Chapter Text
The job was a routine one. A cassino owner was behind on his protection payments and Polpo had tasked Bruno to find out why.
When Bruno Bucciarati had woken up that day, he knew he was sick. Or rather, he knew he was not his normal self. His head throbbed, his throat felt raw and every muscle in his body ached. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep it off.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table and he forced himself up with a groan.
"Bucciarati," he answered.
"Hey! It's Mista!"
"I'm aware." He winced as his head pulsed. Why did he insist on this level of energy first thing in the morning?
"Right, right, right. Anyway, been checking the place out with Narancia. Should be good to go today."
"Alright. Thank you. Send word to the others. We meet at the restaurant in one hour."
"Got it. Uh, hey? Bucciarati?"
"Yes?" Bruno sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles massaging his warm forehead.
"You okay? You sound a little rough."
"It's nothing," he lied. "A sore throat. I must have been too loud, I suppose."
A snort on the other end made Bruno narrow his eyes.
"Oooh, did someone have too much fun last night?" Mista teased. Normally Bruno would have found that amusing and perhaps played along. Not today.
"Libeccio. One hour, Mista."
He hung up and set his phone aside, shivering. He was both too hot and too cold. Uncomfortable in every way. He stood, swaying like a drunk. This was bad, but what could he do? There were no sick days in the Mafia.
He staggered to the bathroom to start preparing himself for the day and his reflection almost scared him. He looked, in a word, awful. He was used to his morning bedhead, but not this. His face was flushed, eyes watery and unfocused, lips colorless, and the dark circles under his lashline made him look like a walking corpse.
"Fuck," he breathed, looking through his medicine cabinet with shaking hands. He had concealer somewhere. A little bit of makeup and he'd be good as new. He rarely used any for fear of staining his signature white suits, but he had no intention of wearing one today anyway. That was effort Bruno did not want to go through.
After ten minutes of searching, he couldn't even find his makeup bag before he had to give up and head out. He ran a comb through his hair, but couldn't even manage his signature braid with his shaking hands. Frustrated, he threw it up in a half ponytail, leaving his hairclips on the bathroom counter.
In the end, he left his apartment looking more like a tired suburban mother heading to parent/teacher conferences. In place of his white suit, he wore a white knitted turtleneck sweater, gray blazer and slacks. When he entered the restaurant, he was dimly aware of every set of eyes on him, and not in a good way.
"I apologize for being late," Bucciarati managed to croak, taking his usual seat with a shuddering sigh.
"Yo... I thought you sounded bad over the phone, dude," Mista said, concerned, "but, no offense boss, you look like Hell."
"Thank you. I try." Bruno leveled him with a withering glare. "Can we focus on the task at hand?
"No." This came from Abbachio and Bruno stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"No?"
"No." Abbachio straightened up in his seat, studying their leader with a critical eye. "Mista's right. You look like shit. You sound like shit. You clearly feel like shit. You're going home, Bucciarati."
Bruno scoffed at that, but it quickly turned into a fit of coughing.
"See?" Abbachio glanced to the side at Fugo.
"That's ridiculous and frankly, not your place," Bruno grumbled. "I know my own body and what I am capable of enduring. A head cold is not worth sending you out on your own."
Abbachio frowned, meeting his eye. But they both knew Bruno was too stubborn to give in on this.
"This is not up for debate." Bruno spoke gently, but firm. "Now. Back to the job. Mista, you said you and Nara- ah..."
He sneezed into his elbow. Once, twice, three times. When he opened his eyes again, the entire table was staring at him like he would break.
"Is that... is that really your sneeze?" Mista asked, fighting laughter. Beside him, Narancia looked moments away from a full breakdown.
"Yes," he replied, sounding somewhat stuffy as he opened a zipper in his coat (a real zipper) and pulled out a handkerchief. "What of it?"
"N-nothing! It's just-"
"Cute!" Narancia practically bellowed, "I didn't know you had a cute sneeze, Bucciarati! It was like a mouse!"
Now Mista was laughing and Fugo was red faced, hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to cackle. His face was on fire and he wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or the worsening fever. It didn't matter.
His fist came down on the table, snapping the laughter like a twig.
"Enough! We are off topic and wasting time!"
His head throbbed at his own exertion and he winced in pain despite himself. He caught a look from Abbachio, but the older man didn't say a word.
