed to have grown satisfied. "You've accepted all of this quite easily," he then pointed out.

That was what you'd wished to explain. "How else, signore? I don't have a choice. I've already been through hell and back, so this, although not ideal, is far better. I can't ask for more."

You were uncertain, however, if Buccellati found your mindset to be weird. He'd seen you cry because of a stranger, and now you were letting go of your dear ones so easily? And you weren't, pathetically enough, you weren't.

"I do not know you, signorina. So, if you still have ties that you wouldn't want to be severed, a life you'd like to come back to, people who you miss... feel free to tell me."

Those were the things you yearned to avoid; they would constantly remind you of your demise.

On the other side, you found change appealing. The volatile notion of a new life, of a new beginning, where you would be the one to solely define your path – it was far too good. To just leave everything behind. Take what you needed, then storm off into the great unknown.

Looking over to Buccellati, you uncovered sunset behind him, racing down one of the domestic streets of Napoli. Warm colors were all over, burning the Italian architecture, weaving a scenery oh so sentimental. Once you gazed upwards, you could see the outskirts of purple and black above you. You could draw a line that separated day and night, and yet.... dusk would always remain similar to dawn.

You enjoyed change as much as you feared it. Yet that of the skies, you found it to be inspiring so many times, even now, for it reached out to you. Showed you the beauty of the end and its resemblance to the beginning. This very instant, evening loomed over you. Wounds of your soul were open for the falling sun to scorch them – indeed, you were horribly injured. Moments away from crying at the very hint of nostalgia.

"I simply can't let myself miss them, signore. I'm hopeful we'll see each other one day, on good terms. Until then... I'm alive and free, and the possibilities are so wildly endless. That's enough of a consolation for me."

Buccellati's eyes widened. "There is hope for you, signorina," he said, and for the first time in this entire conversation, you heard the surprise in his deep voice.

You were quick to deny it.

"There isn't. Not at home."

The trembling of your voice meant that you had to stop.

You had to close your eyes and breathe deeply. The possibilities were endless back home as well. You would be considered a controversy, a nuisance, a patient, a poor ostracized soul, a liar, a psychopath... what not. That ordeal was overwhelming, far too hostile for your exhausted self. If even your parents and some friends, who loved you so much, managed to doubt you – then why come home at all?

With a grave look meant for Buccellati's deep blue eyes only, you realized you would never be able to look your parents in their eye like this. How to announce that you've escaped prison, if the verdict was clear? That the mafia released you?

"I wouldn't stand to return to such an environment. I know I won't be able to adapt. So, signore, please," you spoke with a desperately firm voice, "have no doubt that I'll do anything to belong somewhere, if anywhere." Your lips trembled, so you sank your teeth into them. You were so quick to break down, due to such minor things...!

Suffocating took on from that point onwards, and you swallowed. It would be horrendous if you began crying now – so you screamed at yourself, inside of your tired mind, to just stay calm, not to cry.

Suddenly, amidst that fierce inner battle, Buccellati took hold of your hand, clasping the both of his around your cold one. Tearful, you looked down, and at once, you were imbued with shock. This man cared.

You looked back at him, only to spot his reassuring smile through the blur. "I do not doubt in your resolve, (Y/N). You will belong." The grip was strong. And your vision cleared.

You bit your lip. It was so long since you'd last seen a friendly face that Buccellati's presence seemed like an exaggerated fantasy. "Good to hear. Grazie," you almost whispered.

He nodded. "Once again, you're welcome."

There was good, and Buccellati proved it to you. Through his hint of care, you finally realized – things weren't so bleak. You had to focus on the positives of this situation. You would start from the beginning, surely, and a low one, but at least you had it.

Wasn't your entire chase after a scholarship, after someplace better to live, focused on your dream, just a reflection of that... escapism? To start over, on your own?

The mafioso let go of your hand. "If your resolve is such, then I'll lead you into the famiglia with no regrets."

"No regrets here either," you told him. "I can't think about those things anymore. Per favore, let's continue talking about the entire... plan, or whatever."

You didn't have to explain any further. He took a piece of paper seemingly out of nowhere – maybe it was hiding in one of his zippers – and handed it over to you. Your gaze skimmed over it – some address was written in rather neat handwriting. Shockingly, it reminded you of that of your best friend's. Meaning, the writing was neat for a male, you corrected your thoughts after switching your focus back to Buccellati.

"Tomorrow morning, at ten, you'll visit a man named Polpo on this address. He is the capo who will conduct an interview and assess if you are worthy of becoming one of us."

That was unusually professional. But this was the mafia, some sort of entrance would have to exist. "If I may ask – what does an interview for the mafia even look like?"

"Just the usual sort. You'll speak to him, and he'll evaluate your abilities."

There was no way you'd fail this interview. You were indebted anyway. Therefore, you realized, the purpose of this interview would most likely be to just... assess what you were capable of. In this state, you were uncertain if you had any qualities the mafia would consider worthwhile.

So, the best thing you could do was just be yourself, for the first time after so long. That was the safest option, and the most pleasant option – though you feared you'd forgotten who you truly were.

"Alright. Thank you," you murmured. You'd just try to give it your best, and that would be all.

