Leone Abbacchio

The aroma of strong espresso and freshly baked cornetti filled the small, sun-drenched café in Naples, but the peaceful atmosphere was being systematically dismantled by one table in the corner. Narancia Ghirga, with the unbridled enthusiasm of a puppy and the situational awareness of a rock, was trying to explain his latest "genius" idea to a stonefaced Leone Abbacchio. He gesticulated wildly with a fork, sending a stray piece of cannoli flying across the table, narrowly missing Mista's eye."See? So you take the fork, and you stab the little airplane, and then!!!!!BWWWOOSH!!!!!!t explodes! It's like a fork bomb! We could call it... Fork-ifty-Seven! Get it? Like AK-47?" He snorted with laughter. "Fork-ifty-Seven? Narancia, you're a goddamn poet. Write that down before you forget it." The men loose themselves with their antics

Leone Abbacchio did not share their amusement. His already formidable scowl deepened, the lines around his mouth and eyes etched with a palpable, soul deep irritation. He took a long, slow sip of his espresso, the dark liquid doing little to soothe the storm brewing behind his eyes. Every time Narancia opened his mouth, Abbacchio felt a vein in his temple throb in time with his idiotic chatter. He had wanted a quiet morning, a moment of peace to reflect on their last job and prepare for the next. Instead, he was trapped in an auditory hell custom built by a teenager with a sugar high. These are grown ass men for fuck's sake. "Shut your mouth, Narancia," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "If you say the word 'fork' one more time, I'm going to take that one and embed it in your skull. And you," he added, pinning Mista with a glare that could curdle milk "Stop encouraging him. Some of us are trying to digest our food without getting a brain aneurysm."

Mista just grinned, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant shrug, utterly unbothered by Abbacchio's empty threat. His eyes, sharp and always scanning, drifted around the café, habitually mapping exits, noting faces, assessing potential threats. It was a reflex ingrained after years on the streets and in Passione. His gaze swept past the barista, the old couple by the window, and then he it settles on a lone figure sitting a few tables away. They weren't doing anything overtly suspicious just nursing a drink, looking out the window, occasionally glancing around. But there was a stillness about them, a level of awareness that didn't fit with the cafe's lazy morning vibe. They'd looked over at their table a few times now, not with the idle curiosity of a tourist, but with a brief, focused intensity that set Mista's instincts humming.

He nudged Abbacchio's arm, dropping his voice low so only his two tablemates could hear, his playful demeanor vanishing in an instant. "Hey. Leone. Don't look now, but we've got a pair of eyes on us," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the reflection in the cafe's polished espresso machine. "Table by the pillar. Been watching us for the last ten minutes. Probably nothing... but they're a little too interested. Doesn't feel like a civilian." The air at their table shifted, the earlier levity evaporating like morning mist. Even Narancia fell silent, his fork bomb forgotten as he instinctively picked up on the sudden tension. Abbacchio didn't turn. He simply lifted his cup, his eyes narrowing as he used its reflective surface to catch a glimpse of the person who had managed to pierce the veil of his foul mood and register as a potential problem.

And of course you are staring. You are literally watching two grown ass men act like children and splatter food everywhere on the ground and talking about airplanes and bombs like it's an everyday normal conversation. You sip your coffee and internally roll your eyes. But the truth is that they are already watching you. Great.

Leone Abbacchio stumbles through the narrow, rainy alleyways of Naples, his white silver hair plastered to his skull and his dark lipstick smudged from the back of his hand wiping away the remnants of cheap wine. The bottle he was nursing in the last bar is long gone, discarded in a gutter three blocks back, and the world tilts at an aggressive, nauseating angle with every step he takes. He is not drunk enough to forget the weight of his past, but he is drunk enough that navigating the residential maze of the city has become a very frustrating puzzle, one that he isn't' equipped to solve just yet.

He was supposed to return to his apartment, but the streets all look the same. This will be a problem. He stops in front of a building that looks familiar, or maybe it just looks close enough, and he shoves his way through the unlocked front door with the kind of reckless confidence only alcohol provides. He spots the door to his home. He pushes the key inside but it's struggling to open.. He tries again. Still nothing. With a low, irritated growl, he abandons the effort entirely and simply tests the door handle. It turns. Unlocked. Good enough for him.

He pushes inside without announcement, his heavy boots scuffing against the floor as he kicks the door shut behind him with more force than necessary. The interior is dim, lit only by the ambient glow of a television left on mute and the faint wash of the full moonlight through a window. He does not bother to look around, does not bother to confirm whose home he has just invaded. He's tired, dizzy and sleepy. That's all that matters here.

His vision is swimming, his body is screaming for rest, and this odd feeling that he might have just wandered into the wrong house is being pushed further back into his mind. Not really his concern at the moment due to the alcohol making him reckless. He spots a couch near him. It's dark, low to the ground, probably not even his style but functional enough. He collapses onto it with the graceless finality of a man who has given up on the concept of dignity. He does not remove his boots. He does not adjust his position. He simply surrenders to the void, his breathing evening out into the slow, heavy rhythm of someone who is either deeply asleep or deeply resigned to wherever the hell he just ended up.

The scent of stale wine and rain clings to his dark uniform, and his lipstick has left a faint purple smear on the fabric of the couch where his face presses into the armrest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the alcohol soaked haze, there is a faint awareness that this is wrong, that he should not be here, that someone is going to walk in and find him. But that awareness is drowned out by the louder, more immediate reality that he does not care. He has spent years drowning in guilt and self-destruction, and tonight is just another iteration of the same tired spiral. If whoever lives here wants to throw him out, they can try. If they want to call the authorities, let them. He is too far gone to argue, too exhausted to fight, and too numb to give a damn about the consequences. The couch is comfortable enough, the room is quiet enough, and the darkness is merciful enough to let him forget, for just a few hours, that Leone Abbacchio exists at all.

Meanwhile...you heard something off. Very off. So you quietly walk down the stairs after putting on your night slippers and peak around the corner as your heart races and you hold a weapon on your hands. You literally just moved in 2 weeks ago and last time you woke up there was a stray dog who accidentally got inside your home. Then a homeless man wandered in, then a kid. You seriously need to change the lock to your goddamn door. It's becoming a problem here.

That's when you finally see him. This gothic raggedy looking passed out man just laying on your couch. He's asleep? Half asleep? honestly you don't know. All you know is that now you understand why no one wanted to live in this apartment. The door opens again and suddenly a homeless man walks in. He then looks at the other man laying on the couch and then back at you. Then he extends his hand that is holding his can that has some coins and a few notes in it. He jiggles it hard.

"Spare change?"

This is your life now. Deal with it.

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