"Right, right," Mista chuckled to break the tension, "so as I was saying on the phone..."
Bruno stopped listening. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. Warmth washed over him, but not in a pleasant way. He placed a hand against his forehead, fighting off a throbbing headache. His vision felt smokey, unfocused.
"Bucciarati?"
"'S nothing," he muttered, "continue."
It wasn't nothing. He hunched over where he sat, unable to focus on what was being said. It didn't matter. A hand touched his thigh and he followed it up the arm to Abbachio, watching him with what, if Bruno didn't know better, could have sworn was fear.
"Bruno?"
Bucciarati stood up.
"Alright. Let's get to work. We... we..." he swayed and everything went dark.
Abbachio knew he was full of shit. Too damn stubborn to admit he wasn't feeling well. He pushed himself always and it wore on him. Leone knew from experience how taxing it could be to just keep pushing on without rest.
He watched Bruno from the moment he walked in. Not only because he was hopelessly devoted to the man, to this absolute God in human flesh. But because he was acting so very human now. Flawed, messy, vulnerable.
So when Bruno swayed and fell, Abbacchio was there to catch him. The table all stood, sudden and serious, none bothering to hide their concern.
"Christ!" Abbachio hissed, touching Bruno's forehead, "he's burning up."
"Abbacchio, should we tell Polpo?" Mista asked hesitantly, hurrying to the side of their fallen leader.
"No," Fugo answered before Abbacchio could snarl at Mista. "We complete the mission. Abbacchio, can you take Bruno?"
Could he? Was that even a question? Leone scoffed and lifted the other man with an ease the other members of the gang could only dream about. In terms of sheer upper body strength, he had them all beat.
"I'm taking him home." He didn't wait for a reply. He nodded to the concerned host on the way out muttering, "he's fine. Bad cold. 'Sall."
"Need me to call a cab?" The host asked helpfully, but Abbachio shook his head with a muttered "No thanks... you didn't see this."
"See what, sir?"
Abbachio nodded appreciatively and headed out. He knew Bruno's car inside and out. And where he usually put the car keys.
When Bruno opened his eyes again, he was vaguely aware that he was moving. Vaguely consious of the seatbelt pressing into his shoulder, the familiar scent of cigarettes and pine. He was in his own car, in the passenger seat.
His eyes drifted to Abbachio for a moment, then he closed them again, abandoning all consciousness. He was safe.
When he awoke next, the sun was lower in the sky. His pounding head and aching limbs felt truly a new level of terrible. He may be a hardened gangster, but he was no match for whatever was happening to him now.
"Awake?"
He recognized the gruff voice of Leone Abbacchio and suddenly he felt unusually self conscious. He'd left the apartment a bit of a mess from his frantic morning attempting to conceal his illness. A futile effort. He hadn't even made his bed or put his clothes in the hamper
His clothes. He blearily peeked under the blankets. He was wearing a matching silk pajama set. His face went even redder at the realization that Abbachio had likely undressed him. What was even worse? In order to find this pajama set, he'd had to of gone through the drawer where he kept his lingerie and... miscellaneous bedroom items. That was going to be an interesting conversation down the line.
"Abbachio," he croaked, "what... what happened?"
The older man sank into a chair that he had clearly dragged from the kitchen to set up next to his bed.
"You fainted."
Bruno's eyes went wide, and he attempted to sit up.
"I-?"
"Lay your ass back down," Abbachio growled, "You're running a fever of 39.7° C. Idiot."
Bruno reluctantly did as he was told, mind too fuzzy with fever and information overload. He fainted. In front of everyone. He remembered now. And Leone took him home, borrowed his car, brought him to his own room, stripped him. But then...
"The mission?"
"You're seriously asking?" Leone sighed, and Bruno caught the look of worry flashing across his face. "Its done. Fugo reported in. Mission accomplished."
He didn't mention the small car fire they'd caused. That was a problem for later.
"Grazie Dio," Bruno whispered, running a hand through his sweat dampened bangs.
"Here. Now that you're awake, take these. Should help with the fever."
Abbachio pushed two white pills into his hand then carefully put an arm under his back to help him sit up slightly to take some water as well. Bruno wanted to make a comment, tease him, instead he muttered a sincere thank you.
"Get some more rest," Abbachio ordered, looking away. Not quick enough to hide his blush. "I'll make some soup."