"Pardon me if the question is too intrusive, but, do you have a place to spend the night?"

You were a bit surprised because this indeed was an intrusive question, no matter what his intentions were. "Yeah, I've rented a hotel room." But... you'd soon be on the streets, because you would run out of money. Hopefully, the mafia paycheck would come in soon.

"Bene. Then, would you be willing to join me for dinner at a local restaurant? It's an excellent one. My treat."

You couldn't believe his kindness. Due to your very culture and a plethora of other reasons – some of them including distrust – you turned down his offer. "I can't accept, signore, you've already done so much for me. Although I'm grateful beyond measure, I simply can't accept."

Yet he insisted. "Please. It would be a pleasure – don't think of it as a burden."

"I'm sure you understand why I'm hesitating, and I'm sorry if I sound rude. But I really don't think I'm in the mood... or that I have the energy for dinner. It's getting late and I'll probably just want to sleep at some point. Not to mention I just... don't feel comfortable." Your clothes could pass, but you didn't wear any makeup and you were sure your hair wasn't in its best edition. Besides, the stress took a toll on you. It manifested itself as eye bags and skin a bit worse than usual.

He nodded. The mafioso kept his peaceful face as he spoke – oh, he was so accepting, you almost felt bad for denying. "I do understand. Which is why I won't force you to come." He stepped aside. "The decision is entirely up to you. If you'd like to be left alone or simply don't trust me, feel free to go. You have my complete understanding."

You shrugged, unsure what to do. With an awkward expression, you told him your reply. "If that's so, then, I should once again apologize... and thank you. I appreciate your offer nevertheless, but I think I'll get going."

"If that would be all, signorina, I should also ask you – do you have any questions?"

You shook your head. "None."

"Then, shall I consider this a farewell?"

"Sadly, yes, signore."

"In that case... arrivederci. Until next time."

"Arrivederci, signore."

And so, you bid your farewells. That was how you met Buccellati: under a formal tone, with unrestrained hearts.

You gave him a nod before walking away, face blank, for you were unsure what emotion to display. You were aided vastly, yet – could you truly settle down with the amoral lifestyle?

And just how amoral was it? If a man, like Buccellati, could maintain empathy as a mafioso... if he even had it. How much of his care was an act? Anyone could've done that which he did – just, take your hand, say a couple of nice words, and voila, you would feel better.

But your intuition, although abused, spoke otherwise. You were indebted anyway. He didn't have to console you, and yet, he showed that he cared. And the old lady who greeted him...!

Perhaps his soul was that of an angel. Angel... the realization rendered you flabbergasted. Oh, Buccellati...

You crossed your arms, staring at your savior's departure. Perhaps things weren't as grim, just this once, just during this fragment of your life – but you couldn't form a smile quite yet. It was meant for some better times.

Wherever did those better times lay? In front of you, or behind you? Or absolutely nowhere? You still didn't know. Much like scented flowers, all that had once brought joy, now wilted, turned sorrowful to the eye, repulsive to the nose. But you could scrap those, start anew. Thanks to Buccellati.

You kicked a pebble off the road. The feeling was nice.

That was when you made out that Buccellati's name was mentioned by some bystanders. Then someone almost yelled, much louder than before, "Did you see that?! That chick was talking with Buccellati!"

You immediately turned to look at the source of that statement. Wide eyes, you searched, afraid that someone might've targeted you – and your heart was once again in your throat, and once again, you were gasping for breath.

Across the street stood two men, both slim in build and with an uncanny dressing style. One of them, wearing mostly blue and red, had been pointing at you with his finger until he noticed you were staring at him. That was when he put his hand down and turned towards his friend. You heard he was cursing, but... enthusiastically?

You swallowed. Should you move on? Or react somehow? Paralyzed mentally, you looked at Buccellati and noticed that he too was standing still, his arms crossed. Did that mean disapproval on his side? Were those his enemies, rivals?

The man dressed in a monotone dark suit decided to walk away. The other one followed him. And so, your trance was broken out of – thank goodness they didn't care. You inhaled deeply and continued your way. You had only met two mobsters so far, and somehow, you attracted this much attention...? What kind of attention?

You turned around. At the brim of the sunset, you spotted that Buccellati and those two men came together, even engaged in a conversation. You hummed, relieved. No wonder they were colleagues, all of them dressed so oddly. Even Cioccolata wasn't dressed too normally.

So, would you have to... do that as well? But you didn't have such weird clothes at your disposal. And you didn't have enough money to buy something fitting. All that you owned was currently in that little hotel room...

You halted your steps. Did you truly want to go there? You'd have a whole night to overthink yourself – and that would be very much useless. On the other hand, if you chose to go with Buccellati, maybe that would offer new opportunities, whatever they were.

Once again, you whipped your head around. Just across the shadows, you could see them walking away. You wouldn't join them just yet.

Not now. You clenched your fists. You weren't able to do much, not in this fatigued, out-and-out demoralized state of yours. But fate was back in your grasp. For now, that was enough. Just enough to keep you going.

. . . 

One of the favorite things I've ever written, if not, my favorite piece. Have fun imagining what happens next, and many thanks for sticking around!