So – if there’s a time when you give up being a member of Team Bucciarati, if you renounce being that ‘fourth’, then I’ll be putting a bullet right in your brain, got it?” Mista spun his pistol around in his hand and put it away.

"Woah, that bit's all wrong. People just assume the gunman's the right-hand man, but the real number two's Polnareff. I'm number three. Think about it – you take the number two twice, you get four. Four's bad luck. I'm not getting anywhere near that. Three is much safer."

But Narancia spoke with evident desperation. "I was looking for you. I don't know who else could help." When he saw the boy's eyes, Fugo stopped. They were different. These weren't the same eyes he'd seen before.

"What's wrong?" Giorno asked, gently. Fugo couldn't look up. "I...I just thought...why am I here? Not Buccellati? Why am I the one swearing fealty to you instead of him?" It would be so much easier then.

Even if nobody understands you, even if things don't turn out the way you expect, accept it. Losing your temper and taking it out on everyone around you is inexcusable. It prevents you making anything of yourself. It leads you straight to ruin." "…............."

Fugo blinked. A few seconds ago the blood in his throat had overwhelmed all other scents, but now he could clearly make out the rich scent of garlic and onion sauteed in olive oil.

Perhaps his lack of self-control had led his the part of his mind interested in self-preservation to give birth to a stand that transferred damage...or perhaps years spent under the stand's protection had caused his recklessness.

If they had ever been in a situation where only one could survive, Fugo was certain Abbacchio would abandon him to his fate, and he felt sure he would do the same.

The girl only groaned. She did not move. Her arms and legs were twisted in directions they were not meant to go. She could not escape on her own.

"So, Fugo," he said, quietly keeping his aim steady. "You know why we called you to a place like this, in broad daylight. Don't you?" Fugo said nothing.

"That's what he said," Fugo answered. He was sure Buccellati had invited them to the yacht for some secret mission, and was too tense to enjoy any of it. But the idea had clearly never entered Narancia's head – he was able to simply enjoy the prospect of a yachting expedition.

The two of them seemed ready to start throwing punches. Annoyed, Fugo interrupted. "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the job. Clearly they've lit a fire under all our asses, so I don't think this is the time for petty squabbles."

"This matters to you, too, you know," Antonio said, looking concerned. "You're the one who has to bear the Volpe name, and the burdens that come with it." "I'd say what happens happens," Massimo said, a thin smile crossing his lips. "But nothing will. You know that."

By this point Fugo was no longer listening. The next thing he knew, he'd picked up the dictionary on the professor's desk, and was beating him over the head with it. He didn't even feel the anger. He felt no hate; no desire to kill the man.

Sung by a young female voice it had a beautiful purity to it, that soared above the accompaniment. When the song ended, the host began interviewing her. "Let me introduce you to our listeners. This is Trish Una, a promising new star." "Hello, everyone."

Anything but that...I'll have proven myself useless. They won't give me another chance. Mista will kill me. Passione must have other assassins to send after these guys. This was his last chance. Failure was not an option.

If he did, blood would gush out, and he'd bleed to death. He had to move forward. He had to find Massimo Volpe...and finish this.

“I’m sure that he had no regrets. I believe he died telling his friends his last wishes. But I...unfortunately didn’t get to be a part of that circle.” She gave a gloomy smile.

It was heavy. The face carved into the stone bore no trademarks of ancient Greece or the Roman empire; it was clearly the work of the Aztecs. A stone mask. That's what the intel had called it. Nobody knew what it was really called.

“It’s harder than I expected, Bucciarati.... I’m busy with a lot of things now. It’s different from when I was being chauffeured around by you guys doing as I was told,” she muttered, before giving a sigh.

It was on the floor – but he hadn't heard it fall. He bent over to pick it up, but it scrambled away from him, scuttling across the floor like a living thing. It moved like a cockroach. Too fast, and it rustled. He went after it. It was moving out into the main hall of the Duomo.

"That's a mistake. It isn't the flesh drugs devour – it's the soul. Human bodies naturally produce narcotics in response to suffering – to help us overcome that suffering. But if we give ourselves narcotics, that doesn't do squat to the cause of said suffering.

"Nice to meet you all. My name's Trish Una." She looked at each of them, and bowed her head. "Trish...the daughter of the Passione foundation's head?" "If you've heard of her, I don't have to explain. We're going to be working with the foundation."

Night Bird Flying

Someone whose word she trusted implicitly. Giorno Giovanna. She followed him blindly. If he told her to die, she would not hesitate. She would let Fugo's virus take her life. That's why she'd been sent to meet him.

"Does Volpe feel guilty about following Kocaqi's lead? I don't get it. If he wanted to be in charge, and was hiding that, Voodoo Child would have said so." She looked at Fugo. "I don't know," he said. "It's not like I knew him well." Murolo waved a hand dismissively.