He rose from the chair as Bruno closed his eyes again. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, he was only dimly aware of Abbachio tucking his blanket up under his chin.
The next thing he knew, Abbachio was gently shaking him awake. He opened his eyes, wondering how long he'd been out this time.
"L...Leone?" He whispered, meeting his worried gaze.
"You feel up to eating?" The goth asked gently.
Bruno nodded slowly, glad that his headache seemed to be gone, at least for the moment. Leone pressed a hand to his forehead once more, frowning.
"You're still warm," he muttered, "I'll take your temperature again in a few hours. But for now-"
He went to his dresser where he had a tray set aside with a steaming bowl.
"Mama Abbacchio's home made chicken noodle soup."
Bruno couldn't help but smile. Home made soup? His mothers recipe? There was something so very domestic and intimate about this.
Abbachio set the tray down and helped Bruno sit up.
"I am sorry to be such a bother to you," Bruno wheezed, which quickly turned into a coughing fit.
"Well, guess you have to make it up to me by getting better," Leone smirked, lifting the soup and scooping a spoonful.
"Leone, you don't need to trouble yourself," Bruno whispered again, "I am certain I can-"
"The way you're shivering?" Leone scoffed. "Eat and stop bitching."
Bruno didn't have it in him to disobey. It wasn't often he was taken care of like this. In fact, he couldn't recall having anyone help him through an illness since his brief childhood.
He opened his mouth and tasted what was without a doubt, the best soup he had ever eaten.
"Dio mio," he uttered, genuine shock on his face. "That is superb."
Leone chuckled, face tinged a beautiful pink.
"Her soup was always the one good thing about getting sick," Abbachio muttered. "This shit works miracles. Could bring a man back from the grave."
"I had no idea you could cook. You truly are a man of many talents," Bruno managed to tease.
Leone slipped another spoonful into his mouth.
"Less talking, more eating." Leone looked genuinely happy, however, from Bruno's complement. "You'll fuck up your throat if you keep forcing yourself to talk."
"I'm alright," Bruno insisted, scratchy voice making him sound anything but. "I want to hear more."
"About my mom?"
"About her and your childhood, family, friends. Anything."
Abbacchio's smile faded some as he stared into the soup. He looked miles away.
"Not much to say. Dad died when I was little in the line of duty. Mom did her best for me and my little brother. We always had what we needed. She was a good woman."
He spooned another bite into Bruno's mouth, then continued.
"My uncle was a cop too and I kinda looked up to him. I wanted to be like the men in my family, strong, righteous, always on the side of justice."
He let out a snort of bitter laughter and Bruno swallowed another spoonful.
"My mom hated it. She never wanted me to be a cop. After what happened dad, I guess I don't blame her."
"She teach you how to cook?"
"Yeah. I practically begged her," he chuckled.
"Why?"
"Because..." Abbachio cleared his throat awkwardly, feeding Bruno another bite. "I wanted to be a... a father."
Bruno didn't bother to hide his surprise. The man in front of him with dark lipstick and chipped black nail polish, who could make babies cry with one look, wanted to be a father?
"I mean... obviously that's kinda off the table now," he clarified as he continued to feed him. "But yeah. That was what I'd wanted. I wanted to be the kind of man my father was... or how I had imagined he was. So I learned to cook, clean, Hell. I can even change diapers."
Bruno smiled. This was a side he'd never known and it made the feeling in his heart grow even stronger.
"You've surprised me. Truly, amazing," Bruno murmured, reaching out with a shaking hand to touch his arm as he lifted the spoon again. "That's enough for me. Thank you, Leone. For the soup... and for sharing. It's nice to get to know more about you.
Abbachio hesitated, then set the bowl back on the tray.
"Can I do anything else to make you comfortable, Bruno?"
"Just keep talking to me. The sound of your voice... it's soothing. Reminds me of thunder."
"Uh..." Abbachio rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as Bruno lay back down, rolling to face him, watching him intently. "I don't know what to talk about."
"Well... what else did she teach you?"
"Well, she taught me how to feed my little brother and how to dress him. I learned how to mend clothes too, just the basics. Like, I can stitch a button on. And I also learned a shit ton of nursery rhymes. Lullabies too-"
"Can you sing one for me?"
