In the beginning, it was a matter of survival.
Soon after his discharge, Leone had no dime to spare. Between the fine to cover the corruption charges and the lawyer’s ticket, Leone’s pockets were almost emptied. He’d moved out to a cheaper apartment, abandoned his belongings and made for the back alley to throw his uniform into the closest container. Fire ate the fabric at a fast rate, like dry wood. It rained that day, so he didn’t worry much when his feet took him to the bus stop. He would have liked to throw his badge in there as well, but it had to be returned to the office, along with his credentials and keys. His gun. His life.
Time later, Leone made a living off gambling. It was the easiest route to good sums of money, though the risk was high. Leone caught on the details the first couple of nights, polished his skills as people flooded the bar like river currents, coming and going in all directions. Before long, Leone’s earnings sufficed to cover the rent of that hole-in-the-wall called his room, and booze. There was shock in the air, when his win came. Leone’s built up was slow, lethargic advances that could hardly count as a flow. He’d feed them certainty, make sure their ambition got the better of their senses so when the hammer came down, their only concern was the patching of a wounded pride rather than the amount of money Leone had secured. Doing the math was easy: the real challenge was to goad them into biting more than they could chew.
Poker, billiards, dominoes, dice; he’d tried all kinds of games, opposed players from all corners of Naples. That stopped the day Buccellati recruited him. Buccellati was clear: you are Passione, and your actions reflect Passione’s image. For good or for bad. In other words: don’t continue fucking this up.
“You keep that in yourself? Christ…”
Leone nearly laughed. But laughing at their misfortune felt like the wrong choice. Buccellati’s zipper hissed shut. They’ve been cornered, with nowhere else to go, followed by Buccellati’s invitation, confirmed Leone’s initial suspicions: they’ll stay here way past dawn. Buccellati instructed sunrise would be their call, but judging by the deck he tossed in Leone’s way, their short-notice escapade would last for longer than intended.
Cards… It couldn’t hurt to pass the time this way. Something about getting back at Buccellati through the game, for the wordless coming hot and cold he’d been doing since earlier this day, appealed to the part of him that’d broiled in his gut the moment Buccellati yanked his hand away from Leone’s grasp. No, it wasn’t quite like getting back at him; perhaps what he wanted was to test the limits of their boundaries, how much they could narrow the distance without lighting up a fire none of them was able to put out in their current condition. It was a dangerous gamble. Might as well go for broke.
The disinterested look in his eyes when he took up the cards in his hands was offset by the crooked half-smile on his painted lips. Leone glanced up. His fingers worked without him having to watch, shuffling the cards in idle motions and dexterity he thought he’d forgotten. “Poker is fine. What’s on the table? It can’t be that you’re expecting we play for the biggest cockroach in here.”
He figured deceiving Buccellati would be harder foe than the previous ones, in all those dirty bars. Those men were nothing like Buccellati, they were dumb, greedy and self-important. Buccellati was none of those things. If Leone planned to put his pride on the table, for the sake of having something worth the bother, chance was that their little game could take a surprising turn. Leone knew Buccellati’s competitiveness fairly well. Perhaps that was the answer. In order to lead Buccellati towards the pattern he liked best, provocation was at Leone’s disposal. His mouth twisted in a scowl. Buccellati had always had an uncanny air surrounding him, which he never resisted from exploiting to his benefit when a job needed to be done. To be the man at the end of the blade made Leone feel the lingering heat where he’d caught Buccellati’s wrist in his palm more present than it’d been moments ago. Shudders went up his arms. Buccellati seemed closer every second, but still so far out of reach. The proximity, combined with the late hour, made him pause to consider just how much he was willing to toss aside.
What can I possibly lose? Everything’s burned down to dust.
Leone tipped his head to the side, surveyed Buccellati’s expression once more, elbows sitting languidly on the table. His gaze roamed brazenly from Buccellati’s stern looks to gold. In the near-dark of the room, the gleam teased him like a lamp would enrapture a careless moth. “…I’m playing for one of those. The hair clips.”
where women have purses, buccellati has the zipper just over his left pectoral. disbelieving murmurs of what kinds of things buccellati keeps secreted away on his person are common by now— when he hands abbacchio a gun, there isn't a question that the block of metal sat somewhere in the void next to his heart, with the first aid and spare keys and the small collection of lemon candies that sometimes travel on buccellati's breath as a sour-sweetness they pretend doesn't exist. every part of buccellati is a tool to be used, a weapon to be honed and exploited. it would be a matter of minutes before boredom got the better of them. at least this way, their minds stay sharp.
or that's what he's telling himself. something to busy his mind is certainly what buccellati is after; but it isn't the worry of keeping himself awake that's the source. buccellati can stand at attention for twenty hours at a time by will alone. that isn't his concern here.
his concern is sharp divide between abbacchio's feigned indifference and the quirk of his lips: he'd accuse him of a lie of omission, because the boredom of those eyes speaks contrary to the rapidly-deteriorating bank that stands between them and the trench of whatever-they-are. a traitorous warmth snakes its way through buccellati's chest. that smirk is enticing. that smirk is trouble. and it doesn't dissipate as abbacchio leans forward, taking to scrying along buccellati's features for something of worth. and buccellati meets it with confidence, leaning forward to steeple his fingers— daring abbacchio to bypass the safer answers for something more personal. the sea churns deep under its smooth surface. a challenge is issued.
leone abbacchio proves a distraction when most inconvenient, buccellati might as well put it to good use here.
"these?" he echoes, thoughtful, a hand rising to trace the curve of a clip. "I can accept that. but as for my claim..."
a moment passes. the silence is so complete that for a moment buccellati feels as though he could hear the words unspoken through their locking eyes.
is this the kind of game you want to play? fine. then we'll play.
he always did prefer a challenge.
"I want your belt," he declares. "the A."