"Okay. Come on out, Sheila E." His voice was low, but it carried, projected like a opera singer's. For ten full seconds, there was silence. Then two figures emerged from the shadows, their movements a far cry from the intensity the home team athletes typically displayed.

Didn’t she seem like the kind of person that other people considered a ‘spoiled and selfish daughter’, anyway? Bucciarati and the others who protected her were strange, and she wondered if in a way Fugo had been right in abandoning her.

But this boy was not the kind of boy anybody forgot. There was an aura to him, a mix of darkness and light that made an enduring impression. The boy looked down at Fugo, frozen halfway to the handkerchief. "It's the damnedest thing," he grumbled.

You'd never have made it. You had no shot at surviving the insane fight Diavolo and Giorno had. You were smart enough to see that. Always were." "….............." "So on that point: we're cool. The problem is now. What do you intend?"

He looked back at Fugo, and said, "You heard about Buccellati's death, then?" The color drained from Fugo's face. His whole body began to shake, and his teeth began to chatter. It was like he'd suddenly been flung out into a blizzard.

Thinking back, our fates were sealed that day. The moment Buccellati met him, he had already made his choice. Just as Fugo had made his when he first met Buccellati. Strange.

He'd dressed to the nines, but begged for his life, selling out his own people. This man had the same smell to him. "So..." the man said, looking Fugo over. "You're the one with the extremely dangerous stand? Pannacotta Fugo?" "Yes, I am."

Something there was very wrong. There was no noise. There was always noise. Crowds of chanting fans, the shouts of vendors, of police struggling to maintain order. At this time of day, the Stadio was never quiet.

Fugo did not stop to see how he would react. The moment he set foot inside the restaurant, he called out to Buccellati, "I want to feed him some spaghetti. You don't mind, right?" The restaurant owner looked surprised, but Buccellati didn't bat an eye.

There was no doubt that they were related. “Are you...Bucciarati’s mother?” The woman nodded in response as she bowed. “Yes, I am. But I hardly had a chance to see him recently.... When I got the news, it was already time for the funeral. Did you also attend?” “No, I –”

Cruelty like this is usually intended as a message for those who find it, but this is beyond that. There's a break here, a decisive one. Sheila E gave him a look. "They were never allies," she said, sullenly. "Hunh?"

"These are locals. Sicilian gangsters. Not involved with Passione. Friends of Kocaqi's...when he died, they decided it wasn't worth it to hide Volpe and his team. Turned on them, got wiped out themselves."

And then it stopped. Silence. Volpe's body stood perfectly still, then lurched left, right, and turned slowly towards her. His head rolled forward, his eyes locked on Sheila E.

"And that was Fugo? I can see that. He seemed like the type, somehow. Pretending like he was studious, but hiding what he really thought." "What's it like to fight a friend?" Angelica asked. "Like I said, he didn't have any."

No matter how you look at it the answer's me, ain't it? You got no arguments with that, do you? Not surprised." "…..............." "Or do you? If you've got a problem with me, show it. Show me your stand. Let me see what Kraftwerk can do."

"This was an enemy whose true power only activated after the stand's owner died. He was powered by hatred his owner felt at the moment of death, and no longer needed the human to think for him.

It sounded like thunder, but the sound never ended – it just got louder. "He can't have...!" And not just louder. Closer. Whatever was making that sound was hurtling towards them at high speed, at 9.8 meters a second – terminal velocity.

"And these would be the clubs – they look like clovers, and trust in their luck. Which is only fifty fifty." "Ho ho, clubs, clubs, you all have three leaves yet four-leaf clovers are so very common."

"Bruno Buccellati, the one who died? They say he was very good. Giorno trusted him completely. You were wasted on him." The story as she'd heard it was a little different, but... "Yeah," Fugo said, having no argument with that.

Sheila E heard Fugo screaming. "Shit!" she said, and broke into a run. But the scream was moving away from her, faster than she could travel. As she ran, she reached the Teatro Greco. She stopped.

The deeper he went, the older the books became, until all the books were in Latin. A boy was in the art history corner, sitting on a tall stool designed to reach to top shelves, flipping through a book. Politicita di Michelangelo, by Giorgio Spini.

"This is...gross," Murolo said, stepping into the bloodstained room. "What the hell?" Sheila E said, scowling.

Angelica's already too far gone. She won't live much longer. But you?" Murolo gave Vittorio a long, hard stare. He nodded. "You're different, Vittorio Cataldi. You, we have reason to spare." "…..............."

"Exactly what they found, I don't know. All I found were words; instructions on the use of it." "Blood is life." Remembering this, Volpe found himself shivering. "Invincible, undying warriors...?" "That's the only way we can win!" Vittorio sounded desperate.