Bruno's request hit him like a bullet. He was practically knocked back by the sheer power of it. He sounded so tired, so vulnerable. Far from the ruthless mafioso he'd seen literally take a man apart bit by bit. Now he sounded innocent, and so very young. He was young. They all were. It was easy to forget.
"Al-alright," he whispered, "I haven't done this in years, but for you, I..."
He cleared his throat and very softly, began to sing.
"Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma..."
Bruno listened, smiling. He sounded decent, his rich rumbling voice, soft and gentle in a way he didn't let people see. Bruno allowed himself to imagine Abbachio, singing just like this to a baby in his arms. Loving, careful and happy. Yesterday it would have been impossible to imagine. Today, he'd seen such a different side of him.
"Fa la ninna bel bambin,
Fa la nanna bambin bel..."
Bruno knew this song too. It had been ages, but his mother had sang it to him before bed sometimes, after reading to him. He closed his eyes, vaguely wondering if, had he still been in contact with her, she might come take care of him again. Like she used to do. A gentle hand, song and stories. Goodnight kisses against his forehead.
But her soup wasn't half as good as Leones.
'Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma."
Bruno couldn't hold on to the edge of consciousness for long. But as the last scraps of awareness fled and Leone's voice faded, he could have sworn he felt the soft press of lips against the top of his head.
"Bruno."
He was gently shaken awake and became instantly aware of how overwhelmingly warm he was. Half asleep, he groaned, kicking blankets off of him.
"Bruno?" A cold hand pressed against his forehead. "Fuck. You're burning up again."
Bruno opened his eyes to a darkened room, curtains pulled shut. The sun was low in the sky, but he was having trouble remembering when the last time was that he was awake.
"Take these." Abbachio was at his side once again, pushing two pills into his hands. With his assistance, Bruno sat up swallowing the pills and the entire glass of water. "We've got to get that fever under control."
"Leone?" Bruno managed to whisper, "what time are you going home?"
"I'm not," he answered simply, settling down by his side again. "Not until your fever breaks. If it gets any higher, I don't care what you say, I'm taking you to the hospital."
Bruno could hardly respond. Abbachio put a hand to his cheek, then brushed his lip with his thumb. His heart raced.
"Open," he gently ordered, and Bruno obeyed. "Good boy. Stick this under your tongue and hold it. I'll be right back."
Bruno felt warm before, but now he was positively on fire. Were he feeling a bit better, the entire exchange would have inspired a whole new sensation in him. The thumb on his lips alone would have been enough to get him through a lonely night or two.
Leone had left the door open and Bruno could hear bits of a phone conversation.
"Yeah. He's still pretty fucked up." Silence, then, "No. I got this, Fugo. Just see if you can do damage control. Bucciarati-"
There was a pause, and Leone lowered his voice to a point where Bruno couldn't hear.
He vaguely wondered what that was about. He'd ask later, if he could remember.
Leone came back a few minutes later. Wordlessly he pulled the thermometer from his mouth. His intense eyebrows knit together in a deep frown.
"Damn. Fever is more stubborn than you."
"My apologies."
Leone waved a hand, dismissing his apology.
"'S fine. Just means I have to stay the night. Hope that's good with you."
Bruno just gave a tiny, unfocused nod.
"Hey, uh, mind if I borrow something more comfortable?" Leone flashed an awkward smile, gesturing to his Gucci jacket and leather pants.
"Yeah, go ahead," Bruno murmured, pointing to his dresser, "top drawer."
"Yeah. I know." Abbachio sounded strange, awkward. Had Bucciarati been less delirious, he might have remembered what else he kept in that drawer. As much as he was learning about Abbachio, likewise he was learning a lot about Bruno too. Very intimate details.
Abbachio crossed the room, opening the same drawer he'd pulled Bruno's pajamas from. He carefully sorted through neatly folded silk pajama sets, many he assumed were custom made, due to the particular teardrop pattern on the fabric. Abbachio couldn't help but smirk, appreciating Bruno's quirky love for that print. It was strangely adorable, his peculiarities.
Abbachio lifted a black, lacy something and checked under it. He ignored the opened box of condoms and the half empty bottle of lube, trying not to wonder when the last time was that Bruno had-
Oh. Right. Here it was. He pulled out a baggy pair of sweatpants that he had briefly seen last time he was in here. He put everything back where he'd found it then glanced at Bruno over his shoulder. He was, near as Leone could tell, passed out again. Good. He untied the laces in his jacket and shrugged it it off, laying it neatly on top of the dresser. His pants soon followed, zipper sounding embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. He paused, glancing again at the sleeping mafioso before dropping his pants and stepping into Bruno's sweatpants.
As he pulled them around his waist, he noticed several things. First, they were short on him, but that was no surprise. Leone was easily the tallest of their crew. Second, the words Boss Bitch were written across the butt in white lettering. He had to stifle a laugh with a hand. It was both shocking, but at the same time, so amazingly him.
The third thing he noticed, the waist band was actually loose. He had to tie them to keep them from sliding down his hips. It made him wonder if they were even his. Perhaps they belonged to a previous lover? Or a current one? The thought bothered him more than he knew it should.
The simple truth was that they had been a gag gift from his latest partner. Unfortunately, in the whole three months they'd dated, she never had bothered to actually learn anything about Bruno, including his size. Still, despite it being intended as a joke, Bruno had rather liked them. He wasn't always sentimental, but when it came to romance, he kept every gift from a lover, ticket stubs, photographs together, love letters. Those were all packed away in a neat little box at the bottom of his closet.
Bruno opened one eye as he changed. He didn't intend to peek. Well, no. He did. How could he help himself? The bathroom was right there, after all. Abbachio could have walked the three feet to it and changed in there.
But he didn't.
His legs were toned, pale, beautiful. His thighs would have been enough to satisfy his devious daydreams for a month. But his ass in tight black boxers- he truly wished he was feeling better so he could properly appreciate it.
Abbachio found an oversized hoodie as well. Black, plain, save for the shiny gold zipper detail on the front and on the sleeves.
This is probably what Bruno works out in, he realized.
He'd never seen Bruno work out, but he had weights in his apartment and a treadmill. It made sense, active lifestyle that he had. He turned off the light, shut the door and walked down the hall from Bruno's bedroom. As he made his way down, he pulled the fabric to his face and inhaled. It smelled like him. Hints of spice and sea and sweat and his cologne and... he quickly pushed the hoodie back down into place, blushing.
Bruno's kitchen was nothing too impressive. Relatively small, but well stocked with the essentials. Good coffee, tea, a myriad of fruits sitting in a bowl on a small table (lacking apples, Leone noticed). But the most important thing was Bucciarati's wine collection. He kept his wine rack well stocked for Leone when he stopped by. Social visits were not out of the norm for them. He had something here for everyone.
Abbachio grabbed two wine glasses on instinct, but quickly put one away. He wasn't used to drinking alone anymore, he'd entirely forgotten. As he popped the cork off the bottle, he heard a knock on the door.
Sighing, he abandoned his drink and went to answer.
Narancia stood on the other side, carrying a bundle of flowers.
"Is he any better?"
Abbachio frowned, glanced behind down the dark hall, then shook his head.
"No," Abbachio sighed, "his fever is pretty bad."
Narancia looked upset and Abbacchio winced, finding it hard to see him look so sad and worried.
"Don't worry kid. I gave him some meds and kickass soup. He'll be fine." Leone gave a nod, eyeing the flowers. "Those for him?"
"Yeah. I didn't know what he liked, so I just kinda guessed. Lady at the flower shop said daisies were a good choice. Do you think he'll like 'em?"
Abbachio reached out to the younger mafioso and gently pulled him inside.
"Bucciarati? He'll love them. Let's find a vase."
The two of them bustled around the kitchen looking for something to put his flowers in.
"Ah ha!" Leone held up a clear glass vase, after finding it hiding under the sink. As he turned back around, he spotted Narancia staring at a pack of cigarettes on the counter. Bucciarati's. He called it just 'a small vice', something to calm his nerves at the end of the day and Abbacchio couldn't say shit. He had a pack of his own in his coat pocket. But Bucciarati never smoked around 'the kids' as he called them, despite being barely 19 himself.
"Those are mine," Abbachio lied, "forgot to put them away. Sorry."
Narancia nodded, and Abbachio hoped he believed him. Bucciarati was Narancias hero. He had no doubt if he knew about this ugly habit, he'd probably pick it up too. Bucciarati would hate that.
"Anyway, let's get these put away, alright?"
"Right. Hey, uhh... can I ask something?"
Abbachio was busy trimming the stems of the flowers with a pair of kitchen shears. He nodded distractedly.
"Why do your pants say "Boss Bitch" on the butt?"
Abbachio slipped with the scissors, glad he didn't just lose a finger.
"They- they're not mine!" He stuttered, then realized too late what that implied, especially when he was also wearing a hoodie with Bucciaratis signature zippers. He could see the wheels turning in Narancias head.
"Wait... oh! Ohhh!!!" Narancia stared hard, mouth making a little O. "You and Bucciarati-"
"It's not- it's not like that!" Abbachio hissed, throwing an awkward glance towards Brunos closed bedroom door. "I just didn't have a chance to go home. I'm just-"
"You don't have to explain to me, Abbachio." Narancia grinned and winked. "I didn't see nothin'."
Abbachio opened his mouth to argue, call Narancia a brat, but he couldn't. Fact was, he had a soft spot for the kid. Instead he breathed out a slight chuckle and set the flowers in the vase, carefully arranging them.
"Thanks." He placed the flowers on the counter, where he thought Bruno was most likely to see it when he got up. "Its getting pretty late. Did you want me to walk you back?"
Narancia shook his head. It was a silly thing to offer. He lived in the same apartment building with Fugo, literally one floor below. They all lived nearby. It was just more convenient that way.
"I'll see ya, Abbacchio. Tell Bucciarati to get better soon!"
He headed to the door and Abbachio flashed a small smile.
"Oh. And, don't worry. I'm not judging you or nothin," Narancia added holding the door open. "I'm really happy for you two."
He closed the door before Leone could protest. The goth sighed, going back to his wine. If Bucciarati were better, he'd he sitting at this table, smooth jazz trumpet playing from his speaker system while Abbachio poured him a glass too. Abbachio placed a hand on the back of his usual seat, lifting his glass to his lips. He should check on Bruno one more time before bed. It was a good thing Bucciarati's couch was comfortable. He'd passed out on it drunk who knew how many times.
Bruno was once again shaken awake. He opened one eye, then smiled. Leone looked so good like that. Wearing his clothes, hair pulled back in a messy bun, bare faced, no makeup. He hazily swept his gaze from his pretty white lashes to the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
"You're cute," he whispered, letting his eyes close again.
Abbachio dropped the thermometer.
"What?"
Bruno didn't answer and Leone realized that he was fast asleep once again.
"Bruno." He gave him another gentle shake, "you can't sleep yet."
He opened an eye again, frowning. It shot Leone straight through his heart. Blushing furiously, he looked away and held out the thermometer. Wordlessly, Bruno stuck it between his lips. The silence was the single longest moment in Leone's life. Thank God, he'd had a drink before this. When it beeped, he pulled it from his lips and read the numbers with a deep sigh of relief.
"Your fever is down. Good." He rose to his feet. "I'll just let you rest and-"
A hand clasped around his wrist.
"L-Leone?"
He looked awful, there was no sugar coating it, but behind his obvious pain was something Abbachio had never seen. He felt his heart race, his blood soar through his veins. Perhaps he was imagining it, perhaps it was just the illness, perhaps... perhaps, but Bruno was looking at him like he was truly precious.
He gulped. Oh yeah, he was a goner.
"Bruno?"
His hand slipped away and with it went the tension. The brunette closed his eyes again.
"Thank you," he whispered, "for always being there."
He was dead. He had to be. He was dead and, by some sick cosmic joke, God had deemed him worthy of Heaven. That was the only explanation. How else would he be standing here with an Angel, saying such perfect, radiant words?
He needed air. And more booze.
And possibly a cold shower.
"Of course," Abbachio managed the moment he found his voice again. "The only time I feel at ease is..."
Light snoring interrupted him. Leone relaxed at last, confession dying in his throat. Well. It could wait. Leone knelt at the side of his bed and pulled the thick downy comforter up to his shoulders.
"I'll always be there, Bruno," he whispered, pushing a stray lock of midnight hair from his face. His hair. God, it was soft. The urge to just play with it was strong. "My life belongs to you, after all."
The temptation won and Leone found himself smoothing his hair down while he pressed another kiss to the top of his head. He then stood up, walked out and closed the door behind him.
In the dark bedroom, Bruno Bucciarati smiled.